I little video I put together…enjoy
Christmas in Korea
Merry belated Christmas everyone,
Sorry I’m not there to spend the holidays with you all. I hope it was great.
Over this holiday season, I have stayed mighty busy. I’ve been painting, drawing and video-editing during most of my free-time. I’m also playing soccer twice a week with a group of Koreans and expats who are in much better shape than I am.
Below are my most recent art projects:
At long last I have managed a work schedule which is conductive to creating art, and also, allows me to make some money so I can travel in the not to distant future, covering both of my passions. I am going to the Philippines in March and back to Japan with my family in early June. Life is great.
I have started hosting couchsurfers in my place in Daegu. It’s about time I repay all of the hospitality which has been afforded to me over my last two yeras on the road.
Also, another important update; I am am working like a dog on my travel videos. I will have something to show for it very soon.
I will try to have something on here soon,
Thanks for your patience,
Until next time.
Filed under art, Landlocked, Photography, South Korea
The bumpy road less traveled – Part two
I’ve finally arrived in South Korea, my home away from home. I needed some time to readjust to a life more stationary. It’s really nice to have a constant place to lay my head, kitchen to call my own and a bathroom with hot water at the ready. These are the simple luxuries often taken for granted, which I’ve by no means gone without for the last six months, but certainly had hit or miss and without guarantee. I’m happy to be here.
Upon my arrival in Korea many haved started asking me to recall the most extraordinary experiences I’ve collected on my travels. At first it was difficult to think of any single experience that would trump the others. Then, this one story flashed through my mind. This is my quintessential cultural experience, and it somehow slipped through the gaps of my last post about Mongolia. I call this gem…
“The Death Rattle.”
The members of my excursion had been driving through the Gobi desert all day trying to find the Baga Gazyrn Chuluu rock formations, but the roads were so bumpy and our van was so over-packed that the driving was slow-going to put it lightly. We arrived at this strange alien landscape of granite rock towers late in the evening, after the sun had already slouched behind the red rock hills. We found a group of nomads and Jaaqii, our guide and ambassador, entered the family’s ger to ask them if we could camp near them and possibly sleep in their spare ger. The family agreed. Everyone piled out of the car and entered the spare ger. I was walking around the family’s “backyard” where an old former Russian village sat in ruins. When I returned, Itree, our driver, invited me to drink some milk tea with the family while the others were preparing dinner. I had been teaching Itree various English words and he was teaching me funny sentences in Mongolian. I had bonded with him over the past week and a half, and as if to show his appreciation, he invited only me along to introduce me to the family, something for which I was quite honoured. I sat down and watched the matriarch of the family preparing her hand-made noodles, as the men smoked their traditional pipes, as this little adorable girl played games with an empty Fanta bottle. They were very friendly to me, but they had a lot to do and mostly ignored me, which was totally understandable. For me, it was lovely to watch the family go about their daily activity unimpeded by my presence. They were totally comfortable with me there, but maybe a little too comfortable for my own sake.
At one point the girl started to hit me with the Fanta bottle and I pretended that to be hurt. I obviously wasn’t too convincing because she laughed maniacally during our little game and continued. Everyone else ignored us in the ger. As we played I noticed some activity. The men stood up and left the ger with urgency. I was of course lost in translation during everything that was taking place. No one told me a thing, so I just stayed sitting blissfully on the floor of the warm ger playing with the plastic bottle. I didn’t understand why they had left nor was I told, but, I would soon discover why.
The man of the ger came in and moved a stool that stood beside me as if to make room for something. I noticed this too but didn’t think very much of it. The man immediately exited the ger once more. Moments later the door flung open and through the narrow opening two men returned heaving an enormous sheep by its legs into the clear space the man had just made, setting down the beast less than a foot from me on the floor. I was totally taken aback by this, but out of shock, I didn’t budge. Once the animal was set down it started kicking frantically. It caught the man of the ger directly in the pit of his stomach. He let out a dull moan and then instantly regained his composure, grabbing the sheep’s flailing hoofs. He ordered the other man to do the same. The sheep struggled frantically, but without a sound. Then the other man took his hand and shoved it into a hole that he had cut into the sheep’s belly, above its stomach but below its ribcage. He forced almost his entire arm into the animal’s torso until he reached its heart and pulled in one sharp movement. The animal made a noise that I won’t soon forget. It took one deep breath in and let out a hot, stuttering, bone-chilling exhale that I could feel on my arm because I still sat beside this animal as it let out its death rattle. It had happened so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to react. I sat and stared dumbly at the sheep carcass, which only a mere instant ago was alive and still fighting for its life. The little girl with whom I had been playing was entertained by this animal and showed no signs of fear or remorse at witnessing its death. In fact, she let out a laugh, came to the animals side and started playing with its lips still warm from its last breaths.
I realized in that very moment that this girl was not disgusted because to her this dead animal was not something terrible; its death was not something to reproach. It was something natural, run-of-the-mill. She had not witnessed some savage murder, but instead, a modest sacrifice as common place to you and I as cashing a check at the bank. I decided in that moment to show no signs of surprise or disgust either. These people had just killed an animal that they had raised, fed and protected. They appreciated their livestock more than I could fully understand. This was not just a sheep, it was an investment. Sure, they had taken its life, but they also had given it life. They knew it individually by its appearance, characteristics, they knew what it ate, had protected it from wolfs and other unknown terrors and they kept its safe until its time to die. Who was I to judge them by their actions. They had a far better appreciation for their food, their meat, than I do and what they had just done was not something ugly and vile. It was respectful and clean. I witnessed no blood during this process, not a drop, because the traditional method of slaughtering doesn’t waste anything, including the blood and feces. The blood is a source of iron and protein essential in an environment as rugged as Mongolia, and the feces is just as important, because once dried it becomes fuel which they use to cook their meals. In the Gobi, wood is scarce and feces is abundant and invaluable within a nomadic way of life.
For the next twenty minutes I watched the men and the grandmother skin and disassemble this sheep, step by step, like clockwork. They had done this thousands of times between them, I’m sure, just as their ancestors had before them, and how yours and my ancestors had as well. It’s easy to forget that used to be the only way people kept livestock and what I had just witnessed was as commonplace as going to grab a burger at a fast food joint. This slaughter, though at first glance seemed to me to be a little grizzly due to the intimacy of the slaughter inside the small ger and the lack of concealment from me, the hapless tourist, but upon further thought, it seemed humane and better than the process which I am accustomed (not seeing how my meat is processed at all). To be honest, I think it far worst going to a supermarket and buying a fillet packaged in plastic wrap and Styrofoam not knowing a single detail about the animal’s previous appearance, diet, and living conditions. We in North America are so content picking our meat from the shelves as if it were produce, potatoes, onions or apples, all the while ignorant or possibly even happily apathetic to the process that brought that animal from the womb to the butcher’s blade. We like to pretend that our method is better because most of us don’t have to see it, but I think ours is a byproduct of a sick culture of food. Mongolia helped me realize that I know so little about that which I ingest. I’m so disconnected from my food and I now strive to change this. I want to know what I’m eating even if its a little unsightly.
After my tour, I managed to buy myself a visa to China. I entered on the 22nd of October. I crossed the boarder at Eren Hot, and took a sleeper bus to Beijing. For the next couple days I explored the capitol city of the world’s next superpower, practicing my limited vocabulary in Mandarin, eating traditional Chinese delights, exploring the biggest sights the city had to offer, and finding some hidden treasures while I was at it. I saw the city with Nick, my right-hand-man for my entire trip across Eurasia, and Suzi Lee, a vagabonding humanitarian, and after five days spent in Beijing, I said my farewell to these amazing travelers, wished them good luck on their continued journeys, and I continued east. I took a terrible train to Qingdao with the hopes of boarding a ferry for Incheon, South Korea. However, due to turbulent weather somewhere in the sea of Korea, the after effects of a passing typhoon, the ferry was docked for the day. Instead, I took a local bus to Weihai, bought my passage the next morning to South Korea and parted ways with China for the third time in my life.
China gets a bad wrap in many ways. I for one, adore her dirty and congested streets, her over-populated cities, her strange and exotic foods and most of all, her deviously clever but ultimately friendly people. I’ve been to China three times so far, more than I can say for many places, and I can comfortably predict a return in the near future. But for now, South Korea is my home.
I arrived in South Korea on Thursday, October 29th, at 11:00 am. I traveled south to Daegu to my new apartment where my girlfriend has been living for the past 5 months. I’ve already been working some jobs and I’m still on the search for some more. I am also working on something huge. I have 120 gigabytes of HD video which I plan to put to good use. I am excited to create again, be artistic and have the time to pursue all that interests me. I took for granted my time in Korea my first time round, but I’m promising myself not to make the same mistake now. This country has a lot to offer someone who is determined to learn, grow and experience. I think I’m finally in the right frame of mind now to explore these avenues and see where I end up. Traveling Eurasia has taught me a great deal, and I hope living in Korea will do the same.
And so ends my travels…for now, of course.
Thank you to everyone for following me on my misadventures. Thank you to everyone who helped me along the way. It’s time I repay the cosmic favours which have been so graciously bestowed upon me. I will try to post on here whenever the opportunity arises.
Filed under China, Landlocked, Mongolia, On the road, Photography, South Korea
The bumpy road less travelled – Part one
Mongolia surpassed all my expectations. It has everything for which a traveller could ask. I had such a great time on my 14-day excursion, but now that its over, I’m finding it really difficult to put my pen to paper and record my sentiments and experiences. I guess I’m in a state of dumbfoundedness. Mongolia has dumbfounded me.
I guess I’ll start from the beginning. Ulaanbaatar; not your most picturesque city, but an almost mandatory stop on one’s trip to this Central Asian country. Nick and I needed to secure some Chinese visa so we planned to take care of visa before we embarked on our excursion and return to UB to easily pick them up and continue on our way to China. Our best intentions were dashed to pieces. China has a national holiday from October 1st-5th, and after waiting in line for almost two hours on October 6th, the guard slammed the enormous iron door in our faces when we were second from the entrance. Great.
We headed for the wilds of Mongolia anyways, and pushed our uncertainty away. We were getting a late start because of this visa mishap so we drove all day under the varying shades of grey overcast until we arrived in Amarbayasgalant Monastery at nightfall. Nick and I camped while the others slept in a ger, the traditional portable house of Mongolian nomads. We played cards until late night and enjoyed some Mongolian vodka. It hailed and snowed all night, and it’s safe to say it was a cold sleepless night. I was up early and walking around to bring some warm blood back into my toes and I saw the landscape that we had driven through on the previous evening. It was a great location for a temple complex built almost three hundred years ago for the greatness of Chinghis Zanabazar, or so I’ve been told. We were led around the temples by a ten-year-old monk.
The next day we were headed for Lake Ogli. We drove all day down the bumpiest of roads. I use the word road quite loosely. These are dirt tracks snaking up and down valleys and meandering across mountain passes. While in Mongolia one feels like they are seeing how the world used to look. We never found the lake. Once darkness came it was too dark to navigate the roads properly so we camped beside the road and it rained all night. It was another cold and sleepness night.
The next day we awoke to fog. We drove to the lake and we could barely see it because the visibility was so low. It was pretty anticlimactic. We then headed to the former capital of the Mongol’s empire just as a flurry picked up and hurled wet snow down on us. The city had been destroyed by the evil Ming dynasty year upon years ago, and everything has been restored. It has an active monastery inside and we managed to watch some Buddhist ceremonies as we dried ourselves inside a warm temple.
That night we all slept inside gers because we were wet, tired and in need of a decent night’s sleep.
The next day we were up early and headed for hot springs tucked inside the frosty mountains. We drove all morning through pine forests using precarious trails cutting across the mountain passes as wild horses ran among the trees, nervous from our approach. We reached the hot spring camp and unpacked. Nick and I had a snow ball fight with a group of Mongolian highschool students. We were doing great at first, but our numbers went from 2 against 5, to 2 against 20 and they led a charge as just like their ancestors, their horde attacked and defeated their enemies. Damn these Mongol warriors.
The hotsprings were a great change of pace. It seemed fitting with all the snow falling as we lounged in the baths of balmy water.
From here we drove further south among the mountains to reach the Orkhon waterfall. We crossed the same serpentine river more than 17 times to get to the site of the waterfall, which sits in a miraculous place, falling into a canyon made in the depression from a volcanic eruption. We hiked the area at our leisure, returned to camp and then helped the nomadic family that we were staying with assemble their ger. It supposedly takes only an hour to put up a ger, but thats with a skilled team of nomads, not a stumbling pack of travellers. It was a lot of fun and I’m so happy that I was afforded the opportunity to make one. They are of an ingenious design and their simplicity and efficiency make them a vital part of Mongolia’s cultural identity. Gers are pretty swell.
The next day we hopped on some semi-wild horses and went for a cruise in the countryside. Mine was well-behaved at first, but I scared it when I tried to take out my camera and the zipper of my bag jingled behind its line of vision. It reared up, and then took off in full gallop. I stayed as calm as I could and after running for a steady half a kilometer, it finally settled down and relaxed. Jaaqii, our guide, was not too pleased. She reiterated the seriousness of horse riding to me. I explained that it was accidental and she told me how these wild horses can be scared by anything unfamiliar and their flight instinct will lead them to run until they feel the danger is gone. By her accounts, I could have been take away by that horse for several kilometers before it decided to stop.
The next day we were headed for the Gobi. We stopped and camped beside some gers. The nomad family invited us in for boiled sheep entrails and organs. Despite the terrible appearance of these parts, we all tried some of the strange delicacies and they didn’t taste half bad. The next morning villagers from miles around gathered to help slaughter 20 sheep, right outside the gers. We watched the process. It was very humane and clean. Nothing goes to waste in Mongolia, and although they are butchering their animals, they have more respect for their livestock than most people in the western world. They know what they eat, their health, their characteristics, and they protect them until their time to die. It’s not an ugly thing to watch the process. It was truly fascinating.
We drove all day trying to find Mongolia’s largest sand dunes, which might sound like an easy feat, but it proved very difficult in account to the confusing network of paths that zigzag across the horizon. We came to a camp well after dark and we slept as dogs fought amongst themselves in the darkness.
To be continued.
Filed under Mongolia, On the road, Photography
Give my Regards to Genghis
I made it to the land of Genghis Khan. But here his name is Chinggis Khan. His image still rules this “Land of Blue Skies.” He’s on the money, the monuments, endless souvenirs shops and even the Mongolian vodka. Things have changed greatly since his kingdom stretched from the sea of Japan all the way to Bulgaria, south to the islands of Indonesia and across the Himalayas to northern India. Things here are developing, but it’ll be a long time before Mongolia raises itself up from checkered past. There is a lot of potential here and I’m really routing for this beautiful central Asian country. The people are friendly and curious and I can’t wait to get out and explore the countryside and witness the raw beauty.
What happened to Russia? It’s hard to imagine how immense Russia truly is until you are rattling across it in a 3rd-class sleeper train surrounded by an assortment of crazy characters, each playing their own part in the bizarre Russian drama of humanity. Despite the fact that I spent day after day, night after night, on trains to make my way east, I still only managed to cross half of this monstrous country. The third-class “platzkart” was surprisingly comfortable, and as long as I had a good book, some ear plugs, some patience and a smile it was a thoroughly enjoyable way to travel and I highly recommend it to anyone considering a similar trip across Eurasia. Most internet sites and travel publications written about the Trans-Siberian railway claim 3rd-class trains in Russia are dirty, dangerous, and cramped, but I can’t emphasize enough the fallacy in this sentiment. I met some great people who were kind, generous and good-humoured about traveling with some strange and clueless foreigners and they treated Nick and I like gold. We talked shop, bought beers, shared laughs and a bottle of cognac given to us by out friends in Yekateringburg, and as much as I was glad to be done with a two and a half day train ride to Irkutsk, it was a little sad to say goodbye to our funny drunken friends when we finally arrived at our stop. Irkutsk; admittedly, I knew almost nothing about this Siberian city, except for its name and location, care of all night games of Risk where Irkutsk was a place to be conquered in my quest for world domination. When I arrived it was all new and exciting.
We were lucky enough to contact Natalie, a Siberian English teacher, who was very keen to let us crash in her spare room and show us around her city. She took us to Lake Baikal, the largest freshwater lake in the world, but due to some serious time constraints, we could only spend a few hours at the lakeside village, enjoying smoked fish, Russian shish kebabs, tea and a couple rounds of stone-skipping. I put my feet in the water and in moments my toes no longer had feeling. Lake Baikal is cold, as you might imagine.
It was absolutely necessary that I leave Russia on October 1st, so my stay in Irkutsk and greater Siberia was much shorter than I would have wished. It was a beautiful place and I hope to explore it properly someday in the near future. Nick and I chatted up a German couple who have been kayaking and cycling from Europe to Central Asia for close to two years. When we met them they had been cycling the wilderness around Lake Baikal and Siberia for the past two and a half months and they were a wealth of travel information and advice. They are now planning to cycle south for another year and a half, seeing how far they can go down through Southeast Asia. They were very interesting people to meet on our last train ride towards Mongolia.
On the boarder, Veronica, the German adventurer, helped us greatly by asking everyone for details of how to cross the border. It wasn’t a straight forward affair. Most of the people crossing the border do so having booked their tickets well in advance from the internet and they stay on their 2nd or 1st-class carriage as the customs officers check for contraband and let the train advance into Mongolia. We, on the other hand, did the cheaper and crazier route. We paid some kid to take us to the border. He drove us through ominous military checkpoints and down a beat-up country road and then ripped us off for nearly all our money once we got there telling us that they price we arranged before leaving didn’t include the price of our luggage which was in his trunk. We paid him the extra 100 rubles, which wasn’t a lot of money to be fair, but almost all that we had foolishly managed to save for our border crossing. Then we bought our way onto a Mongolian bus, which was necessary because you can only cross the border in a vehicle. Once at the customs office it became apparent to the people organizing the bus that we didn’t have enough money to go to the closest city, or to even buy the most basic of ticket. I had run out of ruble a day before and Nick had been spotting me the small amounts of money until we were to arrive in Mongolia where I planned to withdraw more. They were getting quite frustrated with us, and then I remembered that I had close to ten dollars in Chinese yuan in my backpack for my last trip there in 2008, and I retrieved it and they eagerly accepted it. Everything worked out in the end. We crossed the border and I left at 3:30pm October 1st, two and a half hours before the border closed and my visa expired. I don’t even want to imagine how bad it would have been if I overstayed my visa. All I know is the Russian border officials were none too pleased that I was leaving Russia the day my visa expired, but after everything, they let me leave their country. Also, a word to the wise. If you go across Russia, keep your train tickets. I didn’t want to register my visa and had I not kept my tickets I would have had a difficult time proving that I was only in each city for less than 72 hours. They have strange rules about registration in each city, and I wasn’t too keen to pay 45 euros or whatever it costs to register my visa.
Crossing into Mongolia was like entering the Wild West…or the Wild East. Stray dogs wandered in and out of dusty streets as aimlessly wandering cows stopped the traffic of big Russian lumber trucks headed south to China and roadside mechanics stripped off car tires to place in contraband to sneak across the border. This is frontier Mongolia. It was fun. Had we bought our journey over the internet we would have never seen this strange side of Monglia. It was well worth all the trouble.
I’ve been in Ulaanbaatar for too long. I’m waiting to process my Chinese visa. Tomorrow I’m embarking on a two week excursion into the Mongolian wilderness. We are going off-roading with a rally-sport driver and tour guide, a Belgian husband and wife, Arne and Charlotte, who are on their 7-month-long honeymoon, and the two Kiwis, Nick and Bonita. They are a great group of people with whom to spend the next 14 days jammed in a 4-wheel-drive Mitsubishi van. I’m planning to camp in my tent each night, even though the weather is estimated to drop beneath zero every night. Wish me luck on my adventure. I hope to come back with lots of photographs and hopefully, no frostbitten appendages.
Filed under Mongolia, On the road, Photography, Russia
Asia, at last.
I’m currently situated on the cusp of Asia and Europe, staying in the city of Yekaterinburg on the Trans-Siberian railway. It’s 4 AM and I can’t sleep. I’ve been on the road for 141 days. From hence forth I travel in Asia. I’m excited to be back. Third time’s a charm. Maybe it ‘s the orientalist in me, but I’ve missed her savage beauty and pulsating life, her chaotic streets and enchanting and unknown lands. I’m ready to get lost in translation and tangled in the confusing spaces where cultures collide, merge and mingle. I’m looking forward to what this continent has in store for me, what adventures and mysteries it conceals. In a week’s time I will be in Mongolia, witnessing its majesty, and in just over one month’s time I will be in South Korea. Thus, my trajectory will be complete for a little while at least, and it will be fine time for rest and recovery. Asia, at last.
As for Russia; it has comfortably met my expectations. It’s been an immense and intimidating country. It is not your average tourist destination to say the least. It has not been an easy, translated, pre-packaged kind of travel. It has been difficult, but thereby fulfilling. Each day poses new challenges to overcome. Simple tasks take more time or more careful execution. Russia is work.
Also, the Trans-Siberian is not your average means of travel. Nick and I are going 3rd class the entire way to Mongolia in carriages that sound and smell of strange humanity. We are usually the only English-speakers on these trains and nothing is explained to us, but we just have to learn the system through observation, luck and trial and error. People mutter away to us in their tongue and we nod dumbly in return or smile and laugh. I like it this way. It forces you to be sharp. I’ve had a real crash course in Russian and now I can roughly read the Cyrillic alphabet and pronounce the Slavic sounds. I practice my limited Russian lexicon on anyone which helps to break the ice and bring a smile to the most jaded of faces.
It is worth mentioning that the Russian people cannot be so easily generalized because they all have been uniquely their own. There’s been the brash and brutish and the gentle and sophisticated and the suspicious and assuming and the warm and welcoming and the understanding and the unapologetic. People have offered us help, while others have been totally unwilling to show any semblance of assistance. There’s all kinds here.
I’ve had a lot of time to think on these overnight trains being gently rocked in the cradle of the 3rd class beds. There is a heaviness which hangs in the air here. Like an unspoken and dark truth is on the tip of every tongue. Nick and I are always warned of dangers and deceits by those who call Russia home, but so far so good, and luckily, they have remained whispers and not realities.
Ever-increasingly, I have had the sense that things have not changed very much here since the great fall of communism. Most monuments have their sickles and hammers and sharp and clean-angled stars, while the people of this country still live their lives under relentless observation and scrutiny from police with too much power and not enough pay. Cities are still referred to by their Soviet-era names even though on paper they were changed when Communism dissolved. The streets are still named in honour of former communist heroes, like Lenin Street, which exists in almost every Russian city, big or small. Stately busts and beautiful mosaics of Mr. Vladimir still adorn many public spaces and train stations, and others have immense paintings from floor to ceiling, the most terrifying paintings you’ve ever seen, fiery scenes in red, black and white of labourers toiling while a windswept Mother of the Soviet Union’s beady black eyes stare sternly at those who walk past her, as if to say, “Work faster, work harder, work longer, and don’t you dare complain.” But I suppose this is to be expected. Russia has a long and brutal history, but they don’t ignore these ugly pasts, they remember, and wear their histories like scars of injuries they’ve endured. Maybe things are better now, or maybe they’re not. I can’t say for sure. Maybe all that has changed are the types of cars on the road, the Top 40 pop songs blaring on MTV Russia, or the length of lines at every MacDonald’s and Burger King, now booming businesses, revolving doors for the new and hungry Russian youth, Generation Capitalist, kids dressed in Guess and D&G, talking on their iphones as consuming, ever-consuming, always consuming. There is no questioning who won the latest war. In the short wake of the WW3, America reins supreme and she takes her spoils of war one Big Mac as a time. But of course, this is all just the same sad song sung everywhere to the same sad tune. Let’s all welcome Russia to the long list of American states.
It’s time for acknowledgements and a quick recap. In St. Petersburg I enjoyed the company of two outrageous and rowdy Brazilians. Felipe practised his Drago punch and clipped a wine glass in a swanky resturant disrupting the entire place and embarrassing me while he smiled and pretended like nothing had happened. Eduardo was so transfixed by a passing St.Petersburg beauty that he walked directly face-first into a roadside eavestrough. I met a young guy, a sailor from the Shetlands who almost seemed unfamiliar with the firmness of still land and the societies of man, and as we hiked around the city he talked endlessly about the sea and stopped to explain every detail of every boat that floated by or was tied down in the canals of the city. He was a great character and he’s already lived a long life far exceeding his 23 years. In Moscow, while waiting for my Mongolian visa to come through, I was taken on a tour by a friend of a friend to see a different side of the city. I saw the artistic and young, the fashionistas who make up Moscow’s architecture community. I then met up with Nick, a man on a mission. He’s attempting a journey over land and sea back to New Zealand. He’s been travelling off and on for more than a year and a half and he’s happy to be headed home. He’s a great guy and a smart and capable traveller. I’t's nice to have a person to travel with especially in a country as potentially daunting as Russia. We’ll probably travel to China together before he will head south and I will head to my home away from home in South Korea. My Mongolian visa was approved so all systems are go. Nick and I are couch surfing with a delightful Russian couple called Alexiy and Yulia who have invited us into their quaint but beautiful apartment,toured us around town, fed us delicious fried chicken, sausage and potatoes and shared their bounty of cognac. Life is good. Time to sleep again, if I can.
Filed under On the road, Photography, Russia
The Red Square Blues
Finally, my pictures are all caught up. These are pictures from Slovenia to Saint Petersburg with Austria, Hungary, Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia and Finland in between. Enjoy.
I’m in Moscow, awaiting the verdict of my Mongolian visa. The process has been fraught with unforeseen difficulties. I might be stuck in Moscow longer than I anticipated, which cuts into the time I planned for crossing this wacky red giant. Now I will need to cross this behemouth in larger trips, 36 and 48 hours at a time, all in order to get to Irkutsk, and then onward to Mongolia.
Also, according to my hostel staff, I need my visa registered in Moscow as soon as possible to prove compliance with their archaic visa registration policies, even though I think I’m fine. Red Square is infamous for dirty cops in their corrupt police department who help boost their measly paychecks by preying on travelers and demanding to see their passports just to find errors or make them from thin air, and of course, squeeze bribes from whoever they can. Guess where I’m going tonight? That’s right — the one and only RED SQUARE! I hope I don’t end up in a tango with a big KGB type named Boris who wants to inspect the fine print of my Passport.
I’ve met a great assortment of people, Russians and travelers from abroad alike. Many of the Russians I’ve encountered have been very witty, sarcastic, intelligent and otherwise, very friendly, much to do with what I’ve perceived as their avid attempts to disprove a half century or more of North American hysterical terror regarding everything Russian. Most Russians know how they are portrayed in the west and they do not want to be associated with the Big Red Evil Empire of times past. They want to forge new identities and they do so by helping you try to navigate their impossible metro system, or they invite you to their house for homemade food, or offer to translate their language, or just eagerly suggest places worth visiting. There are many who are also very rude and want nothing to do with foreign people, but the good outweigh the bad here. Don’t be so shocked you North American capitalist pigs, Russia has a great side as well.
Yesterday I visited the strange island of Kizhi where old-fashioned Russian buildings from the Northern lands of Russia were collected and shipped here to go alongside a masterpiece of wooden architecture, this enormous cathedral of wooden onion domes. This place was strange and I’m glad I crossed if off my list of things to do, but I wish it hadn’t cost so much money. It used to be very cheap because it was a national treasure, but recently it was sold and now they charge dearly to visit these wooden buildings in the middle of one of the world’s largest freshwater lakes. Oh well, you only live once. Kizhi down, another world of wonders yet to see. Time to go explore Moscow. I hope I don’t meet Boris and the long crooked arm of the law.
Borscht for Breakfast
I can’t keep up with this site of mine. I feel I’m always behind on it. The pictures especially. I’m still posting pictures from Italy and its too slow to post the others. I will try again soon. Since I wrote on here last I have been to 8 new countries. Yikes. I’ve been busy, beat down and blistered, but I’ve made it to the Motherland. Russia, the country formally known as Prince, I mean the USSR. Exciting, ain’t it?
Here goes nothing. I explored Vienna with a young Mormon man who went by the name of Anthony. He was all the way from Salt Lake City, Utah. We hit all of the main stops in the city by foot and the weather was absolutely perfect for pictures. We explored a museum and mused about many an interesting topic. I felt like we were wandering through the settings of The Third Man. If you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend this movie. It’s a classic. Check out from 2:22 onward in the video I posted. Obviously Vienna isn’t in a post-war limbo anymore, but it still does have this feeling of being on the cusp of the Eastern Bloc, the line drawn in the sand between the organized and uptight West and the passionate and chaotic East. There is a certain mystique about it still and even though I didn’t see anything out-of-the-ordinary per se, I really do want to believe that dodgy characters undertake dubious business in the shadowy corners and twisting cobble-stoned alleyways scattered throughout the city. Maybe those days are gone, but one can always hope they still continue. My favourite part of the city was watching all the old wino drinking carton after carton of 60 cent white wine and then lounging in the afternoons fading sun. There are characters abound in that city. It’s a great place to waste the time away watching the great human spectacle shuffle past your sights.
The next day, I picked up my Russian visa from the Russian embassy and those working there were as unfriendly as ever. Then I took a train or two to the outskirts of the city where I had read on the internet that there sat a nice little place to hitch my way east towards Hungary. As I walked to the place a 5 euro note was tumbling down the sidewalk like a good omen, serendipitous as it was, I bent over, snatched it up, placed it in my wallet fold and I would have clicked my heels too if I didn’t have 30 kilos of gear weighing me down.
At the hitching spot there was already a couple of fellow vagabonds. I introduced myself and asked where they were headed and the proper etiquette, because they were there first, afterall. They were named Adam and Anna, and they lived a short train or bus ride from Budapest. They had been traveling in Austria for the weekend via hitching and couchsurfing and feeling that they owed me a similar hospitality, they invited me to their family houses west and north of Budapest. Then we started hitching. It took 6 hours, but we managed to get all the way to Anna’s house with 5 lifts, 1 free train ride and 1 free bus ride. We ate bread, cheese and meat and then I slept in Anna’s brother’s former bedroom. In the morning we ate some pastries and Anna bought me little Hungarian chocolates that only grandmas and grandpas eagerly eat for nostalgic purposes. I then hitched to the city, stashed my gear in a locker and wandered in the varying degrees of downpour for the next 7 hours. I went to a bathhouse full of wrinkly oldfolks and Russian and German families.
Budapest is a stunning city. Its architecture is often overlooked. It is a little run-down, but beneath her rough exterior lies a beautiful city of spires, art nouveau masterpieces, old world wonders and eerie holocaust statuettes. The human spectacle was getting stronger the closer I went to the train station. Here every class of Hungarian society congregated simultaneously. There were suit-wearing sophisticates, sharp as tacks, brushing past begging gypsies while little old ladies tried to peddle roses off on strolling Hungarian couples, hand-in-hand, young and in love, while tourists waddled around maps in hand trying to find this or that, and I stood on the periphery observing all of this humanity with wonder and awe.
I then boarded a train to Vis, where Anna, Adam and his family were waiting for me and dinner to be complete. Anna had made some goulash. It was the best goulash I’ve ever had — well, it was the first goulash I’ve ever had, but that point is negligible. It was a great thick stew, very hardy and stick-to-your-ribs good. The next morning we all were awake at a decent hour and headed to the town square where Adam knew a great place to buy langos, another specialty of Hungary. It’s sort of like a funnelcake, only salty, not sweet, and full of cheese, onions or cabbage, depending on your tastes. We shared two which were great. Adam drove me a few villages over to where the road pointed straight north towards Slovakia. I said my goodbyes to that adorable couple and I truly hope our paths cross again someday because they are my kind of people.
My first lift to Slovakia was in a van of three Gypsies carrying a cargo of children’s bed comforters. The driver, named Joseph, was a thick-armed burly man with an enormous grey mustache and wiry black hairs sticking from of his shirt collar and the depths of his big ears. I sat in the backseat of the old Dodge caravan beside a greasy-haired warty woman. Joseph drove that tortured little van as fast as the four wheels would take it. He took bends in the rain at break-neck and no one spoke a single word to anyone else for more than 40 minutes. Upon crossing the border, they let me out. The woman in the back asked for 2 Euros from me, but Joseph wouldn’t have any of it. He shook my hand, yelled at the old wench in the back seat and squealed off into the rainy grey light of morning. The thing about it is, I would have given them 2 Euros for 40 minutes of driving. They were obviously not rich people and I was happy that they showed me such kindness. Joseph was proud, too proud for 2 Euros. I walked to where the autoroute continued north and I found a place to stand beside a field of the most depressing looking sunflowers I have ever seen. All their faces were downcast, black and their petals browning or tawny. They looked like sad, forlorn lions holding their heads low, like in shame. The rain let up but ominous clouds continued to spread across the horizon. It seemed to set the mood of my short trip in Slovakia; it was so strangely fitting for this part of the country, this sad stage of rusting and ruined Soviet infrastructure; these skeletons of concrete and iron; monstrosities abandoned and obsolete.
I wrote PL on a sign and a truck driver bound for Warsaw stopped for me. He knew not a word of English, but for the next 7 hours he took me through 3 countries. He communicated through humerous body language and made very corny jokes and gestures. He dropped me off in Katowice, rumoured to be the most dangerous place in Poland. Luckily for me, I asked some young student for directions, he told me to get in his car and he drove me to the road headed for Oswiecim, better known as Auschwitz in German. A couple picked me up and drove me there and then took me around the city and gave me my first glimpse of the concentration camps for which this little Polish city has forever become infamous. Auschwitz II is enormous and grave. I can’t describe it any better than that. It housed a constant cycle of 90,000 Jews, Gypsies, Poles, homosexuals, and Russian prisoners of war, gassing and cremating 70 percent of those who entered, while keeping the rest for labour and medical experiments. I spent the next day visiting the museum on a tour that was incredibly depressing and informative at the same time. I can’t write anything on this site that hasn’t been explained better by authors or survivors ever since the camp was liberated in 1945. There are many books written on this subject and I can’t do it nearly the justice it deserves.
It isn’t all just depression in Poland. There is also a rich history of empire and esteem. I hit Krakow next. It is a beautiful medieval city ringed by lush green parks and an assortment of characters, young and old. I fell asleep early from a couple long days and short nights’ asleep. I was up early to explore before the droves did. I wandered the misty morning streets and saw the remnants of a vibrant night of debauchery everywhere I looked. Broken bottles were strewn across the cobble stone, a trail of blood was spilt outside a 24 hour perogy joint and vomit congealed on sidewalks as semi-comatose zombie Brits staggered around communicating amongst themselves with grunts and other apelike gestures. You can thank Ryanair. Krakow is on the ever-growing list of cities where trashy Brits can go for a weekend of killing brain cells and other forms of cultural insensitivity for the low fare price of 10 pounds. Thanks Ryanair!
I took pictures of the sights alone, except for glimpses of the elderly people who drifted from trash can to trash can collecting bottles and cans for pocket change. These apparitions of garbage could be in any city around the world. I’ve seen them everytime I’ve woken early to explore. These people move from place to place, half-hidden by early light, gathering like ants the crumbs fallen from the hands of greedy picnic-goers. It was a case study. Maybe I’ve been traveling alone for too long, but I can’t help but notice those who are usually invisible among us. As I said, these people are everywhere, but more visible in the Eastern Bloc, for it is a region of greater disparities of wealth. These are nations of contrasts only heightened by capitalism and further perverted by irresponsible tourism. I love these countries because they transfix me in thought and scrutiny.
From Krakow I visited the salt mines at Wieliczka, but after been led on an uninspired tour and feeling rather claustrophobic in the depths of these mines, I was happy to start my hitching north…but it was too late, so I took a train to Warsaw instead. I arrived near midnight and had nowhere to stay. I took some tips for some kind taxi drivers and they pointed me in the right direction. Eventually I found a great hostel, but it was too late and I was too tired to properly enjoy it. The next morning I was hitching as early as I could, headed for Lithuania. My first lift was from a Polish sailor and “fish-ink mechan-eek” (whatever that means) who had worked in Canada for three years in the early eighties. He knew some English but made up for his lack of proficiency in the English tongue by yelling everything and slamming his fist against the wheel whenever he didn’t know the right word. He hated Poland, but he hated working on boats in various countries around the world even more. We drove past dark and dense forests where little old villagers sold mushrooms picked from the dark underbrush of the forests and Belarusian and Ukrainian prostitutes stood at the mouth of forest paths trying to lure highway-bound drivers to a stop to offer their services. Jesek took me an hour north of Warsaw. Next, I met a great Polish intellectual and gentleman named Patryk. He took me all the way to Biaoystov and a little further, all of which was out of his way. He also bought me Polish pancakes for lunch. He was a very fascinating and wise person and I enjoyed the conversations as we zoomed past the Polish roads.
I then got a lift from a neurosurgeon and lastly a farmer headed home to Lithuania. I made my tent in a forested patch near the highway. I awoke to a spookily misty and still world. A Latvian trucker took me to Kaunas and then I hitched west in the car of a sallow man who looked like he was made of wax. He was missing half of his right thumb and he drove 150kms an hour the whole time as hair metal and strange Russian electronica blared on his stereo. He never really tried to make conversation with me, but I appreciated the ride nonetheless.
I made it to Klaipeda and then started north. After being dropped off in a crossroads village in the pine forests I was approached by a drunk Lithuanian man who tried to give me half of his pack of cigarettes because I opened the package for him. Then I drank some terrible fruit wine with him from a plastic jug as he stood in the middle of the road and impeded cars who swerved to miss him. He wouldn’t leave me alone and I figured I was never going to leave that place because no driver would stop after seeing me standing with this old drunk, so I wished him well and I started hiking north on foot. I was 3 km or so away when it started getting darker and I figured it was going to be a short time before I stopped and set up camp in the misty fields when Willnius, a carrot farmer from southern Latvia stopped and offered me a room in his house and home cooked meal care of his wife. He lived in a beautiful and rustic farmhouse and his family were very friendly and welcoming. They drove me to see their secret beach on the Baltic sea after the sun had gone down and the sky painted the waves in ink of deep indigo.
The next day I hitched to Riga, eventually, and then boarded a bus to Tallin, because I was tired of hitching. I met a Finnish guy on the bus who knew a hostel in the city center. I followed him there and then drank too much Estonian vodka with an assortment of people in the hostel while watching the US open. I went to sleep shortly after having my first vodka and I slept and had the strangest dreams. I woke up to the worst hangover in my recent memory. I tried everything to rid myself of the full-body ache, but it wasn’t until I vomited in a park in front of a parade of kindergartners later in the morning that I felt much much much better…but also, a little trashy. Was I just talking about the likes of irresponsible travelers? Oh my.
I took a ferry to Helsinki, once I had recovered some semblance of normalcy and I explored the cultural epicenter of a quarter of my identity. Finland is amazing. Not only is everyone beautiful, but everything is clean and in proper working order. Unlike most European capitals built on the blood and bones of conquered people in distant colonies, Finland was never a colonizer, it was the colonized. It had been the buffer between the power fleets of Sweden and the hungry ambitions of the Tsars of Russia. Finland grew to prominence because of good old fashioned hard work and ingenuity. I’m proud to be 1/4 Finnish. But talk about a nation of children of the corn. Jesus, I didn’t know hair could be so blond and eyes so blue.
I then took a bus to St. Petersburg, where I am currently staying for two nights. I was very curious about Russia, especially after traveling the countries which were once blanketed by the USSR. So far, it hasn’t disappointed. It just feels like a place where people do, say and wear whatever they want whenever they want to. It is a very complex social setting and their seems to be very little homogeneity. Everyone seems a total individual. Everyone is their own fashion trend or anti-trend. Their are tremendously beautiful young women arm in arm with old grey men, young teenagers dressed in the latest track suit fashions circa 1993, and old women dressed in enormous fur coats with just their little heads sticking out, hair died strange purples or bright shades of orange. Leopard-print and high heels. Multi-coloured denim jeans and pink-tinted sunglasses and some of the worst haircuts that I have ever seen. There are old men who look to be straight off the train from the deepest tundras of Siberia, 1890. Their are middle-aged men wearing white leather (or pleather) suits with scar on their faces and shy Central Asians huddling together talking shop. They are people trying to sell or advertise for businesses on most busy sidewalks. There are strip-clubs beside antique stores and Russian fast-food places offering dumplings and beat soup. And all this in a beautiful Venice of the north, with canals and beautiful bridges offering visas of orthodox cathedrals and Romanesque palaces. It is exactly as odd as I was hoping. I will surely have more to write about soon, especially because I’m going to Moscow in a couple of days and I have a inkling that it will be where the weird and wonderful burn the brightest.
Oh yeah, I had borscht for breakfast.
A Vacation within a Vacation
I´m here in Vienna. I saw Priya off to the airport this morning after traveling with her for two short weeks and now I´m contemplating my next stratagem. I have to wait another two days to pick up my passport with my real, 100% legit Russian tourist visa, and then I´m hitching east to Budapest, north through Slovakia and onwards northern-bound until I hit Finland. Then I´m taking the Trans-Siberian across that great evil behemoth called Russia until I hit Mongolia. Then I want to buy a motorcycle and drive my way into China, work my way south and take a ferry to my home away from home in Korea. That´s the plan. Hell or highwater pending, I´m going to cross this massive bulging super continent. Now that I have two days to wait, I can take the time necessary to properly update this silly travel website I have. The following pictures are those I´ve collected over the past two months and haven´t be able to post because of technical difficulties. They are chronological and span 12 countries. More technical difficulties. These are only 47 of 200 or so. I’m not going to explain them because I´d rather tell some stories.
I stayed in Roma for two days and spoke to almost no one. Roma is oppressively humid and crowded during the day, but as soon as evening comes it can be enjoyed the way it is supposed to. At dusk it has an otherwordly aesthetic that I fell in love with. The Vatican is a circus, but I visited before the mad-dash of tourists and it was quite enjoyable.
After Roma I took a train for Lucca. This is a fairytale city tucked inside the Tuscan hills. I hid my bags and then explored the city as the air cooled and came alive in activity. The sunset I enjoyed takes the cake as the most beautiful I have ever seen. And best of all, as the sun-beaten tourists slowly retired to their hotels the city was reclaimed by the locals who ate alfresco meals by candle light as geckos scurried along the walls doing small acts of acrobatics to catch various insects lured a little too close by the flicker and hum of the mounted road lamps. Thousands of birds swam in the skies together forming liquid-like clouds, contorting and twisting in the air like a single tortured dragon. Then I camped beside the city walls and was eaten to death by an aresenal of mosquitoes.
The next day I went to Florence. I met three British guys traveling on their interrail passes for their summer vacation between school. We shared a 4 bed hostel room and explored the Tuscan capital. And what a beautiful city it is. There´s little that I can say that hasn´t already been toted by every travel book ever written about Florence. It is remarkable. It is crowded and busy, but it is one of the highlights of Italy. We spent the afternoon trying to find an alternative entrance to the walled gardens, got a little lost, but accidentally found a beautiful spot barren of tourists where we could overlook the city in the valley below.
The next day I headed for Siena, and the rain started pouring down in angry torrents and I figured my plans at camping were ruined. At the train station I met two cousins from the US and Australia and three Parisians. We all had arrived in Siena without a plan. It was two days before Siena´s annual horse racing festivities, so to make matters worse, we were wet, cold and without a hostel because everything in a several city radius was fully booked. We decided the best plan was still to have no plan. Instead of worrying we went to a Cuban bar and drank mojitos until nothing really mattered, and to our good fortune, the rain stopped. We then lugged our gear to a pizzeria and made a hell-of-a-lot-a-noise. We had a camp out in the center of the city beneath an empty market place square.
I was up as early as humanly possible and taking trains across the country to Rimini, the closest city to the Most Serene Republic of San Marino. Ever heard of it? I hadn´t either, but it´s its own country hidden in the mountains west of Rimini. Isn´t it adorable that it calls itself the `Most Serene Republic.` This was a wild-card visit, but am I ever glad I went. It was really charming. I slept in the open-air in my sleeping bag on a castle wall, perched over a precarious precipice, overlooking the San Marino and Italian countryside as it stretched toward the ocean. At dusk the sky was painted with the riches of colours and the lights of the villages below shimmered and I thought to myself that there were few other places on earth where I would rather sleep. I´ve never had a view like that in any hotel.
The next day I was hellbent on Venice. I arrived and then managed to navigate my way through the labyrinth of angular cobble-stoned streets, sweeping canals and the many bridges to cross them. I made it to my hostel, a Catholic nunnery, without a map with the help of a few local Venetians. I met some kindly Americans at the hostel and I explored the city with them. I also witnessed one of the most unsettling scenes of my young life. There were two pretty and shy sixteen-year-old-looking twins wearing strange circus-like clothing of purple and red and 6 inch high heals with a man that I can only describe as a more sinister-looking version of the comedian, Gallagher, with a long mustache and grey hair, balding on top, adorned in the nondescript dress of a blue casual dress shirt and slacks. Gallagher was holding one of the twins hands, while the other girl held a spaghetti strap-leash to a small black toy poodle. They stood beside a bridge in the moonlight as we passed looking at our map trying to decipher where we were and how to manage our return to the confines of our hostel. They had the most meek of expressions, like those of lambs, and as soon as we saw them they felt our amazement and they faded away into the distance. They were like apparitions and I´m still unsure if I actually saw them that strange night in Venice, or if it wasn´t just a dream I conjured in the deepest of sleep.
After Venice, I took 8 hours of trains all the way to Switzerland. I arrived in Brig, at around 11 o´clock. I made a sandwich and ate for the first time since breakfast, found a fallow farmers´ field of some sort and set up camp. The next day I took some country trains and then a touristy tram up the mountains to Murren. Here I hiked surrounded alpine wildflowers and glacier-peaked mountains. Cows mooed in the distance as the bells around their necks clanged back and forth. It started to rain and I made my descent. From here I headed to the picturesque city of Luzern. I camped on the outside of the city wall and went to sleep quite early, exhausted from my hiking and the freshness of the mountain air. The next day I took 2 hours of ferries across Lake Luzern and then caught a train headed in the general direction of Liechtenstein. When at the border, I started hitching. I managed to get a lift immediately from a girl who had been working with a friend in the alps milking goats. She was very nice and she had some excellent music playing in her car, but I´m sad to say, she smelled like goat shit. In ten minutes I had successfully hitched right through the silly little country of Liechtenstein and then I was in Austria. I walked to a train station and then boarded a train for Bregenz. I read beside Lake Konstance as a tremendous sunset bloomed before me. I camped in a city park listening to an opera being performed in an outdoor ampitheatre half a kilometer away.
The next day I trained my way to Fussen and hiked to the Neuwanstein castle. I can´t believe how many people were there, many Japanese and Korean tourists on enormous tour groups, wearing identical badges or hats. I wouldn´t be able to go on the tour because they were sold out until the evening, so instead, I went exploring the natural area around the castle. While hiking the trails I slipped on a slick tree root and took a nasty spill. I was covered in mud, and considering I had been sleeping in my tent for the last couple of night, I was in dire need of a bath. I walked to the river basin, stripped to my underwear and submerged myself in the freezing glacier fed waters. Many German hikers saw me doing this and must have thought I was clinically insane, but I cleaned myself off and stayed nice and cool for the rest of the day. I boarded more trains and went all the way to Passau. It was after dark on a Friday and it seemed that everyone in this border city was drunk or well on their way to become so, and I set up tent in a park beside the river, less then thirty meters from a group of rowdy teenagers, and luckily for me, no one noticed me, or they decided to ignore me. I slept perfectly. I woke up to a misty river. I then took three trains to bring me to Cesky Krumlov, a city in the Czech republic which I had overlooked on my last trip there. I had a day to kill and I decided that it was a good place to go. I met a Slovenian traveler named Jaku. We decided to explore the city together. We hid our bags and headed for the castle. In Cesky Krumlov there are no crocodiles swimming in the castle´s moat, instead there are bored and sad-looking bears lazily ambling around beneath the draw bridge. The city was stunning and affordable. After surviving on a rigid diet of bread, cheese and tomatoes for the last 5 days, I decided to treat myself to a good hardy Czech meal of potato dumplings, pork with gravy and a couple cold ones. I set up my tent in an old orchard skirting the castle walls and Jaku made a lean-to and slept beneath a tree. We were up at the crack of dawn, Jaku deadset on making it home to Ljubljana for dinner and myself, Vienna for lunch.
I checked into our hotel near Praterstern station, cleaned up, slept, checked my emails and then went to pick up Priya from the airport. The next day I tried to apply for my Russian visa, but after getting to a slow start, I missed the small window of time that the Russian embassy is open for visa-related services and there was nothing I could do about it. Priya and I went to a Heurigen, a traditional Austrian wine house for dinner. We ate in a rustic, vine-covered courtyard, drinking great wine and eating a sticky-to-your-bones Austrian meal of smoked ham, sausage, potatoes, roasted, mozarella tomatoes and quiche. It was great.
The next day we took a train in the rain going to Salzburg. The rain had stopped as we arrived to the city. We chcked into our hostal and went to explore. We walked to the 800+-year-old fortress perched above the city and visited the many exhibits and museums inside. The rain started again. Priya had planned a belated birthday present for me. She took me to the oldest restaurant in Europe for a Mozart´s dinner. We ate traditional meals of Mozart´s time as a group of amazing musicians performed Mozart´s most famous operas in between the courses of our meals. It was brilliant.
From Salzburg we tried to make our way to Hallstatt, a scenic little city hidden in the mountains. We took some trains, then a ferry across the lake, and there we were in Hallstatt. We camped in a park beside the lake as a cover band butchered the great musicians of the past at a gas station parking lot nearby.
The next day we tried hitching south. Lets just say, it didn´t go too smoothly. We took 7 hours of trains instead and made it to Ljubjana before dusk. We checked into our hostel, a former prison, and had a `cell`to ourselves. We went to the museum in the cities castle. Then we tried our damnedest to find a good restaurant. We checked the Lonely Planet and wandered around trying to find something authentically Slovenian. With luck, we stumbled onto a little place, read the menu, looked at the Slovenian clientele and realized we had inadvertently found our Slovenian restaurant. Three men playing three different guitaresque instruments, serenading the restaurant-goers. We ordered a custom meal from the waitress and ate one of the best meals of my trip, if not, life. It was a perfect night in Ljubjana. The next day we took a tour of the Slovenian countryside around Bled. We stopped at the quaint castle that overlooked the turquoise lake, swam in very cold waters at another nearby lake, and walked in a beautiful and lush river gorge. That night we took a train for Zagreb and arrived fairly late, found a hostel and slept. The next morning we boarded a bus headed for Plitvice, a place I can never remember how to pronounce even with my best effort.
Plitvice is a national park encompassing sixteen lakes connected by cascading waterfalls. It reminded me of Jiuzhaigou Valley in China that I visisted in 2006. Priya and I explored the area for hours until it began to rain. We took a taxi van with several other backpackers and headed for Zadar. We tried to find some good quality food here, but ended up with a really terrible meal from a place recommended by our good old friends at Lonely Planet. We stayed at an apartment belonging to two down and out old men. We slept on a pull-out couch in their living room as they drank beers in their kitchen on the other side of our thin-walled room. Good times.
The next day we were going down the coast. We made our way to Split and immediately boarded a ferry for the furthest island, called Vis. We met some great French couple and talked movies, travel and food with them until they caught a late night bus over the island. Camping was strictly forbidden here, but Priya and I are a little sneaky and we set up camp in a derelect mini-golf course as strange unknown animals rustled the branches of trees near our tent. The next day we explored the little island town and then took a ferry back to the mainland. Luckily Priya took some medicine and avoided another bout of extreme sea-sickness.
Once in Split we took a bus to Dubrovnik, with the hopes of getting there in the evening and exploring the city by late night. Once arriving we escaped the onslaught of dodgy appartment hustlers who wait, poised to lure each tourists arriving on every inbound bus into their apartment for the evening. We found a reputable appartment in a nice family´s house and we drank sangria as the rain poured outside.
The next day we were up early to see the city before the cruise ships unloaded their cargos of fat old Brits on the old city. We visited the heartbreaking photo gallery, WarPhotoLtd, and let the startling and gorgeous photography sink in. We wandered around, had lunch and then went back to our hostel just as the cruise shippers were herded in like sheep. We napped and then spent the afternoon and evening beside the rough and angry ocean. I worked up the courage to swim in the choppy waves, but it still scared me so I made my swim a short one and then got back on dry land. Priya and I took pictures for the next hour and watched the sunset. Then we headed back to town for the evening. I drew some pictures as Priya searched out her perfect souvenir.
The next day we took a midday bus to Sibernik, hoping to go to Krka Park, but we arrived too late and hungry to make the final leg of the trip. Instead we found a nice little restaurant, ate some seafood and pizza and then camped in a very uncomfortable place beneath the cities castle. Some young punks threw rocks at our tent, but other than that, the location was great even if the rock-strewn ground was an unbearable spot for sleeping.
We tried to go to the waterfalls in Krka, but we were unable to do so because the buses and trains were not working in our favour. We stayed in the little city by the water, had lunch, explored the emptying village, and then tried to head back to Sibernik for our train. The bus never came because the tourist season is ending and they no longer run as frequently. Of course no one told us this until we had already waited for the bus for more than an hour. We had to pay through our teeth to get back to Sibernik by hiring a taxi to take us there. We needed to make that train and we did with about ten minutes to spare.
We then rode a few trains until we arrived in Willach, a nothing special city in Austria. We arrived at 2am and had to wait three hours until our next train would leave. This train station was full of the dregs of Austrian society. They were the drunk, beaten, social outcasts who gathered in the train station, open all night with bathrooms, licking their wounds and wandering around in their sad and internal worlds muttering nonsense to everyone and no one in particular. This one man, who we affectionately called `the Count,` was wearing women´s sunglasses, at night, like the Cory Hart song, shuffling around in a chemical stupour of some sort. He had long died black hair with stark white two inch roots growing out, a disheveled white beard and wrinkled clothes. He beelined for Priya and I who were huddled together with our bags. He was speaking only German, and we both felt very uncomfortable in his presense. We asked him to leave. He went to a neighbouring garbage can retrieved some newspapers, read them, or simply looked at the text, spat on the floor a few times, then turned to us, pulled out his knife, walked threateningly in our direction to brandish his weapon. I told him to stay away and Priya pushed the SOS station button. He yelled something about cleaning his fingernails and put the knife away and started his escape. The man on the other line then told us the SOS station was only for emergencies and when we explain about the man with the knife, two security guards finally showed up, talked with the man, saw his knife and decided he was harmless and it was us who were overreacting. They told us we should wait in the main lobby if we were worried. We did. We watched the other beat-up Austrian hobos shuffling through the train station for the next two hours before our train finally arrived. We slept all the way to Vienna.
Vienna was great for the second time. I got my Russian visa, had it expediated and paid a lot for it in the process. We went to a great old restaurant for our final dinner together. I had some boiled beef and horseradish and Priya, marinated pork. It was a great meal, and something I wouldn´t usually order during my normally Spartan existence on the road. Having Priya here was sort of a vacation within a vacation. I saw her off at the airport. I will miss her, but it won´t be long before I cross this continent and make my way back to her in Korea.
I´m finished, alas. That´s been my life for the last month or so.
Filed under Austria, Corsica, Croatia, Czech Republic, France, Germany, Italy, Liechtenstein, On the road, Photography, San Marino, Sardinia, Slovenia, Spain
Still alive and kicking
I feel like I’ve fallen off the edge of the earth.
I haven’t kept in touch with my other life for quite some time, my life less transient. I’ve been collecting new experiences each day and I have some stories to tell, but no time to tell them. For the last two weeks I’ve been wandering the Swiss, German, Austrian and Slovenian Alps and now I’m winding down the Adriatic coast with my lady on my arm. I will find some time soon to properly write on here and update my readers on my travels. Until then, good night and good luck.
Filed under Austria, Croatia, On the road, Slovenia, Switzerland
Meet me in the Mediterranean
I just realized I haven’t told people where I’ve been traveling since Granada. It’s a long story, so I hope you have some time.
After exploring Granada for a day I took a train to Madrid with the intentions of making a connection to Barcelona. This did not quite pan out. I arrived after midnight in Madrid on a bustling Friday night, not ideal for finding a hostel to occupy for only 5 hours before waking up the next morning to take the first train to Barcelona. I wandered around and after talking with some guards at a construction site, I had directions to Parque Del Retiro, an enormous public park where I hoped to make my tent and sleep for the evening.
The park was pretty busy at such a late hour. Kids were playing different hide-and-go-seek games, there were longboarders using the straight and empty streets to practice their slides, and on a more omninous note, there were many middle aged men lurking in the shadows engaging in very suspicious activity.
I walked 10 minutes into the park and found a beautiful little, quiet spot beside a canal. It was lush and green and perfectly idyllic. I set up my tent in this little eden and went to sleep, and just before I did, I thought to myself, ‘How do they keep a park like this so green in Madrid where otherwise only desert would be found?’ I learned how. At 5:30 I awoke to a tremendous noise. It sounded like a bulldozer was trying to crush my tent. I realized I had set up my tent less than a meter from a sprinkler that was shooting torrents of water directly into my tent. I just sat in my shaking tent laughing to myself. It stopped after 10 minutes. I went back to sleep figuring the damage was already done. Lo and behold, it started again shortly later. The sprinklers were on a timer with ten minute intervals set between each session. After the water stopped for the second time, I packed up all of my stuff frantically, carried my bags and dripping tent to a concrete platform at the top of a hill, and its a good thing I did because the sprinklers started again just as I had left the grass. Good morning Madrid.
I made it to Barcelona. It is a great city on the Mediterranean, the only problem is the huge crowds of tourists cavorting in and around every single impressive destination or landmark in the city. I blame Woody Allen, that bastard. I tried to go to Sacrada Familia, Gaudi’s unfinished masterpiece. Impossible. The line was well past the hour and a half mark. The Picasso museum was just as bad. The girl controlling the line told me she had never seen the line so long. Alas, I found something not so busy, and to me, twice as interesting. In the Castle on the hilltop overlooking the city there was a free exhibit about world poverty. I spent almost two hours there. They actually had to ask me to leave. It was amazing. They explained the hopelessness of the situation, why it is in most world powers’ interests to keep the status quo and the only possible ways to curb the problem before it is too late. It was presented perfectly. It was very factual and visual so even someone like myself who lacks the knowledge of macro economics could understand everything.
I wandered the city for two days. Victor was kind enough to take me to his favourite secret spots in the city. He took me to a champagne bar where I had some delicious hamburgers and sausages amidst the swelling crowd of satisfied party-goers. Those in Victor’s family were also amazing. His mother fed me until I nearly burst. We ate our meals outside on his porch and talked about everything. Victor asked me lots about hitching and tenting in urban places because he was planning and is currently on an adventure in Switzerland. I told him not to camp in Parque Del Retiro in Madrid. I hope to hear lots about his Swiss antics.
After Barcelona I hitched my way through the Pyrenees mountains, spending the night in Casa, Andorra. Never heard of it? You’re not missing too much. It’s just a shopping mall for French people to buy things duty free. I spent a cold night in the clouds in a cow field. Good times.
The next day I hitched down the mountains and met some great people along the way. There was a new-age hippie-punk couple with dreadlocks and pink hair who had a dog that looked just like my dog back home. They were very much in love, smiling longingly at eachother while driving all over France in their beat up early-nineties Citroen. I practiced all the French in my lexacon and learned a lot more from real-world usage. I felt a strange serenity in the French countryside. I realized how beautiful the world is if you are willing to go out and explore it. Also, on another note, throw away your stereotypes about the French. They are very kind and considerate people…as long as you show respect for their language and customs. Both of which I think are pretty swell.
In Marseille the winds were raging from every direction. There was no where to go to avoid the cyclones of dust and depris being swept towards me no matter which alley or corridor I ducked down. I finally made it to the sea, camped beside the crashing waves, openair, using a WW1 monument to block the cold winds. I slept like a baby. No one bothered me, except for some kids who were playing soccer at 1am who kicked the ball into me. Pas de problem.
The next morning I tried to hitch my way east, but I had a hell of a time finding the onramp to the expressway. I asked a man with no teeth and he told me to follow him. Then he escorted me and left me with a women carrying twenty empty tubberware containers in plastic bags. She then asked me a bunch of questions regarding work and money. I didn’t understand what she was trying to get at. Then she led me to a homeless shelter. I suddenly realized what she thought–I was homeless and in need of food and shelter. Considering I had slept beside a war memorial the night before and had been surviving on oranges and bread for the last few days, she wasn’t far off. Hitching from Marseille wasn’t an option so I returned to the train station and said ‘Non, merci’ for the next hour and a half to every panhandling Gypsy who came my way.
After Marseille I was headed for Nice, and the magnificent Cap D’Ail. Priya was privy to this little hostel on the coast that was cheap and superb. She was right. I met three Roman gigolo-wannabes. They were hilarious. They invited me to come with them to Monaco for the evening. I had no plans and it sounded like a fun night out. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.
They bickered nonstop about every decision they had to make. They took close to 2 hours to get ready to hit the town. They listened to the cheesiest techno and house music produced. They stole drinks off the tables of rich people so they wouldn’t have to spend money in the insanely overpriced bars. They flirted with every girl in Monaco. Then, at 3am, when I was falling asleep in the backseat they insisted on driving around for the next hour and a half yelling ‘A Bella,’ or ‘A Bona,’ or ‘Pretty lady, where do you need to go’ at every girl they saw in the glowing, immaculate streets. It’s like I lived a Italian stereotype for the evening. I was kicked out of the last bar when the waiter kept asking me what I was going to drink and I kept coming up with excuses like, ‘I’m waiting for my friend’ or ‘I just had one.’ He probably sees my kind often enough–drifters trying to live it large for a night. I sat outside on a windowledge and listening to the innane and empty banter of the fabulously rich.
In the morning I had been mistaken for a homeless person in Marseille and twelve hours later I was rubbing elbows with Europe’s young aristocracy. What would tubberware lady think if she had seen me?
The next day I was deadset on Italy. I wanted to go to the abandoned city of Balestrino, but it was hard to find and I slept in to late to make it there early enough. I decided instead to board the overnight ferry to Corsica. I made some sangria and watched the sunset over the Savona bay and read my book. The colours in the Meditterean are spectacular. They hills lining the sea turned orange, then rose, then mauve, then a rich violet, then burgandy and then finally, a deep indigo. I could watch those hills change all day, but the show only lasts an hour. I boarded the ferry feeling a little tipsy. The wine hit me fast after walking around all day.
I almost forgot. I had an encounter with a police officer in Savona. I was making a sandwich in a park and she asked me to stop. I asked her where it was okay to make a sandwich and she told me I was not allowed to make a sandwich anywhere in town. I asked her why this was so. She told me its because I was, in her words, ‘very bottom.’ I guess she knew the likes of a no-good vagabond when she saw one. I walked around, found another park, made my sandwich and had a laugh. A salami sandwich never tasted so good.
I awoke on the shores of Bastia, Corsica. I felt well-rested and ready to take on this little island. I got a map, circled some destinations and started my time hitching from north to south. Boy, was it difficult getting out of Bastia. There was no good place for cars to stop for me so simply put, they didn’t. I must have walked close to 5km before I found a decent spot. A nice Corsican women with a big ugly seahorse tattoo on her arm stopped for me and drove me to Ila Roussa, where I took a swim in the clearest waters, then walked to some forested bluffs overlooking the sea and I made my tent, and read until it was too dark to see. Then I enjoyed the stars. No stars like that where I’m from.
The next day I bought groceries and headed for the city of Porto. After assorted lifts from various characters, I was in Porto just before dusk. I took a swim, had an ice cream and made my tent in a field beneath great papery trees more than a meter wide.
The next day, like the days before, I was up early and on the road before the sun scorched off my skin. I found a beautiful stream that ran between great bolders, like pink and purple marbles fashioned by some mighty god and deformed by some devious devil. The water was cold and strange serpentine fish swam and fed amongst the rocks. I used the freshwater to shower for the first time in three days. Once on the road, thumb in the air, a couple from Lille stopped for me and drove me right up into the mountains. I sat in the backseat with their infant girl, Julie, who didn’t care for me one bit. She actually kicked me a few times and when I asked her what the deal was, she grimaced and turned away. You just can’t please everyone. Eventually I was in the valley between the two highest points in Corsica. It was a breathtaking apline setting, where knotted and wind-tortured pines rose all around me, lined with striped and peeling birch trees. Every step I took along the road scared hundreds of little lazy lizards that were basking in the sun beside the road. They scurried off into the underbrush making a lot of noise for such small creatures.
Eventually, I was in Corte, a gorgeous city in the centre of the island. I made some lunch, read my book and had a beer in the shade, enjoying the serenic vista beyond. Then I tried to hitch out of there and make my way south. I must have waited close to two hours in the extreme heat, but finally a cool surfer/wake-boarded girl from Normandy stopped for me and drove me all the way to Propriano, which is exactly where Ihad hoped to end up. She left me at the beach outside of town and I went to take a swim. The water was rather dangerous here. It reminded me of some of the beaches in California that I remembered being closed due to rip-currrents, so I kept my swim short and then found a place to set up camp in an off-road ATV track of some sort. It was perfect, except I must have put my tent on an ant colony because in the morning everything I owned was covered in thousands of ants. At least they didn’t bite.
They next day, while hitching again, a group of Italians my age stopped, piled me and my gear into their cramped car and then invited me to come swimming with them. They were named Simone, Georgie, Marta One and Marta Two. I obvious agreed to go along. I need to take up good opportunities for friendship whenever they arise. They gave me beer, fed me and let me use their umbrella. They were delightful people, very intellectual and great fun. After, we drove along the winding coastal road listening and singing along to Bob Marley with the windows rolled down all the way. It was a perfect Corsican afternoon.
I left on the last ferry from Bonafacio, headed for Santa Teresa Sardinia. Bonafacio is a city unmatched in its beauty and perfect location. It is a harbour set amongst a perfectly protected bay tucked inside rising whie cliffs. I could have spent some more time there, but sometimes you just have to keep moving. The ferry was a wild ride. For such a short straight, those waters are rough. Many people were looking pretty green by the end of the 30 minute ride.
In Santa Teresa I camped overlooking the habour. The next morning I got some directions to Capo Testa, started hiking. I explored an old Roman quary where colomns still sat rough and unfinished as if they were left just yesterday by the stonemason for later completion. I found a little bay all to myself and had a swim and ate my lunch. Then I saw the ‘Valley of the Moon,’ a hippie colony in a very dramatic location.
Makeshift homes are carved into the rock. People survive on beer and pizza. They actually had a rock pizza oven. Only in Italy would a hippie colony use pizza as a staple.
Later that day I hitched my way south to Castlesardo. A carful of Italian girls picked me up and drove me. They then invited me to eat with the friends they were meeting I the town. One of the guys, Rapael, was practicing his spoken English with me for the first time. It was pretty good all things considered. I had proper, authentic Italian pizza and then enjoyed some Senegalese drumming and a Flamenco band. Later that night we had some drinks and then I crashed at Gabriele’s house in Sassario. The next day, after a lazy morning, we headed for the abandoned silver mine at Argentina, I mean Argentiera. The waves were very dangerous here and when trying to prepare for a picture this little lady came over to explain that I should be careful. As she said this a huge rogue wave hit her. Her forehead flew into my face. My cheek is still a little tender.
I said goodbye to them and started hitching south. I was given a lift outside of Alghero from a man and son and friend from Milano. They invited me to have some beer. A beer become dinner. Then they offered me a shower. Then they offered me to stay the night. Like that, I was in a nice summer house south of Alghero. The group of Italian guys were very funny and nice. They loved quotes and we spent a few hours thinking about the best motivational lessons we could remember. We made pasta at 2 in the morning. It was delicious.
The next day I got a lift from the Dad 20 kms down the road. He told me how he was glad that I showed the guys how easy and exciting travel could be. He was worried that his son was too quiet and tame. He had lived a life of adventure when he was young and he wanted the same for his on. I hope that I influenced the guys a little.
I hitched to Bosa, a beautiful maze of medieval alleyways, each building a different vibrant hue, all with a beat up castle perched on a hill in the city’s center like a cherry on top a sundae.
Getting away from Bosa was impossible. I walked for two hours, then had a lift of ten minutes and then walked another two hours. Finally things got rolling and I made it back to the coast. I camped on Whale Rock, a pennisula that looks like a whale from afar, beside a 700 year old Spanish tower in the coastal village of Santa Katarina. I had a great sunset for dinner and then also a colourful sunrise to wake me up in the morning.
From Bosa I spent hours trying to get to Tharros, the site of Phynecian and Roman ruins. I met many entertaining Sardinians who insisted on talking incessantly while giving me a lift, all in Italian, even though they knew I didn’t understand them. I just smiled and laughed when I thought the old guys told jokes.
I got to Tharros, explored the ruins. It was a waste of money. They weren’t very impressive. I then hitched to Oristano, which was a ghost town on a Sunday afternoon, and I took a train to Cagliari. This is an enchanting city. I arrived late and was deadset on camping my entire time while on these islands. I walked around the romantic streets, found the botanical garden, closed by this time. I hoped a two meter fence and camped between the exotic flora of the garden. I was up early and packed, anyone who worked there was non the wiser.
Then stupidity struck. I missed my ferry because I had gone to the wrong port city. I needed to go to Olbia, not Cagliari. It was a unnecessary mistake which cost me some money and more importantly, two days of travel in southern Italy. So, I had to skip it.
No I’m in Roma. It’s hot and congested an full of touristic vermin. I need to escape to Lucca as soon as possible.
Ours is a beautiful world
I’m speechless. I’m befuddled. Bamboozled. Flabbergasted. I can’t begin to comprehend the limitless capacity of human kindness–in every shape, size and colour in which it has appeared to me. Countless individuals have come to my assistance, invited me, an estranged disheveled vagabond, into their lives and welcomed me as if I were a long-lost friend or family member. These people had nothing to gain from this, except the rumour of some good stories and conversation, both of which I try to provide to them. Many just want to be good, and my situation gives them the opportunity and they take it. If everyone hitched and gave lifts to strangers the world would be a better place.
So, to my handful of readers–if you are ever feeling lost amidst your concrete oblivion and need to be reaffirmed in the goodness, the inherent kindness present in the depths of every person, throw a rucksack on your back, walk to the outskirts of town, stand beside a road headed in any old direction, thumb outstretched and see what form of grace and humility will stop to take you where you need to go.
The Nadales family; what can I say to you? Nothing I write on this silly website can come close to capture my sincere appreciation. Thank you, thank you from all of my soul. Barcelona (Barbara) was like a home away from home, and you, my warm Catalonia family.
To all the French and Italians who’ve I’ve encountered while hitching through the Pyrenees Mountains, Corisca and Sardinia, thank you. You are a warm and gorgeous people, bastions of kindness and generosity.
I have some serious favours to pay forward. I owe the mighty gods of travel much of my time and sweat.
I’m in Sardinia. I have some tremendous stories but no time to tell them. I will try my damnedest to find time soon, I promise. Thanks for your patience.
Filed under France, Italy, On the road, Spain
Take the Good with the Bad
I’ve had a couple miserable days in a row recently. I am trying to stay positive and look for the best in my time here. I think my problem is I expect every day to be better than the one that came before, which ultimately leads me to disappointment. I’ve had so many great experiences so far that its pretty hard for my experiences to perpetually surpass themselves.
I am not going to dwell in the events. Let’s just say, I think Spain is not suited for the type of travel I prefer. It’s great for tourbus-going , prepackaged-planning, self-important decadent tourists…not me. That’s fine and good. I will come back here again and give it another go, but next time I will come with my own form of transportation and someone else. I need a partner in crime. Someone with which to laugh off the annoyances.
Here is something I will rant about for a moment. Hey Spain, clean up your dog shit. It’s disgusting. It’s everywhere. As I am looking around at your beautiful buildings I keep stepping in your animals’ waste. Never have I stepped in so much dog shit in my life. Seriously, it’s at least one pile per day. I feel like I’m a minesweeper in a former warzone when I’m walking your streets. I’m a dog person, really, I am. I love animals, but not only do your flee-bitten muts bark at me relentlessly, they are stinking up your streets. Spain, what’s the deal? I will ask it again…in Spanish.
España ¿cuál es el problema?
As for the rest of my journey in Portugal. I never made it to Sagres from Vila Nova de Milifontes, as I had hoped. Hitching in the Portuguese heat is difficult and uncomfortable. Maybe that’s why out of the 8 or so lifts I had in Portugual, 6 were from people were of other nationalities. It’s too hot to hitch and Portuguese people don’t want sweaty vagabonds ruining their upholstery. People from milder climates don’t mind. I think this is the same reason why Scottish people don’t give lifts. It rains too much and they don’t want the insides of their cars made wet by travelers. I think I’m on to something. I think I will make a graph and some charts and report on my ground-breaking discoveries.
I’m in Granada now. I visited the Alhambra. Don’t know what it is? Shame on you! You should. It’s beautiful.
I also wandered around Sevilla for two days, tried to escape the onslaught of Brits in Cadiz and enjoyed the Mezquita Cathedral in Cordoba as the first person inside when it opened. I’m going to Barcelona tonight. I need to make a stop in Madrid first because there are no direct trains. Correction, there is one, but its full. C’est la vie. I will probably sleep in the train station. Wish me luck.
Hoping for the best in Barcelona,
Ciao.
Filed under On the road, Photography, Portugal, Spain
South by Southwest
I can’t spend a whole lot of time on here today. It’s expensive and I need to meet some people for drinks in a little while.
Since I wrote on here last I have explored San Sebastian, ate pinchos and drank sangria, traveled back and forth and back again in Spain, stood in awe in the cathedrals on the Camino to Santiago, partook in the San Fermin festival in Pamplona, was covered in wine, camped in public parks, hitchhiked in the Douro valley, was barked at by every dog in Portugal, fell in love with Porto, had an entire beach to myself at sunset in Guincho, hitchhiked to Vila Nova de Milifontes, went surfing on my birthday, and met amazing people wherever I went.
I must thank Juande, Suzannah and all your friends, Jair and Sebastian, Katarina, Migel and all your friends, and the crazy Germans I met surfing.
I will post some pictures next time. I have a lot and it will be a pleasure to post them. I’m hoping to be in southern Spain by tomorrow, with any luck.
Take care everyone,
Until next time.
Filed under On the road, Portugal, Spain
“Life Begins at the End of Your Comfort Zone”
No, I did not come up with this little gem of wisdom. I read it on an inspirational postcard on my friends’ cork board. But, I like it all the same.
I have my work cut out for me to explain all that I have done in the last week and a half. It´s hard to find the time, effort or Internet cafes to allow me to type out a blog or two a week like I usually managed while traveling in Asia. Alas, once every two weeks will have to suffice.
From Ulm, I took eight hours of trains to Amsterdam. I arrived sometime after 8PM, found a hostel a short walk from the hostel, and then feeling rather overwhelmed and claustrophobic amidst the obviously stoned-stupid, cross-eyed, dribbling tourists crammed in this colourful rats-nest, I took to the streets to take some pictures of the canals by night. I explored, found some quiet nooks and crannies of the city, took a few pictures, ambled down the red-light district to witness the human flesh for sale, and then I went back to the hostel and took my well-deserved night´s sleep.
The next day I woke up later than I had hoped, walked to the Van Gogh museum and leisurely browsed the collection and read the history of this tortured genius. In Montreal, Priya and I went to an IMAX movie narrated in first person from “Van Gogh,” which helped me with a lot of the background that this exhibit overlooked. After that, I explored some nearby parks, chatted with some Dutch skateboarders and then took a train out of the city to a camping ground. My conclusion regarding Amsterdam is you need to know someone on the inside to enjoy it to its fullest, if not its just an amusement park for hell-bent Americans who want to smoke and consume illicit substances without the War on Drugs breathing down their necks. I felt the people were rather cold and unnecessarily hostile here, but to them I was just another young North American there to waste my money and my brain cells. I think I´d be annoyed by such tourism and show it as well if I called Amsterdam my home.
The next day, I boarded a train for Den Haag because I had heard good things. I was greatly disappointed. The city was not very welcoming, and after going to the over-congested and polluted beach, I took a train to Brussels. I had no real plans for staying here when I imagined traveling through Belgium, but I was pleasantly surprised by the city, and I´m glad I made a stop. The city is clean and the buildings are grandiose and spectacular. It was the capitol city where the mighty king sat at the throne of a rich empire, one built on the blood and bone of those he conquered and enslaved. This brings me to my next museum; Le Musée royal de l’Afrique centrale (Royal Museum for Central Africa). This museum has one of the largest collections of cultural and religious artifacts, weaponry, and artwork gathered over the past century from across the former Belgian colonies. It showcases a snapshot of the beautiful and rich cultures that were present before European nations invaded, forbade the customs, uprooted the culture and destroyed what was there and had been thriving for many millennia. The whole time I walked through the exhibits and dodged the onslaught of runny-nosed, unenthusiastic school groups, I heard the words of Chinua Achebe in my ear. I saw Okonkwo shake his head as ” things fell apart.“ I wondered what he would think if he came to this museum? Would he approve of the sterile and still remnants of people´s lives tacked to walls, enclosed behind glass like butterflies pinned to boards? Maybe it is the history student in me, but I couldn´t help dissecting the explanations, trying to delve deeper than that which was provided for day-tripping students and travelers as indisputable fact. So much was lost or changed or ruined, and colonial Beligum under Leopold II´s rule was not the only nation responsible for these atrocities, but it still remains one of the worst perpetrators of colonial evil. This museum is a testament to the abuses of the colonized and even in trying to preserve and respect the histories of these cultures of ghosts, I can´t help but wonder if the people from which these artifacts were stolen could rewrite what was written, what would they have to say. These colonies had their beautiful tapestries of oral histories ignored, or condense, or oversimplified until its nearly impossible to decipher what is real and what was imagined by the invading marauders and insensitive historians of ages past. Nonetheless, it is a beautiful and sobering place to spend a day of contemplation and quiet remembrance.
After Brussels, I headed for Bruges. I met two cool German guys name Lais and Kristoph. We explored the city. Let´s just say, I had exactly the same experiences as in the movie, In Bruges, except without all the shootouts and midget jokes.
From Bruges, I took a train to Luxembourg for lunch, just to say I´ve been there, and then left shortly later for Paris. I arrived in Paris in the early afternoon. I would spend the next few days exploring the city by myself as a tourist, and drinking, eating and living as the Parisians by night with an ever-changing and eclectic ensemble of students and chic bohemians; all amazing people who have carved out their place in this adorable city. This is what I think about Paris; she is the most beautiful young woman in your city. You can´t impressive her easily. She brushes you off. Ignores you. Shows you no regard. You have to win her over. You have to be sophisticated, elegant, charming, and maybe then, and only then will she consider getting to know you too. Without Nelly, Cami, Ninni, Victor and Benjamin I am certain my experiences in this city would have paled in comparison. I had tremendous time in Paris and I can´t wait to visit again sometime in the near future. Paris, je t’aime.
After Paris, I headed northwest. First for Amien, where I slept beneath the stars in a farmer’s field as neighbourhood dogs barked in the distance from my suspicious presence. The next day I took to hitching to Rouen, a task much harder than expected, not because of lack of lifts, but because I lacked a knowledge of French geography. I would get in a car, ask where the driver was headed, and agree to go there, even if it was in the complete opposite direction. At one point, this left me in the middle of no where. I was surrounded by nothing but farmers fields where I startled grazing deer as I trudged at the sides of the roads. I eventually made it to Clere, where I finally took a train to Rouen, and then another to Caen. In Caen, there was no place to set up a tent. I ended up talking with a cyclist who promptly offered his “petite jardin” as an acceptable place for a tent. He drove me to the gardin, then gave me a pile of blankets and I set up my bed in a warm, dry shed beside an enormous vegetable garden. His name was Louis. He was 80 years old and looked 60. I asked him his secret. He said, good, hard work, laughter and gardening. He’s doing something right, that’s for sure. In the morning he brought me breakfast and we talked about him…in French, of course. He was a former soldier who fought in the Amgerian war. He returned to France horrified by the atrocities he witnessed (and I’m sure, had to commit, as well). He found God and became a minister. He gardens most of the time when he isn`t in church, and he gives the vegetables to families in need. After all of his generosity, I got to work in the garden. I watered every single leaf in that place. Louis kept a very keen and watchful eye the entire time to make sure I did everything to his standards.
From Caen I took a bus to Courseille, the village built beside the site of Juno Beach. It was July 1st, Canada Day, so it seemed fitting to visit one of the most important Canadian war sites. The recently erected museum was wonderful. It was very well-presented, but a little nostalgic, but I guess that the best way to describe WWII; it was a nostalgic war, where the good guys and the bad guys were obvious and well-defined. I walked the beach and tried to imagine myself, maybe even me three, four or five years ago, storming the beaches, dodging bullets as people, friends and fellow soldiers were gunned down all around me. It’s a nearly impossible thing to envision, especially while strolling the peaceful seashore now. After Juno beach, I headed for St. Malo. I met a fellow Canadian, Mark from Vancouver, who was going to the same place. We agreed a makeshift Canada Day celebration was in order. We drank cheap French beer (cheap, but delicious) and watched the sunset over the Bretegne coast, looking west towards Canada in the birthplace of Jacques Cartier, the man who “discovered” Canada in 1535. How’s that for spontaneous and inadvertent patriotism.
I stayed in St. Malo for two nights, explore the medieval walled city, swam in the frigid sea, and then spent the next morning and afternoon visiting Le Mont St. Michel, which has a monastery perched on top of one the most beautiful and dramatic settings of any I’ve yet to see. It looks like Oz as you approach on the less-than-yellow-brick road. It rises so strangely out of place in the incredibly flat floodplains. It was overrun by tourists, but it was worth it for the view.
After St. Malo, I ventured to Quimper, which was uneventful and not worth mentioning, then made the long journey to Bayonne in the Basque country. Upon arriving I was greeted by two Basque men having a drunken fist-fight just meters from the train station, and then minutes later saw an otter frolicking in the city’s river. I camped on the ruined wall of a fortress of some sort and was awoken in the night by rummaging hedgehogs and a local drunk who wanted to have a late night talk with me about the recent weather in the region. Sometimes it would be better if I didn’t understand French.
Today, I made the short trip to San Sebastian. I am staying with Juan, the guy I met in the Lofoten Islands in Norway, and his girlfriend, Suzannah, in their picture perfect Spanish apartment. It´s time I go get lost in this vibrant city.
Adios.
Filed under Belgium, France, On the road, Photography, Spain, The Netherlands
In Pursuit of the Perfect Beer
The morning after my crazy night in Copenhagen, I awoke in the train station to be interrogated by a group of drunk Danish people. When they realized that I didn’t understand them, they felt bad for waking me up, so they bought be a McDonald’s breakfast. Then, I boarded a train for Hamburg. The train went south through Denmark and eventually driving straight onto a ferry, which crossed the Baltic sea and landed on the little island of Fehmarn. When visiting and drinking for a weekend in Montreal with Brad and Geoff we had met a German traveler named Eike. He had invited us to his house if we were ever to travel in Germany. I wasn’t positive, but I had a feeling that this was his island.
At Puttgarten station, I got off the train, walked to the only restaurant around, went inside and asked the first person I saw, “Do you know someone named Eike, who farms horses and has cottages for tourists?” Then, to my amazement, she said, “Eike Weilandt from Presen?” I replied, “Maybe that is him.” She then drew me a map and I started walking. Outside, I tried my luck at hitching. The first car stopped and drove me the entire 10 kilometers to Presen. Once there, I saw a man in his yard and I walked over to him and asked, “Do you know where Eike Weilandt lives?” Then he pointed across the street. It was that easy. It took me 30 minutes to find Eike on a island of twelve thousand people.
Eike and his family have a perfect little pastoral lifestyle on Fehmarn. They raise horses, eat fresh vegetables, real cheese, meat and bread. They live in their family house, which they estimate is over 170 years old. Eike hunts deer 5 minutes from his house and they know and greet everyone they ever encounter. In the evening, I went with Eike to his friends house were we drank beer and watched the Germany/Australia massacre. Everyone was so passionate about game, but the entire time I felt kind of bad for Australia. They tried so hard and fell so short. I guess that’s the point of the game. The spoils go to the victors.
I left the next day for Hamburg. My time on the island of Fehmarn was short, but very sweet. The Weilandts were excellent hosts and I really hope our paths cross again.
I explored Hamburg for the afternoon. It was much more beautiful than I had anticipated. I visited St. Michael’s Church, and another shell of a church that had been destroyed during the war and ever since it has stood as a monument of peace.
After Hamburg, I headed for Berlin. I relaxed and watched a footy match. The next morning I was off to explore Berlin. I went to a museum called the Topography of Terror, which recalled Hitler’s rise to power in Berlin and the building of his network of death and destruction. It was a very frank and somber place, as I’m sure you can imagine. It was located directly in front of a portion of the Berlin wall that was left standing for symbolic reasons. I explored East and West Berlin until my feet were aching and I needed a rest.
I boarded a train for Dresden. I camped in a forested lot by the train station, and took the first train to Praha the next morning.
As I wrote before, Praha is brilliant. Everyone should visit at least once. I explore the city at leisure and even went out for a night on the town. One bar was on the roof of a hotel which overlooked the main old city square. It was a perfect place to drink some of the best beer in the world.
After two nights I headed for Plzen, to go on a beer tour and see a different side of the Czech Republic. The city itself was nice, but no where as beautiful as Praha. The people were also much rougher. I got a cheap room in one of the worst “hostels” I have ever seen. The beer tour was great. I learned a lot about how beer is made and why Czech beer differs and is imitated the world-over. I know the secret, and I’m not telling. After a weird and wonderful night drinking in a heavy metal bar and eating sliced ham with ryebread with the Czech guy from my hostel named Lukas, I headed to bed.
The next day I went to Regensburg and then in the evening, Muncheon. I went to the largest beer hall in the world and tried some pretzels and pig knuckle…if you don’t know what that is, that makes both of us.
The next morning I travelled to the small city of Allmendingen, where I met up with the Krauss family. They were generous enough to take me all around their area showing me traditional villages, treating me to Schwebish meals, and letting me sleep in the spare room in their beautiful house. The next day I explored Ulm, which has a beautiful old town which was lucky to escape destruction in the war. I climbed the tallest church steeple in the world, which felt like the tallest church steeple in the world. Then I took an all-day train to Amsterdam. Gesa, Fritz and Luisa were excellent hosts and really appreciate their hospitality!
I will update this later. It’s time to explore Paris.
Filed under Czech Republic, Germany
Cold Nights Camping and the Midnight Sun
I’m in the Czech Republic, and about two weeks behind on my blog. Before I explain my exploits over past two weeks, let me talk about old buildings.
As I’m sure you might assume, I have a natural attraction to old decaying buildings. I think they represent humanity’s vainglorious attempts at permanence and perfection. No matter how many skilled architects it took to draft a particular building, how many stonemasons to inter-lay and set the stone, how many master sculptures to adorn the exterior, how many craftsmen and artisans to create their masterpiece, in time, it all will crumble and turn to dust. Pillars will fall, plaster will crack, paint will peel, shingles will be pried up with wind, and eventually, all will be forgotten. While citizens of many cities try to fight this natural process of decay, in Prague the people live with it. The city is gritty and glorious, like Disneyland for the deranged.
But where was I? When I arrived in Torp, Norway I boarded an overnight train to Bergen, with little to no plan of where I was going or what I was going to do. I walked around the city for a few hours in the morning, but after realizing the prices, decided it would be too pricey for me to stay. I boarded another train back to Voss, and then got a lift from a Polish family to the Hardangerfjord region. I found a great little place to camp. I met a Norwegian camper named George, who was nice enough to feed me smoked salmon and omelets, and I made a fire in the evening where we hung out, talking, joined from time to time by curious locals.
The next day I traveled to Myrdal, boarded a train to Flam, on a railway line built into the side of a cliff face. We passed raging waterfalls, hidden villages in lush green valleys, while our train passed in and out of dynamite-blasted tunnels and teetered pecariously close to the edges of cliffs.
From Flam I managed to get lifts from more than five different cars all the way to Stryn. On the way I saw the largest glacier in mainland Europe, majestic mountains, fjords and tundra. I could never tire of waiting next to the roads here, because I was always surrounded by such outstanding scenery.
I camped in a riverside farmer’s field, made a fire and had fried ham and cream cheese sandwiches with cookies for dessert. I warmed some stones with the fire to put beneath the tent because Norway at this time of year is cold, and if it weren’t for these stones, it would be a long cold night in a summer sleepingbag.
The next day I hitched to Otta, caught a train to Trondheim, and at midnight, caught another overnight train to Bodo, which is officially above the Arctic Circle. The next morning, at 9, I caught the ferry to the Lofoten islands, where I met a cool Spaniard named Juande. He had also spent much of his life traveling and we were able to exchange tips and stories about places we were hoping to visit. I stayed at a hostel that was originally a fish factory in a town called A…that’s all it was, it was just called A. The staff were great, but eccentric to say the least. I figure it’s because they live in a village called A in the middle of the North Atlantic. They were pleasant people, and we were lucky enough to score a half kilo each of fresh cod. Juande took the reins for dinner because he cooks cod once or twice a week in Spain. He did an amazing job of it. It was a big meal, which was good, because after dinner we went on a hike to find the Midnight Sun. We hiked around this poorly marked trail until midnight, but we couldn’t see the sun because it had dipped down behind the mountains. It was then time to sleep.
I was awake at 6 in the morning, trying to hitchhike to Narvic, which on the map appeared to be a short 300 kilometers away. I compared the distances I had traveled before, and estimated that it would take six or seven hours to get to Narvic. Little did I know, but it wasn’t until nine o’clock, 13 rides later, that I ended up in Narvic, beat up, and late for the train to Sweden. With little else to do, I decided to find a place to camp. There was a public park in the middle of the town. It had a shelter with a fireplace inside. I made a fire, had some dinner and tried to sleep. I was fine for the first two hours, but once 2 AM rolled around, and I ran out of dry firewood, the temperature plummeted and I needed to wake up, move around so as not to succumb to hypothermia. I walked around for another 3 hours, then the train station opened. I went inside and slept until my train left 5 hours later.
On the train I met two international students from Germany and France. Fabian and Nelly were both students at the University in Stockholm. They offered me a place to stay, a laundry machine to use and a fridge to raid. They were great hosts. They showed me around the city, took me out for a night on the town, and even extended invitations to cities in their home countries. I am extremely grateful for their hospitality. I hope to repay them sometime in the future.
I had spent longer in Norway than I had originally planned, and after Stockholm I decided to take a train for Copenhagen for a night. I missed the train, and by time the next arrived and I did the math, I realized that I’d be arriving in the city at 1 AM. I was preparing myself for another night’s sleep in the train station, when lo and behold. Some Swedish guys struck up a conversation with me and then invited me on a pub crawl in Copenhagen. I threw my bags in a locker and off we went. The Danish sure know how to party. The highlight of the night was dancing in a club that was a meat locker by day. Copenhagen is bizarre…but ultimately, enchanting.
I am almost caught up, but I am hungry and tired so I will finish this some other time…soon. I promise. With pictures, too!
Filed under Czech Republic, Denmark, Norway, On the road, Sweden
A short hiatus
Sorry for the delay everyone. I’ve been in the middle of nowhere for what seems like an eternity.
Now that I’m back in civilization, I will try to fill you in where I’ve been and the silly antics that have occurred since I wrote on here last.
After leaving Galway, I hitched my way north. I was picked up by a few out-of-work carpenters and a wine-maker from Scotland. Donegal was a spectacular part of the country, and despite the fact that I only spent two days exploring the rugged north of Ireland, I was there with perfect weather and I managed to take a few decent pictures. I spent the night in my tent, sleeping in a farmer’s field in the town of Malin Peg. Good luck finding it on a map. It was on one of the most remote points of the island. I took a lift from a holidaying Polish cook who agreed to take me one hour out of his way because I assured him that the scenery would be worth it. Then I hiked for more than an hour to a little coastal community, hopped a fence and found an outcrop of rock overlooking the ocean on one side of the hill, and on the other I had an unimpeded view of Slieve League (the tallest cliffs in all of Europe at 600 meters) I went to sleep with the sunset and the bahing of sheep in the distance. My peaceful place turned violent when the winds changed sometime in wee hours of the morning. Still tired and cold, but more worried about the well-being of my tent, I packed up and started by departure. It was a Sunday morning, and I was in a particularly orthodox Irish Catholic community. No one was driving because they were in church or in bed (probably severely hungover). After hours of waiting, finally a very nice man driving over the mountain to pick up his son after a long night of drinking. We drove around looking for his son, but after 30 minutes of searching, he decided to drive me to the cliffs instead. Am I ever grateful that he did. Every tourist in Ireland visits the Cliffs of Moher, which are impressive, but they are no way near as beautiful as Slieve League.
After that I took a lift from a Czech guy with an strange affinity to classic rock. He drove me for two or more hours with Zeppelin and AC/DC blaring and we had a sing-a-long, shouting out the lyrics at passing pedestrians with the windows rolled down.
I took a few more short lifts until I was on the border to Northern Ireland. I had a terrible time here because there was no good place to stand. I walked a couple kilometers outside of the town, and luckily, a Lithuanian lumberjack stopped took me grocery shopping with his wife and kids, and then drove me to a place past Derry. Here I waited 5 minutes and a German researcher named Hans stopped and fortunate for me, was going exactly where I was hoping to go–The Giant’s Causeway. We drove there and talked about everything from religion, to politics, to the end of the world, the ethics of keeping livestock. The Giant’s Causeway was worth all of the hype. It is a surreal place of hexagonal volcanic stepping stones leading a path into the ocean.
Here’s the legend as follows:
Fionn had spent many days and nights trying to create a bridge to Scotland because he was challenged by another giant. A fellow boatsman told him that the opponent was much larger than he. Fionn told his wife and she came up with an ingenious plan to dress Fionn like a baby. They spent many nights creating a costume and bed. When the opponent came to Fionn’s house; Fionn’s wife told him that Fionn was out woodcutting and the opponent would have to wait for him to return. Then Fionn’s wife showed him her baby and when the opponent saw him he was terrified at the thought of how huge Fionn would be. He ran back to Scotland and threw random stones from the causeway into the waters bellow. (wikipedia)
I then spent a night in Belfast, awoke the next morning and took the ferry to Stranraer, Scotland. I had an awful time hitch-hiking here. To my delight, an amazing couple named, Davey and Jane, drove me to their village called Killwinning, fed me a fish and chips dinner and let me sleep in their backyard in my tent. I had a great time listening to Davey’s travel stories that he had collected over his many years of adventuring the world. The next day, in the rain, I tried to hitch northerly toward the highlands. Let’s just say, I didn’t get too far. After being in the pouring rain for hours, feeling cold, wet and miserable I boarded bus after bus until I arrived in Edinburgh, found a nice old hostel in the centre of the old town, and I laid out all of my gear to dry.
I spent the next couple of days exploring the city, finding the free museums and joining the walking tours. Aesthetically speaking, Edinburgh has some of the most impressive looking buildings and streets. As a history nerd, I don’t think I could ever tire of walking the aged and time-honoured streets of the city. History just seems to drip from every stone in the city, and there is something ancient and fascinating around every bend in the road and down every narrow close.
I took a Ryanair flight, and to fall within the ridiculous baggage weight restrictions, I wore more than five layers of clothing, equalling more than 3 kilos of baggage. I was then in Norway. What a great country. As hard as it might seem, after reading all that I’ve written here, I’m still at a loss for words. I’ll tell you about it later. It’s time to explore Stockholm.
Filed under Ireland, Northern Ireland, Norway, On the road, Photography, Scotland
Thank You Ireland
Craic or crack is a term for fun, entertainment, and enjoyable conversation, particularly prominent in Ireland.[1][2] It is often used with the definite article – the craic.[1] The word has an unusual history; the form craic was borrowed into Irish from the English crack in the mid-20th century, and the Irish spelling was then reborrowed into English.[1] Under either spelling, the crack/craic has great cultural currency and significance in Ireland.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CraicMy time in Ireland has come and gone.
I was there for nearly 2 weeks and I cannot believe how much fun I had. It was a perfect Irish holiday. I experience all that I wished to experience and more. I can’t thank my friends in Galway enough. Mike and Pat made me feel right at home in their home city and their friends and family made me feel completely welcome. It was great “craic” as the Irish say, and I am confident I will return.
I hitched more than 27 rides in 10 days and I saw almost every region of the country. I had no bad experiences while hitching. Hitching is the best way to see and understand a country, because everyone who stops to give you a ride becomes a sort of tour guide, and they tell you the best stories and sights to see while in their neck of the wood. I highly recommend hitching. It is a dying art, one which I plan to take advantage from here on.
I need to thank the Fitzpatrick family for inviting me to their house and letting me have a proper Conamara experience. I went mackerel fishing in the ocean, witnessed the hatching of seagulls on an island in the north Atlantic, had target practice with a shotgun stole a lobster from a lobster trap, and ate fresh lamb chops to top things off. It was an amazing couples of days. They are memories I won’t soon forget.
I am in Edinburgh now. It is as good as its reputation. I will write more and post pictures next time.
Filed under Ireland, On the road
Sunburn in Ireland (of all places)
After writing my last post I explored Dublin until nightfall. I tried to get a good night sleep. Four drunken British yahoos crashed into the room at half past four yelling, fighting, and destroying everything in sight, including two sinks and the toilet.
I was up early to take a local bus to the outskirts of town. From there I found the highway going south. I wrote on a piece of paper, “SOUTH OR WEST PLEASE.” In a matter of 30 minutes, a golfing enthusiast picked me up and drove me 10 kilometers from Kilkenny. I stood by the road and in a matter of minutes, I was picked up by an Irish hippie headed to Kilkenny. He took me to the city center and I set off to explore. I stayed for three hours, then hitched another ride down the street to the motorway going south. This time a taxi driver headed home for the day was able to drive me 30 kilometers south to a village called Callin. It was probably a mistake going here. I didn’t get another ride for nearly 2 hours. Not only did no one stop for me here, but I also had rednecks yelling profanities at me from there cars, and a few regular comedians stopped for me and pulled away just as I approached their cars. Alas, after a long and hot wait, a car with two lads slowed and they explained that they had passed an hour before and saw me, and out of pity they would drive me to the next town where I could catch a ride easier on a bigger motorway.
This was a godsend. A very nice guy picked me up and drove me just east of Cork, all the while explaining the beauties of a simple pastoral Irish lifestyle. From here, I was able to get a ride from a hilariously dodgy character named David, who took me as far as Kilarney, driving 50 kilometers over the speed limit, while yelling or texting into his cellphone as bumping house music beat away on his stereo, all the while complaining about everyone else and their terrible driving. Luckily, I made it safe and sound and found a great hostel in the town of Kilarney.
The next day I woke up early, and rented a bicycle to explore the neighbouring national park. A leisurely cycle took hours and I returned, exhausted, at 5 pm, before setting off to try and hitch hike to Galway. I walked to the motorway, and after 20 minutes, a university student going to school in Limerick offered to drive me there. He was very hungover and in need of sleep. He was grateful to have the company so he wouldn’t drive off the road from exhaustion. I waited ten minutes at my next stop, before I was on the road again, this time for just ten minutes. Another person stopped almost immediately and drove me another 40 or so kilometers. As I waited, the next car that drove by was a 1978 MGB Roadster, I yelled, “nice car!” to him as he waited at a stop light. He offered me a ride. I could barely fit all of my gear into this tiny little British sports car. He took me to Galway, and let me call my friends on his cellphone.
At this point I was exhausted, but I had successfully hitchhiked all across this delightful country. I am a big fan of hitching, as you can imagine. It is a great way to meet local people and listen to the Irish people and their gift for gab. I had a great time, and best yet, it cost me nothing. Oh yeah, and I also got a sunburn. I brought the sun to Ireland and it’s been unseasonably beautiful and warm.
I’ll post some more when I have the time or the energy.
Filed under Ireland, On the road, Photography