Idaho - 6/22/07

Coming closer to a solid return, letters and flown in food. Flipped over on my stomach, same position as yesterday, different location. My legs are throbbing, sucking in all the nutrition they can get from a few packs of Ramen, some instant rice, and powdered mashed potatoes. Dead, sun fried skin flakes onto the page from my beard while I'm writing this. My moustache curls on the edges, it doesn't itch. Sam's out fishing, so we can eat some additional protein. Things feel closer that shouldn't be, my brain is floating in some sort of purgatory, not wanting to compose words, so my hand works stubbornly, independently. I wonder if I'll look back on this later as delirium. Not much work tomorrow, I'll eat more later to lighten the load. Eat it all, peanut butter and rice, trusty spoon, bowl of granola, my only saving grace.

6/22/07 (Near Sunset) - Top of Sheep Eater Lookout with Mark and Kalyn.

Sun's setting fast; let's see if I can't out-write it while I can still see this dirty page. Aching muscles and a full 360 degree view of mountains, but none above us, we're the highest point around. A lone outhouse where I sat with the door wide open and the wind whipping at me, while watching, awestruck, at the brush stroked clouds purple, yellow, green, and a burning red ball falling through the sky. Dark on our heels, the wind's picking up, but we beat it. The color bouncing off the clouds behind me has faded. No time now, always time. This might be the most beautiful thing I've seen to date. No words to do it justice. A cloud of mosquitoes swirl around the eddy behind my head, sheltered from the wind. Two visible lakes down below, a half moon, and a helicopter pad made from big rocks and some worn yellow paint. Up here with another bearded fellow, whistling, joking, screaming, and singing, all on top of the world.

Idaho - 6/21/07

This first day of summer, the longest day of the year. Sun burnt and fully bearded with a fresh tingle over my skin from jumping in Chamberlain creek. It was cold, the type of cold that flexes muscles for you, leaving a glowing feeling on the exposed skin.

Rice, beef flavored Ramen noodles, some trail mix, and a bowl of granola and instant milk in my belly. Looking out through a mesh door. Fourteen mosquitoes outside buzzing around confused. "Why can't we get in?" they buzz, as they fly into the mesh and get tangled repeatedly. I'm hunkered down a foot from them, behind the mesh shield. Scratching one of their bites. Bleeding my pen away in the middle of nowhere.

The creek was enchanted, and I feel embarrassed that I drank from it. 2 liters stolen, lying right next to me trapped in plastic bottles next to a grimy deck of cards, a synthetic sleeping bag, and a few scattered piles of dirt. The droning hum of frustrated mosquitoes.

The area we hiked today looked like another planet, with the wind whistling through high standing burnt pines. The vibrant new growth coming up stood out against the charred giants, making what looked like a soft bed for them to fall into some day. A strange feeling came over me, like walking into a church service late. I felt intimidated, awed, and scrutinized. A trespasser.

Tonight is the first night of a four day hitch. Jim Beam, groceries and mail from loved ones far away waiting when we get back. My tent mate Sam's face is red and shiny like a Christmas drunkard. The good old boy from Missouri. Boston Consulting Group sponsored cards to throw around. I'm back to old habits and rubber soled footsteps, switchbacks, and baby blisters, beans, burritos, save the bacon grease, flat folded clothes packed up for months at a time. My new backpack and I are having a passionate affair on the old maid. I traded her for a sleeker shinier one. New words from the same pen. I'm in a very different place.

I've got a long green bruise, good shoes, and less to lose. Mark hiked 18 miles each way for a guitar to strum so we could sing fragmented songs from memory while we fart and check our creases and crevices for ticks. Hair lines, genitals. Found one on my shoulder blade the other day. My fingers have found their way around an axe, while the same parts of my palm wear down and fill with puss, red with frustration.

The creek is calling me. A few mosquitoes have given up for the night, packed for tomorrow, stuffed in, and zip tied with sore shoulders. Enough sodium lost and gained to suit the average person for a lifetime. Lose it, get it back, break up a ramen square, eat it raw, kind of tastes like a cracker, yeah? Let's cook some up, put them in some hot water let them flow, give them something to talk about on the way down your throat. I wonder what it's be like to be a single ramen noodle, suddenly exposed to the world, to this part of the world. They probably go into shock, that's why their so rigid when you open the wrapping. They freeze in their tracks when out of nowhere they get a full on dose of world without warning. Feeling every sensation within the split second it takes to open a pack. I'd trade anything to be a ramen noodle at that instant.

Idaho - Around 6/18/07

I'm not sure what day it is, might be Monday, but that word doesn't mean much anymore. Back from the first hitch out in the Payette wilderness of Idaho, with six other people. The only six within 50 miles. Cars, roads, tires, 9-5's, and the slice of hot apple pie in Boise seem like flashes from years ago, but it's only been a week. I like my new planet; the sun welcomed me with a gift of blisters on my ears. I popped them with dirty fingers. Time out interruptions. Reflections in oral form, written soon. Falling off...

Everything's fine. It's been 8 days now. 8 days without a shower, joining a new family. Today I hiked back 8 miles through dense backcountry Idaho with a shovel and axe in hand. I can feel my body becoming stronger, leaner, but my mind is falling off track. I have no concept of time, and all the time to think about it. The following are guidelines:

The sun's up, I'm up.
Work starts, I start working.
We eat.
Work ends.
Dark out, we sleep.

This is the most relaxing, wonderful lifestyle. My reflexes are sharpening, animalistic. I use all five senses constantly. My beard has grown to the point that I can run my fingers through it. My hair feels like straw, and my mind always wandering. Work the hardest, regardless. There's no music out here so we sing. We sing and scream and laugh and tell stories and fart around the campfire. We lunch in the most beautiful, scenic places I've ever seen. I try to shake myself from this dream regularly, but it's all real. It can be absolutely silent here if you stand still in the right place. Walking through fire-charred stretches of lodge pole pines everything becomes clear, and calming. Simple. Things live, and things die, and nature ahs a perfect handle on the balance. The burns are not suppressed here, but left to run their course, leaving behind a mosaic of life and death, seemingly chosen at random. Either it was time to burn or it wasn't, and if it wasn't then they just keep on living.

I've had days filled time to play with reality, stories, songs, and maxims, but right now I feel so scattered, excited, and entranced by the amount of living, true living I've been doing here that I'm struggling to form cohesive thoughts. Maybe this experience is indescribable. I'll stick with that until the words show up.

I can, however, describe my new family. It began with seven Student Conservation Association volunteers (SCA's) signed up to clear trails in the Payette National Forest outside McCall, Idaho. The two that I shared a bus ride with from Boise to McCall have left for duty on the South Fork of Salmon River (Sam Bass, 19 from Texas going to school at Amherst in Mass. and Tim Blake, 23 a photographer from New England) Tim had a glistening bald head, and deep eye sockets set close together. His dramatic eyebrows clashed with a pair of lips that drooped at the corners as if pulled down by a string.

That leaves the family of five and two rangers, four of us will remain here at Chamberlain station while the other three are flying out to Cold Meadows station on July 3rd,let's begin with them.

Anna Sharar, 22, CA
10 lbs. of hair, never without a smile, fitting snugly into the Californian stereotype. Vegetarian, dreadlocks, fair trade, organic Q-tips, etc. Always up beat, with the biggest heart in the group. I admire the hell out of both here and Kalyn for coming out here to chop and saw.

Kalyn, 18, WA
A sweet girl with a round face and shiny cheeks, stout, strong limbs, and a semi-rebellious stud in her nose. We celebrated her 18th birthday out in the wilderness. I think that out of the groups her experience will have the most dramatic effect, but I'm not sure of an example or really how I came to that conclusion. A bouncy girl with a love for cold streams.

Mark, 25, OH (Cold Meadows Station Ranger)
A modern day Jack Kerouac. From hitch hiking to Giardia to "riggin' up a mean knot," this fellow has a story for everything. The bright blue eyes twinkle before a punch line, looking out through a pair of old glasses. A chipmunk like smile twists itself into shape through a red steel wool beard. It'll be a shame to see him go in July, I've already learned a lot from him.

Chamberlain Crew

Dave Hammer, 22, MN, Station Ranger
Dave will become our immediate supervisor after July 3rd. By supervisor I mean a fourth player for cards, Frisbee, drinking, and shit shooting. Dave, along with Big Sam is an outdoorsman. Hunting, fishing, and wandering the woods since diapers. He played hockey, and has hunter in Africa, and isn't afraid to tell the stories a few time, to make sure you caught the details. Hockey was his sport of choice, he couldn't spell to save his life, but when his front two teeth, slightly smaller than the rest, come sliding out from behind his gums in a smile, you can't do much but smile right along with him.

Josh Lobe, 22, Mebane, NC
Dark haired and quiet, with long arms, full lips, and a pair of piercing blue eyes, that seemed to stand out stronger as we all became dirtier. His soccer background lent to his strong hiking, and trail endurance. He never began a complaint, but was willing to chime in if someone else did. Always thinking, always humming, and literate in French. A true thinker in a perfect environment for thinking. We connected on the Wu-Tang Clan and Hong Kong cinema, and he seemed to open up a bit when it was just the two of us. A bit of a cynic, but not to the point of being obnoxious or a downer.

Sam Zahner, 21, Perryville, MO
The true good ol' boy, and the definition of a gentle giant, at 250lbs 6' (weighed in at 199lbs. at the end of the summer). Sam doesn't tan, he burns, and his scalp shines deep red under a wisp of white blonde hair and eyebrows. At first glance you might think redneck, and leave it at that, but Sam is well read, and open minded, with a good set of values. Fishing, hunting, drinking and cards are on the top of his list, and Idaho was a perfect fit. Probably the most genuine guy I've ever met, and a hell of a trail food chef to boot.

More to come, letters to write, but for the time being I needed to write myself. Fragments, no pictures, beards, and hard laughter. Impossible to draw anything concrete from it now, but that’s not what I'm after. I'm taking this day by day, enjoying every minute of it. Drifting, and the only thought that comes to mind is that I was born to do this.

Jottings From the Speeding Greyhound

Looking to the east he squinted into the sun and flared his nostrils, causing his mustache to tickle his upper lip.

Last night out of place in a foreign land he watched Rocky IV and pulled wayward hairs from his thigh.

The sun had just begun to define the mountains. From the downward spiraling road clouds could be seen releasing their embrace, melting slowly into the sky.

Amsterdam - Part II

The next day was Derek's birthday. We spent the morning getting the keys back to Locanda Daniel in Florence, then sat on a curb eating cool, creamy yogurt with fresh fruit. We were looking for the "The Cracked Kettle," a place I read an article about in the Chicago Tribune some months ago. Boasting over 300 beers, including some of the most rare and expensive in the world. When we found it we picked up two Trappist darks for 3 euros. They were cold, and tasted good in the early afternoon. Lazy day after that, a chocolate birthday croissant with 20 candles by the dock for Derek. The sun was dropping quickly, and we decided to have a last joint while we watched the sun set on our trip.

The high was relaxed, as promised by the description. I soon fell into the slow rocking rhythm of the dock. The sun's reflection glinted off the dark water in every shade of orange, then red as the sun bled into the horizon, painting the water as it fell. Flying fish soared across the sky. Whether they were real or not I could not tell, and did not want to. Finally the sun went to sleep and the wind grew cold as the sea grew black, and I knew the trip was over. I was overwhelmed with a bittersweet feeling as I climbed down to the lower deck, and into my bunk. Looking out the porthole, taking a deep breath, and tasting the salt, I lay on my back and closed my eyes, falling asleep to the gentle cradling of the Avanti.

End of European Trip - 6/10/07

And there it is. My hot apple pie has grown cold here at the Copper Kettle in Boise, ID, and the booths have filled up with a dinner crowd. The rain has stopped and the drops on the shrubbery outside the window have slid off. Time seems to be speeding up again. Tomorrow I go to McCall, ID. Tomorrow I leave the planet.

Amsterdam

We were taking in the sounds and smells of Amsterdam by noon, where we found our houseboat with little difficulty. I was happy we had managed to rent a room on a houseboat. It's one step closer to actually living on one some day. We unloaded our things, settled the bill with the owners (a couple consisting of a wise cracking man with a beer gut and a Heineken hat and a shrewish woman with an unnerving stare) after an extensive search for an ATM, and went mushroom hunting. I had decided somewhere along the trip that I was going to do mushrooms in Amsterdam. I had never tried them, and figured it was better to experience them where they are legal and probably cleaner.

We found a smart shop in the outskirts of the red light district. After explaining to the Hawaiian-shirted owner that I wanted to see things he gave me some damp Colombian mushrooms, I gave him 13 euros, and that was that. I ate them on a nearby bridge overlooking a wide canal, chomping the fungus, and washing it down with a banana. 1:33 P.M. Derek noted. 45 minutes until something happened, the Hawaiian shirt had said. All I could do now was wait.

In the meantime we stopped in a coffee shop and bought a gram of Jack Herrer, that was described as a "mellow, relaxing high," and sat down to eat at a seductive, mood lit Spanish restaurant. I was giggling in anticipation for the trip, waiting for the Columbians to kick in. It was about the time we got our food that my body began to tingle. It was a good tingle, like warming up by a fire after being out in the snow all morning. When we finished eating I was high, but not tripping, just giggly and high. My body felt light and fluffy. When Derek left to use the bathroom the visuals began to come. I was looking at a wine rack, when lazily, everything seemed to relax and stretch as if the entire world had been holding its breath until now.

The waiter came with the bill and I signed it, smiling at my goofy waving signature, and we went outside to the flower market, where everything looked sharp and vibrant. Colors, sound, and especially faces. I felt like I could describe faces, and that everyone had hard edge lines, almost angled, but not dramatically. When I thought about writing the faces turned into the words I would have used to describe them. Languages, fonts, and punctuations dripped from passing mouths. When I looked to the ground there were piles of words laying around, being kicked by many shoes.

Derek said something about Van Gogh park, museum or otherwise, and I was all for it, I was all for anything. Everything was all right. I thought I had said this out loud, but Derek just looked at me while I watched a postcard of a multicolored rug blowing in the wind, like a magic carpet.

Before long we were standing at a bus stop. I was watching everyone's feet as they shuffled and stuttered on the checkered sidewalk. It was as if the sidewalk was nipping at their feet, trying to get them off. It was a tired grumpy sidewalk. I was lost in thought when the bus raced up and ate Derek and I, along with the rest of the sidewalk trespassers.

Lodged into a corner near the jaws of the bus, packed in the middle of nine million faces I concentrated on my arm hair dancing away like reeds dance in a passing wave. I was examining the tiny universe in that little patch of skin when ROAR! The jaws opened and ate a new batch. I stole a breath of fresh air before the jaws shut, and looked at the trees outside. All I wanted to do was get to nature for some reason. I wanted the bus to stop with the constant feedings. Wasn't it full yet?

The build up made the moment when we stepped off the bus and into Van Gogh Park that much better. Everything was made of clay. I was laughing, taking pieces of reality and molding them into something fresh, leaving behind black voids like tears in fabric, then letting them go, watching them slide slowly back into their true places.

We found a spot near a tree next to some children playing soccer, and Derek fired up a nice smelling joint. I heard a violin somewhere in the background of my head. I asked Derek if he heard it, but he said no, and was convinced I was hearing things. I was content hearing things, especially if they sounded as nice as this. I took my shoes off and lay down for a while watching the clouds dance on delicate feet, shifting partners, and breaking away. Then to the trees, swaying and rocking, with laughing faces in the leaves. All to the tune of my imaginary violin.

Derek was enjoying the scenery as well, and asked me what I was seeing. I told him that his smile was wrapping around his head and tying a bow on the other end. We laughed, then I took some reality clay from his face, from the clouds, and a little from a tree trunk and made a painting. I looked at it for a while, but the black voids eventually sucked their pieces back. I'm not sure they approved. I took a deep breath, and the lawn breathed with me.

It seemed like hours before I heard Derek again. He was smiling and asked if I wanted to take a look inside the Van Gogh museum. Of course. I put my shoes and socks back on and we walked over toward the entrance and, HO! Around the corner a small woman was playing the violin. Had I invented her? I rubbed my eyes, but she was real. Derek was equally surprised.

We hit a slight snag entering the Van Gogh. Walking through the metal detectors we caught the attention of a sly-eyed Dutch woman in a starched uniform. She began to ask Derek some questions, while I hung back in fairyland. The woman's hair was fiery red, curling into ringlets framing her face. Her curls were slithering around, sliding up and down her face when I caught the stare. She focused in on me, squinting only the bottom half of her eyelids in a suspicious look. I caught the whiff of the lie Derek was concocting, and added an incoherent mumble of an affirmation. In an attempt to anchor myself I nodded feverishly and mustered what sobriety I had in me. The eyelids seemed unimpressed with my performance, but must have accepted that I wasn't completely off the edge yet, just teetering. With one last half squint she let us through to the eerie whisper riddled museum.

Here in front of us now were original Vincent Van Gogh pieces. Contrasted against the drab walls, hard corners, and impersonal metal, were vibrant animated paintings. It was interesting to think that they were locked up behind layers of security in somewhere so cold. From "Sunflowers," to "Portrait in a Felt Hat," his work continued to floor me. They were all animated, the figures and subjects moving freely about their rectangular existence.

When we left the museum Derek and I were both silent for a long while, walking around aimlessly until we spotted a family of ducks, playing in a string of cannabis plants floating along a canal. We talked a while, then walked around, and climbed a sideways tree. I was down from the intense visuals now, and would only occasionally see a drip or a stretch. It was getting late in the day, and we decided to grab a bite and explore the red light district.

I told Derek I'd buy him a whore for his birthday (the following day) and when we saw the selection I almost wished I had afforded myself one. Gorgeous women, but I was happy I wasn't on drugs any longer. They were sirens. Tapping on the glass doors with long manicured nails, licking their lips, becoming, calling out, whips, leather, big, small, and always on the prowl for the next score. Walking down a particularly narrow alley a woman in black lingerie brandishing a whip grabbed me as I walked by. She pulled my ear close to her full lips and said, "You, Now." Her hand slid down my back. I looked behind me at the traffic jam we were creating. She was holding me in place with her whip, which pressed against my chest. I was at a complete loss for words, but managed to mumble something about not having enough money, maybe tomorrow, etc. but she wasn't having it. "Fifteen euro," the lips whispered. Still I refused, shouts were coming from the traffic jam. With a push she moved on to the next in line, cracking her whip on my crotch.

I met with Derek outside the alley, and he said he had found a girl, so we went back to her window three times, but she was taken each visit. We sat on the edge of a main canal and looked at the lights and commotion. My crotch throbbed. Tired and thirsty, we trekked back to the passenger ship Avanti, where I fell into a deep sleep, breathing in the tart sea breeze.

Rotterdam

It was late when we got into Rotterdam. The architecture had a modern motif to it, and walking out of the train station we found ourselves among the techno rats, punks, and strung out faces of the night. We took the last public transit to our hostel, we thought. We had virtually no information on our hostel, just a vague name that Derek and I didn't agree on.

Two hours and three tram routes later and we're right back at the train station where we started. I was exhausted and ate a damp egg sandwich, then tightened my pack. We abandoned all hope and began walking in the general direction of a stop that we debated on earlier, but skipped. It was our best lead.

When we finally found the hostel our room had been given away. We had missed our 11:00 P.M. arrival time by over two hours. The man behind the counter must have seen our last ounce of hope evaporate in from of him because he quickly offered to set up mattresses in the basement for 5 euros, with breakfast in the morning. Once I hit the mattress I was out, regardless of the permanent glow from the exit sign above my head.

The next morning I woke up early, feeling good, and a little greasy. Today we were headed for Amsterdam. After a good breakfast of cereal, toast, and decent orange juice we hiked back to the train station.

Bruges

Packed up with warm egg sandwiches wrapped in tin foil and plenty of Belgian chocolates we hit an early train through Gent and arrived in the afternoon. Derek made a comment when the train rolled in with drops of rain on it. He said it looked like it was a giant sweating animal, and I though that was a good image of a train huffing and blowing steam into a station, panting. Derek was on pins and needles that morning due to an overdraft after a $200 charge that emptied his account. Thinking it was Locanda Daniel (Florence hostel) taking action (we accidentally took the key to the room, and had been lazy in returning it) Derek wrote a very frustrated e-mail, which turned out to be an embarrassing goof, because Derek had really just taken out that much money, but realized it after he hit send. Following an apology e-mail, and a marathon search for a post office in Amsterdam, we did get the key mailed back.

We found that our hostel in Bruges offered a bike rental service and took full advantage, riding through the cobblestone streets on two fat tired cruisers. Bruges is referred to, as the northern Venice, but looking back it seemed closer in structure and atmosphere to Amsterdam, but with a giant town square covering several blocks. Bruges turned out to be smaller than we expected, the bike riding might have shrunk the city some, and over a box of granola we began to talk about heading for Amsterdam that night.

We had luck canceling our hostel reservations. Two guys were looking for a room right as we were trying to get out of ours, but finding a room in Amsterdam for that night proved impossible. We looked for an intermediate and settled on Rotterdam, a half-hour from Amsterdam. With that we said goodbye to Bruges and jumped on a train. I felt comfortable traveling, and was able to write a little. After three weeks on the road a lonely compartment feels more and more like home.

Antwerp

Belgium, Brussels, Antwerp Verle & Co.

Yesterday I woke up with an inherent headache. This morning I was given one as a gift by some crazed bitch pounding on her car horn outside our window for a full 20 minutes at 7 A.M. Derek and I made the best of it though, and decided it was time to be hitting the road anyhow, plus we were first to take advantage of the free breakfast.
Our destination was Antwerp, Belgium. Earlier in the trip we were spending close to a week in each country. This would be our third in five days. Originally we hadn't planned to go to Belgium, but Derek had connections through his mom's friend Verle, and it was arranged that we stay at their home for a few days. Derek had seen Verle two years ago on a trip to Europe and said she was very nice, and a very good cook. It was the lucky break of the trip, putting out money, food, and lodging worries on the back burner.

I didn't shower throughout Germany, my contacts have sucked my eyes bloodshot, and my hair/bead combination gets greasier by the minute. I was in good shape to meet this woman.

From Cologne to Brussels we transferred to a train for Antwerp, getting us there around 1 P.M. We took over three hours wandering around for something to eat (an unpleasantly spicy kebab that we didn't pay for) and a pay phone to call Verle (which ended up being right next to the station). While waiting for her to pick us up Derek bought some flowers. Before long a green car pulled up, and there she was with a big smile to greet us. A wonderfully big woman with a big smile and kind eyes. After greetings and introductions we piled in the car and headed to the suburbs of Antwerp, where Verle pulled into the driveway of a quaint two-story house in an older neighborhood, complete with fields filled with livestock, and thatched roof houses.

When we had dropped our things off in their son's second story room (fixed up with an extra bed) I threw out an extra thank you and made a beeline for the shower. My underwear was so worn, dirty, and full of holes that I threw it away and stepped into the shower. It was much needed, but because it was just a tub with no curtain and a moveable head, I was unsure what to do. In the end I adopted a combination of flopping on my stomach and curling up in the corner as to not get the floor wet. It got wet anyway.

It was strange changing into my final pair of clean pants, and felt symbolic, but I was hungry so I didn't think too deeply into it. I met Verle and Derek in the backyard for delicious sandwiches, then excused myself to unwind and write a bit while Derek played a private show for Verle and her son Tom on the guitar. Later Verle insisted we make a grocery list, but I was sheepish to ask for things, and in the end it was Verle writing down things she knew we'd like. Belgian "famouses" such as chocolate, beer, asparagus, and chocolate. She also insisted on doing our laundry, and I cringed at the thought.

I felt relaxed, and scribbled a while longer before dinner. The air was sweet. That night I met Danny, Verle's husband, and enjoyed fine Belgian beer and dinner, attempting to balance my drinking, eating and story telling ratio, taking turns with Derek, chipping in details. Tom seemed to enjoy hanging with the "big boys," and we enjoyed learning about Belgian trends such as "Jumping" (a hip new Belgian dance).

Even though the sleep that night was fatigue and alcohol induced I slept soundly, and woke up to sunlight dancing on my face, after a series of strange dreams. I walked downstairs and met Derek in the kitchen for breakfast.

I stuffed myself, then got a chance to do the one thing I had missed besides climbing: bike riding. I rode an old mountain bike, and Derek jumped on a stylish cruiser (almost all bikes in the Netherlands were cruisers, hardly any mountain bikes, and no road bikes). We took to the streets of Antwerp eagerly, twisting and turning our way aimlessly past lakes, fields, and Elementary schools, the wind blowing through our hair, until we were completely lost. Fortunately, Danny outfitted us with maps of the area, and we found our way back just as it started to rain. The weather was strange while we were in Belgium; pouring rain for five minutes then giving way to 72 degree sunny skies, and repeat. We ate lunch and rode with Verle to a Belgian version of Sam's Club to buy ingredients for a Belgian specialty called "Gourmet," (closest English translation). Gourmet consists of a hot plate in the center of the table where you cook your own small vegetables and pieces of meat. Typically used around holidays or special occasions so the family can be together, and no one gets stuck in the kitchen.

6.10.07 - Interruption

On the train again. In the past week I haven’t written, I've seen nearly everyone, told countless stories about Europe, packed for Idaho, moved apartments, and now I'm headed back to O’Hare. I'm not leaving the country this time, but I feel as if I might be leaving the planet. Still dirty, unshaven, with a new backpack for a companion. My phone took less time to shut down, it knows. The new pack feels good against my back, it knows. My mind is playing catch-up, but I have a new book to encourage it to wander faster, and further off. Too loud, the roar of this metal tube racing to get me off the planet, soon enough. All mental obstacles, needles, and fractures aside, back to Europe and the Belgian hospitality, Bruges in the afternoon, a basement in Rotterdam, and a houseboat in Amsterdam. Almost done with the adventure in ink, just in time to jump into a new one with my eyes closed.

Antwerp - Continued

Came back from the grocery store in a giddy mood. Verle bought us enough food for another three-week trip, let alone four days. I was left to my thoughts as Verle prepared for Gourmet. I refused a beer, which in hindsight I should have accepted out of respect, and sat upstairs staring at the rain falling through the falling orange sunlight. I wrote a little, something about Venice I think. Before long the smell of cooked vegetables rose up to the room, and I went down to investigate.

Derek was playing guitar with Tom. The music emphasized the dinner table, which was set with a large hot plate surrounded by small plates with wooden utensils (as not to conduct heat to your hands). Next to the hot plate were a series of bowls and plates with small pieces of various meats, mushrooms, tomatoes, green peppers, and an entire onion.

Interruption - The Kopper Kettle 2661 Airport Way, Boise, Idaho

A light drizzle right as I step off the plane. I felt it lightly in the gap between the gate and the door. One of those rains that coats the top of your head, but leaves the rest of your hair dry. Checking into the hotel I noticed that my room was bigger than my apartment in Chicago. "Anything smaller?" I asked. I received a stiff shake of a head. This was the smallest room; complete with a king sized bed. Four people could easily sleep in here. Outside the Kopper Kettle (a small diner just down the street) the rain looks gentle. Individual drops rest on the generic shrubbery outside instead of running off immediately. Time seems to have slowed down here. People seem polite, but maybe it's just in airport land. My cross section of people in Idaho is limited. A new place. A glass of free water with ice. A giant omelet. No omelets after tomorrow. Jump in, cross out, stand up and keep walking, keep laughing, because the roots begin to seep in when you stop doing either, god forbid both.

Antwerp - Continued

After dinner, and dessert of course, I refused another drink offer. Don't get the wrong idea the beer is phenomenal, strong brews by drunken monks in the hills. Warms the body like a shot of rum, but less intrusive. That said I still refused, my mind was blank, and I grew quiet as we played cards, board games and such. Wandering off. Thoughts of the single can of Wolfgang Puck signature soup in my apartment, complete with a headshot of Mr. Puck printed on the can. I was convinced he had peeled himself off the can and was strutting around rubbing himself all over everything, bed floor, cold knob on the sink. I went with the drift as it took me through strong feeling of nostalgia for video games, and pizza parties with 2 liter bottles of sprite. Caffeine antics in Saginaw. I missed my friends. Maybe I was just unsure of when I would be back in Michigan, if at all. These thoughts might also be more of what I'm thinking right now while writing this, but I remember they were similar if not spot on. Either way my drifting was constantly interrupted by the round about board and card games, and finally left, or maybe I left them.

I excused myself, and in the thick haze of drowsiness I remember feeling an overwhelming happiness knowing that my friends were back home, and I'd see them when I could, they'd always be there.

The next morning we headed to Bruges.

Sidenote:
Antwerp translates to "Hand-Throw," in Flemish. In the square by the train station there is a big statue of David throwing the hand of Goliath. Supposedly Antwerp was built where the hand landed.

Cologne

Woke up with a small headache. The 4-euro hostel breakfast is calling me to get the beer off my breath, get a solid piece of food in my stomach, and take as much as possible for the road.

It was an easy walk to the station to catch a train direct to Cologne, but we attempted to catch a free ferry ride on the Rhine to see the old robber baron castles, which we narrowly missed, and ended up in Mannheim for an hour or so. It wasn't a total loss however, because a train we eventually took to Cologne rode along the Rhine for a stretch, letting us get a glimpse of some castles.

Downtown Cologne was fairly artsy, reminiscent of a large Ann Arbor, Michigan. The only major difference is the gothic castle-church jutting into the sky just outside the train station, The Dom. This building looks more like a demonic temple than somewhere to worship holy beings. Two main spires stand tall above the rest of the structure with black crosses mounted on the each point. Large stained glass windows and weathered gargoyles add to the overall eeriness.

Again, I was drained and hungry from the long day riding through Germany. Derek shared these feelings, and we went on a hunt for a restaurant, seeing a good amount of Cologne on the way. It took us over an hour to find somewhere that we both agreed on. It wasn't due to differences in taste that kept us walking, but that irritating indecisiveness that takes over when you're too hungry to know what to eat. We ended up picking the most American stereotype restaurant, and were two of four people there. Mini American flags hung from the walls, ceiling, and everywhere else. Very strange.


Not much else to report on Cologne. We got to bed fairly early to rest up for our journey to Belgium in the morning.

Munich

Germany. The sleeper country of our trip, but after two wine countries that eat like rabbits we were looking forward to a frosty mug of brew and a big plate of meat and potatoes.

It was raining steadily when we got into Munich, but the hostel was visible from the train station, a convenience that I greatly appreciated after some of the walks we had taken from train stations. When we had checked in and dropped off our packs we made for a nearby beer hall recommended by a brochure in the lobby. When I walked in and saw six chickens on rotisserie I knew this was a good pick. That and I was damn hungry. I started with a big mug of dark beer and waited impatiently for the food. It was worth the wait. I thought they had modeled it after my fantasy German meal, just for me. I may be getting caught up on the food, teetering the line between appreciation and obsession. The bottom line is Derek and I both had a great hot meal, making the walk back in the rain bearable. When we made it back we decided it was too wet out to take a walk around, so we hung out in the common area for a while where we met some other English speakers, and struck up a conversation and a card game.


Later that night we met up with a journalist from Georgia, a duo from Colorado, and a married couple from Australia at the Haufbrauhaus. This place is supposedly able to fit 8,000 people, and that night all 8,000 were there, testing the limit. Looking down long wooden tables, groups were packed together old and young, foreign and domestic, all drinking out of thick glass one-liter mugs. The drink menu consisted of three beers: original brew, dark, and wheat. After a dark, an original, and a lot of mug clinking, everything seemed to meld together into one big din, a dull roar orchestrated and paced by a traditional German band in the center, encircled by a group of locals singing along. A group of old men with red noses toasting to everything, eight giant mugs smashing, splashing foam in the name of anything they wished.

A last slug of brew, and it's time to wander back smiling. We were laughing and re-enacting scenes. I felt warm despite the light rain.

Salzburg

6.5.07: A tangent prelude to Salzburg and other tales.

Halfway through the flight back to the states, munching on a bowl of granola from Venice. I've been thinking of days past, and the whole new adventure of Idaho looming closer. Only a brief five-day breath between the two. Out the window to my right, past three seats and an aisle, I can see Greenland sitting majestically, a mass of snow and rock. I've never seen Greenland before, but thinking about how much this excites me, I realize that I haven’t done or seen almost all of the things that have happened in the past twenty-one days. From backyard camping to the amount of priceless art and stunning architecture, to the continent and countries in general. It's all been truly inspiring. I like writing while eating cereal. Four more hours to go before we touch down on U.S. soil. I finished Kafka's "The Castle," not to long ago, even though he didn't finish writing it. It was a good book for a stranger bumbling about strange lands. Enough time wasting and book waxing. It's time to finish the story, which baring my love/hate relationship with my damned clicky pen, will be completed soon. It only takes an 8-hour straight jacket and a bag of old cereal to get me in the mood.

Salzburg:

The train from Villach arrived late in the afternoon. We looked for an Internet cafe to book future hostels, and more importantly to find out where the hostel here was. Luckily something was open because after finding an uncommon amount of stores closed for a Monday afternoon we found out it was a national holiday in Austria. Church day or something. We wanted to get our packs off, so we wasted no time finding the place.

The place was a guesthouse bed and breakfast owned and operated by a traditional Austrian couple. We were shown to our room, and it was a good thing I set my pack down because I would have dropped it otherwise. The house sat on top of a hill, and the view out of the bedroom window (which doubled as a door out to a small patio) was unlike any I had seen so far. Downtown Salzburg rested in from of a giant green mountain, riddled with pine trees. A thin cloud belt hugged the middle of the mountain. The sky was silver and lazy. I hadn't showered since Florence, and had been ready for a scrub, but I couldn't pull myself away. I stepped out on the patio, and felt the breeze growing into a steady rain. Showers can wait.

When I went back into the bedroom I looked back through the glass, but it wasn't the same.

I showered and changed clothes. Looking out the window I noticed that the rain had let up, so we decided to go into town for sandwich supplies. The lingering holiday left us with few options, most of which were non-Austrian markets and hotels bars. After scraping together our combined money in coins we picked up some pita bread, spiced bologna, and a tomato, and headed into what we thought was an authentic Austrian tavern. It turned out to be a Best Western. It didn't look terribly touristy though, and anyway the rain was coming down again, so we ducked in.

Walking toward a stool I locked eyes with the male half of an older couple, nursing identical beers. A quick hello let us know they were American. Another few words and it's clear they're from the south. Following a friendly "Where you from?" we learn that these two were born and raised in the great state of Texas. San 'Tone to be exact.

And thus began the conversation with Rick and Robyn McGuinney. Derek and I ordered a beer for conversation and sipped away as these two waxed on everything from the lack of ice in Europe, the difference between a Yankee and a damn Yankee (Yankees visit, damn Yankees stay), jobs, favorite beer (Miller only), and everything in-between. Apart from the fun I'm going to make of them shortly they were incredibly nice people, and we actually have a standing invitation (though given while they were intoxicated) to visit them in San 'Tone. Shewt, might take 'em up on at. I ain't never been tah Texas.
Anyway, on to the memorable quotes from our time with the McGuinney's:

"I only drink Miller, but I can drink the hell out of it"
-Robyn

"Y'all ever been duck huntin'? It's just like that, you gotta lead 'em."
-Rick (Using an analogy to describe European traffic)

"I's born in San 'Tone and I'ma die in San 'Tone...'less I die somewheres in-between."
-Rick

"Remy? How you say that in English?"
-Rick (talking to the bartender)

"I ain't goin' to Berlin, nuh-uh. Not with the wall and all that, nope couldn't get me there."
-Rick

It was still raining when we left the company of Rick and Robyn, but I was in good spirits, and it felt nice. Downtown Salzburg wasn't much to write home about. It looked similar to a bigger midwestern city, Milwaukee or Saginaw. We were happily soaked when at last we got back to the house on the hill, and slept well in the arms of the mountains.

In the morning we were served a breakfast of hard rolls, meat, cheese, jelly and Nutella, and grabbed a little extra of each for the trip to Munich.

Villach

We shot through northern Italy, catching glimpses of the Alps between tunnels. This train was bound for Villach, Austria. The first new country in a week. We chose Villach on a whim, because it's fun to say (FEE-LOCK). I harbored a small amount of excitement in knowing a small amount of German that I was eager to put to the test, but was surprised when greeted with a confusing German/Italian dialect, and floundered completely.

We wandered in the general direction of a hostel we hadn't booked for the night. A combination of the heavy packs and the rain that had started slowly, but now soaked us thoroughly, drove us to seek shelter under an awning across the street from a Chinese restaurant. I had given up looking for this phantom hostel, and wouldn't have been opposed to sleeping under the awning for the night. I looked over at the mixture of symbols and gibberish, Chinese and German. I remember thinking it was out of place, but I really wasn't one to talk. Derek was playing with his hair, molding it into a Mohawk, when I jokingly suggested that we just ask the restaurant if we could pitch our tent in their outdoor dining/garden area. I had no further plan other than that, but Derek stopped playing with his hair and looked up nodding. "2 Euros if you go over and ask them, 5 if we actually get to stay," he said with a small laugh and a grin. The smile I had been wearing from the joke was still on my face, but it molded now to match Derek’s sly grin. I was still wearing this face when I reached the door of the restaurant. Derek was close behind.

I stepped in out of the rain to find the place nearly deserted, with exception to one English-speaking group of older people hunched over a table in the corner. Immediately I locked eyes with a young waiter making his way over to seat us. He couldn't have been older than 17, with a slight build and quick steps. Looking around I gathered that he was running the pace by himself. When he was in range I attempted, in my best fragmented German, to explain our situation, throwing in dish washing gestures for work and the phrase " kein geld," to convey our lack of pocket funds. I had no idea how to say tent, lawn, sleep, or other key phrases, so after making wild hand gestures for a bit the young man ushered us to his computer where, with help from Google translator, I managed to respond with a wag or nod of my head. A few head movements and "danke's," later we were permitted to stay until his father came back, when he would ask permission.

I stole a look at Derek, the first since this whole process had begun, and could hardly contain a chuckle. It was right when I was about to fully double over when I spotted a small intent looking man with two gray streaks running through his hair on either side of his head at ear level. He was undoubtedly the young man's father.

His son met him outside, just behind us, and proceeded to spout a whirlwind of language, explaining the situation. We filled the pauses with German snippets, which probably annoyed him. After a particularly long break in the conversation the dad said something short to his son and they walked back into the restaurant. It was a nerve-racking minute before the boy came out and informed us that we could stay in the garden, on the little patch of grass in the corner, but not until 11:00 P.M. when they closed. We thanked them profusely, and held in our laughter until we were out of earshot. It was too much. We had somehow gotten ourselves a campsite in a Chinese restaurant garden in the middle of Villach, Austria. It was 8:00 P.M. on a Sunday, and we needed to find a place to celebrate.

There was a gas station just down the hill where we had asked for direction to the phantom hostel earlier, and we stopped by to ask if there was someplace where we could kill a few hours. We had prepared for the usual Sunday shut down, and weren't surprised when we found out everything was closed. The man behind the counter said that if we wanted we could have a drink and something to eat here, and motioned to a small sitting area surrounded by empty beer crates. We agreed, and played cards for a bit sipping Villachers, a hometown brew. Not that we had a choice, Villacher was the only beer offered. As couple sitting next to us observed, "Why you want to drink anything else?"

We stayed until they closed at 10, and made our way downtown in hopes that there might be some late night joint still alive. We ended up finding a sports bar where we caught clips from the Formula 1 races in Monaco. By the time we got back to the garden I was exhausted, and pitched the tent, said goodnight to the man and his son (who told us we had to be out by 10 the next morning when they opened) and fell asleep with my head resting on my filthy pants.

I woke up with the sunrise and bird songs of a Villach morning. Salzburg was waiting for us.

5.31.07 Recap from Antwerp - Venice

The rain has been hot on our heels since the 100-degree days and narrow streets of Florence. I feel like I'm in my room when I was 12, except everything is in Flemish, I'm in a Belgian suburb, and I've acquired a nappy growth on my face. After the fantasy city of Venice, camping out in Austria, and most recently tearing through Germany drunk and shower less, It's nice to find some hospitality here with Verle and Danny, friends of Derek's Mom, and their son Tom, 11. I'm sitting in Tom's room now, hunched into a desk with 800g of goulash, and about a kilo and a half of granola next to my left foot. My last pair of pants finally made it out of my pack and onto my body. I feel clean, but I didn't feel that dirty before. Being welcomed into this home makes me feel like someone being taken out off the street. The amount of thank you's out of my mouth have been smothering, most likely making Verle uncomfortable. My beard itches. This unexpected stay in Belgium will be nice, no doubt, but I'm not throwing away my cereal anytime soon.

As for the recap, from Florence we headed northeast to Venice, a tourist magnet for over 200 years. We arrived via a reserved train that we knowingly didn't pay for (due to some absurd charge just for the reservation) but hit a streak of luck sitting with an American group that had reserved 8 seats for 6 people (two had left the country, unimpressed). We were marveling at our luck when caught sight of the city. Four massive white cruise ships stood out boldly against the sea, crowding the docks, unleashing massive amounts of tourists to cog the narrow arteries of Venice from 9-5p.

The hostel was a good ways outside of Venice, equipped with an ice tray, bunk beds, and a complimentary breakfast consisting of chocolate snacks. I bought a can of peas and a can of corn from the supermarket across the street for under a euro. This was a stark contrast in price to what we paid at the famous Harry's bar later that evening.

When we had dropped of our packs at the hostel and caught a bus to the city. I didn't know much about Venice, except that boats took the place of cars, and they wore, or used to wear silly masks to scare off the plague or something. When I actually saw boat-buses, crew traffic, and endless bridges I thought I was in a fairy tale. Another shocking sight was the amount of fanny packs and Bermuda shorts. Double that of Cinque Terra, easily.

It wasn't until later that evening when the cruisers had all retired for the night, and a light drizzle shooed away the rest, that we got the streets to ourselves. It was then that a mysterious air fell over us. The natural, relaxed state of the city seemed to unveil itself, as if it felt it had a moment to unwind. I still can't quite put words to this feeling, but it was certainly different that night. Traipsing through the haphazard streets and bridges we occasionally asking locals (in our non-existent Italian) for direction to a place called Harry's Bar. Half an hour later we were standing outside one of Ernest Hemmingway's famed drinking dens. The place where Hemmingway (according to the Swedish playboys in Cap D'ail, who tuned us into the bar) invented the Bloody Mary, along with the house original Belini (peach juice and champagne). Expecting the bar to be somewhat of a hole in the wall, I was surprised to see such a nicely dressed crowd. I'd be willing to bet the surprise on the other end was greater though, as they all cocked their heads at the pair of filthy, damp teenagers who had obviously stumbled in by mistake. Just past the threshold I made eye contact with a waiter, who quickly looked me up and down and moved toward Derek, informing him that shorts were not permitted, and asked us both to leave. We probably saved him from inventing some other pretext for getting us the hell out.

Stepping out of the bar we found the streets glistening in a soft mist, and the sky overcast. Walking slowly down the glimmering street I turned and gave Derek an empty scowl. A glint caught my eye, though, and drew my eye toward the gold plating of an old church at the far end of San Marco square. It shone not bright, but dull and strong against the sky. It reminded me of Paris. Taking a seat under a stone awning, I moved my eyes from the church to Derek's shorts, which I knew didn't help matters, so I fixed my eyes on the mass amount of pigeons in the square crawling all over people. After a brief silence Derek said something about finding a pair of pants before everything closed. My eyes had gone out of focus but I drew them back, and we were off. It was a mad dash, now through a steady rain, finding only high-end designer stores. Somewhere along the way Derek made a crack about thrifty britches, and suddenly I was in an uncontrollable laugh, slipping along the street out of breath. When I regained myself Derek had found a toned down designer store with pants around 30 euros. I lost my composure again when Derek came out of the dressing room with a pair of trendy white see-through pants. 32 Euros later Derek's carrying his shorts in a bag form the store, wearing his now soaking white pants.

We made it into Harry's Bar without further incident, and managed to find an empty table, then unfortunately a glance at the menu. 15 euros for a Belini. 15 Euros for a Bloody Mary. Even though I knew I only had a damp 5-euro note in my pocket I stuck my hand down in to feel it, hoping it had multiplied. Derek didn't have any money either. When the waiter came back to take our order I stuttered an American Express query as casually as my voice would allow. After receiving a nod I slid back into my chair, feigning modesty, but with genuine relief.

When our tiny drinks came we toasted to Ernest Hemmingway, thrifty britches, and the playboy duo in France for the tip. I was happy that we hadn't given up. The drinks were great, and we sipped them slowly in order to buy as much time as we could in this bar where we clearly didn't belong. When we finally sucked the last bit from our drinks we paid the hunk of flesh, and walked out without so much as a nod from anyone. Lying in bed that night I couldn't help but think how our room for the night was cheaper than the two drinks we had.

In the morning we rode to Villach, Austria.

5.24.07 Wrap up - Florence

It's around three in the afternoon, and I've been logging these details down so rapidly that I most likely won't be able to read anything once I need to transcribe it somewhere else. No worries. This hostel is extravagant compared to the past few places we've been. The window is slowly closing, but I'm fine with that now. I ate the last of my granola about an hour ago with warm milk out of a flimsy plate. Anything for cereal. It's time to put the pen down for a bit, so I can have more to write about soon. From here we're headed to Venice, Salzburg, and Munich tentatively, but there's no really no telling where we'll be in a few days.

5.25.07 Early morning entry:
New day, next day. In a dream a kid named Brian helped me get home from a drunken frenzy of faces. He let me use his phone to call a drunken old lady who, five minutes later, screeched up to the curb. A permed blue shock of hair was the only thing visible over the steering wheel. She raced back to my house in Las Vegas where my family was up at 2 A.M. playing Nintendo. They told me to suit up. My beard started dripping on the carpet, and I had to clean it up.

Strange ambulance wails, diesel fumes, and bits of Italian are ripping through my head. Green tinted slashes of light sting my face, performing an interrogation on my unconscious. My head might have been prodded, experimented on, and sewn up last night by two mischievous, and exceptionally well-dressed Italians while I slept. I'll have to make sure and close the window tonight.

Later:
Exploring Florence has been relaxing. Our first chance for a rest since we left Chicago. I wouldn't have it any other way. We wandered and drifted and saw the replica David, which was good enough for both Derek and I. After lunch we made our way up to The Dome. 400+ steps later on the top we enjoyed a full 360 degree view of the city, and I remember thinking that every city should have a spot like this where it can be fully appreciated, and looked upon.

We were only scheduled for one night in Florence, but we made arrangements to stay an extra day. There was something magical about the city. We took our time soaking in the evening out on the back porch of the hostel, staring at the Dome in the distance against a darkening sky. In the morning we were off to Venice.

Rome: Euro Camping Pt. 2

From La Spezia we to Rome took roughly five hours, getting us there around 10 P.M. We lucked out at the station and found a group of American exchange students who were headed to the same spot we were, another campsite, in Rome of all places. I wasn't sure what to expect. A pair of free bus rides (Public transit is a joke there, I' not sure if I saw one person pay their fare during our entire stay in Rome) landed us at a campsite that made our previous spot look like untouched wilderness. I'm not sure if I can really even bring myself to describe this wacky place, but here's a list of silly amenities that were offered (most likely to make up for the 10 euro a night price):

1. Internet for 5 euros/hr
2. Rented towels for 2.50 euros
3. Grocery store primarily stocked with room temperature beer.
4. Upscale and overpriced Restaurant.
5. A nightly disco jam party club, with DJ
6. 4 euro beers
7. Tents spaced a roomy 18 inches apart.
8. Car wash

I'm sure there are more, but those were the all-stars. It made for a good laugh.


As for Rome itself, let's begin with the aesthetics. First, the graffiti to wall ratio is astronomical. There's hardly any clean wall space. You’d think this would be ugly, and take away from this city, but most of it is very well done. Second, as with Genoa, the street vendors, hustlers, ramblers, and gamblers line every open spot of sidewalk. As with Paris, the mixture between modern building structures and 2000-year-old ruins was startling. It's made an interesting, but sometimes sad hybrid with examples like a McDonald's across the street from the Coliseum. It makes me wonder when the McDonald's will be a relic and the Coliseum will be prehistoric. The Sistine chapel, in its range of art from ancient to renaissance was magnificent. Tapestries 100 ft. long by 50 ft. wide made me appreciate the word masterpiece. The incredible detail in all of the works gave the impression that people simply spent more time on producing quality work back then.

Following ten ours of wandering around Rome in near 100 degree weather, three gelato fixes, and some more spaghetti we trekked back to our disco-camp, packed up, and hit a train to Florence in the morning.

Cinque Terra: Eurocamping Pt. 1

Our late afternoon train to Cinque Terra lulled us with to sleep after walking around all day. When we woke up we had missed all five of the towns, ending up in La Spezia. After backtracking, running across tracks, and hopping three trains we wound up in Deiva Marina, a small tourist destination for locals. This still wasn't our goal, but it was a roof for the night.

A shuttle to the "campsite" left every hour. It was 6:49, and we were starving.
Derek: Damn it so much for groceries.
Me: You think we can make it?

We paused for a minute and raced down under the tracks, through the streets in a mad dash for anything edible. We missed the train by a good margin, and ended up waiting until 8, when we loaded ourselves in the back of an old beat up van next to the luggage. On the up side we made out with the best pizza I had in all of Italy.

(The window with green shutters just yelled my name, it's been closing slightly from the wind, and I'm afraid if it shuts completely this flare to bleed my pen will come to a close as well. The voice was Derek's, down on the street yelling up for laundry money. I threw two coins down and watched as he caught one, and bobbled the other letting it roll into the narrow street. Ten days in and we're just now doing laundry. I'm still holding onto these pants. Ten days in these pants and I'm still holding onto them. By now they may be holding on to me. )

Florence is calling to me, somewhat literally. I'm antsy for new adventures. Focus. Cinque Terra was our premeditated highlight of Europe, budgeting early a week's stay there, but after dipping into a shady abandoned hostel, weaving through back streets, and seeing masses of Bermuda shorts, cameras, and fanny packs, we wound up waiting at a hostel for an hour or so, waiting for them to open so we could try to scam a room. In the meantime I ate a cold can of pork an beans consisting of one full hot dog sliced in half and shoved into the can, and stole a giant lemon from a fenced off tree. While I was going for a third lemon Derek shot me a look, and I heard footsteps so I leapt down and sat next to my pack, looking guilty. It didn't matter thought because the bums didn't have any vacancy anyway. I'm glad I made out with their lemons.

We decided that Cinque Terra was a city that was more enjoyable on a postcard. I personally wasn't in the mood for a paved scenic hike riddled with bad graffiti. On to Rome!

Side note on Deiva Marina & Euro Camping:

Europeans have a different view of camping than here in the States. These pictures should illustrate this better than I could. We made the best of it though, and wound up meeting Christian and Ed, a father son tandem from Ottawa that shared our longing for the great outdoors. Christian, 46, and Ed, 75, were probably the most interesting people we met on the trip. Ed looked like a bear. Long white hairs sprouted from every other pore, but still hung to the skin as if reminding the world that they had once been dark and intimidating. Ed Bear was in his underwear, and made restless trips back and forth from the tent to a chair outside where Christian Derek and I were talking. When he permanently retired to the tent Ed served as Christians personal encyclopedia supplement on anything from detailed WWII battle details, to the history of Alpha Romero's. That's not to suggest that Christian needed much. This midlife jack-of-all-trades had a voice that soothed and eased us into his extensive anecdotes as dusk slowly segues to night. I was convinced that Christian paced dusk that evening. Moving fluidly from tales of his time as an opera singer, to his current endeavor of farming organic chickens, never once was I uninterested. Good ol' Christian and Ed Bear, opening a new door.