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!