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.

Genova

Originally we were headed for Italy's circus string of multicolored houses on the coast known as Cinque Terra, but ended up making an intermediary stop in the Italy's pesto capital, Genoa. We got in late, hungry as usual, and had trouble finding our way to the second story apartment/bed and breakfast. I crashed once we battled the language barrier and paid, drifting away thinking about the odd library in our room consisting of three English books: Trainspotting, Stephen King's Misery, and Confessions of a Shopaholic.

Breakfast was held in a small kitchen, and when we walked in we found a stone-eyed German with a very angular face, sitting with his pink haired bulldog wife. Both were around 50 years old, and very intimidating. We ate fast, and excused ourselves, slipping uncomfortably from the man's stare.

Looking back Genoa seemed like a mini Rome. Not as many tourists, street vendors, or curious odors, but enough to earn a place in its description. We drifted around town nearly all day, taking time to eat some authentic spaghetti, taking silly pictures of McDonalds signs, and overall making the tourist community proud. There was also a fantastic pirate ship in the harbor, complete with a giant bust of Poseidon in the bow (with mega abs).

Cannes & Antibes

Packing up and leaving Villa St. Exupery was bittersweet. We stayed at some great hostels, houses, and tents in three weeks, but none quite like this hostel on the hill. After a short breakfast and a few last minute online hostel bookings, we caught a train to Cannes. If the film festival wasn't going on I would have no desire to make the trip, but aside from all the hoopla Cannes is a beautiful little port city, and I'm glad we made it. After taking a few touristy pictures in front of some signs and movie posters we got as much as we could out of the film festival, due to lack of press credentials, security clearance, or an award winning film. Nevertheless I was still giddy.

By the time we had managed to find a grocery store open on Sunday, and fixed up our baguette sandwiches on the curb the sun was high overhead. We had heard of two islands just off the coast of Antibes, just a stone's throw from Cannes, so we made fast to Antibes where we failed to find the islands, but took a dip and walked around a local beach. France had been great all around, but we still had five countries ahead of us. After taking in the salty air one last time we packed up and made for Italy.


We also had a modeling session for all the French Bablets

Monaco & Cap D'ail

I lost 5 euros playing a strange version of roulette, enclosed in a bubble. It looked like a bunch of adults paying a very serious game of Sorry, or Trouble. Derek hadn't gambled before so he decided to loose a few euros to the slots, and that was our experience in what we thought was the world famous Monaco casino, except it turned out later that we were in the wrong one. Monaco was too rich for my blood. Rolls Royce, Mazaratti, and so many Porsche’s they looked second-class. Meanwhile two smelly Americans catch looks at every corner from the real life James Bonds of the world. The city was setting up guardrails and such for the Formula 1 races, which we ended up watching a week later in an Austrian bar.

Getting our fill of Monaco, we caught a bus to Cap D'ail, a secluded little beach we had heard a lot about from the folks in the hostel. It took a bit to find and they weren’t kidding when they said it was secluded. There really aren’t any words I can use to describe this place, and the pictures can only do so much to recreate it. Paradise might come close. Surrounded on three sides by steep dark rock, this cove of the Mediterranean even came with a little V0 boulder problem.

After a much needed swim my tattoos earned us a seat with two curious Swedes named Friedrich and Jonas. Adult playboys with nothing better to do than ogle women on the beach all day and polish off six bottles of Rosa with two Americans. The sun and the wine teamed up to make for a warmth I'd never experienced, while Derek and I would occasionally steal looks at one another when one of these guys would blurt something silly, even for them. While with them we learned a few things about their drinking, spending, and women habits. All of these you would have to hear a real person to believe. I'll always remember their three rules concerning women.
1. Always keep pipelining
2. Women are crazy, but you have to accept that.
3. Never let her over the bridge.


With these rules sloshing around in my head, Friedrich got a call from someone they call the "Dirty President," and they were off. Dazed, grinning, and sun burnt, we stumbled out of the fairy tale cove, and back to our hostel in Nice. The Cannes film festival was going on during our stay in France, and there was no way I was going to miss it, even it I couldn't screen anything.

Nice

A 5 hour train ride southeast of Paris landed us in Nice around 10 P.M. If I had not been absolutely sure we were in France I would have never believed it. Show me a postcard of Nice, tell me this is France, I'd call you a moron. The downtown area looked like Daytona Beach. Gobs of neon, hole in the wall grease joints, litter, etc. Exhausted and somewhat shell shocked we debated on waiting for the bus, but couldn't make heads or tails of the public transit system. After a rest on a vandalized bench and a Clif bar, we strapped on our packs and make our way to our hostel on top of the hill, on foot.

The hostel (Villa St. Exupery, an homage to "The Little Prince") ended up being the highlight of our stay. Cheap drinks, good people, and long nights looking out over nice from the top of our perch. The kitchen was open to those who wanted to cook themselves, so Derek and I cooked up a little something, uncorked a bottle of wine, and felt right at home.

Everyone we met highly recommended seeing the areas around Nice (Monaco, Cap D'ail) so we looked at our schedule and decided to stay for an extra night. It didn't take much to convince us.

Paris

Arriving direct from O'Hare little more than zombies, we caught our second wind upon catching sight of the Notre Dame, making the 8 euro transit ride almost seem worth it. We caught close to 20 hours of sleep that night after staying up for nearly twice that. Good bread, better cheese, and the best chocolate croissants. Eating in an alley sheltered from a slight drizzle. Overcast, misty, the gleam of gold in the sky was stark, but pleasant. Looking at that strange golden color, while slicing a tomato on a curb seemed to sum up Paris. Long lunches, but quick compared to dinners. Modern life seemed to be built around monuments, a quiet respect. Distinct smells, like nothing I've encountered here In Chicago. Something like flowers and diesel fuel. It might have been the reflection off the golden buildings but everyone there seemed to glow somewhat, good faces.

The Mona Lisa Picture. It's blurry I know, but as I was taking it I was getting yelled at in French, and was very unnerved. It's smaller than I had anticipated.

Two days in Paris and we jumped on our first of many trains to Nice. Two backpacks, one baguette, one half eaten brick of cheese, a tomato and some cold cuts in desperate need of refridgeration. Needless to say we made great sandwiches, but a seemingly awkward impression on fellow riders.

5.24.07- Reflections from Florence

On May 15th my roommate and travel compadre, Derek, left for a three week European adventure. These notes are from 10 days in, the first chance I had to sit down and scribble. The beard had been growing two weeks prior to our departure.

5/24/07
After 10 days of whirlwind adventures in 10 cities my fragments have begun to cement. I've cooled down and now, while looking out from a window in Florence at a bright yellow building with green shutters I feel clam enough to recap the frenzy. Maybe not in the moment, defining crack in the sidewalk, or the certain smell of Parisians, but a few ideas step out from the line-up.

Introduction

My name is Max Moore, and I'm happy you're reading this. Every year I get older on October 4th. I enjoy cereal, biking, climbing, certain cats, and the number three. I'll be bringing this blog up to present day shortly enough, but first I have to backtrack in order to tell you the story of how I went from clean-shaven, to this thing on your left. It all began May 15, 2007...