uh... yeah. so you're still here, are ya?
This first video was recorded just outside of Dubrovnik. It embarrasses me.
Our hostel room in Ohrid, Macedonia had such sweet carpeting, Jenn went and bought toys.
Here's a list of every country I visited on this trip.
Andorra, Portugal, Spain, Morocco, France, Italy, Slovenia, Romania, Slovakia, Hungary, Austria, Montenegro, Croatia, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Kosovo, Macedonia, Greece, Switzerland, Germany.
Okay, well that's the end of this blog. Shoulda probably wrapped it up with something flowery when those memories were fresh. Oh well. Guess I'll just have to go on another grand adventure sometime, hmm?
September 4, 2008
August 10, 2008
July 30, 2008
yeah, i'm getting to it
*edited - links aught to work without requesting passwords now*
Huh? What? Oh. Right. Sorry about that.
Here's a few pictures.
Here's a few more.
I've got one more album to put up (it's a good 'un), and a video or two. Hopefully it won't take long as this update did.
Huh? What? Oh. Right. Sorry about that.
Here's a few pictures.
Here's a few more.
I've got one more album to put up (it's a good 'un), and a video or two. Hopefully it won't take long as this update did.
June 17, 2008
June 11, 2008
June 10, 2008
the eternal search for bed
Yesterday marks the beginning of the third week of my disease. It could be diptheria, but that's just a guess. For fun. Perhaps I haven't told you of my crippling illness. That would be because I've been too sick. Call it a Catch-22.
Yesterday also marks the day Jennifer went back to the United States. We parted in Venice.
My symptoms (from the disease, not Jenn's departure), basically boil down to some sort of horrible lesions who've made their home on the back of my throat. This makes swallowing more painful than perhaps I realized swallowing could be.
I've sought the advice of something like four doctors, three pharmacists, two dentists, and a partridge in a pear tree. None charged me anything, each prescribed me something different (though the pills are always cheap) and each took a different take on the matter. Some didn't think it was serious at all and laughed with their colleagues over some matters in their own language, another warned me that a blow to the stomach might cause serious liver failure. One said no more juice, another said no cold drinks at all, and they almost all suggested I gargle.
So, I gargle daily and take rather strong pain pills to cope, but my condition has not much improved. I've all but lost my appetite since I don't want to force anything past the Gateway of Agony. Also, as the day wears on, possibly partially as a side effect from the pain pills, I get some serious fatigue and pretty much need to take a nap.
But I was gonna be just fine without Jenn, I told myself, and stumbled over the Grand Canal, found the train station and took a train to Zurich. The train ride was impossibly pretty, like Austria. Why... it was almost like a dream....
The conductor woke me, in Zurich. As I left the train, I saw a man wearing a fabric chicken on his head. This should have been my first clue, the initial warning, but I looked at him, shrugged and said to myself - strange places, strange behaivors.
As I walked through darkening Zurich, eyes peeled for a hostel yet drooping with fatigue, I began to sense something was peculiar. The streets were packed, not with cars but with people, people in silly get-ups, jester hats and mad hatter apparel and painted faces and with flags from just about any old random place in Europe, even Romania. Then I saw the screens, in every establishment ffrom travel agencies to apothecaries, all showing the same green image, and understood.
Football. In fact, the EuroCup. This is a big deal for them. Switzerland is hosting it this zear. Tonight's game? Here in Zurich. Every hotel in the city booked full.
I hurry back to the train station, the sun long set, find a train headed to another town, just a couple of hours away, relatively cheap, I hop aboard just as it begins to move. I find Basel in my guidebook and am shocked to learn it's a pretty big city, a population of almost 200,000. I know from experience that free camping becomes nigh on impossible in cities bigger thann 75,000 or so.
I awake again, now in Basel. To my horror, the same phenomenon of bright costumes wafts through the train station. Posted on a wall: Tthe following night's match is to be in Basel. Surely every hotel in town was booked full. There are no ôther depatures tonight. Terrific.
Tired, sick, and coughing up deep brown phlegm (another delightful symptom), I wander the streets. I can't even find a place that's open, much less offering rooms. It's well past midnight now.
I arrive at the YMCA hostel and knock half-heartedly on the door. The door says they close at 11, but shockingly, it opens anyways. The man who has answered does not work there. He explains the employees are all asleep. But then he lets me in and suggests I go sleep down in the TV room.
A woman and another fellow are watching a movie in which a woman gives a noisy, painful birth, shouting in German. It makes introductions even more awkward as I try to explain that I've been advised to sleep on one of these couches.
Well, my time is running out, so I'll cut this short. First day without Jenn, I slept on a couch in the basement of a YMCA in a Swiss border town. So yeah, I'm doing just fine. In the morning, I confessed to reception and offered to pay them. He seemed to try and guess the price of sleeping on a couch and suggested - 10 francs? (that's like 6 bucks). That sounds fine.
I might see Jan tonight. I also might come home soon if my health continues to refuse to improve.
Ciao
Yesterday also marks the day Jennifer went back to the United States. We parted in Venice.
My symptoms (from the disease, not Jenn's departure), basically boil down to some sort of horrible lesions who've made their home on the back of my throat. This makes swallowing more painful than perhaps I realized swallowing could be.
I've sought the advice of something like four doctors, three pharmacists, two dentists, and a partridge in a pear tree. None charged me anything, each prescribed me something different (though the pills are always cheap) and each took a different take on the matter. Some didn't think it was serious at all and laughed with their colleagues over some matters in their own language, another warned me that a blow to the stomach might cause serious liver failure. One said no more juice, another said no cold drinks at all, and they almost all suggested I gargle.
So, I gargle daily and take rather strong pain pills to cope, but my condition has not much improved. I've all but lost my appetite since I don't want to force anything past the Gateway of Agony. Also, as the day wears on, possibly partially as a side effect from the pain pills, I get some serious fatigue and pretty much need to take a nap.
But I was gonna be just fine without Jenn, I told myself, and stumbled over the Grand Canal, found the train station and took a train to Zurich. The train ride was impossibly pretty, like Austria. Why... it was almost like a dream....
The conductor woke me, in Zurich. As I left the train, I saw a man wearing a fabric chicken on his head. This should have been my first clue, the initial warning, but I looked at him, shrugged and said to myself - strange places, strange behaivors.
As I walked through darkening Zurich, eyes peeled for a hostel yet drooping with fatigue, I began to sense something was peculiar. The streets were packed, not with cars but with people, people in silly get-ups, jester hats and mad hatter apparel and painted faces and with flags from just about any old random place in Europe, even Romania. Then I saw the screens, in every establishment ffrom travel agencies to apothecaries, all showing the same green image, and understood.
Football. In fact, the EuroCup. This is a big deal for them. Switzerland is hosting it this zear. Tonight's game? Here in Zurich. Every hotel in the city booked full.
I hurry back to the train station, the sun long set, find a train headed to another town, just a couple of hours away, relatively cheap, I hop aboard just as it begins to move. I find Basel in my guidebook and am shocked to learn it's a pretty big city, a population of almost 200,000. I know from experience that free camping becomes nigh on impossible in cities bigger thann 75,000 or so.
I awake again, now in Basel. To my horror, the same phenomenon of bright costumes wafts through the train station. Posted on a wall: Tthe following night's match is to be in Basel. Surely every hotel in town was booked full. There are no ôther depatures tonight. Terrific.
Tired, sick, and coughing up deep brown phlegm (another delightful symptom), I wander the streets. I can't even find a place that's open, much less offering rooms. It's well past midnight now.
I arrive at the YMCA hostel and knock half-heartedly on the door. The door says they close at 11, but shockingly, it opens anyways. The man who has answered does not work there. He explains the employees are all asleep. But then he lets me in and suggests I go sleep down in the TV room.
A woman and another fellow are watching a movie in which a woman gives a noisy, painful birth, shouting in German. It makes introductions even more awkward as I try to explain that I've been advised to sleep on one of these couches.
Well, my time is running out, so I'll cut this short. First day without Jenn, I slept on a couch in the basement of a YMCA in a Swiss border town. So yeah, I'm doing just fine. In the morning, I confessed to reception and offered to pay them. He seemed to try and guess the price of sleeping on a couch and suggested - 10 francs? (that's like 6 bucks). That sounds fine.
I might see Jan tonight. I also might come home soon if my health continues to refuse to improve.
Ciao
May 27, 2008
120 photos
Pictures? You want pictures?
Well, come'n get em!
Hungary, Slovakia, the beginning of Austria (and the rain)
Austria, Slovenia (not the same as Slovakia), and the beginning of Croatia.
Well, come'n get em!
Hungary, Slovakia, the beginning of Austria (and the rain)
Austria, Slovenia (not the same as Slovakia), and the beginning of Croatia.
May 23, 2008
May 21, 2008
stubborn glory
In a delirious fit of sleeplessness, we decided we didn't need no stinkin' tourist bus and we could just walk right out of that little Croatian coastal town and stick out our thumbs.
With naught but a warm loaf of bread between us, we spent the hour of 5 AM nestled under a tree before a curtain of rain falling softly on the Adriatic.
As the bustle of morning's traffic swooshed past us on the cliffside highway, we inch our way along the shoulder.
We pasued to examine a bus stop's station list. "This one's not on the map." "Neither is this one." "Well, here's the bus..." "Okay - well... to the end of the line?"
Six children and four adults are eager to leave behind the three lonely buildings we stand amongst as the bus pulls out. The coastline we intended to trace is nowhere in sight.
"...uh ...where are we?"
The woman laughs when we tell her our destination. She speeds through a route description in Croatian, we only pick up bits and snatches: "Long." "Twenty kilometers." "Four hours."
So we walk.
The tall wheatgrass shimmers in the post-rain breeze. Wildflowers stretch in the morning light. A castle looms on the hill before us. We chatter and laugh and stroll and sing and stick out our thumbs every five minutes when a car rolls by.
We pass schoolchildren and postmen and people who appear to be awake only to greet the morning on their feet. Men hard at work dig a canal through this patch of nowhere. Maybe they'll build sidewalks next.
The ride drops us off back on the coast. We go to the bus station. We look at the ticket prices. We decide to make a quick stop at the internet cafe before we hitch onwards.
With naught but a warm loaf of bread between us, we spent the hour of 5 AM nestled under a tree before a curtain of rain falling softly on the Adriatic.
As the bustle of morning's traffic swooshed past us on the cliffside highway, we inch our way along the shoulder.
We pasued to examine a bus stop's station list. "This one's not on the map." "Neither is this one." "Well, here's the bus..." "Okay - well... to the end of the line?"
Six children and four adults are eager to leave behind the three lonely buildings we stand amongst as the bus pulls out. The coastline we intended to trace is nowhere in sight.
"...uh ...where are we?"
The woman laughs when we tell her our destination. She speeds through a route description in Croatian, we only pick up bits and snatches: "Long." "Twenty kilometers." "Four hours."
So we walk.
The tall wheatgrass shimmers in the post-rain breeze. Wildflowers stretch in the morning light. A castle looms on the hill before us. We chatter and laugh and stroll and sing and stick out our thumbs every five minutes when a car rolls by.
We pass schoolchildren and postmen and people who appear to be awake only to greet the morning on their feet. Men hard at work dig a canal through this patch of nowhere. Maybe they'll build sidewalks next.
The ride drops us off back on the coast. We go to the bus station. We look at the ticket prices. We decide to make a quick stop at the internet cafe before we hitch onwards.
May 15, 2008
"best blog on internet, right here!"
"This is Africa, my friend!" warned the faux guide at the port in Tangier. "There be good people and bad people here, like anywhere." He wanted to give me a ride, desperately. "I'm sure you've heard about the hustlers." He had a badge tucked under his shirt, but whenever he pulled it out to show it to me, his eyes would shift to both sides real quick. At one point, he asked if we could step out of the sun because it was hot. Then it literally became a shady affair.
I kept count for awhile. Lost it around the twenty-fifth person who offered me help I hadn't requested. Most claimed to know the "big boss" of "best hotel in Morocco!" and could get me "best deal" because they liked my face. Right.
I went to a city painted all in blue. I'll upload pictures of that and the rest of Morocco someday, honest. For now, there's a few in the post below this one.
I also went to Fes. In my guidebook, Fes is described as "the largest active Muslim medina in the world today." I read that and took it in the spirit of "yeah yeah, largest ball of twine, tallest cathedral tower, whatever blah blah." This may have been a mistake. Despite my above-average sense of direction, when I crossed the castle walls, I became immediately ever-so-lost in the miles of slim, twisting alleyways crammed with markets and donkeys and people and awnings and "guides" and fruit stands (but no cars). There were hand-made goods for sale from fine rugs to instruments and many artisans crafting away in the backs of their shops, they only stopped to offer me - "best store in fes, right here! Prices like this, only in insane asylum! Or you need hotel? Taxi?"
Then I went back to Spain. Jenn and I dropped off her suitcases in Madrid with a friend. We saw a bullfight, which basically is a whole bunch of guys versus a bull trained to act a little aggressive but seems pretty under control. The bullfighters even have places to hide if the bull gets real mad. First, people actively try to make the bull mad, then people on armored horses stab it with spears, then guys run by and jam colorful fishhooks in its back then the Matador (literally, "killer") comes out. The Matador screwed up the first "killing blow" we saw about 12 times. We were confused at the whistles and noise of the furious crowd, subsequent bulls deaths revealed it should take only one or two stabs.
Then, uh, we took a 55 hour bus ride to Romania. It was cheap, we wanted to go to Eastern Europe... yeah. We're not really planners, you see. We braced ourselves for a two-day assault of awfulness... but it was pretty cool. I think it was a true "cultural experience," whatever that means.
In fact, here's a video. (Wow!)
Then we went to Transylvania, stayed with a Hungarian woman whose guest-house had no sort of sign at all (but was in our guidebook), did some hiking, hopped on a train to Budapest, which is where we are. Going to Slovakia and Austria in the next couple days, MAYBE. I think Jenn's chronicling more current events on the terminal beside me, so I'll let her fill you in on current events.
I kept count for awhile. Lost it around the twenty-fifth person who offered me help I hadn't requested. Most claimed to know the "big boss" of "best hotel in Morocco!" and could get me "best deal" because they liked my face. Right.
I went to a city painted all in blue. I'll upload pictures of that and the rest of Morocco someday, honest. For now, there's a few in the post below this one.
I also went to Fes. In my guidebook, Fes is described as "the largest active Muslim medina in the world today." I read that and took it in the spirit of "yeah yeah, largest ball of twine, tallest cathedral tower, whatever blah blah." This may have been a mistake. Despite my above-average sense of direction, when I crossed the castle walls, I became immediately ever-so-lost in the miles of slim, twisting alleyways crammed with markets and donkeys and people and awnings and "guides" and fruit stands (but no cars). There were hand-made goods for sale from fine rugs to instruments and many artisans crafting away in the backs of their shops, they only stopped to offer me - "best store in fes, right here! Prices like this, only in insane asylum! Or you need hotel? Taxi?"
Then I went back to Spain. Jenn and I dropped off her suitcases in Madrid with a friend. We saw a bullfight, which basically is a whole bunch of guys versus a bull trained to act a little aggressive but seems pretty under control. The bullfighters even have places to hide if the bull gets real mad. First, people actively try to make the bull mad, then people on armored horses stab it with spears, then guys run by and jam colorful fishhooks in its back then the Matador (literally, "killer") comes out. The Matador screwed up the first "killing blow" we saw about 12 times. We were confused at the whistles and noise of the furious crowd, subsequent bulls deaths revealed it should take only one or two stabs.
Then, uh, we took a 55 hour bus ride to Romania. It was cheap, we wanted to go to Eastern Europe... yeah. We're not really planners, you see. We braced ourselves for a two-day assault of awfulness... but it was pretty cool. I think it was a true "cultural experience," whatever that means.
In fact, here's a video. (Wow!)
Then we went to Transylvania, stayed with a Hungarian woman whose guest-house had no sort of sign at all (but was in our guidebook), did some hiking, hopped on a train to Budapest, which is where we are. Going to Slovakia and Austria in the next couple days, MAYBE. I think Jenn's chronicling more current events on the terminal beside me, so I'll let her fill you in on current events.
An African Appetizer
I'm still not caught up to my Morocco photos, sorry. On the bright side, here's a whole bunch that I took right before.
May 6, 2008
momentum moments
Africa.
Check.
That leaves South America and Antartica as the only two continents I haven´t visited. Man, South America is going to be hard.
Perhaps I´m getting a little ahead of myself. I´m not actually IN Morocco yet. I´m in an internet cafe in Tarifa, Spain, in view of the port and the little strip of ocean to cross. Africa´s just over that horizon - I can practically hear the charm flutes calling cobras to dance.
After a false start, I went to Ronda again, taking a bus this time. The town is perched precariously on a pair of cliffs with a chasm and a waterfall and monolithic bridge between the two halves of the city. It´s the kind of the thing nobody would build today because it´s almost so pretty that it´s silly. I would not recommend traveling here to try and overcome your fear of vertigo.
I slept in some ancient ruins built into the cliffside. I´d strayed off the already remote path I was following and came across them wholly by accident. Passing under an ancient archway, I brushed aside a curtain of vine strands. In the gloom chasing sunset, I see one half of the structure was actually just a cave the rest had been built around. I wonder who used to live here, if they looked out the windows and up to huge bridge across the chasm, if that bridge was even built yet. The windows are mostly filled with green vines that also may their way up the walls and to the ceiling. The floor bears deep holes where I imagine long-rotted staircases used to be, and a few bats flutter in the darkness.
The following afternoon, I ventured to the Rock of Gibraltar. The rumors you´ve heard are true. There ARE wild monkeys here just running around. Lots of them. They look and move and interact in so human a fashion it´s kind of unsettling. I heard one of the infants cough, I swear it sounded just like a human baby coughing.
And now I´m in Tarifa, waiting for the ferry to pull in. I have no way of uploading pictures ´till I get back to Sevilla with Jenn since I left the cord there. By the way, I lied - it´s totally going to be more than 60. But I thought I´d give you a quick little word-ular update. Anyhow, adios, I´m gonna go watch people swallow swords and fire and... kebabs.
Later. I mean, adios. Or should I say مع السلامة?
Check.
That leaves South America and Antartica as the only two continents I haven´t visited. Man, South America is going to be hard.
Perhaps I´m getting a little ahead of myself. I´m not actually IN Morocco yet. I´m in an internet cafe in Tarifa, Spain, in view of the port and the little strip of ocean to cross. Africa´s just over that horizon - I can practically hear the charm flutes calling cobras to dance.
After a false start, I went to Ronda again, taking a bus this time. The town is perched precariously on a pair of cliffs with a chasm and a waterfall and monolithic bridge between the two halves of the city. It´s the kind of the thing nobody would build today because it´s almost so pretty that it´s silly. I would not recommend traveling here to try and overcome your fear of vertigo.
I slept in some ancient ruins built into the cliffside. I´d strayed off the already remote path I was following and came across them wholly by accident. Passing under an ancient archway, I brushed aside a curtain of vine strands. In the gloom chasing sunset, I see one half of the structure was actually just a cave the rest had been built around. I wonder who used to live here, if they looked out the windows and up to huge bridge across the chasm, if that bridge was even built yet. The windows are mostly filled with green vines that also may their way up the walls and to the ceiling. The floor bears deep holes where I imagine long-rotted staircases used to be, and a few bats flutter in the darkness.
The following afternoon, I ventured to the Rock of Gibraltar. The rumors you´ve heard are true. There ARE wild monkeys here just running around. Lots of them. They look and move and interact in so human a fashion it´s kind of unsettling. I heard one of the infants cough, I swear it sounded just like a human baby coughing.
And now I´m in Tarifa, waiting for the ferry to pull in. I have no way of uploading pictures ´till I get back to Sevilla with Jenn since I left the cord there. By the way, I lied - it´s totally going to be more than 60. But I thought I´d give you a quick little word-ular update. Anyhow, adios, I´m gonna go watch people swallow swords and fire and... kebabs.
Later. I mean, adios. Or should I say مع السلامة?
April 30, 2008
teleportugalize!
use the clicky part of your mouse
Most of these photos were taken in Portugal (Part 1)
Same with these (Part 2)
Most of these photos were taken in Portugal (Part 1)
Same with these (Part 2)
pine cones in the belltower
Europe is old, in case you didn't know. All signs of man are thick with a sense of a history. The wall behind me isn't just a wall. Before it was a university, it was a cigar factory. The cathedral windows across the street differ in architecture styles as your gaze goes upward. The dark curve of Gothic, the mystical weave of Islam, the proud arch of Roman Catholic, stacked atop each other in different shades of brick. The building itself is a testament to the universality of religion, of man's need to build upward, of the scars of past occupations and war.
The oak trees in Portugal's countryside are half-shaven of their bark. A biologist picks me up, explains the cork can be harvested every nine years without harming the tree. They save forests in this manner, it's sustainable, and they've been doing it for decades.
"This one is an old forest, in fact." he says.
"How old do you think?" I wonder.
"Maybe even two hundred years."
Substantial, sure. But I laughed. In Oregon and in California, our "old forests" are eternal, timeless bastions of nature, strangers to industry. Individual trees are thousands of years old, and as tall as cathedral towers.
Maybe history isn't progress so much as a territory trade, a flip-flop of a timeline. One or the other's not really old, it's only the exchange of one well of time for another.
The oak trees in Portugal's countryside are half-shaven of their bark. A biologist picks me up, explains the cork can be harvested every nine years without harming the tree. They save forests in this manner, it's sustainable, and they've been doing it for decades.
"This one is an old forest, in fact." he says.
"How old do you think?" I wonder.
"Maybe even two hundred years."
Substantial, sure. But I laughed. In Oregon and in California, our "old forests" are eternal, timeless bastions of nature, strangers to industry. Individual trees are thousands of years old, and as tall as cathedral towers.
Maybe history isn't progress so much as a territory trade, a flip-flop of a timeline. One or the other's not really old, it's only the exchange of one well of time for another.
April 21, 2008
April 14, 2008
April 11, 2008
sacred things
Yesterday, I lost my cross. It had hung from my neck for nine years. The chain must have snapped and the silvery crucifix must have fallen somewhere between Andorra and Barcelona. I've felt a little naked since, like a little hole hangs from my neck. To lose it was to lose a little of my identity and I'm faltering at the prospect of moving forward. Do I buy an exact replica and pretend it didn't happen? Do I update it to reflect the morphing of my beliefs?
This religious talk may make people uncomfortable, you could say, "this isn't church," or "this has nothing to do with travel." But that's not how it is with me. Being with God and being on the road go hand-in-hand in my conception of the world. You could say the highway is my church. The proofs of some kind of miraculous help are abundant, and the blessings only pour in easier when you open your life to a little uncertainty. I know it seems tongue-in-cheek sometimes, but I really firmly believe this divine exchange is best achieved by not planning so much - give God some room to work in! Jennifer is truly excellent at not planning, and traveling with her has been just as how I like to travel by myself, except now I have all the benefits of a best friend along for the ride.
She talks to me in Spanish and encourages me to learn more. We share exotic cheeses, fruits, bagettes. We saunter down strange streets hand-in-hand. She's sitting next to me as I type now, and I haven't a thing but good thoughts for her - even though we've been together virtually non-stop since I touched down in Madrid four days ago. We're officially dating now, by the way, so there can at last be an end to the ambiguity.
It's Friday now. I've been here since Monday, and we're been on the go this entire time. We've passed through tiny towns and tiny countries. We've just arrived in Sevilla and a feista is brewing just outside the window of this computer lab.
I'll probably stay here with Jenn for a few days - perhaps - then go somewhere else - perhaps. Don't wanna quite have it planned out yet. I'll let my yearning spirit be my guide, listen for the whistling winds of opportunity, and keep searching for that thing I always seem to be on the look out for.
And I hope some weary, wandering traveler, deep in a hole of doubt, spots a faint silvery glint in the dirt, and finds my cross alongside a little faith, or at least a little wonder.
This religious talk may make people uncomfortable, you could say, "this isn't church," or "this has nothing to do with travel." But that's not how it is with me. Being with God and being on the road go hand-in-hand in my conception of the world. You could say the highway is my church. The proofs of some kind of miraculous help are abundant, and the blessings only pour in easier when you open your life to a little uncertainty. I know it seems tongue-in-cheek sometimes, but I really firmly believe this divine exchange is best achieved by not planning so much - give God some room to work in! Jennifer is truly excellent at not planning, and traveling with her has been just as how I like to travel by myself, except now I have all the benefits of a best friend along for the ride.
She talks to me in Spanish and encourages me to learn more. We share exotic cheeses, fruits, bagettes. We saunter down strange streets hand-in-hand. She's sitting next to me as I type now, and I haven't a thing but good thoughts for her - even though we've been together virtually non-stop since I touched down in Madrid four days ago. We're officially dating now, by the way, so there can at last be an end to the ambiguity.
It's Friday now. I've been here since Monday, and we're been on the go this entire time. We've passed through tiny towns and tiny countries. We've just arrived in Sevilla and a feista is brewing just outside the window of this computer lab.
I'll probably stay here with Jenn for a few days - perhaps - then go somewhere else - perhaps. Don't wanna quite have it planned out yet. I'll let my yearning spirit be my guide, listen for the whistling winds of opportunity, and keep searching for that thing I always seem to be on the look out for.
And I hope some weary, wandering traveler, deep in a hole of doubt, spots a faint silvery glint in the dirt, and finds my cross alongside a little faith, or at least a little wonder.
April 6, 2008
There's
There's an ancient labyrinth below NYC. You have to run this gauntlet of mind-bending terror to escape the isle. There was a minotaur.
April 5, 2008
trans it
I probably should have typed out a hearty post between when I arrived in Syracuse a few days ago and right now. However, I did not do this.
But yeah, I made it. The trip from Oregon to Syracuse took about $400 (mostly gas), and covered 4667 miles. Yes, I drove one extra mile when I got here. I had no car trouble whatsoever though, good ol' Bessie.
Now, I'm about to get on a bus which will take me to Manhattan, where I'll get on the subway system which will take me to JFK int'l airport, where I'll get on some sort of shuttle supposedly, which will take me to a plane which will take me across the Atlantic Ocean to Dublin and another plane which will take me to Spain. Totally not complicated at all.
Truth be told, I think modern transportation is pretty incredible, and I hope the rest of my generation has the good sense to marvel a little at how easy it has become to traverse our blue pearl.
This blog is going to take a turn now, since I won't be able to update from my cell phone anymore, I'll have to upload pictures and posts directly from libraries or internet cafes and the like, which may or may not be frequently available.
Hope you've all been enjoying this space so far - I'll see you on the other side.
But yeah, I made it. The trip from Oregon to Syracuse took about $400 (mostly gas), and covered 4667 miles. Yes, I drove one extra mile when I got here. I had no car trouble whatsoever though, good ol' Bessie.
Now, I'm about to get on a bus which will take me to Manhattan, where I'll get on the subway system which will take me to JFK int'l airport, where I'll get on some sort of shuttle supposedly, which will take me to a plane which will take me across the Atlantic Ocean to Dublin and another plane which will take me to Spain. Totally not complicated at all.
Truth be told, I think modern transportation is pretty incredible, and I hope the rest of my generation has the good sense to marvel a little at how easy it has become to traverse our blue pearl.
This blog is going to take a turn now, since I won't be able to update from my cell phone anymore, I'll have to upload pictures and posts directly from libraries or internet cafes and the like, which may or may not be frequently available.
Hope you've all been enjoying this space so far - I'll see you on the other side.
April 2, 2008
Atop
Atop an adjacent dune, I notice someone accidentally put an ocean where this lake was supposed to go.
March 31, 2008
Look
Look closely. This is a fairly common phenomenon in this sector of the country. Anybody know why?
March 30, 2008
There
There are constant reminders in the park not to steal petrified wood. Thieves over the years have largely destroyed this wonder millenia in the making.
The
The wood turns to stone underground, just like a fossil. It gets its color from minerals in the ground. Iron becomes red, for example.
Hard
Hard to tell, I know. But this mountain, as well as several others in the area east of superior, az, had been beheaded for the sake of strip mining. I looked at it and said, 'wow, clear cutting isn't that bad.'
March 28, 2008
on Mars
It's kind of a trip to think this is Trip's triple trip.
Ok, so in Arizona, they don't have daylight savings time. But the time zone is an hour later than Oregon. However, on the Indian reservations in Arizona, which are plentiful, they DO have daylight savings time. What does all this mean?
I have no idea what time it is. I think Dali must have visited this hot Arizona desert for the inspiration to paint his wilting clocks.
In fact, there's always something surreal about the desert. There's a part of me that is constantly aware I'm not really supposed to be here, that I shouldn't be surviving in this environment of cacti and dust dervishes with such ease. Water tastes a little more precious, invigorating. The air-conditioned travel-pod called a car feels a little more like a spaceship. With towering red mesas and empty, desolate land stretching to wide horizons, one could swear they must have landed on Mars awhile ago and simply forgotten about it.
On Route 66, there's a town that existed for over a hundred years without a water source. Every day, a steam engine would bring in water for the whole town. In 1976, they finally dug a well. The cars hardly rust here, it's too dry maybe, and old generations of Cadillacs and goofy-looking trucks still glint on the curb. All these desert towns now deserted thanks to Interstate 40, stand as some sort of highly accessible museum. Everything seems a little more important to me when it has the dust of a little history on it.
Hey, did you know tumbleweeds bouncing across lonely highways are a modern occurrence you can still experience?
Oh, you did? Well, I bet you didn't know they aren't actually native to North America - they're a mix of sagebrush and Russian Thistle. So there.
Listen, don't ever go to the Grand Canyon. I have found no sign of nature there, just shouting tourists, whirling helicopter blades, and the jackhammers of it all growing louder and worse.
I much preferred the drive there. We discovered enormous forests of Joshua trees, larger groves than I imagined possible. With their erratic branches and tufts of green and yellow, they look like something out of Dr. Seuss. Talk about surreal.
How do the tourists continue to miss this point - in cliche form it goes: "the journey is so much more than the destination"? They all know the same selected points of beautiful on the map and gather there in ugly clusters of tripods.
I cannot help but feel that the spirit of travel had been largely hijacked by all the guidebooks published and photos snapped. They both pull travel out of its element, out of its moment, into the before or the after.
What ever happened to the exultation of exploration? Yes, I know it's a little silly to feel like an explorer of places already mapped, but when I am not the cartographer of said map, am I not the explorer of my own world? The whole Earth may be my frontier - if I don't spoil it for myself with guidebooks - and when I come suddenly to a halt at the edge of an unexpected canyon cliff, my eyes squinting to witness the first view of a strange new land, why can I not breathe deep and feel a little like Meriwether Lewis? Is such a feeling lost to mankind until we really go to Mars?
I say this, and yet am guilty of carrying both items. I understand their value, but I try my best not to overdo it, certainly not to rely on them for inspiration or memory. When I live vicariously through this site in a few months from now, it will be hard to not feel like a hypocrite.
The facts in the post were brought to you by placards.
Placards, educating America one big sign at a time.
Ok, so in Arizona, they don't have daylight savings time. But the time zone is an hour later than Oregon. However, on the Indian reservations in Arizona, which are plentiful, they DO have daylight savings time. What does all this mean?
I have no idea what time it is. I think Dali must have visited this hot Arizona desert for the inspiration to paint his wilting clocks.
In fact, there's always something surreal about the desert. There's a part of me that is constantly aware I'm not really supposed to be here, that I shouldn't be surviving in this environment of cacti and dust dervishes with such ease. Water tastes a little more precious, invigorating. The air-conditioned travel-pod called a car feels a little more like a spaceship. With towering red mesas and empty, desolate land stretching to wide horizons, one could swear they must have landed on Mars awhile ago and simply forgotten about it.
On Route 66, there's a town that existed for over a hundred years without a water source. Every day, a steam engine would bring in water for the whole town. In 1976, they finally dug a well. The cars hardly rust here, it's too dry maybe, and old generations of Cadillacs and goofy-looking trucks still glint on the curb. All these desert towns now deserted thanks to Interstate 40, stand as some sort of highly accessible museum. Everything seems a little more important to me when it has the dust of a little history on it.
Hey, did you know tumbleweeds bouncing across lonely highways are a modern occurrence you can still experience?
Oh, you did? Well, I bet you didn't know they aren't actually native to North America - they're a mix of sagebrush and Russian Thistle. So there.
Listen, don't ever go to the Grand Canyon. I have found no sign of nature there, just shouting tourists, whirling helicopter blades, and the jackhammers of it all growing louder and worse.
I much preferred the drive there. We discovered enormous forests of Joshua trees, larger groves than I imagined possible. With their erratic branches and tufts of green and yellow, they look like something out of Dr. Seuss. Talk about surreal.
How do the tourists continue to miss this point - in cliche form it goes: "the journey is so much more than the destination"? They all know the same selected points of beautiful on the map and gather there in ugly clusters of tripods.
I cannot help but feel that the spirit of travel had been largely hijacked by all the guidebooks published and photos snapped. They both pull travel out of its element, out of its moment, into the before or the after.
What ever happened to the exultation of exploration? Yes, I know it's a little silly to feel like an explorer of places already mapped, but when I am not the cartographer of said map, am I not the explorer of my own world? The whole Earth may be my frontier - if I don't spoil it for myself with guidebooks - and when I come suddenly to a halt at the edge of an unexpected canyon cliff, my eyes squinting to witness the first view of a strange new land, why can I not breathe deep and feel a little like Meriwether Lewis? Is such a feeling lost to mankind until we really go to Mars?
I say this, and yet am guilty of carrying both items. I understand their value, but I try my best not to overdo it, certainly not to rely on them for inspiration or memory. When I live vicariously through this site in a few months from now, it will be hard to not feel like a hypocrite.
The facts in the post were brought to you by placards.
Placards, educating America one big sign at a time.
March 27, 2008
March 26, 2008
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