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.
Saturday, August 16
Time for some sandwiches
Another adventure, the last couple days were. Rode the West Highland Line (one of the most scenic train rides in the world, really) to the Scottish coast. I just barely caught the ferry across the Sound of Sleat and within a few minutes I was on the beautifully named Isle of Skye. I got there fast and so sick of that, so I was ready to take it slow. In a place like Skye you're in no hurry because you're ready for anything and anything is permissable. Who cares if the last bus has already run? If you feel like moving on, hitch; if you don't, pitch. Haha. Anyway I did in fact catch a bus with a jolly and difficult to understand Scot named Roy and I just kept telling him how overjoyed I was to be whizzing around Skye in a bus. We found ourselves at the connecting bus stop ten minutes after the last bus of the day, of course. A couple minutes later a black VW Golf drives up and out pops another Scot who proceeds to Officially Inspect the bus stop. It was about time to catch a ride from a stranger so we hopped in.
I wound up in the tiny fishing village of Kyleakin as the sun started setting. The hostel had a real restaurant below it so I treated myself to some local seafood and an ale brewed just up the road called Red Cuillin. A Swede who spoke six languages fluently (Swedes are good for that) named William and I talked about traveling for a while. I learned an important and fascinating thing from him. Turns out a thousand-some-odd years ago, the Vikings came over to Britain from Sweden on a ship and decided to drop off all the ugly women (there couldn't have been many), and therefore we have the difference between Swedish and British girls. I think he's probably right, too...Queen, where are all your pretty daughters? There just aren't many in this country.
Castle Moil cuts through the ground like a big stone pair of scissors atop Kyleakin. There really isn't much left of it. I hiked along the coast up to the remains in the morning and that little castle was mine. Yet suddenly here's a Border Collie come up to see me. A minute behind her was a little girl named Ella Fitzgerald. I asked where she lived and she all but pointed. A Skylean in Kyleakin! We talked for at least an hour and she was the kind of twelve-year-old you could have an hour-plus conversation with--very well spoken, in love with life and dogs, and supremely intelligent. We talked about Hillary Clinton and rainforest deforestation and Buddhism and what it's like to live on a small island. Of course Ella Fitzgerald's not really her name, just her namesake. We both reminded each other that there's never a reason to grow up and we said our goodbyes--it was time to hitchhike north.
I'll finish the rest of this little story in a couple days, methinks. It's time to eat some sandwiches.
I wound up in the tiny fishing village of Kyleakin as the sun started setting. The hostel had a real restaurant below it so I treated myself to some local seafood and an ale brewed just up the road called Red Cuillin. A Swede who spoke six languages fluently (Swedes are good for that) named William and I talked about traveling for a while. I learned an important and fascinating thing from him. Turns out a thousand-some-odd years ago, the Vikings came over to Britain from Sweden on a ship and decided to drop off all the ugly women (there couldn't have been many), and therefore we have the difference between Swedish and British girls. I think he's probably right, too...Queen, where are all your pretty daughters? There just aren't many in this country.
Castle Moil cuts through the ground like a big stone pair of scissors atop Kyleakin. There really isn't much left of it. I hiked along the coast up to the remains in the morning and that little castle was mine. Yet suddenly here's a Border Collie come up to see me. A minute behind her was a little girl named Ella Fitzgerald. I asked where she lived and she all but pointed. A Skylean in Kyleakin! We talked for at least an hour and she was the kind of twelve-year-old you could have an hour-plus conversation with--very well spoken, in love with life and dogs, and supremely intelligent. We talked about Hillary Clinton and rainforest deforestation and Buddhism and what it's like to live on a small island. Of course Ella Fitzgerald's not really her name, just her namesake. We both reminded each other that there's never a reason to grow up and we said our goodbyes--it was time to hitchhike north.
I'll finish the rest of this little story in a couple days, methinks. It's time to eat some sandwiches.
Headin' for Another Joint
I have a whole lot of catching up to do!
The Wales family was great. Thank you thank you thank you. Simple people, incredibly generous people. They did everything for me all weekend, only because Steve found me on the street and couldn't let a nice guy find a makeshift campsite. Maybe Wales is the "South" of Britain. Or maybe it's that no matter where you go all over the world, if you find yourself in the valleys or the mountains or the plains or the forests, you'll also find simple people who haven't been redirected by the complexities of 21st century cities; those who haven't forgotten the simple things like love or brotherhood.
Wales->Birmingham
Stayed with Rory in his little flat--Rory is a cool cat. We made homemade pizza and listened to Arethra Franklin and David Bowie. Didn't really get to see much of my "sister city" except that Rory drove me around and showed me where Tolkien grew up and some pretty buildings. Birmingham isn't known as the prettiest city--as Rory said, the suburbs are actually more appealing than the city center. Hung out with his friend Liz who was super cool.
Birmingham->Manchester
I had to see if belligerent ghouls really run Manchester schools...Manchester, what a place!! I rolled into town to the sounds of The Queen Is Dead. The hostel was pretty cool and I got to know a bunch of great people really quick. My first group of friends, the Manchester crew is the greatest and I will miss them. Dorian the super cool German American and I sat on the street and pretended we were buskers. We sang songs like, "I need money because of privitized health care," and "I have no home, give me money, you jerk don't keep walking..." and so on.
Manchester->Glasgow
Just when I thought Glasgow wasn't going to be too memorable at all, I get invited by this bagpiping German named Johannes to go to some folk jam session at a pub. We invited along this girl Bethany from Nashville (!!!) and I flew out the door, with ukulele in hand, happy at last with company. The pub was brilliant. A roomful of people of all ages sat in a candlelit wooden den with instruments of all sort: guitars, ukuleles, mandolins, harmonicas, whistles, flutes, bodhrans, shakers, toms, fiddles, banjos. Directly after the clapping faded someone would start up a traditional Celtic melody or popular folk song, and slowly, subtly, his accompaniment would begin to grow from different corners of the room. Candlelight and song, man. Wax candles dripping onto Scotch bottle holders and dark wood in the arms and on the walls. And the most merry, uplifting group of music-makers. Occasionally the room would go silent for a solo performance...these people knew when not to join in. I made the distinction as well and so played along as best I could on songs I both knew and didn't. Behind our pints Johannes, Bethany, and I had an absolutely wonderful time. Thanks grand Glasgow for a truly Scottish experience.
The Wales family was great. Thank you thank you thank you. Simple people, incredibly generous people. They did everything for me all weekend, only because Steve found me on the street and couldn't let a nice guy find a makeshift campsite. Maybe Wales is the "South" of Britain. Or maybe it's that no matter where you go all over the world, if you find yourself in the valleys or the mountains or the plains or the forests, you'll also find simple people who haven't been redirected by the complexities of 21st century cities; those who haven't forgotten the simple things like love or brotherhood.
Wales->Birmingham
Stayed with Rory in his little flat--Rory is a cool cat. We made homemade pizza and listened to Arethra Franklin and David Bowie. Didn't really get to see much of my "sister city" except that Rory drove me around and showed me where Tolkien grew up and some pretty buildings. Birmingham isn't known as the prettiest city--as Rory said, the suburbs are actually more appealing than the city center. Hung out with his friend Liz who was super cool.
Birmingham->Manchester
I had to see if belligerent ghouls really run Manchester schools...Manchester, what a place!! I rolled into town to the sounds of The Queen Is Dead. The hostel was pretty cool and I got to know a bunch of great people really quick. My first group of friends, the Manchester crew is the greatest and I will miss them. Dorian the super cool German American and I sat on the street and pretended we were buskers. We sang songs like, "I need money because of privitized health care," and "I have no home, give me money, you jerk don't keep walking..." and so on.
Manchester->Glasgow
Just when I thought Glasgow wasn't going to be too memorable at all, I get invited by this bagpiping German named Johannes to go to some folk jam session at a pub. We invited along this girl Bethany from Nashville (!!!) and I flew out the door, with ukulele in hand, happy at last with company. The pub was brilliant. A roomful of people of all ages sat in a candlelit wooden den with instruments of all sort: guitars, ukuleles, mandolins, harmonicas, whistles, flutes, bodhrans, shakers, toms, fiddles, banjos. Directly after the clapping faded someone would start up a traditional Celtic melody or popular folk song, and slowly, subtly, his accompaniment would begin to grow from different corners of the room. Candlelight and song, man. Wax candles dripping onto Scotch bottle holders and dark wood in the arms and on the walls. And the most merry, uplifting group of music-makers. Occasionally the room would go silent for a solo performance...these people knew when not to join in. I made the distinction as well and so played along as best I could on songs I both knew and didn't. Behind our pints Johannes, Bethany, and I had an absolutely wonderful time. Thanks grand Glasgow for a truly Scottish experience.
When I was in Wales
Dan talked about how he and his musical friends would sit around in a room with their instruments, recorders, and a TV with a DVD player. They would mute the TV and begin a film they enjoyed. After watching a scene they'd pause it and start playing what they felt. They'd have it recorded and so compose their own version of the film's soundtrack. I thought that was beautiful.
Dan I still haven't gotten used to the sheep noises. Sometimes they sound like regular baas but sometimes they sound like a human making a poor attempt at a baa. Sometimes they just sound like they're burping. I just walk along the road pissing myself laughing because sheep make the most awesomely daft noises in the world.
I'm in the Outer Hebrides, which are the islands off the west coast of Scotland. I'm currently in the library in Stornoway on Lewis. It's very hard to find internet out here. I have another huge post and many pictures that I think I will be able to upload very soon.
Traveling for two months isn't always a vacation. I mean obviously; it's two months. Sometimes there are so many things flying around in my head competing with the views like how some people back home hate me, or what the hell am I doing here, or am I growing forwards or backwards, outwards or inwards, who do I love and who do I think I love, how can I enlighten myself today. And honestly what does it mean to be in love? I haven't the faintest idea. See you soon folks.
Dan I still haven't gotten used to the sheep noises. Sometimes they sound like regular baas but sometimes they sound like a human making a poor attempt at a baa. Sometimes they just sound like they're burping. I just walk along the road pissing myself laughing because sheep make the most awesomely daft noises in the world.
I'm in the Outer Hebrides, which are the islands off the west coast of Scotland. I'm currently in the library in Stornoway on Lewis. It's very hard to find internet out here. I have another huge post and many pictures that I think I will be able to upload very soon.
Traveling for two months isn't always a vacation. I mean obviously; it's two months. Sometimes there are so many things flying around in my head competing with the views like how some people back home hate me, or what the hell am I doing here, or am I growing forwards or backwards, outwards or inwards, who do I love and who do I think I love, how can I enlighten myself today. And honestly what does it mean to be in love? I haven't the faintest idea. See you soon folks.
Sunday, August 3
More like a chapter than a post. Get comfy
Wales has been an absolute adventure and now I'm going to tell you all about it. One thing leads to another on journeys like this...you don't take trips, they take you, as my dear Ali reminded me. I hopped a coach (bus) from London to Cardiff and felt like a real traveler, just hopping a ride to the next town for the hell of it. I took a seat by a friendly young guy from the States named Dan and we chatted the whole way. Even though he's 30, lives in Cardiff, and works as a programmer, we're very similar and I knew it too, that's why I sat by him. Turns out he bikes to the Brecon Beacons so I asked if he wanted to come along in a few days and he was totally down.
Cardiff for two days was a nice break from London...it's a mini-London with nice shops and bustling people on St. Mary Street but it's also on the ocean. I accompanied two cute blondes from Germany down to Cardiff Bay and we sipped drinks at the coffeeshop in the morning sun. I love Wales...everyone is naturally friendly and they call people "love" and "dear," even total strangers (tried it on a gorgeous girl working in the market, I did). Anyway, I met up with Dan and we watched Batman, went to a pub, and ate curry at his place. We planned our trip and Dan told me how he'd hiked such humorously named mountains as Fan y Big and (Somebody's) Knob...he'll have to help me out on that one. The next morning at the bottom of Corn Du and Pen y Fan (two tallest in south Wales) we were greeted with miserable stinking British rain. It was too much. We decided to have a hike to my hostel instead which was actually a gorgeous walk. This is sheep country out here in the Brecon Beacons--or shit country if you like; the two ideas are entirely synonymous. We dodged around the most profoundly defecated countryside I've ever seen and got a real kick out of one sheep scratching his backside on a fallen tree limb.
Llwyn-y-celyn Youth Hostel is literally in the middle of some woods and sheep pastures, a good ways from any road. It was like an abandoned farm when Dan and I found it, with no signs of life at all. I tried the door and it opened. I even yelled "hullo" inside...nothing except a warm mountain lodge. You could cozy by the fire, take a shower, and sleep on a couch and no one would care because the staff doesn't arrive until five. Dan and I said our goodbyes and life started buzzing at the hostel. You couldn't really call it a youth hostel...I seemed to be the youngest patron by twenty years. They serve a Beacons original ale there called Breconshire Brewery, and over a pint I got to know a charming Birminghamian (!!!) named Rory. He's in his forties but very much alive with the wonder of youth and can really see the natural art of the world around us. We decided we'd tackle the two mountains I'd failed.
Pen y Fan and Corn Du are twin peaks and a formidable climb for anyone. It was a real challenge of thighs and will but somehow we found ourselves with our eyes set on the final stony ascent. I felt like Frodo so I pushed on, and in dramatic fashion, we reached the shorter peak only minutes before the long-threatening hazy storm rolled in. Pen y Fan was within our grasp but our total satisfaction and the now surrounding cloud turned us back. So we hiked the second tallest moutain in south Wales, and it was a bloody accomplishment. I decided two days in the hostel was enough--I was ready to pitch my tent in some sheep field and forge for myself. I equipped my pack with canned food, Mars Bars, and a butane mini-stove and Rory dropped me off at a trailhead in a tiny settlement called Penderyn. He'd be rolling through town three days later to take me to Birmingham and the next adventure but for now I was on my own like I'd never been in my whole life.
I walked into a stunningly pastoral world of sheep grazing on rocky hills, horses standing under pathside trees, and compact evergreen forests patching the endless rolling hills. And I was soon lost. Bloody hell it's so disappointing being frustrated in such a picturesque setting. It literally took me hours to find my bearings...nothing was making any sense. The sun was setting and the nearest public campground was miles away. I lay exhausted on a rock and pointed my new cheapo compass at the setting sun...East. Now I'm no geographist, but I'm pretty damn sure that in no place on Earth does the sun set in the East. So on top of having an admittedly poor sense of orientation, I had a compass all day telling me the perfectly wrong bit of information. I left my bag in some tall grass in a thicket and hurried back to Penderyn for some water. I don't think I've ever challenged myself more than those final two miles, but I arrived back at my pack as the sun set. I was able to pitch the tent and eat (O glory) just as true darkness fell and the midges began eating my forehead. As I stumbled into the tent the rain came down and I fell back, finally at rest. I was on someone's land but I'd snuck there, and I'd gotten away with it, I knew. The lovely rain came and went and an occasional upset baa cleared the fields. The sound outside that I would so often take for the ambience of tire on distant pavement was only wind through miles of pines and bracken. I fell asleep.
The next morning was my own to take at my own pace. I surveyed my new private countryside, did some Chi Gung in the woods, and finally left. My idea now was to hike the miles to Merthyr Tydfil where I had the luxuries of a cash machine (ATM) and coach stop (bus stop). Perhaps then I could make it north to Hay on Wye which, besides sounding vaguely like some sort of sandwich, is the second-hand bookstore capital of the world and a true mountain village. I set off and this was roadside hiking. This was Kerouac and Dylan and it was an experience, folks. Curse it all but I ended up making bad time and planned on camping somewhere in a town called Hirwaun. I passed a middle aged man and his Jack Russel, and the man quite kindly gave me advice on where to grab a bite and where to pitch my tent. The dog and the way he talked reminded me of Pip's dad back in Birmingham. A few seconds later I heard a "hey" from behind me. I walked back and the man called Steven in his thick Welsh accent said I should come back home with him and he could take me somewhere cheaper to eat, so I turned to the dog and said, "Well come on then!" Trips take you.
As it was I wound up eating food and drinking Orangina and coffee prepared by Steven's wife Celia. Simply the most hospitable people in the world. Having offered their yard for me to pitch my tent, they drove me around a bit with the pretense of showing me a hostel I could stay in the next night. Now I'm sleeping in their house tonight and tomorrow night. The openness of the British people knows no bounds as far as I'm concerned, and that's my story. Monday is Birmingham and eventually I'll be in Scotland and to the Scottish islands known as the Hebrides.
Cardiff for two days was a nice break from London...it's a mini-London with nice shops and bustling people on St. Mary Street but it's also on the ocean. I accompanied two cute blondes from Germany down to Cardiff Bay and we sipped drinks at the coffeeshop in the morning sun. I love Wales...everyone is naturally friendly and they call people "love" and "dear," even total strangers (tried it on a gorgeous girl working in the market, I did). Anyway, I met up with Dan and we watched Batman, went to a pub, and ate curry at his place. We planned our trip and Dan told me how he'd hiked such humorously named mountains as Fan y Big and (Somebody's) Knob...he'll have to help me out on that one. The next morning at the bottom of Corn Du and Pen y Fan (two tallest in south Wales) we were greeted with miserable stinking British rain. It was too much. We decided to have a hike to my hostel instead which was actually a gorgeous walk. This is sheep country out here in the Brecon Beacons--or shit country if you like; the two ideas are entirely synonymous. We dodged around the most profoundly defecated countryside I've ever seen and got a real kick out of one sheep scratching his backside on a fallen tree limb.
Llwyn-y-celyn Youth Hostel is literally in the middle of some woods and sheep pastures, a good ways from any road. It was like an abandoned farm when Dan and I found it, with no signs of life at all. I tried the door and it opened. I even yelled "hullo" inside...nothing except a warm mountain lodge. You could cozy by the fire, take a shower, and sleep on a couch and no one would care because the staff doesn't arrive until five. Dan and I said our goodbyes and life started buzzing at the hostel. You couldn't really call it a youth hostel...I seemed to be the youngest patron by twenty years. They serve a Beacons original ale there called Breconshire Brewery, and over a pint I got to know a charming Birminghamian (!!!) named Rory. He's in his forties but very much alive with the wonder of youth and can really see the natural art of the world around us. We decided we'd tackle the two mountains I'd failed.
Pen y Fan and Corn Du are twin peaks and a formidable climb for anyone. It was a real challenge of thighs and will but somehow we found ourselves with our eyes set on the final stony ascent. I felt like Frodo so I pushed on, and in dramatic fashion, we reached the shorter peak only minutes before the long-threatening hazy storm rolled in. Pen y Fan was within our grasp but our total satisfaction and the now surrounding cloud turned us back. So we hiked the second tallest moutain in south Wales, and it was a bloody accomplishment. I decided two days in the hostel was enough--I was ready to pitch my tent in some sheep field and forge for myself. I equipped my pack with canned food, Mars Bars, and a butane mini-stove and Rory dropped me off at a trailhead in a tiny settlement called Penderyn. He'd be rolling through town three days later to take me to Birmingham and the next adventure but for now I was on my own like I'd never been in my whole life.
I walked into a stunningly pastoral world of sheep grazing on rocky hills, horses standing under pathside trees, and compact evergreen forests patching the endless rolling hills. And I was soon lost. Bloody hell it's so disappointing being frustrated in such a picturesque setting. It literally took me hours to find my bearings...nothing was making any sense. The sun was setting and the nearest public campground was miles away. I lay exhausted on a rock and pointed my new cheapo compass at the setting sun...East. Now I'm no geographist, but I'm pretty damn sure that in no place on Earth does the sun set in the East. So on top of having an admittedly poor sense of orientation, I had a compass all day telling me the perfectly wrong bit of information. I left my bag in some tall grass in a thicket and hurried back to Penderyn for some water. I don't think I've ever challenged myself more than those final two miles, but I arrived back at my pack as the sun set. I was able to pitch the tent and eat (O glory) just as true darkness fell and the midges began eating my forehead. As I stumbled into the tent the rain came down and I fell back, finally at rest. I was on someone's land but I'd snuck there, and I'd gotten away with it, I knew. The lovely rain came and went and an occasional upset baa cleared the fields. The sound outside that I would so often take for the ambience of tire on distant pavement was only wind through miles of pines and bracken. I fell asleep.
The next morning was my own to take at my own pace. I surveyed my new private countryside, did some Chi Gung in the woods, and finally left. My idea now was to hike the miles to Merthyr Tydfil where I had the luxuries of a cash machine (ATM) and coach stop (bus stop). Perhaps then I could make it north to Hay on Wye which, besides sounding vaguely like some sort of sandwich, is the second-hand bookstore capital of the world and a true mountain village. I set off and this was roadside hiking. This was Kerouac and Dylan and it was an experience, folks. Curse it all but I ended up making bad time and planned on camping somewhere in a town called Hirwaun. I passed a middle aged man and his Jack Russel, and the man quite kindly gave me advice on where to grab a bite and where to pitch my tent. The dog and the way he talked reminded me of Pip's dad back in Birmingham. A few seconds later I heard a "hey" from behind me. I walked back and the man called Steven in his thick Welsh accent said I should come back home with him and he could take me somewhere cheaper to eat, so I turned to the dog and said, "Well come on then!" Trips take you.
As it was I wound up eating food and drinking Orangina and coffee prepared by Steven's wife Celia. Simply the most hospitable people in the world. Having offered their yard for me to pitch my tent, they drove me around a bit with the pretense of showing me a hostel I could stay in the next night. Now I'm sleeping in their house tonight and tomorrow night. The openness of the British people knows no bounds as far as I'm concerned, and that's my story. Monday is Birmingham and eventually I'll be in Scotland and to the Scottish islands known as the Hebrides.
Monday, July 28
Rantin' like a git, but there you are
So me Mum's friend Veevs and her mate Mark agreed to put me up at hers Saturday and Sunday night. Felt like I was back home, I did, with this kind of hospitality. After I worked through some rubbish with me mobile, I rang and met them in the park in Richmond. We had the most brilliant meal and it was a real classy, real memorable time, that was. Blooming nora, it was hot, but naught like we get in the South with the humidity and all, innit? Decided we'd head to hers before we got too pissed and knackered out there in the sun, and I finally had me first real British cuppa, cuppa Rosy Lee as they say. After the hostels and all I was the minger of the bunch for sure, so I had a right fancy shower and slept for what seemed like a fortnight. Blimey, Veevs wasn't takin' a mick when she said she'd take care of me, as she got me all through Sunday and the fantastic Peruvian Independence Day event in Northeast London. I salsa danced like a real plunker till I was knackered all over again and drank loads of Cusquena and Inca Kola (had a right day pass to the loo, I did). When we got back home we watched some South Park on the telly--cheers, America--and ate some smashing British pizza. So a thousand cheers for the marvelous Brit and Peruvian-gone-Brit Mark and Veevs for showing me the earthier side of London town. Bloody hell what a weekend.
Friday, July 25
Coffee is the new tea, London
Talking to you from my third hostel in a week, the hostel called Clink. It's a converted court (I'm sitting in the "witness" chair). It's also very hot--they say they have air conditioning but I don't believe them. Anyway, it was only £11 last night, not bad ATOLL. I'm having a fine time and spending most of my days walking the busy streets or watching people in the beautiful parks. London has some of the best parks I've ever seen, and they are all enormous. My favorite moment in the city was a few days ago. I was sitting in Hyde Park, watching the sun go down, and playing my ukulele a ways from a path. I got some good practice in and drew many looks. A couple people caught my eye and smiled, and I couldn't have been happier. I feel like a real busker! This town has the best buskers I've ever heard--all easily good enough to have a recording career.
The more people you meet, the more things happen. I've spent my days with people from all over the world, but by far the most frequent London hostellers are Aussies. Any given hostel contains about 40-50% Austrailians, then a good number of Spainiards, Italians, Germans, Americans, and so on. A really nice Aussie named April almost had me a $10 (that's dollars) per night week on a cruise ship on which her sister dances, but she couldn't secure it.
London is one huge place. 35 miles across, the Brit-gone-Philly brother told me. That's insane. How would you not already be to the next city? More than your typical English place, I'd wager, it's simply your typical 21st century city. That means, if I'm correct, that Britain is breaking me in carefully, so I don't freak in the scrubby fields of Ireland or something. I suppose London is damn near the perfect place to start. It's certainly the best place to be if you want to get anywhere else. I can feel myself growing, I can feel myself maturing. Subtly. I'm only one week in, I keep reminding myself. And I've been spending way too much money. Painfully aware each time. If the next town I come to is as expensive as London, I'll stay a day and be on.
I spent two days ago with an Aussie named Erin. She also was travelling alone and looking for work to finance. We had been talking about The Alchemist when a job at our hostel, Generator, suddenly fell into her lap. "When you pursue your Personal Legend, all the Universe conspires to help you," we said.
Some other things I've done:
Walked down Fleet Street at night (with others!) and found a barber shop.
Drunk at pubs
Ridden the Tube a lot
Accidentally stumbled upon the birthplace of William Blake and one of Charles Darwins' homes
Met a Georgian (that's the one in America) bartender who was so happy to see a Southerner that he played Sweet Home Alabama (everybody is aware of this song) and subsequent Southern Rock for the rest of the night
Helped an Aussie girl write a song. Then she read my tarot cards
Been on a pub crawl and danced in a club
Been incredibly tempted by the enormous ads for The Dark Knight everywhere
The mountains and cairns of Wales are next
The more people you meet, the more things happen. I've spent my days with people from all over the world, but by far the most frequent London hostellers are Aussies. Any given hostel contains about 40-50% Austrailians, then a good number of Spainiards, Italians, Germans, Americans, and so on. A really nice Aussie named April almost had me a $10 (that's dollars) per night week on a cruise ship on which her sister dances, but she couldn't secure it.
London is one huge place. 35 miles across, the Brit-gone-Philly brother told me. That's insane. How would you not already be to the next city? More than your typical English place, I'd wager, it's simply your typical 21st century city. That means, if I'm correct, that Britain is breaking me in carefully, so I don't freak in the scrubby fields of Ireland or something. I suppose London is damn near the perfect place to start. It's certainly the best place to be if you want to get anywhere else. I can feel myself growing, I can feel myself maturing. Subtly. I'm only one week in, I keep reminding myself. And I've been spending way too much money. Painfully aware each time. If the next town I come to is as expensive as London, I'll stay a day and be on.
I spent two days ago with an Aussie named Erin. She also was travelling alone and looking for work to finance. We had been talking about The Alchemist when a job at our hostel, Generator, suddenly fell into her lap. "When you pursue your Personal Legend, all the Universe conspires to help you," we said.
Some other things I've done:
Walked down Fleet Street at night (with others!) and found a barber shop.
Drunk at pubs
Ridden the Tube a lot
Accidentally stumbled upon the birthplace of William Blake and one of Charles Darwins' homes
Met a Georgian (that's the one in America) bartender who was so happy to see a Southerner that he played Sweet Home Alabama (everybody is aware of this song) and subsequent Southern Rock for the rest of the night
Helped an Aussie girl write a song. Then she read my tarot cards
Been on a pub crawl and danced in a club
Been incredibly tempted by the enormous ads for The Dark Knight everywhere
The mountains and cairns of Wales are next
Saturday, July 19
Muttering Small Talk at the Wall
Well I'm in London. Not that I expect the internet to be a big part of my trip, but at least in this hostel, it is proving very difficult. I just typed a longish entry and it all got erased, and I can't upload pictures. Hopefully this will change.
In a nutshell, London greeted me in a slightly unoriginal way: overcast skies and drizzling rain. However once its joke was spent and my feet on Eurosoil, it stopped and it's been rather beautiful in the upper 60's (F). I stole a ride on the Gatwick Express into downtown London because I found a forgotten ticket in the printing machine. Omen! My current hostel is located in the Soho district, and it's absolutely one of the hippest places I've ever seen. Marvelous architecture, little black London cabs giving merry "beeps!", fashionable people in droves, no less than five independent record stores within two blocks. And I mean RECORD stores. I was in my room with the window open and on the busy street five stories below, I heard somebody blasting "Sweet Home Alabama." WTF? I have to say I had never been happier to hear the song though.
The main difference between this town and somewhere like Charleston in America is not that people have British accents. It's that people don't speak English at all. I've heard that London thinks it's the capital of the world. There's about a 50% chance someone on the street speaks English. Today I just walked around Soho with my enormous backpack and tried to be a local: I sipped tea and read on a street corner, I bought fruits from streetside vendors, I sang along to The Verve in a coffee shop. I shared dinner in the kitchen first with a Swedish mom and daughter and then with two German ladies. I think now I'll teach myself some chords on my ukulele and get my first sleep of the last couple days.
In a nutshell, London greeted me in a slightly unoriginal way: overcast skies and drizzling rain. However once its joke was spent and my feet on Eurosoil, it stopped and it's been rather beautiful in the upper 60's (F). I stole a ride on the Gatwick Express into downtown London because I found a forgotten ticket in the printing machine. Omen! My current hostel is located in the Soho district, and it's absolutely one of the hippest places I've ever seen. Marvelous architecture, little black London cabs giving merry "beeps!", fashionable people in droves, no less than five independent record stores within two blocks. And I mean RECORD stores. I was in my room with the window open and on the busy street five stories below, I heard somebody blasting "Sweet Home Alabama." WTF? I have to say I had never been happier to hear the song though.
The main difference between this town and somewhere like Charleston in America is not that people have British accents. It's that people don't speak English at all. I've heard that London thinks it's the capital of the world. There's about a 50% chance someone on the street speaks English. Today I just walked around Soho with my enormous backpack and tried to be a local: I sipped tea and read on a street corner, I bought fruits from streetside vendors, I sang along to The Verve in a coffee shop. I shared dinner in the kitchen first with a Swedish mom and daughter and then with two German ladies. I think now I'll teach myself some chords on my ukulele and get my first sleep of the last couple days.
Thursday, July 17
Last Thoughts on America
Goodbye to my friends, allies, loves, lovers, teachers, students, brothers, brothas, enemies, polite acquaintances, parents, family, friends of strained relation, oldest friends whom I cherish the most, and newest friends who lead me to the unknown. I respect all of you in your unique way--even my enemies--because everything and everyone has a place under the sun and we can all learn from each other. Why would I regret a single relationship? Life is growth and growth is experience. So thanks by the way for your time. I think it's time for me to take a bit of time for myself, but it's only for a little bit and I'll be back in a tick. Bye everyone!
Wednesday, July 2
Welcome to the BLAWG
T-minus 16 days and counting until I leave for Britain, Ireland, France, and wherever. Hell, tell me where to go and I will. So you and I can get used to the time difference, you'll notice that all times are in Greenwich Mean Time (which apparently isn't called GMT anymore, so I'm sorry...all are in Coordinated Universal Time, in the Common Era).
There are Eight Planets.
There are Eight Planets.
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