A Tale of Two Wengens

I took one last walk in Wengen today.

It was so different. Yesterday's walk was full of despair and stress. A decision to end my trip strangled my soul.

Today, with everything taken care of, the plane ticket booked, I was at peace. I walked and listened to peaceful tunes. Went to my favorite spots.

I sat on the hill next to the train station overlooking the valley.


Finally I could have my 'last night in Europe' and reflect from which I have come.


Waterfalls in the distance. I never saw then before.

A young girl waving a Swiss flag.

I strolled through the street happier than I've been in a while. Even in Europe. I am ready to come home.

I am ready to show my pictures.


I look forward to normalcy. To not worrying about booking a hostel or researching locales or locking up my belongings.


To videogames!

To my friends and family.


I walk past the tightrope and remember my promise to try it.

I look around, feeling rather silly. It's two feet high, meant for kids. But it looks mad fun.

It's six o'clock. Not many people around. I approach it and pretend to watch the nearby tennis match. A ball hits the net and bounces. There are eleven balls on the ground. Lazy ballboy syndrome?

"You must be so self-confident after this trip," my dad's words echo in my mind. Haha. Right.

I toss my foolish-looking fears aside (actually I don't, I just do it anyway) and step onto the tightrope.

A woman passes. Couples walking on the street. I don't look at them, I look at my wobbling foot. This thing is two or three inches wide, but my balance is non-existant. It's Amsterdam biking all over again.

The trial never ends? Haha.

I must look like an idiot but I stand there with one foot on the rope. I gotta try it once, I say.

So after ten seconds of dorkiness I put my other foot on it, but I'm giving way. I slant my left foot then my right one but no good. I'm losing balance. To prevent the fall I step off.

Maybe I should grow a tail?


A tennis ball hits the net.

I try again. One foot. Then two. I wiggle and bend and I'm losing my balance and I step off.

This is fun. Even if I look dorky..


My third try I run across. 'Sprint to beat gravity!' it actually works for three steps then gravity wins.

Haha. I'm done. That was fun.


I walk.
I treat myself to a nice restaurant. Eiger is it's name, with a nice view of the mountains.

I order 'Corn-fed chicken and Mediterranean vegetables and potatoes.'

I eat there outside. Train arrives. People get off. Tourists, families, friends, people with bikes.

A woman looks lost and just gazes down a street, wondering which direction her hotel is in.

That was me when I first arrived, I think.

Then they disperse. No one left. A quiet spectacular view of the mountains. And my meal.

"This is the best meal I've had in Wengen," I tell the waitress.

"I'm glad you like it, I will let the chef know," she says.

"I think I must have the chocolate cake," says I.

She smiles. "Coming right up!"


She delivers. I conquer it.
Before and after. You know the drill.

Before

After


"Delicious. You know, for all intents and purposes, this is my last night in Europe." (tomorrow in Frankfurt is just a filler).

"Oh? Where have you been?"

I tell her.
"That's a nice tour of Europe. You know I lived in New York for seven years."

"Oh?" I say. "Very different from Wengen."

She laughs, "Yes. Great for when you're young. I lived here in Wengen for five years."

"And working in front of a great view, not bad." I claim.

"I never tire of it," she responds.



I sign the bill.

"Thank you. I decided I needed a delicious way to end my trip, and you delivered!"

She smiles,"I'm glad we could be a good last memory."


"And a perfect view," I add.

"If it was a clear night it would be perfect." she says, motioning to the clouds. "have you seen the pink peak while here?"

"No." I exclaim. "Pink?"

"That smooth peak, when there are no clouds and the sun is setting, turns a magnificent pink. There are postcards you look at and say, 'That must be altered, no way it's that color,' but it is." she explains.

"I'll have to cone back here," I joke. (Or am I joking?)

She laughs. We say goodbye and I gaze at the view one last time.


The sun is setting. Golden light shines on Wengen, beautifying the town.
My newfound cheerfulness for the first time turns a bit gloomy as I walk down the stairs to my hotel. Maybe it's the song on my iPod..


The curved steps wind past pretty houses and for the first time I realize how much I'll miss Europe.

I stand there and take a few photos with my iPod. I imagine being home in a few days, normal life. Wishing for a challenge. Wanting the excitement of booking a new hostel. Of seeing castles. Of meeting new people with nice accents. Of missing them. (missing the feeling of missing people, whoa slow down Paul this is getting too deep even for me, haha).

I walked past my hotel and saw the mountains, the clouds flowing over and through them.

"Goodbye Wengen." I say.

"Goodbye Switzerland." I say.

"Goodbye Europe." I say.


I walk back past children playing.

In the evening I head to the lounge where I am writing this now. Catching up to the present, are we?


Martin the hotel owner gave me three nights free in exchange for hotel photos. My first photo job? Maybe there's a beginning of something here.


Just a few minutes ago, Sophia comes in and says goodnight in an Italian accent.

I hug her. "Enjoy Ireland," I say. "See the castles I didn't, and send me photos," she laughs. She's going to the Emerald Isle with her friends in August for one month. Like me.


The cycle continues.

For some reason that makes me happy.

Fog

A mist enveloped Wengen the other night. It was eerie.

Self Confidence..

My dad said, "When you come back your self confidence must be so high that you can do anything."

He's not the first to say that.

"Haha no I've got a long way to go."

This trip is possibly the best thing I've done. It's also the worst.

I've been scared, stressed, amnoyed, freaking full of despair on this trip.


He gave me a look, which over the phone sounds like a pause.

I continue, "If anything this trip opens my eyes to how I think. This is the beginning of my self-confidence, not the end."


I hoped to change. I now know no single trip changes you as much as you want. I have a lot to do on inproving me. So let's get to work. The adventure continues..


Whether I'm in Athens or Maryland, the one person I always travel with is me.

I am looking forward to...

watching M*A*S*H
playing SSX3
hanging wit my friends
watching the Redskins (we're actually improving gradually through the draft, who woulda thunk it?!)

Chipotle
Late nights
Sleeping in
floor hockey!

creating a video game
Editing all my pictures!

wow. I'm a dork..

I've come to journey's end...

I've come to journey's end...

I'm coming home early, folks.


I debated it with a passion. Freaking nearly lost it due to the stress, but weighing the pros and cons and listening to two halves of my gut, I made an executive decision.

Nothing with me is simple, hmm? :)

The main reason is health-wise I've been feeling kinda sick and want to get checked out. My first responsibility is to my health. It might be something simple but I've felt this way for two months and I want to make sure. I was concerned enough to end my trip early, but also..

That, and all the little pieces to plan Greece were becoming overwhelming. The stress was too much.


I was frightened and frustrated and feeling...despair? Yes.

Looking at plane ticket in my shopping cart on my iPod, I stared. Quiet. Empty.

The future rests in my hands.
How do I explain my trip to people?

"Three and a half months and ends in Switzerland" or
"Four months and ends in Greece"?

I think of the Acropolis, how much I wanted to take photos.

"Not in this state, I won't enjoy it. I'll be worried something serious is wrong with me."

I had Greece on my list #1 even. Thought about it for months. To change something with that much built-up expectation I need to take it in. To get comfortable with the idea.

So I take a walk in Wengen.

A sort of self-imposed peer pressure took hold.
"I told everyone I'm finishing this trip."


I put the question to the universe.
"What should I do?"

I look for a sign.
Gray clouds loom over Wengen.

I lay on a bench and look at the valley below.


I let thoughts flow.

Going to Greece: fifteen logistical pieces to work out.
Going home early: three pieces

Sometimes simplicity wins, and this might be one of those times.


"But you have to finish everything!" my heart counters.

"Now it's just like the 1988 Cincinatti Bengals. 'Finish Everything' was their mantra. And they didn't finish everything. They have a 'loser's ring' and now I'm doing the same thing.. Did I listen to that documentary so many times fate drilled it into me to leave before Greece? To get to the Superbowl and lose?

Is there not much difference between winning and losing?

My heart countered.
Some people never get to experience Europe. Enjoy the dream you've made true.


I thought.

I almost didn't come to Switzerland.
But I came. And I'm glad I did.


I hate spending money on tickets but it'll cost almost the same to leave now or go to Greece.

I started realizing I didn't need to see Heidelberg or Zwindinberg. I've seen castles in Ireland, and a small German town already.

I think of Ireland. How I wouldn't trade that for a day or a week or a month at Athens. My trip is already special. My grip is part of expectation. My own creation.

If I can let go of something I expected, and take charge to look after my health, I am growing.

I am finishing everything, just a different everything that I imagined.


As I walked I became more comfortable with the idea.

I started feeling like I did finish everything.

Maybe I can in life too. I won't always finish everything. My dreams sometimes feel like they're slipping away. That I'll never get X or Y.

But I can feel like I do. Almost like tricking yourself, but not really. Just re-arranging your expectations. And that 'is' finishing everything.


I come back and book the plane ticket. I spot Sophia in the lounge and chat with her. She draws characters. She loves manga. It's popular here too.

I buy a train ticket. I make an appointment with my doctor. Taking action solves stress like nothing else.


'July 13th?' the 'unlucky' syndrome persists. It bothers me. But then I push my compulsion for even numbers and my 'perfectly four-month' trip aside and say I'm better than that.

Maybe there's a reason for this.


Getting over my compulsion
is
Finishing everything.

(now to wash my hands)

Meeting a Dork in Hamburg, Part Three

The next day I wake up and Julia's in the kitchen, eating.

"Bread and cheese?" she offers.

"What else would it be?" I reply, haha.


Something strikes me about this breakfast. Bread. Cheese.

If I were home I'd have a choice of five cereals, four tv dinners, and chips, peanuts, and goldfish crackers to satisfy my 'crunch' to compliment my meal. I'm so spoiled. But not spoiled...wanting to fill a spectrum of taste to saturation.

I'm so complex. So compulsive. 

"You eat this every day?" I ask her.

"Every day."

I would get tired of it after a few days, haha.


Julia's life is simple. She works part-time a few days a week and the rest of the week she has free.

I look at the plants in the kitchen and her painting.

The simplicity of life surrounds me, envelops me. It is refreshing.


"Work is done," is her philosophy. "Everything's already done."


That idea counters my "Finish Eveything" attitude. A war against compulsion? It's nice to see this possibility of life, even if it might be incompatible with my personality.


At home the fast-paced "figure everything out in your life now or it's too late" attitude dominates. It even tries to follows me to Europe.

But here, seeing a piece of Julia's life makes me see me more clearly.


I begin to separate the parts of me that I like and don't like. But what do you do when they're on both sides of the spectrum?

(I like the human condition so much that I should write stories...but that's for another day).


We have a plan for today.
"So are you ready for canoeing?" she asks.

"Always am!" I respond.


We stroll through a park toward the Hamburg waters. We come across a small boat place. Friendly fellow runs it. His cheery belly protrudes out, and his smile welcomes even a stranger from America.

Looking at the sky, gray clouds loom over us.

"Should we wait fifteen minutes in case it rains?" we ponder.

Julia hands over the money, half mine and half hers. "We're adventurous," she declares.


"There are countless bridges to take shelter under," he says.

Sweet. It's like Amsterdam, but from the water! Haha like every city where I regret not doing something, I get a chance in the next city. I like an opportunistic life, I wish it felt that way back home..

Friendly guy enters mother mode.
"Do you need to use the restroom?"
Haha two or three hours on the water.. Thanks, we're good.


Canoe.
I sit in front, Julia in the back. I power, she steers. We both row.

She looks at her map. "There's a nice lake here, oh and several small waterways there." We ponder the possibilities. "Let's turn links," which is left in German.

I row and row and row and our vessel gradually makes a turn as we come dangerously close to the rocky shore.

"No wait!" she exclaims like a dork, " turning the map around, "turn recht!"

I flip my oar/paddle/whatever to the other side and swivel our boat to the starboard. Ship language is universal, right? The boat torques with the force of a space shuttle.

I hear a German shriek.

"What?" I ask.

She laughs. "I dropped the map."

I scan the waters behind us. No sign of floating directions.

"It's okay, I got it all up here." she points to her head.


"Great," I say sarcastically. But I'm laughing. The simple life, huh? Let's try it your way.


We venture forth into Hamburg's small waterways. They greet us with the giddiness of a labyrinth.

Gray clouds discourage most people, so we're the only ones on the water. It's peaceful. The sounds of oar strokes fill the idle air, we pass waterside houses with places for a boat to dock, their yards with stone paths and lush grass spark my imagination of a wonderful life.


We find a lake and venture into the center of it. The boat sits and drifts in the current. Lunchtime.

Julia pulls out a fruit-filled crepe she bought at the bakery. I pull out my mini croissant, feeling that I should have bought more. Cheap Paul persists, haha. I take mini bites so I can 'have' my croissant and eat it too, haha.


I realize I'm sitting facing forward, not toward Julia so it feels awkward. We can't really talk like this.

"Hold on," I say.

I stand up and the boat rocks.

"Careful," she laughs. "Don't kill us."

Dorks are known to do stupid things.


But whatever, I sit and now we can talk, haha.


The boat drifts to the statues, which have inscriptions. She translates them.


We're done with food and we row, row, row our boat gently down the Hamburg waterway.


We pass a dock with little boats. The building just up the walk says, "Ice Cream."

I ponder how often I'll be in Hamburg on a boat with a dorky German who lost our map, and my mind screams, "Let's get ice cream." Did I say that out loud?

"Alright! You park the boat, I'll get it," she commands.

"Chocolate, bitte," I say, haha.

I hold the boat steady by grabbing the dock ask she disembarks. I consider shaking the boat to make her fall, but then she might not get me ice cream haha.


I'm sitting there on the canoe and all is right with the world. But what if the NASDAQ stocks fall, Paul?


Julia yells from her position, "With or without peanuts?"

"With!" I yell back. Usually I take three minutes with that decision.


She walks back with two cones and I take mine.

"Danka," I say.


She gets in and I push out boat away with my oar. We drift and the ice cream flavor magnifies my feeling of peace. That's before the sugar high, haha.


Suddenly our boat drifts toward the docked kayaks. Frantically I reach for my oar and one-handedly row to try and turn. I see the kayaks are so close we can touch them. The current is strong.

Our boat collides gingerly.
Screech! Bump. 

How dorky.


I hand Julia my ice cream and two-handedly paddle back to the dock.

Julia embeds her oar in one of the wooden plank cracks to anchor us, after almost dropping her ice cream, so we're even in the dork score today, haha.


We finish our 'creme and paddle off back home. We pass a young boy doing body surfing.

Hello, Hamburgeon.


As we return to the boat place I know this is one of my top five memories of this trip.

That night Julia has guests over for a practice 'jam' session. She's gonna play with two flutists in an outdoor music festival.

I lay there in my 'bedroom' aka music room haha and observe. German lyrics. I close my eyes. The evening passes in peace.


As the final lyrics propagate, I get ready for tomorrow. A new day. A new hostel. New adventures.

And I come to the conclusion that
couchsurfing in Germany ain't bad. A free place to stay for a night...but it's the personal stories and perspectives make it worth it.

I met a dork in Hamburg. That's an adventure, haha.

Meeting a Dork in Hamburg, Part Two

Meeting a Dork in Hamburg, Part Two

A walk.

We exit her place and come full-stride to a park. I spot a bridge and walk to the edge, subtly encouraging her to do the same. We lean on the railing and look out to the waters of Germany.


Didn't Anne Frank say it's easier to talk about deep things when gazing upon some outward scene?


Well she's right, but I didn't talk about anything deep (even though I'm thinking it). Instead we spot fishes below and make some silly remark.


Time passes. Somewhat slowly at first then faster. We motion to go. She's gotta make a stop at the grocery store.

"I'm cooking for you," she says.

She gets points. All couchsurfing hosts are more accomodating than your mother's mother, so by now I'm not surprised. But very grateful. I offer up help but perhaps I let out that I tend to overcook (and evaporate) things because she orders me to stay put in my chair. Haha, do not disobey a German command! It's verboten..

"I don't usually cook," she admits. "So consider yourself lucky. Or unlucky..depending on how it turns out."

She peels potatoes and tosses 'em in the pan. Then onions. And...tomatoes. Mini yellow ones..

At this particular time people are dying in Hamburg and the news tells everyone to not eat tomatoes.

Sweating Ecoli-fearing bullets, I tremble tenaciously as I ask, "Should we wash those?"

"They're being cooked so it's all right. And the latest word is that it's sprouts causing the problems."

"Oh.." I say, while subconsciously counting the seconds that the tomatoes are in the pan. I can't help it. Bah, humbug!


Hamburg?

Whatever.

She is elegant in her cutting. The cozy atmosphere feels right. Her German accent is exciting. The smells of frying fill the air. Suddenly the fear washes away just a bit and the ambience of 'now' overtakes me. (I can eat tomatoes, I tell myself.)


It's done.
It smells wonderful.

Wasting no time, I dig in to a finely-textured potato. The little bit of oil fleshes out the veggie taste.

"You," I say, "get points."


"All I do is keep getting them. In any game you lose them too," she smiles.

"The night ain't over yet," I reply. Haha.


Among the veggies on my plate are five tomatoes. As I eat a forkful of the other stuff, my mind begins a dialog with itself.

"Go ahead," it says. "You're in Germany eating a meal prepared by a cool girl. Eat them. You only live once."

"Uh huh. Especially if these tomatoes have Ecoli!" I counter.



Just do it. It's part of the Hamburg magic. I trust her. I am here. Enjoy the food she created.

Undeterred, I pinch my fork through the juicy tomato. I bring it to my mouth and bite.

You're doing it Paul. You're risking life to 'live.' Take that, outbreak scare!

I gobble another tomato.


Back in the moment, I look up at the painting next to me. Something about it strikes me. It means something. I don't know what, but it feels important. Its simplistic style communicates more than words. If only I could translate them.

"Did you paint that?" I ask.

A pause.
"Yes. Do you know what it means?"

I blurt out what my gut thinks, "Someone lost their hat.. Maybe the hat wants to get lost?"

"The hat goes where the wind takes her. Like me." she says.

"Elusive, Like a butterfly." I respond.

She smiles.

"Yes. I painted it after my pilgrimage, the Camino de Santiago. It's a journey from France to Spain," she explains.

Impressive! I eat another tomato.

"I did part of the Camino de Santiago, but not until Santiago," she continues. "I walked 600km, the best experience of my life," she says with a smile.

"By yourself?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Are there hostels along the way?" 

"Every 5km, 10km, or 20km. Locals offer their place to pilgrims by hanging a seashell on their door."

A symbol. Somehow that puts me at ease.


The conversation turns. I ask questions. Because I like to. She says I should be a journalist, haha.


She turns to me. "Now tell me one thing, because I don't know if we have this word in German. Your couchsurfing profile mentions that you are...what does it mean, dorky?"

I laugh and nearly fall out of my chair.

"It's... difficult to explain. Hmm. I think it's when you're interested in eclectic things. And passionate about odd subjects."

What else.. Hmm there's more attached to the meaning. From my attempts to explain it I think she understands.

"Unintentionally funny," she says.

"Exactly!" for some reason it makes me happy that she summed it up in two words.


"You have dork potential," I tell her with a smile.


From that moment Julia began using the phrase "okie dorky," (which coming from someone with a German accent is quite hilarious.)


We scrape our plates clean. We're hungry dorks.

I see a guitar in the corner. An idle guitar is full of potential.
"What do you play?"

She smiles. "I'll show you."


First the strings, a light tune, almost peaceful. Then German lyrics. Her voice is passionate and I don't understand the words but I can almost follow the story. Like a female version of Don McLean? Haha. 

A relaxing song.
A fast-paced song.


I ponder.
I am in Germany. In a greenhouse-like kitchen, listening to a musician do her work. This..is different.

For a minute I forget about Ecoli.
Bacteria got nothin' on this.

Meeting a Dork in Hamburg, Part One

I call her after getting off the train.

"When are you coming?"

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I say.

She is my couchsurfing host.

I am in Hamburg. In the middle of the Ecoli scare. Perfect timing, Paul! Haha.

I venture off the station and look at my Google Map snapshots (like a dork). "Go this way, Paul." says my iPod.

Along the cozy German street, flower stands and deli shops eagerly greet me.

I come to her address, a little apartment between buildings.

Seeing her name on the display, I activate the button. Buzz! I push the entryway in, revealing some old-style stairs. I walk up; clickity clack. It's dark up there. A motion light switches on. My heart beats faster. Meeting new people does that. Will she be a sweet German host? Or a serial murderer?

A voice emanates from above; the floor above prevents me from seeing the source.

"Hello!" says the friendly female German accent.

"Hiya!" says the firm American voice.

The dark-haired, fair female stands at the top of the stairs. Her smile is contagious, and I feel welcomed.

Click clack clack.

"You're carrying a ton." she says.

"It makes me strong," I counter.

The cozy entryway greets me. You could fit six people in the hallway, squished like sardines.

A quick scan of the kitchen puts me at ease. A rectangular wooden table stands there, holding a tea water-heater. A toaster sits quietly on the ledge. Spices, herbs, glasses, and potted plants. Plants...are on the windowsill too. This is a greenhouse?

And a dining room. And..a shower stands boldly in the corner. This is like three rooms in one. A metal circular sink with wooden countertop, and a dishwasher. And a rack for drying plates.

"And this is your room," she says, guiding me from the kitchen. I see microphones. A music studio. "Thank you, careful..I might sing in my sleep."

I sleep on this thing. A fold-out cushion. Whee!


My backpack plunges to the floor.

We retire to the kitchen. Slash dining room. Slash shower room. Slash greenhouse.

Her name is Julia.
She takes a seat and kindly offers me bread and cheese. I accept.

"This is my breakfast and lunch, you know," she says in a cute German accent.

She places two circular wooden boards in front of us. Then opening a bag 'o bread she retrieves the loaf and slices a few pieces. Cheese and butter selections soon litter the table. We eat. At first in silence. Then I break it.

"So how do you like living here in Hamburg?"

"I like the city, but this particular area..it's quite posh, haha. I like Altona much better. I like it so much I'm moving back there soon."

The subject changes to German people. "Germans can be very direct," she says. I am too. Sometimes it can be taken the wrong way."

German honesty. This is part of the reason I'm here. Let's see if it's all it's hyped to be.

We finish our bread.

"Shall we go for a walk?" she asks.
"Sure!" I say.


I put on my jacket and we head out. Or we start to.
"May I use the restroom first?"

"It's not much of a restroom," she laughs.

I enter the small doorway on the end of the 'hall.' I duck to enter.

She's not kidding. In the room is a toilet. And that's it. Close the door and it's the size of a small elevator, curved like an igloo. But a nice homely one. Fish are painted on the 
 walls, giving color to the whitish-cream ambience.

"Where's the flush?" I think. I close the lid and no luck. I look and duck and check above me.

Ah, I spot a pull-string on my left. A satisfying flush activates. Hey I've been operating 'normal' toilets for thirty years. Anything different is good.

Like huh? Paris metro door handles and German flush pull-strings? Europe is a scary place.

Wengen, a Swiss Tale..

I am in Switzerland now. In the small town of Wengen. The train ride from Germany was one of the most beautiful I've taken. I passed through Zurich and Bern, to Interlaken and finally to Wengen (the only way there is by train) -there are no cars here (well, a few hotel transport vans and mini cargo trucks, haha).

The train passed several lakes and went by the Alps. At times we passed by and I heard water trickling, a mini-waterfall.

As the train began its incline into the mountain, I looked straight up and saw a handglider way up there. His rainbow sail/chute stood out.

Wengen is an altitude of 1300 m (4265 ft). It sits close to a very tall mountain -Jungfraujoch, aka the "Top of Europe" (3454 m / 11,333 ft), which is reachable by train. There's snow up there. The train ticket is expensive though, so I'm still debating whether to go up there.

Soon I reached Wengen station. I was concerned that it might be cold since my iPod weather app said it's 32 degrees in Wengen, but I knew it might be misreporting. Or thinking it's a higher altitude.

I step off and it's sunny and warm. Children are playing in the park. There's a life-size chess set whose pieces you pick up with both hands and carry to move. There's a great view of the surrounding Alps.

I take off my jacket. And wander to find my hotel (Edelweiss). The receptionist lady recognizes my name as Scottish and says she's from Scotland. The owner asks if I'm a hiker and I say yes, "and photographer," showing him my camera bag. He says that he's been trying to find a photographer to take pics of the hotel, but they are expensive. He indicated interest in purchasing photos of the hotel if I take them.

They give me tea.

I settle in my room, a cozy single bed room with a complimentary piece of Swiss chocolate.

I unpack then wander to find an ATM. I need some Swiss Francs! Luckily I find one of the two ATMs in Wengen and now I have Euros, British Pounds, Swiss Francs, and Dollar Bills (emergency cash) in my money belt. I love this thing. I never have to worry about losing the important stuff.

I return and after dinner at the hotel (and attempting to converse with an elderly lady in half German and half English) I retire to my bed.


My first full day in Wengen and I head to -where else? The tourist office. I retrieve countless pamphlets on hiking trails -thinking I can beat preparation itself?

I ask the girl, "What hiking trails do you recommend for good photos?"

"Trails less than an hour, because I'm carrying this stuff," I point to my four-pound tripod. 

"Oh I recommend this trail," she shows me on the map. "It's an hour and a half but worth it. It has great panoramic views of the surrounding Alps." (To get here you take the Gondola up. Trail ends at Kleine Scheidegg, and you catch a train to Wengen.)


Gondola, here I come! I observe a cable car arriving. A man gets off and says, "You really notice the temperature difference."

A lady remarks, "It's just perfect up there."

My left hand is full. I want to return to the hotel and drop off my packet of pamphlets. Then bring just the two I need and maybe buy a bottle of water. It's 12:30pm. I do a quick calculation in my head.



Will I have time to catch the last train back to Wengen at 6:30pm? *cue suspense music* I really want to catch the one before it, at 5:30. A safety net, maybe? 

By the time I go up it will be 1:30. A one and a half hour hike but I'm bringing my camera so better double it. Three hours.. That's 4:30? I should be fine.

So I take the gondola up. Wengen descents below me, it's all relative.

I snap a million pics out of the windows, which up close have tiny scratches and smudges. I put the lens as close to the window as possible to minimize the effect with far-focusing.


At the top the cable car rocks, comes to a stop, and me and the one other guy get out. Immediately I see Wengen far below, the orange roofs mere tiny boxes now, and to my left is a Swiss flag in the wind. Behind it are the pure white alps and atmospheric haze, as clouds envelop the top peak.

I stand there and take so many pictures the Gondola leaves and a second one arrives by the time I'm done.

I see a sign for 'Kleine Scheidegg' pointing to the right. But on the left I see a path up to a big hill that overlooks the surrounding area. Looks like a fifteen minute walk. I pull myself in that direction.

I climb the path and at the top I take a few more pics.. (surprised?) haha.
Somehow my mind says..hurry up, if you want to walk the hike. For some reason I fear missing the last train.

Because I don't want to be stick up here at night, when it gets cold!


Finally I begin my journey down. I look at my watch. 3:30.

The smooth path is easy to hike. I stop every seven steps to snap photos.

I say hi to some people as they pass from the other direction. Or should I say 'gutentag?' Or 'bonjour?

Anyway, I continue down the winding path. I spot shadows where snow (yes, snow) hides, reminding me, "I don't want to be stuck up here at night!"


I look at my watch, "5:25." the sign says, "ten minutes to the station." I decide to take the 6:30 train. Gives my time to explore the lookout post ahead. Where I take pictures of the Alps. And rare photos of myself.


Finally I get a ticket down.
"Area A," he says.

"When does the train leave?" I ask.

"One minute."

I run.

Haha. But It's just past six..there must be an extra train running today. See all that worry for nothing..

The train winds it's way down to Wengen and I emerge where I began.

My first day in Wengen.

There and back again.

Obsession...

I wrote this in Quedlinburg while sitting at a fountain. I don't know what inspired me to..

My obsession compulsiveness is my greatest enemy. And my truest friend.

I always thought it was shyness. But now I realize it's my tendencies for obsessive thoughts; the fuel to my frustrations. For the last thirty years. I never gave them a second thought. They were as natural to me as breathing. I ignored this problem long enough. The first step is to observe  'what.' The 'why' isn't important now, and may never be.

It's not even the panicky feelings I have anticipating an event. It's the obsessive thoughts that give them credence. 'ohmigod, what if A and B happen? I'm so unprepared!' Over. And over. No wonder I never got over my social anxiety. I'm addicted to the feeling, but not the feeling, the thought cycle. No wonder I could never solve this, I was attacking the symptom, not the cause. The way I was attacking it furthered the cycle. 'Prepare, overprepare for my anxiety, I'll beat it this time!'

What I learned about myself on this trip is how little things affect me. Like a black bird's claw around a walnut. They color, shape, and create a world view that has direct results in what I get and what my life really is.

It stops me in my tracks when A and B and C are not taken care of. D only happens, and then somewhat rarely, unless the trio of prerequisites register as 'done' in my mind.

It prevents me from the smallest of tasks. I first need to wash my hands. Or know where I'm going. Or have a reservation. Or ponder all instances. I need to feel prepared. Otherwise I'm hollow. Empty. Purposeless.

It allows me to do the grandest of things. I had every site in Ireland written down, plotted on Google Maps. I had the dots. All I had to do was connect them. And I did, in perhaps the greatest three weeks of my life. I didn't have to waste time figuring out 'what' to see, only 'when' and 'how.' And I did, the freedom of a car let me..

It stops me dead in my tracks when I want to connect to people. To really communicate. To be part of the crowd. To gel. 

I could talk to person X, but  I need to feel in the mood. Less panicky. It has to be quieter. Less people. First I need to master my public voice.

I want to feel natural. Blend with the flavors around me. I don't blend. I'm a rebel. In a crowd I love to be the only one walking the other way, people parting like a crest of waves around me. The foam, the glitter of the sunlight leaving an afterimage in my retina. I feel like I'm going somewhere special. Somewhere forgotten.

It allows me to prepare for numerous possibilities. I prepared to live out of my home country for four months. I tracked down every item, researched to the smallest detail, imagined myself on a hostel and asking, "what do I need?"

I found the shirts, pants, rain jacket, backpack, towels, water bottles, map-organizer (iPod Touch), and just about everything else and it's near perfect (plus or minus a few instances). Now I don't have to waste time tracking down what I need. Haha. Instead I waste time thinking compulsively. In Europe. Life is so ironic.
 
Hahaha. It is a curse and a gift. It is as part of me as thought is. It is as separate from me as a lingering habit, hanging by a thread that can be cut at my choosing.

I hate it.
I love it.

I don't know where it ends and 'me' begins.

I wonder if I can change.


No one is going to tell me what to do, nor should they. Everyone has their own conflicts. The only person that really understands us is ourselves. In the end this is my responsibility. People are responsible for solving their own conflicts. That's one purpose in life. In a weird way our struggles give us that.

So here I am. In Europe. Writing about my compulsiveness. And it feels good. Because I'm sitting at a beautiful square and feeling inspired. A compulsion in itself? Might as well enjoy it, haha.

Children are playing, people eating ice cream, and I just had a pizza at an Italian place.

I'll walk into the twilight knowing that the future is unwritten, but we only feel as good as our last fight with our conflict. Change is good, but slow down. Compulsively fighting compulsion is an ends to the means.

Enjoy the life. The ice cream. Enjoy the struggle. Is all I can say now. Some people don't even get that chance.

Sometimes I think I'm too serious, haha. So I'll end with a joke.

Why was six afraid of seven?
Because seven ate nine.

It doesn't work in Germany.

Why was sechs afraid of sieben?
Because sieben acht neun!

Dear Dad

Here's an email I sent to my parents. It sums up my past few days..

Hi Dad,

Hey I'm in Munich now. Quedlinburg was great, I couchsurfed with a German dude named Stephan (who's about my age) and it was great getting an inside perspective on a small town. He's really friendly and lives in a cozy flat with his girlfriend and seven-year old daughter. He lived his entire life in Quedlinburg (but has done a lot of traveling). And he told me what it was like under Soviet rule -before the wall came down. It was surreal hearing his story after visiting the remnants of the Wall in Berlin.

I got some nice pictures of the town too. It's very relaxing. And I stayed at a youth hostel where no one spoke English, haha. Somehow I survived. 

That and getting on the wrong train this morning to Munich, which made me miss all my connections. The conductors were nice, they let me go on later trains for all connections without paying again. It's adventurous here in Germany!

For the last connection I asked the ticket lady at the counter 'Spreichen Zie Englisch?' and she shook her head and said powerfully, 'Nein!' haha. Thankfully the guy behind me in line knew English and translated for us.

Haha small towns are nice, but part of me is glad to back in a city hostel. English, yeah!

I'll be in Munich for a week then on July 4th I plan to head to Wengen, Switzerland (which is right in/near the Alps). And I'll be there for about a week. After that I may head back to Germany. There's a town called Heidelberg (near Frankfurt) that has a few amazing castles. I just found some photos online last week and they look stunning!

I am looking at Bern and Zurich otherwise, thanks for your suggestions.

(and I end with my previous post, the bit on Hamburger and Berliner and...I'm a dork.)

Love,
JJ

Ich Bin ein Berliner!

I have been a Hamburger, Berliner, and a Quedlinburger. Now I am a Munchkin?

Aloha

I'm at the Aloha Hostel. Still in Berlin. It's a smaller, independent place. Met some Brazillian people, and one dude that was trying to explain the natural makeup of Brazil (forest, sand, bogs) in half-Potlrtugese. Haha.

My last full day in Paris

My last full day in Paris

Rewind a little. I can do that because memory is like a VCR.

My last full day in Paris.
I walked in the park near the Eiffel Tower and everything was in slow motion.

I glanced (more than that..observed) a ping-pong match between a guy and his girlfriend.

From behind the fence and leaning on his tripod was Paul, the ponderer.


I saw life bounce back and forth. Like attraction and repulsion, a balancing act of quantum proportions. Huh?


I walked by the trees. Sat on a bench.
"I'm spent. And it's nice just sitting here."

I got up and walked. The tower in the distance. I saw memories. My life. Pieces of my past flowed and flourished in my head like a faucet of sweet nostalgia and sour bitterness, rolled into one eggroll.

Recent things first. Meeting people in hostels. Planning my trip. Going on it. Seeing the castles. Kaeylea, Kieran, and friendly Irish folk. It swirled, faster, then slower, as if time could be controlled. And no I'm not on drugs haha. Maybe heat exhaustion? Lol

But I saw them. Faces. How we met. How we spent the day. How we said goodbye. The wheel of life turns. Nothing is still yet my mind wants something to be. I don't know what.

Then back farther. Floor hockey. Work. School. Him. Her. You. The causal relations of how organized themselves sequentially, sped up for impatient nostalgia, and motivated by raging endorphins. It was quite the trip down memory lane.

I thought about how this ended. And began. How I miss that. But not this. Yet I still do. A then B then C.

Life is so sequential, like walking. I lost all ability to mourn, feel regret, and joy too and just let the memories and reality flow. I saw the events replay themselves with no inhibitions. My life as a free man, strolling down Paris.

It was a surreal way to end my Paris trip. For the second part of my journey was nearing it's end. The third part of my journey was about to begin.. 

Cycling in Amsterdam is..

In Amsterdam, Wendy asked me if I wanted to join her and James for cycling through Amsterdam.

I said, "sure!"

Then reality hit me. I hadn't touched a bike since I was thirteen years old.

I look at bikes whizzing by me. Nobody wears helmets.

I almost said no. Fear of crashing, and more fear of looking like a dork.

The sunny day at Doolin refreshed itself in my mind. Neeve, the pretty Irish girl, and her invitation that went untaken due to my Skellig Michael planning, and more due to "you want me to bike on those narrow Irish roads and watch three girls outdo me?"

Yes. That wouldn't be so bad. Cycling near the Cliffs of Moher on a sunny day with 'em would have been magical. And I said no.

And now another girl of Vietnamese descent was asking the same thing. I guess life lessons span all countries, haha. Huh?

Even as I said, "maybe, maybe not"
My mind yelled, DO IT!

We get our bikes. The guy teaches us how to lock & unlock 'em. I master that in two seconds. Everything's lookin' good, right?

I kept telling myself, "you never forget how to ride a bike."

Part of my mind said, "watch me, haha."

James zooms on like a master cyclist.
Wendy excels like a dark ninja.

I...wobble. I wobble like a drunk dinosaur on a unicycle.

I think, "you fool, you never mastered balancing on...cobblestones.. With bike paths next to pedestrian paths and potted plants blocking the way. Oh, and cars. You sure you don't want a helmet?"

Yes, I actually think that.

In the narrow alley I'm heading for a woman on a bike. 

I'm trying not to hit her.

She looks at me and smiles, "Go on ahead, I don't know how to ride," she confesses.

I'm trying not to hit her.

I over-correct my wobble and head straight for her. Then over-correct that and head straight for the wall. Then over-correct and head past her. "Bye," I say with a smile.

If anyone asks, I'm avoiding a sniper. Or a crocodile.


Ahead I spot the road.
"What is this, Ireland all over again?" I recall taking fifteen minutes to back out onto my first non-American road. Getting a flat tyre too. Enough! Cycling people don't think such thoughts. They just go. So go, Paul, go!


Paul goes. His initial burst of acceleration creates a primary wobble that permeates through the entire bike. I HATE that.

I start to topple and before I do my hand squeezes the brake and my feet touch the ground and I stand there, A Dork in Headlights.

I had been on a bike probably four times in my life. Go Paul, go.

Pressing the pedal forward results in one gigantic wobble and a screeching halt.

Three cyclists pass me and whiz down the street. Wendy and James are up ahead. Getting tinier and tinier. I'm mad at myself for not practicing on my bike when I was a kid. Really mad.

Just like any skill you ignore. If you don't hone it, it will dissipate.

Skills...honing...I think about my shyness and anxiety and get mad. At myself. I'll deal with that, but first I gotta survive this bike ride, haha.

As Frustration Neurons(TM) fire in the emotional part of my brain, I ponder if I should just stick to taking photos of castles. No! My brain fires Anti-Regret Neurons(TM). Like a freaking War of the Lobes..

I walk my bike across the street. I'm gonna do this one piece at a time. Since I'm not good at starting from a complete stop, I'll walk my bike across streets. Anything to keep me going.

And as I mount up and pedal ahead, my wobble turns into a turbulent glide.

I find Wendy and James waiting on the curb.
"You guys can go on without me," I insist.

"Let's stick together, it's no problem," they say. Awesome friends. :)

We go forward. Through a curved street. The breeze cools my forehead. Bike bells chime. The sounds of the city grows silent and a sense of peace overwhelms me. When I'm not trying to crash, that is. It's a weird feeling, but I like it.

"I'm biking in Amsterdam", I say. I look to the right and see my reflection in one of the glass buildings. I like the face I see. Even more than the one I saw on the ferry to France.

My brain says something that I knew was waiting in the caverns of my neural soil, "I'm enjoying this."

Wendy and James wait for me at the next intersection.

We ride to Vondelpark and bike amongst the grass, people, and fellow cyclists.

Spotting a hot dog stand, we get off our bikes and eat by the pond.

We stack out bikes on the ground. I feel compelled to take a photo. It symbolizes..something.


We ride.

We get separated.

I text Wendy to go on ahead.

Five minutes later I'm at the "I Amsterdam" sign and I spot 'em. Converging destinies, perhaps?

We ride to the harbor. The new area. The docks!

James and Wendy stop to take pics. This time I stay on my bike. I ride up and down the docks, practicing my turns. I feel peace. When they mount I join them, a V-formation continues.

My neurons show character development. The earlier frustration turns to glee and satisfaction that I did learn to bike in Wildwood all those years ago. That practice, albeit small, allowed me to hone my balance that much quicker. Wendy and James aren't waiting for me because I'm keeping up.


Any practice is good practice. I guess you never forget how to ride a bike. It just takes a forty-five minutes to jog my memory haha. Maybe I looked like a dork, but I was a dork biking through Amsterdam!

Biking's done. Now to deal with that whole shyness thing. The trial never ends..

I know one thing.

Wobbling is a good sign.

The Diary of a Young Girl..

I knew I'd be in a different country for my birthday.

I had in my mind that I'd see Anne Frank's "House," more appropriately "The Secret Annex" that day. Since I was meeting up with Wendy and co. in the afternoon I planned to see her house in the morning.

"All the tickets are sold out," the girl said on the phone, three weeks earlier. "But come stand in line, we won't turn you away. Get there early!"

"The lines are insane," everyone says. And it's a small house.


The day before my birthday, I arrive in Amsterdam. I check-in to my hostel after walking forty-five minutes from the train station, weary, with my Osprey clinging to me.

I arrive at Stayokay, which might be one of the best hostels I've stayed at thus far. The room is so-roomy. Especially after Paris. I felt I had centimeters around my bed. Here I have meters. And the breakfasts are amazing. It was the last hostel I looked at. The name put me off. Life is weird, no?


So it's 6:30pm and I venture off into Amsterdam to find this house of Anne's, so I can learn the way and not have to figure it out in the morning when I'm a zombie.

It's still light out. Heck it's still light out at 10pm. I forget what it's like back at home this time of year. It always gets dark around 7 or 8, my gut tells me.


On the train ride to Holland I watched the Diary of Anne Frank on my iPod, a version in color that I've never seen before. In one scene she's looking out the window and turns, you see her face smiling on the sunlight and a clock tower in the window. It's dramatic. Pretty. A perfect scene capturing her happiness and aspirations. Just the angle I would have shot.

I'm thinking, that's too perfect. Creative liberty. Like a Peter Pan moment. No way is the tower that close and visible from that window.

As I venture close I hear bells.
I look up.

"That's the freaking clock tower," I said to myself. "It does exist!" This is a *moment*.

I'm looking at the same clock Anne saw when she looked out the window. Time freezes, and passes.


But does the window actually face the tower? Nah it must be creative liberty. I wonder why my mind refuses to believe the possibility.


As I get close, a weird feeling emerges. I almost can't look at the house, even though I don't know what it looks like. It's as if I don't want the feeling of "going to see the house" to go away. Yeah I'm weird but I don't know why.

My feet are blistered, all two of 'em. I'm limping ahead. I am exhausted. I can't go in this state..I think my mind wants some sort of perfect moment to...somehow feel worthy of approaching Anne's House.

"It's just a building," I think. But I know myself better than that..


My eyes look and don't look for the house. Like gazing at the sun then turning away.
"That's the one,it's gotta be!" I say, but they all look the same. The tree she looked at, isn't that it?

I walk yonder. Put my map away. Listen to Auld Lang Syne whilst I search. I'm close..


I grow frustrated. I remember the Secret Annex is behind a building -the storehouse at the time, so you can't really see it from the street. But it's next to this canal.

I wander down. Pass a glass building with fancy stairs visible inside that go up three or four layers.

Embedded in the window are these words: Anne Frank Huis.

I shake my head and go, "they've modernized the front!"

Part of me is happy I found it, part of me is disappointed. I want to see it as it was -even the storefront. Maybe that part was changed or destroyed later. Ah well.

I look at the hours. 9:00-21:00
I do a double-take at the door. Because it's open. There's someone at the counter inside. And there are two women at the door. That's...the line? It's...open?

I stand there for a minute calculating 21:00 with my fingers. Yeah and I got straight A's in math..

It's 7pm now. It closes at 9pm. I ponder the effect of going now versus on my birthday, and simplicity wins over nostalgic perfection so I go in. Headphones around my head, I feel compelled to stuff them away. This is a moment.


I hand €8.50 to the lady through the semicircle cash rotating thingy. A ticket returns to me via the other half of the semicircle. Little things like that are so symbolic of life, but no time for that, I'm at Anne Frank's Secret Annex!


In the first room are a few quotes from Anne, and four photos of her taking up almost the entire wall corner. She's smiling, then turning to the side. Almost a four-frame animation. You can almost see her as she was..

 I looked. And looked. And looked. People came and went. I stood there and looked at Anne.

All the journal entries, really specific parts, came to mind in a flurry. It's as if I were trying to sum up her entire life in a few moments. Slow down. I did. I remembered one or two or three moments. Established a face to them.


"You're the reason I'm here." I thought. "And you'll never know it."

That made me more sad than happy.

Looking at photos makes me switch to the past tense, so now I return to the moment.


I go in the doorway. I love doorways. They're the best things ever after ice cream.


We go to a room showing how the layout of the annex looked with models. I peer at this model like a child who has just created a Lego Masterpiece.


"Anne's room is there!" I exclaim to myself. And her desk. Where she wrote some of her entries. She shared the room with Mr. Dussel, a dentist. I spot his tooth extraction model, recognizing it from the movie.

Anne's parents and her sister Margot were next door. The restroom was on this floor, but they could only use it on evenings and weekends when employees downstairs left for home.

The Van Daan's were upstairs; they slept in the kitchen space. Peter was next door in a cozy room, the stairs to the attic were there, where Anne and Peter spent so much time. 

You would probably too. It had the only window to the outside world..
The rest were covered and they lived in darkness and silence during the day. It's enough to drive you mad. But Anne wrote. And before long I was standing where she wrote. Her desk was here..the room's empty of furniture by request of Otto Frank (sometimes you don't want time to stand still), but photos and models show me where things were.

Posters of movie stars remain on her wall.
The queen and the royal family.
Cute babies and rabbits.

Some of them partially ripped off. Most still intact.

But the one that got me was a picture of an animal- a squirrel or something- with wacky eyes. A caricature but a real photo. Maybe altered with a 1940s version of Photoshop? Haha.

It's the kind of silly photo any kid would look at and laugh at today. I don't know why it affected me so much. Maybe it was just different than the other pictures on the wall. Maybe i imagined her laughing. Maybe things and people share a collective giggle that spans all of humanity.

What??


On the other wall, more pictures. She livened up this dull room.

"We're standing where Anne slept," I mentioned to the guy next to me. Out of respect or something, he took a step back.

It's okay, I think she enjoys out company. Now where have I heard that before?


Marks on the wall for Anne and Margot's height. Still there.

The map Otto used to track the Allied invasion. Still there. Pin marks in them.

The Normandy Invasion..I wasn't too far from there three weeks ago. What am I doing, chasing history?

Then up to the kitchen.. I am beginning to understand life here, spatially.

Peter's room.
I gaze up.

The attic.
The entrance is covered by a glass/plastic cover, and the ladder/stairs are too. So I walk next to it and gaze up. I can see part of the window she gazed out. This is the room where she looked out into the world. Where she felt most at peace. Where she and Peter really talked. I wonder how we'd view things had we not had Anne's diary.

Would this place even be a museum? Would it still exist?

I don't know why it's blocked off. I lean up. See as much as I can. I don't know why. This room more than the others. But I can't. I see the window..

I think of how she said it's easier to talk about deep things with someone (Peter in her case haha)  when you're gazing out the window. So many entries were influenced by this room. The Chestnut Tree..

I feel like things are left unsaid, memories undiscovered up there. I know it's just an empty room of wood. Part of me is disappointed. Part of me feels that leaving it untouched is fitting.

Afterwards I slip out the corridor back to the museum. I see a window. I look out. The attic window is in view. And. It. Faces. The. Clock. Tower.

It was a moment.


Farewell Anne.
Or in Dutch,
Afscheid, Anne

Downstairs they had a section devoted to Margot. The smart, quiet, tall one. She went skiing in the Alps. She wanted to be a nurse in Palestine.

They also had a room with video screens. Showing real-life stories like racial profiling in Amsterdam regarding internet scams or political demonstrations in an African country. They ask a question, "should this be kept the same way?" and let the people vote.

It's cool. I felt like an American. Democracy, yay!

I like how they continue the theme of discrimination surrounding Anne's story into practical terms that apply today. The trial never ends.. Leave this place thinking about something you can do.


The museum was closing. 
I asked the front reception girl why the attic was blocked off.

"It would collapse if anyone went up there," she said.

Sometimes history is best left undisturbed..

I head out.

As I do, the clock tower chimes.
I gaze at it, one last time..

Amsterdam is my favorite city..

I came out of the train station and saw the open air. Felt the breeze. Saw bicycles navigating the city. Heard chimes that were bicycle beeps. People walking.

I felt relaxed. It's contagious.

Paris is grand and elegant and ornate and crowded and touristy and the food is amazing especially the crepes. It was also fast-paced and overwhelming.

Amsterdam is relaxed, chill, open, with trees and shade and canals and no one's rushed and-bicycles! The feeling I got in San Francisco multiplied by four, with the architectural look of Belgium, ya know, a European-like feel.


I wandered in the park next to the Van Gogh Museum and people are laying on the finely-cut grass.

I walk like Truman does (heck I put the Anthem Part II on my iPod) dorky, right?

Kids playing, dogs walking, and down farther, people sitting by the fountain, taking photos of the "I Amsterdam" sign.

I walk up to a statue whose inscription I can't read because it's Dutch. Most people here speak English too. But amongst themselves, it's 100% Dutch.

At the train station I was kind of freaking out because all the signs were in Dutch. I though English would be more prevalent. I hadn't prepared phrases like I had for France and Germany. I was lost in a city with a weird language. And it was beautiful.

I walk to a spot on the grass and plop down. My head lay back and I gaze up at the blue sky. Topaz, even. The sun is intense, beaming it's golden rays on me, my layer of suntan lotion resisting. But Stone-Age people didn't need sunscreen, why do we? They didn't live long enough to develop problems. We're too healthy for our own good. Evolution (or randomness) needs to catch up. Give it a few thousand years..

For now, no worries. Except for excessive heat, haha.

Dorkiness Alert..
I look and hear the sounds and think about the alternate ending to Terminator 2. With Sarah at the park forty or whatever years later. How everyone got a second chance and didn't know it. I got up and it was like waking up. We get so used to things.

I told you it was dorky..
But I can't help where my mind goes, right? I'm just the messenger.


There are more bikes than cars in Amsterdam. There are more people than cars. And there is one person responsible for bringing me here. Her name is Anne Frank.

What am I gonna do when I get home and don't have any money? Aaaaggghhhh!

This trip began on the Emerald Isle..

The Emerald month ends..
My birth stone. My birthday.

Thanks for the wishes guys.


Today was a special day, but not in the way I imagined.

I planned to be wandering Amsterdam alone. I planned to see Anne Frank's House. (I did, yesterday. More on that later..)


Two days ago I was in Paris. I was annoyed that the hostel had like no tables to eat on. Breakfast area closed? Grr, why? Doesth thou not want us to eat on elevated surfaces?

I peered down the curving stairs. Ah. A table. Three empty chairs. I stumble awkwardly down, my hunger clamoring for action. I'm hoping the three computers are free. I want to eat in peace.
First computer. Free. Lookin' good..

Second computer, taken. D'oh! Haha it's okay I'll say hi and hide in my shell, as much as I hate it when I do that..

I tumble my sub sandwich, pretzels, and blue Camelbak bottle full of Amsterdam tap water (which is among the best in Europe) on the table and somehow manage a low grumble, "Hi.." half expecting the girl who sits there to give me the 'oh, now what-roll-eyes look" haha. My mind trains itself but there are two layers of ice to break. One is on my end and why do I fall, every single time?

It can be anything, but it's anticipating something where I have to act. Expectation. Go away. But try. Just try to be free.

I'm in Paris. My habits follow. I expected them to. Don't expect to change or I'll be disappointed. I'm not here to change.

I'm lying.
I'm here to change.


I just... have to get comfortable with it. Test the waters. Prepare. I'm a dork till the end.

And I like being a dork. I just hate bring a paralyzed dork. Life's too short to stand still..


"So how was your day?" one of us blurts out. I forget who.

"I walked around with my friend Mark today. He's French so he gets all the directions from people. I don't think I've spoken one word of French," she said, if it was me who asked.

"I went to the Eiffel Tower and walked around in the park. I could watch people playing ping-pong all day long," I said, if it was her.

Very Quantum.


Several minutes later I tell her I'm going to Amsterdam tomorrow. She says she's going on Tuesday. I say that's a good day.

"Why?" she asks.
"Because that's my birthday." I say.

"Oh? We have to celebrate!" she says. "How bout we meet up and hang out?"

Heck even Old Paul would say yes.


We exchange details and Old Paul says, "hmm..my number may not work. Might have to switch SIM cards when I get to the Netherlands."

Details details. But that's where life us hidden, right?

"Text me once you do." she says.

"Enjoy the rest of your lunch!" she exclaims as we say au revoir. Well I do but she doesn't speak French, haha.

We say bye and I finish. As I make my way up the stairs it's  eerie. This kind of instant communication and hanging out doesn't happen at home. 


Today I wake up and I get a text. 
It's my birthday. I made a friend two days ago, now her and Mark are taking me to dinner. That. Is a birthday.

I spend the morning sending postcards and writing emails, haha. It's strangely comforting.


I meet 'em at their hotel. We find a place. She gets steak. I get a half-chicken. He gets beer.

Mark, teaches me French (now that I don't need to know any more, haha)

I tell them my "Je Pars" story. They laugh. Mark confirms that it's the right thing to say. I am relieved, haha.

Mark

Wendy


So we finish. Wendy (that's her name) excuses herself to go to the restroom, or so I assume. I chat with Mark. Finishing school. Living in southern France. How people in Paris are stressed, rushed.

Wendy comes back with a plate.
It's got a slice of rich chocolate cake and a small candle, lit with a giddy flame.

"Happy birthday!" she exclaims.

I am delighted. Surprised. I haven't quite felt this way before. I gave her a hug.

"I believe everyone deserves a cake on their birthday," she says.

I make a wish. Blow out the candle. She takes a pic of me. And gives me a postcard from Paris and a "P" memento. This is a real birthday. I'm in Amsterdam. I met Wendy two days ago, and Mark just an hour ago.

Life has its own surprises.

Then we walked into the cool of twilight.

Here in Amsterdam I had a great birthday.
Thank ya Wendy :)

Before & After

Before..

After..

Versailles..

I like this picture. I don't know why.. I just do. :)

Paris..

It was a lovely night the last day in Rennes. I saw the Mont one last time then returned home for a  relaxing break before moving to the mist visited place in France.

"I better enjoy having my own room," I thought. "This won't happen again for a while."
Hostels for the next month or so..

So I did. I ate a sandwich, salad, a fruit (a nectarine and/or pear, and a banana!) with those addicting Carefour cookie dark chocolate things. I turned on the t.v. and watched shows in French.

I'm freaking out at the Paris metro. I looked up info literally the night before my train ride. Now I'm in Paris, in an underground network of ants marching about, speaking "sacribleu!" or however you spell it. People walk fast. It's the city. Just like d.c. Back home. But different..

I tumble my backpack to the ground and unzip the duffel bag cover. I love this thing..it keeps my backpack straps and zippers safe fron tangling on the train rack, and it makes my backpack less assuming to theft. (Because you can't see the tripod hanging on the side haha.) I fold the duffel bag into it's built-in pouch (it's the size of a tiny pillow) and stuff in in my top pocket.


Lifting my Osprey on, I continue my journey into the unknown Paris underground..


"Look, an automated ticket machine!" my mind thinks.
I get in line. It's long. I get the €10.50 out that the Internet says it will cost for a pack o' ten tickets.

The queue proceeds.
One guy ahead of me. I watch the buttons he presses.
My turn. I select pack o' ten and hey- it costs about €12 now. Darn you, inflation! You're faster than the Internet.


I enter the Paris metro.
I get on a train car.
I sit.

I...am in Paris. Exhaustion keeps my excitement in check.
Getting off at Lamarck-Calaincourt, I follow my google map snapshots and get lost. I ask a French store dude. He points me in the direction and I get lost again. Frustrated, I spend about an hour looking for the place. Time goes by. I'm losing my chance to see something tonight, like the Eiffel Tower.


The freaking map doesn't match up with where I am. Unless... That street was the walkway I saw. I go back. I take stairs. Lots of stairs.

This place is as hilly as San Francisco, in a localized walking kinda way.
It's beautiful - high trees, open space, it's got a high-building next to the park kind of feel.


But I'm mad and I hate that I lost my compass. Of all things, lol.
Finally I find a Holiday Inn (a landmark) and call the place.

"I'm at the Holiday Inn at...Rue de-" and I butcher the street name.
"Which way do I go?" I ask.

"We're between 62 and 64 on Rue de Calaincourt."

"Do I turn left or right?"

"Go uphill."

"Merci!" I say.

It reminds me of Ender's Game, how he oriented his troops with the words, " The enemy's gate is down."

I'm a dork.


I find the place. It's on top of the long stairs that I had walked down- twice. Gar!


check-in.
collapse.

Get up.

I'm going to do something tonight.
I get on the metro and test it out.

No, I'm going to the Eiffel Tower.

So I go. I change lines. The Paris metro is very good in terms of signage, corridors and different color/numbers. It reminds me a lot of the NY metro.

I'm almost at my stop. Wait, some doors don't open. Why? Are they unfriendly?

I see a curved handle on the door.
At one stop two girls on the outside try to pull the handle but it doesn't budge so they flock to the open door at the end of the car.

I'm not the only newbie here!
But two stops to go and I'm gonna have to open a door maybe. I'm somewhat feeling like huh? I'm in Paris and I'm worrying about a metro door handle?


At the next station I see a girl waiting to disembark. I watch her hand hover on the handle. I'm like an eagle, peering. It's easy, just watch other peeps do it.

Before the train stops completely she turns the handle up and it opens. Sweet. I feel like I can do this. I can exit the metro car!


Next stop I get in position. I hover my hand on that handle. Obi-wan tells me to trust my instincts and I turn the handle up. Voila, door opens, I get off, and welcome to Paris.

I am that fast.

You wanna die with a man's tripod. Not a little sissy tripod like this.

Stephen King...in French?

Le Mont Saint-Michel

This place is the reason I came to France..


I came twice. Once from St. Malo, once from Rennes.

Full of alleys, hotels, arches, and stairs, I photographed this place to death, well almost. It was a bit crowded to do some shots but other places were more serene..

Today I walked the causeway next to Le Mont, to get a good "far away" photo. Haha I felt so out of place, everyone got off the bus and into the entrance. I get out and journey in the opposite direction.

I guess I'm a rebel at heart, no?

Abbeys, ruins, castles, and remote monasteries, places to "get away" and meditate. These are the places I visit. I wonder if deep down I'm searching for the same thing that the people who built these places were..

Je Pars

My first morning in Rennes, I hear the maids changing the beds next door. I'm booking, reserving, researching, and panicking. Hostels are filling up. I need to book like three things today. Wifi's more valuable than money, so I'm gonna wait until they knock.

But wait! When she arrrives, how do I say, "Go ahead, I'm leaving."?

I feel the need to know! Yes, Paul can be a functioning human bring who can communicate in this society, right? Anything beats awkward silence from "another uncultured American."

So as I book the hostel I'm staying at in a couple of weeks from now in Germany, I switch to Google Translator and type, "I'm leaving."

"Je pars" it responds, like a wise Frenchman.

If YouTube taught me one thing, it's that squirrels are funny creatures. But if it taught me two things, it's that "Je" is pronounced "Zjuh"

"Pars" ..I've seen bits of that before. My gut yells in fury, "silent s!"

I have no way to know for sure.

My heartbeat echoing, the final sheet next door fitted, the footstep of a French Maid, and only my instinct to go on, I repeat to myself like a freaking dork, "zjuh parr, zjuh parr, zjuh parr," as I research hostels in Berlin.

My amygdala insists that Fight-or-Flight is popular in these instances. So I'm getting ready to fight a maid.

Knock-knock-knock.

I jump. I leap. Don't spook me, I'm dangerous!


I answer, a smile awaits, as do two towels in her hands. Oh it's not so bad, I think.

Then it comes. The moment I've been dreading. A string of words said so quickly that if I knew perfect French I still would be lost. It was a question. It was said in a merry way. But Paul ain't merry, he be panicking!

My gut helped me out. Thank you, gut.
"There's only one thing a maid would be asking for here. Do you want your room cleaned?" Sure, logic is sound. There seemed to be twice as many words but whatever.

"Go ahead," my gut said, "respond to her." I'm still ready to fight.

I took a chance and said, "Oui. Je Pars."

"Merci!" she exclaimed.

No fight? Aw well, maybe next time.
As I left I loved the feeling of faking that I know the language. 

I wonder how far I can get.. :)

This is Rennes..