Homeward Bound

I'm in Dublin now, come back from the Cairngorm Scottland Highlands. The most mystical spot on this round earth, that I've seen anyway. Tomorrow I head to Shannon at dawn to catch my plane back to the states.
All things must come to an end. This past year has been the biggest and most fulfilling adventure of my life to date. I have learned about love and self, seen foreign lands, spoken strange languages, read the lines on thousands of faces, taken risks, made mistakes--so many wonderfully hard and beautiful mistakes--learned that mistakes aren't the end but junctions where we are allowed to choose how we go forward. I've walked along rivers and taken deep gulps from cold streams and burns (pronounced Byurns), run naked across Scottish mountainscapes with nothing but a pack on my back and mud under my feet, bog mud, and even there, in the muck, the blooming heather manages to penetrate and sweeten the air. I've discovered the bothy, made so many fruitful connections with other humans it will take time to process. I spent Christmas on a carfree and carefree Greek isle where the water was clearer than , went the way of the Berber through the largest desert in the world, drove along expansive beaches, tread over trillions of grains of sand, and spelunked through caves leading to what I can only describe as ecstasy. I have sat at a desk at 6 p.m., in a room that looks like a prison cell, trying to write, and been inspired by the nearby sound of 900 year-old cathedral bells clanging in the heavy evening air, bouncing down the ancient curving streets, across the Plaza Nueva, off the proud buildings and into my bedroom window. I have seen and heard and felt and smelled so many things. Wonderful things. Life-changing things. Awesome things. The people I have met, however, and the relationships forged, are what have made this trip most memorable.

The first thing that happened to me upon arriving in Scotland was a theft. They've stolen my camera. It was my fault. The one time I turned my back on that thing which I've protected with a paranoia probably diagnosable, an opportunist was there waiting, and when I returned, it was gone. Climbing the William Wallace monument in Aberdeen with Carson seemed a fantastic idea, and it was. We had all of our stuff--rucksacks, backpack, and my camera bag. When I left our gear at the bottom, a thought flashed through my head--probably not a good idea--but for whatever reason, this time I dismissed that shrill voice. There were people sitting on the bench, watching us, it was the middle of a beautiful, green and blue, sunny the day. We were standing 4 meters above our stuff. The view was beautiful. The swath of perfectly maintained green grass below, with people strewn about enjoying the warm weather; the spire of the 2nd largest granite building (that of Marshall College) in the world, dominating the skyline. Stunning. I'm not sure if it was as stunning as clambering down that large block of stone and bronze to find myself one bag short. I came down to take a picture of Carson's massive, cat-like frame managing Wallace. It wasn't to be.

We were going to the mountains. We made a detour to the police department to report the theft. I was at once frantic and strangely at ease. My camera had been stolen. My camera had been stolen. I said those words out loud and silently to myself. That was it. My camera had been stolen and I was going to the mountains. Alex has pointed out on a pair of occasions what she sees as my invincible, "it can't happen to me" attitude. It happened to me. Oh the irony of having protected it with my life the entire trip, only to have it taken at the very end. No tears have been shed, there is no anger--frustration with myself and some regret--though my heart clenches when I think of the dollars that bag contained, and my Spanish cell phone, with all of my friends' numbers. The truth is, it was liberating. I have never lived more in-the-moment, at any point in my life. Nor do I think I've created such strong and detailed mental images since I allowed myself to become obsessed with documenting every important experience in my life by standing behind that heavy black object. I wish my decision to give up photography for a while had been more voluntary, but I think that ultimately, this experience, more than some others, has taught me and led me, quite forcefully, to another junction. I think I will stick with writing for now and give myself a break from being the camera guy. It had become a bit of a burden, a mild obsession, and a source of constant frustration ("They're not GOOD enough!") Now there is nothing to do but live, and live I will. I'm so ready to come home. I thought it would be terrible, soul crushing. No so. Not so at all. I miss everyone very much and can't wait to see your faces and hear your voices again. Get ready, home, I'm coming.

-The luckiest guy in the world.

Frankfurt, do you know?

Jesus Christ. They said it was sketch, but how could a neighborhood change so much in 400 meters? My heart is still pounding in my throat and my lungs feel like they’re full of helium. KaiserstraBe is the main street that leads out of the Frankfurt train station. It is the home of Frankfurt Hostel. MoselstraBe is the first street branching off from it. I left the hip comfort of Frankfurt Hostel, which was perfect, but full, and turned the corner in search of Easy Bed24, on Mosel, a name that is in no way explicitly or otherwise referring to beds for sex or shady business. The internet reviews said it’s in the middle of the red light district, populated by drug addicts, hookers, and people with hollow eyes. But Frankfurt hostel too, which is both safe and clean and a block away, is flanked by Wos, World of Sex, and a porno shop, so I was certain these reviewers were exaggerating or not aware of the alternatives. But I was wrong. I just saw my first bloody heroin arm, raised blue vein, faced cringed in pain, long raggedy hair under a blue baseball cap and missing teeth. He was kneeling on the sidewalk next to a car and the tainted blood trickled down to his wrist as the fire shot into the mainline. Oh my god. Next to him was a youngish woman in black bending down at a ledge near street level, looking through her purse, "for her phone," I thought. Then I saw the silver crack pipe resting on the concrete ledge. She was so young and so fair. She could have been anyone. She was someone. This is a world of pain and misery, horror, goosepimpled skin and handshake transactions. That’s how the money and the drugs are traded, I've seen it, through the handshake. But who trades in the lives and the bent faces? Who keeps that business running strong? I moved from the sidewalk and into the street. I wanted to cry. I can see them from out my bedroom window now. They stand in a diffused group and are very heterogenous. People from all walks, ages, skin colors, levels of attractiveness, life stories. I want to talk to them, to hear there stories, but I don’t think I will. I will just stand here and watch the bulging, bloodshot eyes, the smiles turn to grimaces, and the fast-action transactions in money, drugs and hungry faces that is life in the little community on Mosel Street. It is 1:56 p.m.

The boy writes an update!

So I'm feeling exhausted again and furious with myself. I just made a huge mistake, wasted an entire day, and lost 70 euros on an overnight train that I was unable to make because of my mistake (a confusion of days, times and numbers). I want to tear my hair out. I had an extra day at San Fermin, but one was sufficient. I didn't want to be there. Turns out, I wasn't supposed to be. My train left without me and now I'm stuck for the night in Barcelona, exhausted and did I mention pissed off? It sucks when you don't have anyone else but yourself to blame for an unideal situation. But it's something that should be done, when that's the case. The first thing that happened in Pamplona was that I lost or somebody stole my European resident card, so now I look like an illegal holder of an interail pass (for EU residents only) and I'm about to head into France, that country famous for it's American sympathies. Okay, I should go take care of business instead of procrastinating by writing in the blog. Wish me luck.

I just updated the last post. It's been edited and is also now current

A thought.

An assertive action followed by a successful outcome leads to the a powerful sense of greatness and satisfaction. The first instance taught me that it's worth trying. I'm hoping with this next one under my belt and hopefully more to come, I'll become addicted.

As a side note, I think some might appreciate this list from McSweeney's that Alex just sent me. 4 simple steps to becoming more decisive:

1. Eeny

2. Meeny

3. Miney

4. Mo

Haha.

The prompt for this update was the following (p.s. don't get used to consistently frequent updates...knowing me, though I may be changing, that would still be delusional...) I've just decided to stay another night in Burgos, a truly fantastic city with a river running through it and fiesta running through its veins. I have organized my hostel stay for this fiesta night and a suicide mission fit only for a student traveling through Europe that will allow me to see the best part of the San Fermin festivals and get a direct train from Barcelona to Turin, passing through France and sleeping on the train, which will be the only sleep be able to get after about 36 of constant san fermin frenzy and train hopping. Omg. brrrrr.

That's a shiver of excitement folks. Wish me luck. Happy fourth of July to all. I hope it was a...blast.

Scenes from European Travels: Madrid to Toledo to Madrid to Burgos

July 2nd

10 to 2 p.m.
AVE to Madrid. Todo ya va a empezar. A ver lo que hay. I'm giddy with excitement. 'Would love to capture this moment of anticipation, positive tension but my words fail me, probably because I won't try. I catch myself thinking "some day [I will try to capture experiences with words]" and remember that it is exactly that attitude I'm trying to eliminate. I suppose I can pardon this incident. I only have two hours. Life of Pi instead. Good book.

It's around 10p.m. in Toledo and I'm utterly exhausted and feeling a little broken, very much like when I arrived in Sevilla. Everything seemed grim then ("What the hell are these palm trees doing here?!? What is this, a joke? The difference now though is that I know the feeling now and that it can be beaten. I'll give myself rest.

Note to the potential backpacker: Everything in Toledo is uphill.

July 3rd

Leaving Toled on a bus with a busted front end. Before we've finished pulling out of our parking space, the bus driver, a man just past middle age with light-toned and thinning hair and a short sleeved button-up tucked tight around his belly into his pants, has brought the bus to two sudden halts (like, oops, didn't see that BUSslamonthebreaks), and he smiles. I look at the man sitting next to me and can see that he too is remembering the cracked windshield and fractured corner panel. But there's no more time to think of escape. With two unmeasured stomps on the accelerator, we're out of the block and rolling into the out. God save us.

Last night, in Toledo, I wanted to ask the Argentinian woman working at Bar Nicholas (in Toledo_ to come sit with me. I don't know why really. I just wanted someone to talk to I suppose and she was there, shuffling about, and so bent. But we merely exchanged the normal words, the words we always mutter when we're not really speaking, "Hola cómo estás. De donde eres? Cómo está la comida. etc..." and a few weary glances with half-forced smiles.

Later...

Bus to Madrid, tren to tren.

I recycled food in the Madrid train station. Somebody left perfectly good fries on the table, so I took advantage of the situation and squashed my hunger. It feels good being anonymous, liberating. All of the unimportant social rules (not to say that all rules are unimportant, but some, like keeping up appearances) suddenly slip away into meaninglessness when one is traveling with nothing but a bag and a notebook. It's liberating. My plans to get to Bilbao or San Sebastian were foiled by lack of available seats. I was dreading having to spend the night in the capital city, so I improvised. I would go north to Burgos o Vitoria. I feel much better than I did 30 minutes ago.

Reading Life of Pi I'm filled with both admiration, wonder, and envy. I am 20 years old and I want to be as good as or better than everyone. I know it's ridiculous. Perhaps I should stop worrying about my future and focus on being as happy and open to growth as I can be in the moment. And maybe working once in a while.

Later on the bus to Burgos/Vitoria...

I've finally met someone! A hip-looking chaval wearing thick glasses (slightly thinner than his ruler-like sideburns) and a black Ramones shirt sits down next to me on the train as we stop in Ávila, the highest point in Spain, which is also lays claim to one of the more beautiful countrysides I've seen so far, surrounded by mountains and patchwork plots of earth, rolling and melding together to form a perfect picture. Miguel teaches Spanish to English students who are, of all places, from Eastern Michigan University. ¡Que mundo más pequeño! The conversation started as I commented on the book, "High Fidelity" he had in his lap. Have you seen the movie? Sí, uno de mis favoritos. That's all it took. I had life of pi in my lap. Neither of us opened our books for the next 5 hours. Even better, he was going to Burgos and knew of a cheap hostel where I could stay. Score. Paulo Cohelo writes that when we really want something, the universe conspires to help us achieve our goal. This past year has led me to believe on countless occasions that this is true.

3 July 11:00 p.m. At Bar Miami's counter (I would stay in the hostel/pension above).

The first thing I saw upon arriving in Burgos was a wide old street flanked by two lanes of trees that formed a canopy of branches and leaves that looked like an arthritic woman's interlacing fingers. That and a giant crowd in uniform blue-shirt, white-pant dress (casi todos manchados) making brass sounds and shouting with smiles on their faces. The first thing that happened to me in Burgos was that one of these queerly dressed folk approached me with a funny-looking leather pouch, made a "tip back your head motion," and squeezed delicious red wine into my mouth. "Hola," he said as I swallowed that warmth and smiled. I immediately decided that I would like Burgos.

Later, I walked to my hostel. basically an apartment above the Bar Miami, and at 15 euros a night, not a bad deal at all. I came downstairs to the bar after leaving my stuff in my room. My shoulders jumped to life again, finally relieved of the burden of Tabitha. I wanted to find out the details about the fiesta. Miguel had told me there would be concerts. The bartender hadn't been very friendly when I arrived. ¿Me pones una cerveza, porfa? He pours me a beer from the tap. It's nice. Somebody orders a tinto. How much is the red wine, I ask. 1.30. Vale, ponme una copa cuando pueda. He pours me a glass of wine, and looks at me a bit differently. There were three other people next to me, standing. They were older, and one was a bit red in the face. I spoke with the woman briefly. She was friendly. The men were speaking, when suddenly, the one with redder face began singing. No humming, not whistling, but whistling. For those who do not know, it is not unusual for people drinking in a bar in Spain to break into song. But this was different. It wasn't a phrase or two. This man wanted to sing, and soon the other man was with him, and then the barkeeper, and then the woman next to me and they were there, in a bar on calle vitoria in Burgos, Spain, right next to me in 2008, singing neither sweetly nor beautifully but happily, and I too was happy. "This is what I love about Spain," I said. They laughed. Where are you from, you sound like an Andaluz. The States. They don't sing there? the woman asks. Sure they sing, but it's not quite like this. (details later, I hope...).

I filmed most of this experience, thanks to my new investment, and while the audio quality is pretty splotchy and not equalized, it's pretty cool to have that moment, though I remember it quite vividly. They continued singing. I was starving. Moments after the hunger hit me, the woman who runs the rooms upstairs brought out two and a half sandwiches from behind the bar. Eat, she said. The barman poured me another glass of wine. Nobody goes thirsty here. The songs continued, and I sat and watched, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I had found my concert, good people, food, drink, and shelter. In those moments, Burgos became my second favorite Spanish city.


4 July 10:02 a.m. Cafeteria Elba. Round table, window.

Burgos is fantastic. It's fista here--patron saint, hence the revelry of last night. I had wanted to go out last night to see things, parades, and concerts, and I did, but not before I was enraptured by the crowd and bartender of Miami who gave me much more authentic and gratifying improvised renditions of Spanish songs--a real Spanish bar concert--and free sandwiches, tortilla española and red wine. God I love this place. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. We talked, I filmed them, and will store this as a fond memory and consider it to be the real beginning of my European adventure. This is what I was dreaming of.

Sat. 1:04 p.m. in Buenas Noches Burgos.

Excellent tortilla and red wine. Today I've wandered around the city, taken a shower (finally), met and photographed an old beggar woman who called me peregrino, mago y guapo, watched an old hunched woman wage an uphill battle against ancient stairs with bags in her hands, cloudy blue sky above and soaring cathedral behind. I've climbed a castle, been to an impressive vagon and met with so many nice eyes and smiling faces that say, "Mira. Este tiene acento Andaluz." I worry that I'll be lonely when I leave Spain and become just another native language-dumb English speaker. But for now, I'm in a bar that plays classical American tunes and very much enjoying the moment. From here, if I can manage, I'll catch a train to San sebastian, or maybe I'll just stay and try to get to Pamplona to see the famous beginnings of San Fermin at noon on the 6th. A ver.

Later...

Today I watched fireworks burn the sky like musical torches. Bam ba ba ba BOOM. Ba!ba!ba!baDA! They flashed in the sky, brilliantly burning ferns and palm trees, very frondy, then a green tortoise, a magical ocean green blue creature swimming through the air, bathed in smoke and propelled by awe coming from below. I saw that when I left the bar. I sat on a castle, I watched love turn official and stately. I caught a young girl in a dress hurl a unicorn balloon up to the sky and men in ties whistle across a plaza with a fountain at bride passing beneath the cathedral. A cathedral that's seen centuries of life and death and war and strife and greedy hands and eyes and stolen riches. Seen more humanity than any human could bear. I climbed hills of tall grass and poppies. I spoke with a beggar woman on the steps of a cathedral and tried to capture her face, though I was embarrassed. I asked for permission, she asked for money. Both were given. She called me pilgrim, majo, guapo. I called her an image of beauty.

Now I go to Pamolona...