I'm in need of someone to take care of me tonight
As I walk into Dorian's, can you see it in my eyes?
My boots are on the mend and they ain't walking home
Street tar and summer do a job on your sole!
Welcome everyone, let's get started. Reflect for a moment's notice if you will on those four lines from the music that got me through this street trip, namely Spoon's album Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga. Now imagine me appearing in some foreign doorframe, 40 pounds on my back and uke in hand, singing these lyrics. Now, that'd be a night's accommodation, for sure. What charm and cleverness, you must be thinking. Unfortunately I never actually needed to go to the residence of anyone named Dorian. But, at the very least, he came and hung out in London, and we stayed with Veevs. And I suppose that brings me to the very end of my dealings and days of the road.
Revisiting London and Birmingham was admittedly disaster control. Yet no doubt it was reassuring to actually see a few of my new friends again after so much wonder of a continent forever lost. In Birmingham they like to drink beer and then RUN! through the streets (the ol' ale-and-run) so Rory, Adrian, and I did that and caught an arthouse film just in time. After Spain I desired salt and vinegar...five more days. I read enough about Dean Moriarty on the bus to London to put me in the mood to tear apart (modest parts of) London with Dorian. He decided to take random turns around Westminster and purposefully get lost so I followed him. We ended up in a posh neighborhood with high-end Renaults, BMWs, Citroëns, and Aston Martins lining the streets. I showed him Chinatown and Soho which are, as I noted almost two months ago, overcrowded by gorgeous girls in tight clothing that drove the two of us into discreet hysterics. We just walked around and watched; as Dorian said, "It's just too much to do anything." I guess where I'm going with all this is that we didn't get into any trouble. My grand stories were done and told. Three more days.
We saw a UFO in the park (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ist9_j4TLQ ...which turned out to be a kite probably around 800 feet in the sky--I didn't know kites could do this!!!) and daytripped to Brighton (I hear it's lovely in the fall) with Veevs to feel the sun, see the water, and have a delicious vegan picnic. After Dorian's leave I walked the Tower Bridge a couple times, perused the dinosaurs at the History Museum and missed Sir Paul McCartney by only a couple hours, chatted up a Polish bartender and old Cockney man in a 17th century pub, and had a delicious Peruvian meal cooked by Veevs. I would only momentarily think things like, "You only have two more days in Europe, do all you can!!" before realizing the silliness of it all and just letting it happen. And then I caught a plane home.
I've thought about how to wrap up this journal and as you may have noticed, I'm at a bit of a loss for things to talk about. My reflection on the trip as a whole is proving difficult to put to words. Basically I set foot on American soil and felt like I owned the whole country. From my European mind thoughts of the United States were telescopic, viewed from impenetrable distance. When those 4,300 miles had finally passed it was like I'd been granted access to a new traveler's microscope. My eyes for America were opened and knew that they had been naked. It's not just the distance that gave me my new visions though, it takes a change in lifestyle and I urgently recommend such journeys to each and everyone who has so amazingly read along on the blawg.
A few falling actions from my Moleskine journal...
10 Things to Bring Back to America
1) Tapas on mini bagels (especially with Spanish potato omelettes)
2) Drying clothes on clotheslines
3) Turning off the AC and opening the windows
4) Walking
5) Toast with cream cheese and tomatoes
6) Teatime
7) Greeting with a kiss on each cheek
8) Fries with vinegar
9) Saying "cheers" for "thanks" and "bye"
10) My sanity
I was standin' at the sideroad, listenin' to the billboard knock
I was standin' at the sideroad, listenin' to the billboard knock
Well my wrist was empty but my nerves were kickin', tickin' like a clock...
cheers
x Arlen
keep movin on!
Monday, September 22
Thursday, September 11
Two Sketches of Spain, Part II: "Playing pianos filled with flames!"
I said goodbye to probably my favorite city yet and caught a sleeper train to see my friend Laura in Granada. I think that's where pomegranates come from but I could be mistaken. I nervously greeted my three Spaniard bunkmates from behind a huge, thick language barrier. No English, no Spanish. Me llamo Mateo, buenas noches Jesus, Juan, Mario. But I awoke fine and was greeted by the dry, magnificent workings of the Sierra Nevada outside the window. With next to no money at all I needed two and a half weeks of free accommodation, but I had no clue what Laura had done for me until we were walking past the Moorish buildings of Granada and I about did a double take: I could stay in her sister and niece's house for a whole week while they were less than a mile away visiting Laura's parents. I never even met these people yet I wrote this when I was sitting on their den couch. I reminded myself that I'm in Andalusia and as with Santiago, this is the place where the universe conspires with you.
So in my haphazard way Barcelona and Granada were to be the two cities of my Spanish picture. Barcelona because it was cheaper than flying to Alicante or Madrid, Granada because that's where Laura lives. Yet multiple people have told me that I visited the two best places in Spain. There's much more to see here...the northern beaches and San Sebastian, the Mediterranean Costas, Madrid, etc. Another trip, another day, because I love Spain so much. Just like Daniel in the Elton John song. So Laura dropped me off at my new home in the village of Santa Fe, western border of Granada city. Santa Fe is small town Spain! No English here. I went to the supermercado and ordered enough chorizo and cream cheese to make a grown man cry, came back and locked the door, and PARTAAAYED!!! with some Corona. You must understand dear folks that living by myself still retains its childish novelty of freedom, and though I was standing for a week on the exact same spot, I couldn't have been happier in my traveler's shoes. I kicked my feet back and flipped through twentysomething channels of Spanish trash (excluding the gem of Star Wars Episode III dubbed into Spanish, with Anakin calling Obi-Wan "maestro" and R2D2 "are-dos"...I couldn't help but wonder if they were screwing up this translation as miserably as the Chinese so famously did). I sang loudly in the nude. I watched the dusky Sierras from the top floor balcony. I developed a domesticated routine for the happy alone mornings. And in the afternoons I would take the cheap bus into Granada and explore ("Uno para Granada, por favor").
Granada, as my guide picked up from the tourist office remarked, is the "bridge between the East and the West." I'm fairly sure there are a lot of those in Europe, but Granada has an argument for itself. The area has been tossed back and forth between the Spanish Catholics and the Nasrid Muslims for quite a while. The 600 years' influence of Eastern rule struck me as far more exotic and mysterious and fascinating than the (certainly beautiful) Catholic architecture and culture, and as in Barcelona, wandering through the narrow alleys arrested my senses. These winding, climbing passages brought fountains, "teterias" (atmospheric haunts for drinking tea and smoking hookah), whitewash, cobblestone, cave-homes, bushy flowers in pots, oh and by the way the most authentic flamenco in the world. I spent a few hours in the Alhambra, a massive castle and gardens (the most famous in Spain) and secretly picked a delicious fig from one of the gardens' trees. At night Laura proved herself an excellent tour guide as we walked the streets and squares and ate tapas and ice cream and other such things. Here's some good photography: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tochis/sets/72157603622921037/
I also have to send my thanks to the enormous hospitalidad of Laura's whole family. Despite the fact that communication was sparse and difficult, they had me over multiple times for food (Laura's dad's paella is worth its reputation in gold letters). And two days ago we took a day trip into the Sierra Nevada and visited the jaw dropping Alpujarra district, where we rambled and ate a traditional meal in the small town of Pampaneira. I wish I spoke more Spanish. Who wants to encourage me to keep learning it so I can take it to my next destination, South/Central America? Sadly, toeing dangerously close to imposition and bankruptcy drove me away from my dear Laura and dearest Spain, which I believe I enjoyed even more than the UK. So in one day i trekked from the Other Santa Fe, surrounded by the Other Sierra Nevadas, .....uh...doubtless over the heads of some Other Football players, to the Other Birmingham. Tomorrow I will head to my final destination London, where I will proceed to throw down with my friends Dorian and Veevs for a week. Then all will end. And that about catches you up, my friends.
So in my haphazard way Barcelona and Granada were to be the two cities of my Spanish picture. Barcelona because it was cheaper than flying to Alicante or Madrid, Granada because that's where Laura lives. Yet multiple people have told me that I visited the two best places in Spain. There's much more to see here...the northern beaches and San Sebastian, the Mediterranean Costas, Madrid, etc. Another trip, another day, because I love Spain so much. Just like Daniel in the Elton John song. So Laura dropped me off at my new home in the village of Santa Fe, western border of Granada city. Santa Fe is small town Spain! No English here. I went to the supermercado and ordered enough chorizo and cream cheese to make a grown man cry, came back and locked the door, and PARTAAAYED!!! with some Corona. You must understand dear folks that living by myself still retains its childish novelty of freedom, and though I was standing for a week on the exact same spot, I couldn't have been happier in my traveler's shoes. I kicked my feet back and flipped through twentysomething channels of Spanish trash (excluding the gem of Star Wars Episode III dubbed into Spanish, with Anakin calling Obi-Wan "maestro" and R2D2 "are-dos"...I couldn't help but wonder if they were screwing up this translation as miserably as the Chinese so famously did). I sang loudly in the nude. I watched the dusky Sierras from the top floor balcony. I developed a domesticated routine for the happy alone mornings. And in the afternoons I would take the cheap bus into Granada and explore ("Uno para Granada, por favor").
Granada, as my guide picked up from the tourist office remarked, is the "bridge between the East and the West." I'm fairly sure there are a lot of those in Europe, but Granada has an argument for itself. The area has been tossed back and forth between the Spanish Catholics and the Nasrid Muslims for quite a while. The 600 years' influence of Eastern rule struck me as far more exotic and mysterious and fascinating than the (certainly beautiful) Catholic architecture and culture, and as in Barcelona, wandering through the narrow alleys arrested my senses. These winding, climbing passages brought fountains, "teterias" (atmospheric haunts for drinking tea and smoking hookah), whitewash, cobblestone, cave-homes, bushy flowers in pots, oh and by the way the most authentic flamenco in the world. I spent a few hours in the Alhambra, a massive castle and gardens (the most famous in Spain) and secretly picked a delicious fig from one of the gardens' trees. At night Laura proved herself an excellent tour guide as we walked the streets and squares and ate tapas and ice cream and other such things. Here's some good photography: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tochis/sets/72157603622921037/
I also have to send my thanks to the enormous hospitalidad of Laura's whole family. Despite the fact that communication was sparse and difficult, they had me over multiple times for food (Laura's dad's paella is worth its reputation in gold letters). And two days ago we took a day trip into the Sierra Nevada and visited the jaw dropping Alpujarra district, where we rambled and ate a traditional meal in the small town of Pampaneira. I wish I spoke more Spanish. Who wants to encourage me to keep learning it so I can take it to my next destination, South/Central America? Sadly, toeing dangerously close to imposition and bankruptcy drove me away from my dear Laura and dearest Spain, which I believe I enjoyed even more than the UK. So in one day i trekked from the Other Santa Fe, surrounded by the Other Sierra Nevadas, .....uh...doubtless over the heads of some Other Football players, to the Other Birmingham. Tomorrow I will head to my final destination London, where I will proceed to throw down with my friends Dorian and Veevs for a week. Then all will end. And that about catches you up, my friends.
Two Sketches of Spain, Part I: "Now she's a little boy in Spain!"
Spanish train station. Awkward lack of socializing prohibited by language wall. Hoping not to be noticed. Awaiting phone call. These are my happy situations and I think I have a sinus infection. It shall leave fast. And so begins my story of Spain.
I've said, "See you in another life, brother," to many fellow viajeros since I last wrote. You meet so many people on the road but if you break out the goodbyes and the Desmond Hume "other lives" you really met them. Haha. I left the UK from a glorious city called Edinburgh. I was allowed to stay in this most desired of cities thanks to my good Polish sir "Sir Maciek Buczkowski" whom I met in Stornoway. Quite quickly he demanded I stay with him so I could see The Festival. That Festival is Noneotherthan The Edinburgh International Festival, IE THE Largest Arts Festival In Europe. Every Summer, for a frenzied, messy, hedonistic month the entire city turns into a festival ground for performance. I saw some free comedy, soaked in one last week of free precitipation, and had a little free Polish (the Language of the 1000 Z's) lesson from Maciek--Czesc ("cheshch") is "hello," Dziemdobry ("jain-dobre") is "good morning." I told Maciek how down I was with Kryzstof Penderecki so maybe he would think I was cool.
Since I was running out of money I decided to cut my trip to two countries. I found myself with Spanish phrasebook, pocket guide, and boarding pass to Barcelona in my pockets. When I stepped out a new knowledge of disorientation took me. I realized I had never been in a place where English isn't the first language. In fact, as if I needed the extra little fun challege, Spanish (that's Castilian to be precise) isn't even the first language in the east, the region known as Catalonia. Catalan shares similarities with Spanish and French and even some Portuguese. Oh and the Catalonians take extreme pride in their distinct heritage. Needless to say I tried not to speak. Luckily I met a British fellow tramp named Dave on the bus. Except oops, he's not British, he's French, and he has the most arrestingly realized pronunciation I've ever heard from a non-native speaker. No trace of a French accent, and he began learning at the ripe old age of nine!
Barcelona is the capital of Catalonia and, like London, a major tourist destination and cosmopolitan offering. Any business in the city is often trilingual. There's plenty to see but my fascination was largely focused on the narrow, pedestrian streets that wind below towel-draped balconies, Roman history, and small shops ("Hola, solo estoy mirando..."). I did a lot of walking by myself, for alleyways like this don't exist where I come from...just spectacular. Barcelona is defined by the architectural brilliance of Antoni Gaudí. The city was his playground and he turned parts of it into little Dr. Seuss-esque visions:
I really loved the Sagrada Família and especially Park Güell. Gaudí rocks.
I shared Barcelona with: Joelle and Martina (Swiss Italians), Eduardo (Mexican), Roman and Ronek (Indian Chicagamericans), Mike (Kenyan German), Lea (French Canadian), Rohan (Brazilian), Maximo (Argentinian), Andres (Mexican), Paola (German), David (English), Weber (Taiwanese), Tim (Singaporean), Sophie and Annabel (Australian), Jon (Denverite), Catya (German), Lauren and Ruth (English), Brook (Thai), and Brendan (Illini).
What a group of friends! This is the pinnacle of hostel experiences: a group becomes comfortable and you start to feel like you own the place; it becomes home. Remember that overwhelming feeling of community you had when you lived in a dorm? It's that lost feeling back again, for a hostel is simply a college dorm you don't ever have to leave for class. The real difference between a dorm and a hostel actually is that the group is only temporary...members come and love and wake up and must move on dropping off little bits of themselves in the hostel. This is the way of travelers. We set out to love intensely but only for a short time, then we leave. Content with the value of absence we leave no trace but a name to plug into Facebook and vague promises of a future revival. Anyway it's weird.
So one night the Centric Point group went out to the excellent Traveler's Bar, a ruddy Irish pub where you can get a meal for one euro at 8. The only free seats for me were at a table occupied by two girls, so after my sangria I was chatting with these giggly Australians. They were identical twins, save that one, Annabel, thankfully had died her hair blonde. They became part of the Group, somebody mentioned something about a free street festival, and we hopped a Metro. We occupied most of that car--fifteen strong, looking and sounding much like excited tourists. Like City Stages each street at the festival had its own music, activity, and spirit. We danced a lot and people insisted on buying me beer. During a rousing game of Flip Cup (I rock but Rohan needs some practice), I got a startling call from back home: somebody had used my debit card in Ohio to the Ohio tune of $350. My debit card was in my pocket. Must have used it at the wrong Spanish place of business. I tried not to get upset and focused more on flirting with the ever more receptive Annabel, and just like that we were making out in the streets. She was cute and a big fan of Arrested Development. I was down $350, what the hell else was I going to do?
The next night we went down to the Barceloneta beach to do the same. We were pretty tired when we got there and she fell asleep in my arms. My camera bag and her purse had been sitting four feet to my right yet I looked over and they were gone. Ten minutes prior they were there. We'd been robbed, I again, and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. Curse the little Spanish bastards who put a blemish on an otherwise beautiful city. You'd stand with your back to the sea and picture a thousand little paths a thief could have taken in ten minutes. We cursed and flailed and ran around hopelessly and attempted confused conversation with high Spaniards (I couldn't stop thinking that anyone could have my camera). And my camera. All my photos. The rest of my traveler's checks, and cash. Her credit card and phone. It was simple: I had failed. My trip was over. All I'd set out to prove and do had been proven wrong and undone. On our way to the police station we met another group of recent victims of the beach...then another. There was a line of them at the station. I apologized profusely to Annabel and Sophie and told Mom and Dad I was coming home.
But I wasn't. I decided that going home was what another Me would have done. I've managed to defy most of who I used to be and here was my biggest challenge yet. I made some phone calls and thanks to the love of my friends I should be able to stay in Europe until the 18th. I was very moved in Tuscaloosa earlier this year when I witnessed a young man's Nikon camera (nicer than mine) get run over by a car because an acquaintance had borrowed it and absentmindedly set it on the ground. He quite simply shrugged it off and said, "It's just a thing." Well it was my turn.
I've said, "See you in another life, brother," to many fellow viajeros since I last wrote. You meet so many people on the road but if you break out the goodbyes and the Desmond Hume "other lives" you really met them. Haha. I left the UK from a glorious city called Edinburgh. I was allowed to stay in this most desired of cities thanks to my good Polish sir "Sir Maciek Buczkowski" whom I met in Stornoway. Quite quickly he demanded I stay with him so I could see The Festival. That Festival is Noneotherthan The Edinburgh International Festival, IE THE Largest Arts Festival In Europe. Every Summer, for a frenzied, messy, hedonistic month the entire city turns into a festival ground for performance. I saw some free comedy, soaked in one last week of free precitipation, and had a little free Polish (the Language of the 1000 Z's) lesson from Maciek--Czesc ("cheshch") is "hello," Dziemdobry ("jain-dobre") is "good morning." I told Maciek how down I was with Kryzstof Penderecki so maybe he would think I was cool.
Since I was running out of money I decided to cut my trip to two countries. I found myself with Spanish phrasebook, pocket guide, and boarding pass to Barcelona in my pockets. When I stepped out a new knowledge of disorientation took me. I realized I had never been in a place where English isn't the first language. In fact, as if I needed the extra little fun challege, Spanish (that's Castilian to be precise) isn't even the first language in the east, the region known as Catalonia. Catalan shares similarities with Spanish and French and even some Portuguese. Oh and the Catalonians take extreme pride in their distinct heritage. Needless to say I tried not to speak. Luckily I met a British fellow tramp named Dave on the bus. Except oops, he's not British, he's French, and he has the most arrestingly realized pronunciation I've ever heard from a non-native speaker. No trace of a French accent, and he began learning at the ripe old age of nine!
Barcelona is the capital of Catalonia and, like London, a major tourist destination and cosmopolitan offering. Any business in the city is often trilingual. There's plenty to see but my fascination was largely focused on the narrow, pedestrian streets that wind below towel-draped balconies, Roman history, and small shops ("Hola, solo estoy mirando..."). I did a lot of walking by myself, for alleyways like this don't exist where I come from...just spectacular. Barcelona is defined by the architectural brilliance of Antoni Gaudí. The city was his playground and he turned parts of it into little Dr. Seuss-esque visions:
I really loved the Sagrada Família and especially Park Güell. Gaudí rocks.
I shared Barcelona with: Joelle and Martina (Swiss Italians), Eduardo (Mexican), Roman and Ronek (Indian Chicagamericans), Mike (Kenyan German), Lea (French Canadian), Rohan (Brazilian), Maximo (Argentinian), Andres (Mexican), Paola (German), David (English), Weber (Taiwanese), Tim (Singaporean), Sophie and Annabel (Australian), Jon (Denverite), Catya (German), Lauren and Ruth (English), Brook (Thai), and Brendan (Illini).
What a group of friends! This is the pinnacle of hostel experiences: a group becomes comfortable and you start to feel like you own the place; it becomes home. Remember that overwhelming feeling of community you had when you lived in a dorm? It's that lost feeling back again, for a hostel is simply a college dorm you don't ever have to leave for class. The real difference between a dorm and a hostel actually is that the group is only temporary...members come and love and wake up and must move on dropping off little bits of themselves in the hostel. This is the way of travelers. We set out to love intensely but only for a short time, then we leave. Content with the value of absence we leave no trace but a name to plug into Facebook and vague promises of a future revival. Anyway it's weird.
So one night the Centric Point group went out to the excellent Traveler's Bar, a ruddy Irish pub where you can get a meal for one euro at 8. The only free seats for me were at a table occupied by two girls, so after my sangria I was chatting with these giggly Australians. They were identical twins, save that one, Annabel, thankfully had died her hair blonde. They became part of the Group, somebody mentioned something about a free street festival, and we hopped a Metro. We occupied most of that car--fifteen strong, looking and sounding much like excited tourists. Like City Stages each street at the festival had its own music, activity, and spirit. We danced a lot and people insisted on buying me beer. During a rousing game of Flip Cup (I rock but Rohan needs some practice), I got a startling call from back home: somebody had used my debit card in Ohio to the Ohio tune of $350. My debit card was in my pocket. Must have used it at the wrong Spanish place of business. I tried not to get upset and focused more on flirting with the ever more receptive Annabel, and just like that we were making out in the streets. She was cute and a big fan of Arrested Development. I was down $350, what the hell else was I going to do?
The next night we went down to the Barceloneta beach to do the same. We were pretty tired when we got there and she fell asleep in my arms. My camera bag and her purse had been sitting four feet to my right yet I looked over and they were gone. Ten minutes prior they were there. We'd been robbed, I again, and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. Curse the little Spanish bastards who put a blemish on an otherwise beautiful city. You'd stand with your back to the sea and picture a thousand little paths a thief could have taken in ten minutes. We cursed and flailed and ran around hopelessly and attempted confused conversation with high Spaniards (I couldn't stop thinking that anyone could have my camera). And my camera. All my photos. The rest of my traveler's checks, and cash. Her credit card and phone. It was simple: I had failed. My trip was over. All I'd set out to prove and do had been proven wrong and undone. On our way to the police station we met another group of recent victims of the beach...then another. There was a line of them at the station. I apologized profusely to Annabel and Sophie and told Mom and Dad I was coming home.
But I wasn't. I decided that going home was what another Me would have done. I've managed to defy most of who I used to be and here was my biggest challenge yet. I made some phone calls and thanks to the love of my friends I should be able to stay in Europe until the 18th. I was very moved in Tuscaloosa earlier this year when I witnessed a young man's Nikon camera (nicer than mine) get run over by a car because an acquaintance had borrowed it and absentmindedly set it on the ground. He quite simply shrugged it off and said, "It's just a thing." Well it was my turn.
Wednesday, August 27
Every day we are moving closer to heaven!!
A good traveller has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.
-Lao Tsu
Now comes the part where not having any money at all teaches me how to be alive.
-Lao Tsu
Now comes the part where not having any money at all teaches me how to be alive.
Monday, August 25
Tuesday, August 19
PICTURES! Part I: The UK
I'll go ahead and apologize for the really stubborn bits of dust that managed to lodge themselves in my camera a few weeks in. I hope you enjoy. If you could when the slideshow starts, click "options" at top right and select both options so you get my comments. That's five blog posts in a few days!! Can't say I'm not trying.
http://flickr.com/photos/mjunes/sets/72157606824524404/show/
http://flickr.com/photos/mjunes/sets/72157606824524404/show/
Hebrides ....part ii
OK so I set out on the A87 not really bothering to poke out my thumb yet; even so, I was picked up by a decorated woman of 50 by the name of Rose. I guess she commiserated since her husband, a full Appalachian Trail vet, was at the moment hiking the Highlands and she said my road was shit for walking anyway. One of the first things I learned about Rose is that she's a big fan of anime...plush Totoros everywhere! What the hell was happening? Why were all the Skyedwellers so untraditional and brilliant and alive? She had a laughing personality laced with that British sarcasm and it was all tied up in a breathtaking mountain home named Katie's Cottage. It sits by the jagged Black Cuillin mountains and is pretty much perfect...hitchhiking 1, caution 0.
But before I get to that I must say that the original plan was for me to camp at the foot of the Black Cuillins and continue on in the morning. She drove me to the perfect spot and as soon as I stepped out of the car it happened. We were breathing midges. They whiz around you and begin to madly feast on any and every part of your body. It's said around here that a swarm of midges can actually kill you, because you begin to panic and actually lose your mind, and then who knows what precarious cliff or passing truck that fate could come up with for you. I began madly search for my bug spray...where the hell was it??? Rose just laughed and said she'd drive me to hers; she just "couldn't leave someone in the middle of a midgefest." As my aching body was covered with dead midge, I had a right steamy shower when we got to the Cottage. She showed me to the bathroom and asked, "You don't mind spiders, do you?" Um...of course not? The bathroom window is filled with a spectacular array of spiderwebs and a handful of spiders, all named by Rose. "I just love them! They live there and if you're lucky they might just come down for a wee chat!"
She offered to keep me for the night. I personally didn't ever want to leave. The Katie in Katie's cottage is actually an 81-year-old woman who lives in the second, "next-door" structure. She struggled over to see us. Frail, hard on hearing, stubborn, happy to live alone--Katie is what you could call "the real deal." Her first language is Gaelic. She comes from a crofting family. She's lived on Skye almost her whole life. Anyway after she left, I had some homemade beer from Rose. My meals there were all made with homemade this and local that...this really did seem like the perfect place. In the morning she loaded me up with water, bug spray, magical anti-itching beans, pain killers. My next stop was the quaint Portree, largest town on Skye. I wrote by the docks. I listened to some dreadful bagpiping in the village square. I washed my clothes at a laundrette and met an amiable Scot named Blair. Blair was on holiday and didn't have much to do, so I gladly accepted his offer to cruise around the north shores of the island. Enter some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. You really almost get used to it here. When we got to the port town Uig, he bought me chips and that Cuillin beer which was brewed on the other side of the car park. We chatted up some of the bartendresses (only time in my life a bartender has asked if I wanted a smoke) and talked about girls and life. I know I'm in Britain. I know Britain is basically just a more traditional, smaller, older America. I know there aren't any mud huts. But I don't think there's anywhere you can travel where people aren't just like you. We're defined by the times, not by the distances.
Haaaaaaaaaa-hahaha!!! I wound up on the isle of Harris and Lewis and couldn't be happier with life right now. Life is perfect. I am now a creature of chance. I take chances. I love chance and this trip can go to hell if it doesn't rely heavily on chances because my chances have been good. Just put up there the possibility of luck taking you and fate takes over. Trips take you, yes sir. I hitched only a few miles yesterday to go back to Rhenigidale since I'd forgotten my ukulele. A good-ol'-boy-if-they-can-be-called-that Scot, nearly midaged and balding and calling himself Brian picked me up in a white utility van. He was heading back to pick up his mates who were all finishing some plasterwork. Three true blue collar (labour party?) guys--they cussed like sailors, they put faith in one another, they lived fully. On the way out Mal showed me the nude model that appears on page three of every Scottish Sun. They said that since they'd finished ahead of schedule they were relaxing on the island for a couple days. I thought that these guys had pretty much mastered living.
The next day I had a restorative three hours on the internet free and did my three posts from the other day. Then caught the bus for Luskentyre on the other side of the island. I wanted to see these beautiful Harris beaches on the west coast. You walk up a grassy path dotted with the occasional rustic cottage. Slowly the path unfolds to you that behind this country hill scene between the ranges lies one of the most exquisite white on teal beaches you've ever seen. I've only just been initiated but all the locals and regulars there must just laugh with each other in the eternal inside joke about all the other beaches in the world. Nobody expects this to be here! In Scotland? But one of the locals reckons it's the third nicest beach in Europe, whatever that means. It's certainly the most magical place I've been in many years. I walked down the beach as the sun set, just free in life and alone for a month now. I returned and I hear some men laughing just over a dune. I looked up and see a youth, bald man, and scruffy beefy guy. My plasterer boys!! Small island, I guess. They were happy to see me too and enjoyed my company that night as we just manned it up, "bro'd hard," you could say. That night I camped on the deserted beach, one of the true high points of my life. The next day we all fished off the rocks and Brian caught a starfish and a Pollack.
My time on the Hebrides is over and now I'm in Edinburgh at my friend Maciek's for the week. We met in Stornoway and he said I absolutely had to see the city during the festival. That festival is the month-long Edinburgh International Festival, the largest art, music, and theater festival in Europe. My birthday is on Friday. Haha. Don't forget to um...think happy thoughts for me. I'll try to find some kind of button and find a pretty girl to kiss me.
But before I get to that I must say that the original plan was for me to camp at the foot of the Black Cuillins and continue on in the morning. She drove me to the perfect spot and as soon as I stepped out of the car it happened. We were breathing midges. They whiz around you and begin to madly feast on any and every part of your body. It's said around here that a swarm of midges can actually kill you, because you begin to panic and actually lose your mind, and then who knows what precarious cliff or passing truck that fate could come up with for you. I began madly search for my bug spray...where the hell was it??? Rose just laughed and said she'd drive me to hers; she just "couldn't leave someone in the middle of a midgefest." As my aching body was covered with dead midge, I had a right steamy shower when we got to the Cottage. She showed me to the bathroom and asked, "You don't mind spiders, do you?" Um...of course not? The bathroom window is filled with a spectacular array of spiderwebs and a handful of spiders, all named by Rose. "I just love them! They live there and if you're lucky they might just come down for a wee chat!"
She offered to keep me for the night. I personally didn't ever want to leave. The Katie in Katie's cottage is actually an 81-year-old woman who lives in the second, "next-door" structure. She struggled over to see us. Frail, hard on hearing, stubborn, happy to live alone--Katie is what you could call "the real deal." Her first language is Gaelic. She comes from a crofting family. She's lived on Skye almost her whole life. Anyway after she left, I had some homemade beer from Rose. My meals there were all made with homemade this and local that...this really did seem like the perfect place. In the morning she loaded me up with water, bug spray, magical anti-itching beans, pain killers. My next stop was the quaint Portree, largest town on Skye. I wrote by the docks. I listened to some dreadful bagpiping in the village square. I washed my clothes at a laundrette and met an amiable Scot named Blair. Blair was on holiday and didn't have much to do, so I gladly accepted his offer to cruise around the north shores of the island. Enter some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. You really almost get used to it here. When we got to the port town Uig, he bought me chips and that Cuillin beer which was brewed on the other side of the car park. We chatted up some of the bartendresses (only time in my life a bartender has asked if I wanted a smoke) and talked about girls and life. I know I'm in Britain. I know Britain is basically just a more traditional, smaller, older America. I know there aren't any mud huts. But I don't think there's anywhere you can travel where people aren't just like you. We're defined by the times, not by the distances.
Haaaaaaaaaa-hahaha!!! I wound up on the isle of Harris and Lewis and couldn't be happier with life right now. Life is perfect. I am now a creature of chance. I take chances. I love chance and this trip can go to hell if it doesn't rely heavily on chances because my chances have been good. Just put up there the possibility of luck taking you and fate takes over. Trips take you, yes sir. I hitched only a few miles yesterday to go back to Rhenigidale since I'd forgotten my ukulele. A good-ol'-boy-if-they-can-be-called-that Scot, nearly midaged and balding and calling himself Brian picked me up in a white utility van. He was heading back to pick up his mates who were all finishing some plasterwork. Three true blue collar (labour party?) guys--they cussed like sailors, they put faith in one another, they lived fully. On the way out Mal showed me the nude model that appears on page three of every Scottish Sun. They said that since they'd finished ahead of schedule they were relaxing on the island for a couple days. I thought that these guys had pretty much mastered living.
The next day I had a restorative three hours on the internet free and did my three posts from the other day. Then caught the bus for Luskentyre on the other side of the island. I wanted to see these beautiful Harris beaches on the west coast. You walk up a grassy path dotted with the occasional rustic cottage. Slowly the path unfolds to you that behind this country hill scene between the ranges lies one of the most exquisite white on teal beaches you've ever seen. I've only just been initiated but all the locals and regulars there must just laugh with each other in the eternal inside joke about all the other beaches in the world. Nobody expects this to be here! In Scotland? But one of the locals reckons it's the third nicest beach in Europe, whatever that means. It's certainly the most magical place I've been in many years. I walked down the beach as the sun set, just free in life and alone for a month now. I returned and I hear some men laughing just over a dune. I looked up and see a youth, bald man, and scruffy beefy guy. My plasterer boys!! Small island, I guess. They were happy to see me too and enjoyed my company that night as we just manned it up, "bro'd hard," you could say. That night I camped on the deserted beach, one of the true high points of my life. The next day we all fished off the rocks and Brian caught a starfish and a Pollack.
My time on the Hebrides is over and now I'm in Edinburgh at my friend Maciek's for the week. We met in Stornoway and he said I absolutely had to see the city during the festival. That festival is the month-long Edinburgh International Festival, the largest art, music, and theater festival in Europe. My birthday is on Friday. Haha. Don't forget to um...think happy thoughts for me. I'll try to find some kind of button and find a pretty girl to kiss me.
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