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..

Le Gare

I'm at the kiosk, valiantly waiting to print out my E-ticket (which is called an E-billet here). It's probably pronounced E-biyyeyh but I hate butchering languages so I may never know haha.

"This is my first train ride on this trip," I ponder while looking slightly dorky.

Because I'm a preparedness geek, I visited the station one day earlier to gauge the walking time. And scope out the kiosks. Check out the buttons, see if they look pressable. Haha.

Really though I came to see what language barriers are between Paul and his E-billet.

There are two kiosks. A woman is using one. Rather than push her aside in true American style, I quietly approached the free one.

The opening screen greets me. Eight options appear. All in French. The suspenceful background music of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" plays, haha.

I take out my iPod and snap a picture. Yeah I'm a dork. I can go back to the hotel and using the semi-reliable wifi, type these words in Google Translator. Let's do this thing!

 I'm gonna figure out as much as I can without resorting to asking the service peeps in broken French for help -I'd feel like such a tourist and giving Americans a bad name. Not today. Watch me.


Back at the hotel, the translations come back as if an alien wrote them:


"Edition de confirmations et memos"
Edit confirmations and memos

"Justificatif de voyage (voyage effectue)"
Proof of travel (travel)

"Depart immediat"
Immediate start

"Autres departs"
Other departures

"Retrait de dossiers et de billets electroniques"
Withdrawal of records and electronic tickets

"Echange de billets"
Ticket Exchange

"Renouvellements d'abonnements"
Renewals


Proof of travel? What is this, a jury process?
Withdrawal of records and electronic tickets...that sounds like the one. "I just hope when I get there I can decipher the next screen." I gulp dramatically, then pause for a commercial.


Saturday arrives. I wander downstairs for a croissant, cereal, and yogurt. I pack and head out, beginning my hour-and-a-half journey to the station.


It's a nice walk. The sea is farther out than it usually is in the morning; the tides must be changing.

I come to the rock ledge that goes straight out to sea, before ending in a clump of rocky goodness where the water lurks and splashes, like a dog wanting to play.


"I want to say goodbye to Saint Malo, wait here," I say to no one on particular.

With my Osprey pack on my back and Carrefour grocery bag in my hand I walk the ledge, the sand and seaweed below on either side waving goodbye. Now that's dorky, on both our parts.


I get to the end and see the rock face I climbed up my first day here. I'd better not climb down now, for the water would happily greet me but I'm not in the mood for freezing liquid hugs (I walked on the French H20 along the beach yesterday, it's chillerific).

I see the clouds drift by. The waves come. The waves go. Everything is in cycles. And so am I. I arrived here, now I'm saying goodbye.


It's time to go. I continue walking.

At the station..
I slickly select "Retrait de dossiers et de billets."

The kiosk laughs at me as it displays three new options. All starting with "Retrait par carte" with a different ending.

Where's the translate button?!


I try the first one. It asks for a credit card. I try the second one. Same. I try the third, as it has a keyboard screen! I type in my reference number, then another screen appears with an entry for 'Nom'

I type in my first and last name. A symbol with an exclamation point and red letters tells me there's an error. I start the process again.

I get to 'Nom' hmm I've seen screens before asking you for nom and surnom, which is last name, separately. So I type in 'Paul.'

Error.

I start again. What is this a computer game? Solving puzzles by trial-and-error? Perhaps those skills will do me good in France. Haha.

I type in my reference number. Now the Nom screen is staring at me..
I enter my last name.
A screen pops up with my itinerary. success! One step closer.

Now there are two buttons. The left one says something and has a checkmark. The right one is yellow and says, "Retrait" and has a checkmark. I think about asking the guy next to me what they mean. I'm so close.

Retrait...I feel like that's "retrieve" or something. Maybe "print." But why is it in yellow?

The left button has been "back" or "cancel" on this process, so here's hoping good interface usability practices were implemented in this kiosk design..


I press "Retrait"

I hear noises. It sounds like the ticket is printing! It slides out and my hand grabs it enthusiastically.

I pump my fist. I do a dance.
I'm no tourist!


...Now where are the restrooms?

My first foreign train, ever

The Sands of Time

I said goodbye to Saint Malo today.


One thing that struck me was the sand.

The sand in Saint Malo is very moody. My first step sank through. Because it's still wet from the escaping tides.. The next step was solid and cool. It had time to bake in the sun, or dry in the wind, or [insert your favorite explanation here]. The next three steps were warm and solid. The next four are cool and sinking. It's quite refreshing. It's kind of like me, I can never make a decision haha.

The texture is varied, and so are the visuals. Golden sand glitters in the sun, green seaweed sprinkled about. Shells and yellow thingies (that look like mini-alien brains, they're quite freaky) are scattered here and there. A prelude to an invasion?

A blue shell here.
A rock with moss-colored seaweed there.
Blue sky everywhere.
The walled city on the horizon.
Red slanted roofs.

Every color you can imagine is in Saint Malo. The breeze finishes the deal like a final stroke of a painting.

Except you can feel it. No matter how hard I tried, I could not capture the essence if Saint Malo in a photograph. There are too many pixels. This place is simplicity in a nutshell.


I wasn't even supposed to stay here. It was meant to be a stopping point to see Mont-Saint Michel, one night max. But I'm glad I stayed longer. This is one of the most memorable parts of my trip. (And to think I was terrified of coming to France, haha.)

Bye bye beach..

I'm not that far from where the Normandy Invasion took place. There's so much freakin' history here. As great as Wildwood and Ocean City are back home, we just don't have this kind of richness.

I'm gonna have a pastry, dangit. Haha.

Bon Appetit

I toured Mont-Saint Michel. More on that later. :)

Food at the Mont was expensive so I waited. "I'll get a sandwich at the mart when I get back," I told myself.

The bus was late, the walk to my hotel was forty minutes, and to top it off it was the Golden Hour when I returned to the medieval city. I wanted to get pics for the last two days with the low sun casting golden rays on the ancient rooftops... Stomach, hold on a little longer?

Walking among the rooftops, French seagulls hovered over me. The sun cast a perfect outline around their pearl-white feathers. I put my zoom lens on and shot away. This was a different kind of shot. Like in Wildwood when I first got my camera..

I got a few stunning photos. Wow, how perfect natural light makes all the difference.

I walk back. The tide is low so I walk on the beach. In a couple of hours there won't be a beach. I felt the sea sneaking in..


I walk past the mart. It's empty. Past 7:30. Closed.

No sandwich for me. Darn, I have to spend more money. Might as well enjoy it!


I pass a Pizzeria. The menu is in French. I snap a picture of the menu. 

At my hotel I change and look up the words on Google Translation vis my iPod. Yeah I'm a dork. But I'm gonna order the right pizza, darnit. The Mexicana sounds delicious.

I type "Mexicana" and "L'eau du robinet" (tap water) into my iPod so I won't forget. I march into the French restaurant and tell the girl, "Bonsoir. Uh..Mexicana." I don't know how to pronounce tap water so I show her what I typed. She looks confused.

"Le pizza?"

"Oui!" duh, haha.

A ten euro pizza? Sure. Just this once..

I ask how to pronounce tap water, because L'eau du robinet has me at a loss. Is that a silent au? Is 'du' duh or doo or diyeah?

She replies, "loo doo row-bin-eyh!"

The tap water is served in a bottle. It's a cool French thing.

I sit down. A few minutes later this arrives.

"Bon Appetit!" she says.
"Merci!" I say.

It's my first pizza with potatoes on it. I glance up at the fancy drinking glasses on the tables in the twilight of the evening in France, the television on, showing French news, and here I am with this juicy pizza just for myself.

In a world of firsts, this suddenly feels familiar. In the post-event deja vu I've been having lately, it feels as though this moment was coming, or the feeling itself. I was here in this restaurant, no? Perhaps life is just living up to expectations.


I finish it. The waitress comes and asks something. I don't know what she says, but feel it's like, "Did you enjoy?" I just nod.

Only when she brings the dessert menu did I realize, oh she asked, "Dessert?" or "Dizzer?" 

I don't want to spend €5...or do I?
The hypnotic power of 'why not?' overpowers me and I order a Fondu de Chocolat.

It looks so small.
"This better be one freakin' good dessert," I think.

One bite. The chocolate center is warm. The whip cream and light almonds accentuate the taste. This is...ten times better than the same dessert in America. Yeah...it's worth it.


I ask her how to say, "It's excellent!"
She says, "c'etait!"

So I say with a smile, "C'etait!"
"Merci!" she responds.

She spelled it out for me. :)


I wipe my French-experienced mouth as my taste buds thank me for flavours a la Europe.

As I head out the waitress is retrieving an order for a table of four. "Au revoir," I say with a smile.

"Au revoir, merci!" She says. As I enter the cool breezy outside, I feel giddy. Downright giddy. I just communicated in another language. And got my fill of French Pizza and dessert (and tap  water!) on my own.

This is different.


As I returned to my hotel The tides were angry, waves splashing up onto the patio of the corner restaurant. It's vicious out there, fifteen meters from my hotel..

(Click for video) It's quite spectacular.

Welcome to Saint Malo. Bon Appetit.

It's strange

It's a new feeling being surrounded with people who speak another language.

I find myself at peace, since there's no pressure to talk to people. There's no expectation.
My social anxiety quirks change. The rules show themselves.

I don't feel the need to say hi because I don't know if they speak English. I'd rather say bonjour, but I'm not qualified to butcher the language, so I just walk on and smile, and nod if the feeling presents itself.

What happens is the same in America, people walk on, happy about their business, and I'm less stressed, haha. The funny thing is French people sometimes talk to me. A swimmer who wants me to take his picture. An elderly man in the street asking if I'm lost. Huh? I thought French had no patience for non-French speakers.


When you change things up, the inherent pressures you put on yourself come to light. I never knew just how strong they were. Over stupid things. Reinforced without checks and balances.


I can learn from this. About me. In ways i never could back home.

Although I like quiet observing me I want to change too.
Sometimes you gotta retreat to who you are in order to change.

Because sometimes I get really mad at myself.
Maybe I can change?

X + Y = Z!

The Carrefour Market has been my savior. Allowing me to buy €10 worth of food that supplies me with one meal (sandwich!) and parts of other meals. (chips and fruit and cookie things).

So like one and two two-thirds of a meal. Which is 1 and 4/3, which by my high school algebra, one converts to 3/3, and add 4/3 which is 7/3 or 2 and 1/3 meal. So it's better than €5 a meal, which ain't too bad.

Huh? I'm doing math on vacation? This ain't no vacation, if it were I'd go to the beach for a month and snooze on the sand (ignore the fact that I'm at the beach now).

This is an adventure. A third of the time I'm planning my next move. A third if the time I'm obsessively packing my belongings for the move.

And the rest of the time? I'm trekking from spot to spot determining the best camera angle and extending my tripod fully (It takes 20 seconds to do that. Yes I timed myself, haha), securing my camera on it, and taking seven to ten HDR photos of each scene. Repeat a few hundred times for each castle / tomb / abbey / natural cave / etc and you end up with one exhausted Paul. But it's worth it. That's why I'm here!

That's half the reason for this trip.


It's freaking work, but it's work I enjoy. You might say I'm compulsive about it. But there's only one Europe and my time here is limited. Take the photos as they come. I've never seen places like this before..


And when I get tired I sleep in, book a place for myself and just be. I put my camera away and just let life breathe.


Saint Malo is beautiful. The first day I walked on the beach, leaving my camera in my room. I'm glad I did.

I am so much more flexible, so free and mobile without this huge four-pound tripod haha. But I did it for a reason. Walk, enjoy, dance. Tomorrow I'll come back and know what to take pics of. Scouting, haha.


I walked on the sand, around the rocks, down to the fort, and around the fortified town. Up stairs, down alleys, through stores. I saw a pastry -it looked like a jelly-donut type thing with sugary "pancake" sandwiches. Haha or something. I went inside and pronounced (horribly, I might add) the name on the sign. 

She asked, "Le crepe?"

"I am not," I say. Oh the dessert is called a crepe, duh. I gave her the appropriate Euro. She gave me change. "Merci," I said. You don't need to know many words to get by. I found that infinitely satisfying.


I walked outside and walked in the medieval-like town, adorned now with perfume shops and automobiles and hotels with old-style architecture.

I ate my crepe as I toured the past converging with the present.

The sun was my friend. The crepe was delicious. I am in France!

Now this. Is a vacation. :)

Saint-Malo

Saint Malo is beautiful. The tides are amazing. A few hours ago I could walk out to three large rocks. Now the water fills the beach and pathway fifteen meters from the hotel, and only the tips of the rocks in the distance.


Indeed the moon is powerful (you have foreseen it).

Bon Voyage..

I returned my "Wales Car" (which I hereby name Lucy) in Portsmouth. A few days ago. Monday to be exact.

"No accidents," I thought. Crossed fingers work in Europe, it seems.

It was eerie. Earlier as I was driving, I saw the English countryside with rolling hills reminiscent of Welsh and Irish beauty..

It would soon be gone. "Goodbye, baby, you did good." I said, a cowboy talking to his horse for the last time. Or something, haha. I had the same feeling with my "Irishmobile" (name pending) in Dublin three weeks earlier. She was my first international car hire, and thus more special (sorry Lucy).

I handed over the keys. I realized my journey was changing. From this point on, there would be no more car.

It's time to backpack 'for real.' Trains, busses, ferries, and places to stay. My legs fill the gaps in between.

It felt like my journey was just beginning.


I asked the friendly, elderly National fellow for directions to my ferry.

"Follow that sidewalk across the street, it curves around." He looked at me, sizing up my vitality. My balance was teetering from left to right, due to my 35-pound backpack and 5-pound grocery bag.

"If you feel energized you can walk it in 45 minutes. Otherwise there are cabs here." He pointed.

"Probably forty pounds for a trip."

Forty pounds? That's like two hostel stays. No sir, I shall walk!


So I'm on my way. I cross the street and follow the sidewalk. I feel like I'm Dorothy. Where art thou, lion? Tin man? Scarecrow? I almost feel like singing. Not about seeing wizards, but to express my uncertainty. Of France. Of the whole remainder of this trip. Will I get by? Will I have enough money left? Will I finish everything?

Soon my legs tire. I see the street sign for the 'out of city ferries.' Almost there..

I see a gas station. Where's the port?

I feel like Ryo Hazuki when I ask a cycling dude for directions. "Excuse me, which way to Brittany Ferries?" haha.

"Do you see those crates? The third one over, it's behind that. Two minutes away, mate."

"Thanks!" I exclaim. This is the beginning.


And I'm off to a good start. Because ze port iz in my sightz!

Relief. Success.


I prance, yes, prance across the parking lot.

Six people man the counter, and I talk to the fellow who gives me tips on French culture. "They won't even talk to you unless you speak their language." Hmm, way to encourage me, haha.

Gate one opens at 7:15pm. Almost there.


I go to eat dinner, which these days means a ham sandwich, chips, a pear, and Kit-Kat. And water. All yours for less than four pounds!


The guards eye me. Maybe it's my huge backpack and me finding a solitary corner of the waiting area. 

Heck when I left the restroom there were three guards hovering outside, one female guard at the entrance of the other restroom on her walkie-talkie. Haha, are ya bored? I s'pose it's good they're watching things. But I don't like being the center of attention!


So I find a cozy spot far away with two outlets to charge my electrogadget thingies.  Ever-so prepared, I load up the French Lesson Videos I downloaded on my iPod.

I practice my pronunciation.
"Bon-joor."
"Bon-swaa."


I'm really doing this.



7:15 comes and goes.
We board. We walk up a large ramp. I see the 'Bretagne' outside the windows. Hello, ship.


I enter deck six and the lush red carpet invites me. Windows and wine stores. The atmosphere washes the charming reality into my weary face -that I am entering French territory.

And there is no going back.

"Bonsoir!" a female attemdant's voice says. "Bonsoir," I respond, knowing that it means "Good Evening." I show her my ticket, and she directs me behind her. The corridor takes me to cabin 6003.

I enter.

I see a bed. That's my bed. I'm in between countries, and I have a bed. It's so simple yet it feels so...freaking good.

A weird feeling emerges.

I have a place to sleep tonight. And the bedroom will be traveling to France whilst I snooze. That is so awesome.


I see a side door. I open it. La toilette! And...a curtain? I move it aside to see a shower head. I didn't expect there to be a shower in this cabin! The joy! Haha.


I ease my heavy pack onto the floor and see my weary face in the mirror. I lunge into my bed.

A French voice comes on speaker. Afterwards the same voice says in a polite French accent, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be departing in fifteen minutes." And blah and so on. The important thing is she speaks in a lovely accent, haha.


Bon voyage..

Mon ami

J'ai réussi à commander une crêpe en France. :)

I was playing chess

with two girls from Colorado last night.
We used puzzle pieces to represent pawns becoming queens.
I had two extra queens! Though my main one was dead. Poor thing.


How crazy would it be to have five queens on the board? You could have up to nine..wonder if it's been done before..


Enough dorky thoughts...I'm in Europe!

Castles

On my 'Life's Goals' list, you'd see these two:

-See one castle
-visit Europe

I can cross off these two, and my sister emailed me asking just how many castles I saw.
My mind went blank. Maybe seven? Ten? Thirteen perhaps..


Castles...how many? Hmm I'll make a list!

Ireland: (8)
Malahide
Trim
Dundrum
Carrickfergus
Dunluce
Ashford
Ross
Blarney

Wales: (11)
Beaumaris
Conwy
Caernarfon
Gwydir
Doldabarn
Dolwyddean
Raglan
Cardiff
Caerphilly
Carreg Cennen
Carew

England: (1)
Corfe

for a grand total of twenty castles!

and countless other abbeys and such, wow I think I took a billion pictures, like 300GB almost, haha..

The First Part

The first part of my adventure is over. The second part...is about to begin.

An American Tale

When I'm feeling drained, I use this solution:

- book a comfy B&B
- lay on the bed!
- watch Friends and Numb3rs (my first time watching, it's rad -wait that's so American. But I'm sticking to it haha.
- take a warm shower
- eat a chicken caesar wrap, chips, berries, a banana, Kit Kat, and tea.

Sleep and let tomorrow come..

Tick Tock..

Life goes on. Even when we turn on the screensaver.

Life moves forward. Are we moving forward with it?


Tick tock. The pace can be frighteningly rad.
The senses in our mind's eye, deceiving though purposeful.


When we have all the time in the world
We don't have any time at all.


Tick. Tock.

I think I can..

St Malo reserved.
Rennes reserved.
Ferry and train reserved.

After that my goal is to make it to Paris. Reviews of hostels are mixed.
Gotta make this happen, maybe I'll check couchsurfing.

Gotta see Versailles and St. Chapelle.

And after that I really gotta see Anne Frank's House..


Turn the page.

Part Deux..

Will France happen or will it not?

Will Part Two (Deux) of my trip take place? This is merely a page in my biography long after I'm dead. Turn the page..

Operation Recouperate

Yay, I'm at a real computer. It's a friend's laptop so I trust it. It's so much easier to type when I have a keyboard. You have no idea, this is like, the best thing since sliced bread. Take away conveniences so you can appreciate them. But the cycle continues, gotta take 'em away every three weeks?

I'm blabbering, but it's okay. I'm recouperating! And the computer says I spelled that wrong. Is it wrong, or is there a weird British spelling of re coup er ate?

Oh, I just checked. There's no o. Recuperate. Yay, computer's happy. But it doesn't recognize 'yay.' Sigh..

This place is how many thousands of years old?!

I saw Stonehenge.

Yeah I paid the £7.50 or whatever to walk around it. But there's a rope you can't cross and you walk in a path around it.

If you really want to see Stonehenge, do this. Call the Stone Circle Access (part of the English Heritage, which maintains Stonehenge) and ask for access outside of public hours. It costs £15.30 and you get to walk right up to the stones, underneath them, and photograph then to your heart's delight. For one hour, anyway.


I did both and the stone circle access is ten times better. This is what my wide-angle lens was made for, baby!

Shots with the clouds in the distance.
Shots looking up at the stones.
Shots between stones.

Stone A, hi. You're how old? Three thousand years? You don't look a day past 1500.
Let me buy you a drink, Stone A. You gotta have stories, right? What? Lots of grass growing and hmm? Stone B gets all the fame? Are you jealous of a stone? That's just silly.

Act your age, Stone!

B&Bs are as good as M&Ms

They are like little delights of wondrous joy, haha what is this a poem?

When I'm weary and tired and getting over a cold the best thing is to have my own space. And lay all my stuff out and not worry about security. You have no idea how much time that sucks up. Keeping track of your valuables, your clothes, towels, toiletries, and rummaging through your stuff in the dark while trying not to wake up everyone else, can be frustrating to say the least.

B&Bs melt in your mouth.
This place rocks, it's called Willow Springs and the house is amazing - the owner's father built it in the 60s. It's got a modern feel mixed with homeliness. Big windows shower sunlight in, whilst curved countertops offer a sleek (and friendly) atmosphere. Wait, I'm describing the owner's living space, which is off limits to me. Oh well.

My room has two beds so I plan to hop from one to the other, because I can. Haha no, that's immature!

I'm going to enjoy a nice warm shower tonight.
And watch the tele.

And eat Kit Kats.


THIS is what I came to Europe to do, haha!

A new low?

I feel like I hit a low. I'm a little under the weather, I'm weary from the constant moving, and little things frustrate me.

Perhaps this is a test..

Keep on goin, I tell myself, turn the page.

Happy Mother's Day!

Sitting...

I'm sittng here.

At 007 hostel. With my backpack. And bag of food.
I'm about to go to Bath. Then Stonehenge. I feel obligated to go soon, but part of me wants to sit here and relax. Part of me wants to get a sandwich at Tesco.

This trip is odd, sometimes I pass up a perfect photo opportunity because I'm hungry or I want to get to my next hostel. Or I'm just plain weary. The sense of having things work out..


It's like a videogame, each level getting harder. But it's real life. Can't I hit save, go back home and back up my photos, take a nice hot shower and press continue? I could but that would cost a lot of moolah in plane tickets, haha.

Other bodies of water..

Rivers are one thing but what about crossing oceans? France, that's an ocean..

One More River...

Yesterday I sat on my bed and thought, "one more castle to see."

It was an eeerie moment, drivin' down a muddy 'road' with creepy trees overhanging, their branches like wrinkled arms reaching for vengeance.

Trying to find my hostel, but the hostel was full so Joan, the owner, let's me stay in the guest bedroom of her house.

Her hair is in a braid, reminding me of a Native American. She is kind, and her granddaughter Katie is there, she must be about seven. And at first glance I thought she was a boy, her hair cut short and adventurous eyes. She is very well-spoken, with a british accent.

In the morning she was decorating an Easter egg, because during Easter she was in Sicily where she snorkeled and walked up a volcano. Everyone is on their own adventure. Turn the page.


The dining room table sported a centerpiece rich in Easter eggs hanging from it. Underneath laid a-plenty Easter cards with nice handwriting. I get a sense of love and togetherness.


Juxtapose that with the feeling I got entering the bathroom. Is that a spiderweb in the top corner of the shower? Aye. I see a spider that's almost like a daddy-long leg. And various bits if things trapped in the web.

A little ant-type thing on the space near where the door closes. Maybe in a web?

Other than that the house is clean, maybe a little cluttered but it's an odd mix of homely and spider webbery, if that makes sense.


Joan is very polite and offers me directions to the river for a walk, and offers to introduce me to the hostel group down below.

She tells me about castles in the area and gives me a postcard of Carew.


I thank her and eat my dinner (cold chocken pasta and a sandwich) and some delicious mashed potatoes they had cookin'.


It's a weird feeling staying at someone's home with hostel 'rules'. I kept feeling like I was bothering them even to ask simple things like 'may I eat my sandwich on your table?' haha. But that's silly so I asked anyway.

I laid on my bed, gazing at the window with twilight setting in. I felt a sense of peace in that moment. Carew Castle awaits me. "One more river to cross," in the words of Marv Levy before the Super Bowl.

From Malahide to Carew. Ireland to Wales. By plane, ferry and car. Finish Everything we start.

Those words are from a football hero of mine. Why are all my quotes from Super Bowl losers? Maybe it's true. There isn't much difference between winners and losers.

A Reflection..

I drove. All around the coast of Ireland, basically. Anti-clockwise, from Dublin to Dublin, in three weeks time. From Malahide Castle to the Rock of Dunamase.

I did what I set out to do, well one-fourth of it at least.

In one week I drove through North Wales and I'm halfway through South Wales. Two Castles remaining.

So far this trip is a resounding success, but the scarier parts remain ahead.
There isn't much difference between fear and excitement, is there?

The Nomad and the King..

Staying at a Guesthouse (or B&B), I feel like a king.
I have my own room! (and my own bathroom). And soap. Shampoo? Wow!

Holy freaking wow there is a free small chocolate wafer To go with the tea you can make yourself.

It's twice the cost of a hostel but there are none in the area of the castle I'm exploring tomorrow - Carreg Cennen. Which has a natural cave you can enter..

And it's still half to a third the cost of a hotel.

The owner says, "A full breakfast is from 7:00 to 9:00, what time would you like to eat?"
I think, breakfast included? That's more than just toast? I love with this place! I do a quick calculation in my head...want to be St Carreg Cennen by 10 so leave at 9 and eat at..8. 7 is too early. In the words of a certain city slicker, "I'm on vacation!"

"8 o'clock please." I say and she hands me my key.

A warm shower breathes life into me. I put on my attire.
I take pictures of my room to show my family when I get back (yeah I'm a dork).

I do a double-take. That's a t.v. In my room. The luxury!
When I realize there's wifi I nearly collapse in joy. (I can plan my France trip), and I'm researching how to say, "May I reserve a bed for three nights?" haha.

A vacation on the fly. Never been attempted before by Paul. Can he finish everything?

I'm scared of France.
The ferry arrives at nearly midnight, and I'll have to find a taxi or bus to a hostel it hotel without knowing an ounce of the language (Je Mapelle Paul notwithstanding) and yeah. I'm scared. But..

Anne Frank is calling me. If I ever start to doubt this adventure I'll remember her house is waiting for me in Amsterdam. To be in the same room she was when she wrote her entries is a feeling I cannot describe, partly because I've never felt it before. I just...have to be there.

Her diary is so rich and well-written it's scary. But more than anything it's human. And it reminds us to be so. A thirteen year old is one of the best authors I've known.. Simple things become beautiful and beautiful things become complex and complex things become simple. A full circle. Who else writes like that? I have to be there..

But for now, I'll enjoy my own bed, listening to radio on the t.v. and figuring out how to translate 'Do you have wifi?' in French.

Right Now..

I am listening to 'Sweet Child of Mine' on Absolute Radio (tv) at the Tree Tops Guesthouse and I'm seeing Carreg Cennen Castle tomorrow.

The perfect moments..

are like this.

My Polish friends, Paul and Julita, walking to the river and skipping rocks.
She bounces 'em high. I don't know how she does that so I ask, she smiles and shrugs.

She throws overhand, so I try it. Mine skips seven times and curves right.
Haha, we're not that good, most of ours go 'kerplunk!' but we get a great one now and again.


I left my camera and tripod back 'home.'

The best moments are like this.

When you're on a trip like this

Buying a sandwich and groceries for tonight and tomorrow.. The sense of accomplishment is astounding.

Taking a warm shower never felt so good.
Wet flip flops are my biggest pet peeve, but I adapt (use bathroom tissue to dry 'em) hah how's that for my germaphpbic upbringing clashing with my budgetary instincts to stay at low-cost hostels?

This trip is like a revolving door of Pauls. There are three, which shall emerge victorious?

So far, the leading one loves photographs, sandwiches, and chocolate. In my trip to foreign lands, my comfort instincts have reached out to the likes of Kit Kat, Twix, and Snickers.

Music may be human, but chocolate is the universal language.

Sometimes..

Sometimes I stress out about the little things.

About parking in Galway. About putting all my stuff where it belongs in my backpack. About taking the most fuel-efficient path of seeing the castles.

I wonder if If I can just let it all go..

A band of Welsh mercenaries is available for hire, my Lord.

I am in Wales. This might be the smallest room I've ever been in, but it's my home for four nights.

The roads are narrow, the towns are hilly, and one word to describe Wales? Majestic.
One word for Ireland is Magical.

I was expecting Wales to be really rural and it is, but the beautiful countryside makes it less lonely than I thought.

Ireland is ten times less lonely than I thought because high hedges and houses fill the narrow roads, you feel like there's someone living nearby on 90% of the places you drive, even the rural areas. Someone's gotta tend to those grazing cattle.

The land is divided so specifically with stone walls and hedges you feel Ireland is efficient with space, it's almost reassuring.


Welsh castles are mighty.
In Ireland I could photograph a castle in an hour or two.

Wales? Forget it. Plan for a whole day (if you're a photo freak like I am). These are massive, and technically they're English castles. Full of passageways and courtyards and -suspension bridges? Well, that was added later (at Conwy Castle) but it looks majestic nonetheless.

"Siege this castle, my Lord?"

Gosh I'm a dork, haha.