Friday, October 22, 2010

9:10 PM

Nice, France

Pastoral Hotel, Room 8

Ah! The French Riviera—the perfect place to relax and recharge my traveler’s batteries. It is a comfortable climate here, somewhere around seventy degrees, I imagine. Everything feels like summer here and I feel my spirits lifting. With a brighter outlook it’s time to reflect on the past couple of days, I think.

The last I wrote I was sitting in a Starbucks, in Prague, waiting for the city to wake up. I left around noon and waded out into the crowded street. A bustling Prague was much more inviting than the earlier, quiet Prague. The city was, indeed, beautiful. The buildings were composed of stunning verandas, carvings, and colors. Monuments stood every fifty meters or so it seemed, the streets were charmingly cobbled, and even the sun was shining.

The only real problem I had with Prague was that it felt like one gargantuan open-air museum. Everyone appeared to be a tourist and I didn’t see the city as home to anyone in particular. My deepest fascination with a city comes not from a mere continuity of architecture, but from a continuity of life. It is not enough for me to see a church that has stood for a thousand years if there has not been worship in it for a hundred. I am most in awe of a simple wall that has stood along a well-used path for a thousand years, ugly though it may be.

But I can’t be too hard on the city—it was magnificent. I was disappointed that the grand library there was closed—it’s supposed to be one of the most beautiful in the world, but oh well. There is a bridge that connects the city across a river. It is easily one of the most incredible bridges I’ve been on. The entire bridge is marked every twenty or so feet by very impressive statues of stone, bronze, and gold. All along the way people stop to pray at the figures, rubbing their hands on what I’m guessing are saint’s images. On the other side you can make your way up steep corridors, past ancient pubs and quaint bakeries that sell cylindrical pastries, to the castle atop a hill. The castle is guarded by two men in crisp uniforms, who I believe are meant to not move, much as the guards at Buckingham. The man on the right did very well, but you could see the younger soldier on the left squirming, fighting very hard not to laugh as cute girls circled him for photographs and whispered in his ears (god knows what).

From Prague I went to Amsterdam, where I had a hostel booked in anticipation of my inability to find my way to a train on time later that day. Now, Amsterdam is a really nice city. I felt comfortable there, ready to wind my way through narrow passages and explore the nooks and crannies of this city split up by concentric circles (sorta) of canals.

I went to my hostel and dropped my stuff off and made a list of places to go before I lost the good sense to understand what I was seeing. I went to the library but I imagine I must have gone to the wrong one as this one was terribly dull. I left almost immediately and made my way to the Sex Museum where I spent the next hour or so perusing over the fine art pertaining to sex from all ages and all places. Not exactly high-brow, but worth a chuckle. They had moving animatronics, like one thing made to look like a skeevy old man who slides forward on a track when you walk by and flashes you from beneath his trench coat. Classy.

I then went on a hunt to find the red lights of the Red Lights district. I was promised hot babes dancing in windows and dammit I was gonna find them! After a good half hour of wandering aimlessly through the streets I finally saw the crimson glow. The windows were filled with a good share of attractive young ladies, arching their backs and curling a finger for you to join them…but, there were also the rather horrifying women who I can only imagine make their money off of a very special niche customer base.

Having soaked up the sights I went in search of a coffee shop to try out some stress-free marijuana. I can’t recall the name of the place a chose, but it was well-lit, with a separate room for smokers, and it was relatively quiet. I went in and ordered a joint filled with “NYC Deisel,” a weed that supposedly tastes of red grapes and provides a “cerebral high”—exactly what I was looking for. I had decided against the space cakes since I read that the high lasts much longer and I was uncomfortable with that idea.

I went into the smoker’s lounge, relieved myself in the bathroom, bummed a light, and breathed deep. I took around three or five hits and set the joint down to wait for some effect before continuing. Well, I didn’t have to wait long. The high hit me fast and hard just as I started to try writing about my experience in my notebook. My hand began to shake, which you can see in my writing. My heart began to race and I began to sweat. My body went numb, then fizzed, as if all my skin went to sleep. My vision became multi-colored spotty, like looking at a television screen up close. The music became dull, as if I waslistening from behind a door. And I was panicking. I tried to be rational, to calm down, but the paranoia that grabs me any time I smoke took hold. I was scared stiff, stuck to my seat, unsure weather to go to the bathroom (I was also nauseous) or go outside (I was scared to go out). I just sat and hoped the high would go away.

It did, finally, calm down. I settled into a calm high after about five minutes of pure terror. That’s when the amusingly stereotypical high set in. I started to have really weird ideas, some of which I wrote down in my notebook. When I finally did get up to go for a walk and listen to Nightwish as I had planned, it felt as if I was moving because—get this—I had a loop of frictionless string around my ankles that pulled and swung me forwards. My path meandered all over the road as the string had its way with me. When I finally turned on the music all I could think of was those big stacks of meat that they make gyros from being carved in the most epic manner possible.

I promptly went to a Kebab stand to get some food and experience the wonders of eating while high. I really didn’t get a sense of the taste of the food, but rather of the texture. I could feel eat piece of the meat as my teeth ravaged it. Very strange.

Belly full I worked hard to focus my mind and headed for the hostel, Nightwish’s “Once” album blasting into my ears. It felt like all I did was stare at my feet while I walked, thinking up really strange and stupid ideas, but somehow I made it back. I put on a movie, just to see what that would be like, but fell asleep rather quickly.

The latter part of the high was alright, and genuinely interesting, to be honest. I had a humorous paranoia for that part, in that my mind’s pareadolia went into hyperdrive, and suddenly every sound was someone talking behind me and there were people everywhere watching me (which turned out to be walls). It would have been interesting to have someone to talk to, but otherwise I got everything I wanted out of the experience. I don’t think I could ever do it again; while the latter part was interesting and at times amusing, the first five minutes were so utterly, hopelessly terrifying that I couldn’t bear to go through it again.

I took the train to Paris the next morning, ending up stuck in Amiens for a few hours. Amiens was a quaint little French town which I quite enjoyed exploring during my time waiting for the next train. The cathedral there was absolutely astounding, rivaling the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris for grandeur and beauty.

When I finally got to Paris I booked the only night train for twenty-five Euro to Nice, France. I sped off to the English bookstores I knew and bought some science books and then sped off to the train and soon found myself rocked to sleep in a couchette.

When I finally got off the train I was greeted by a warm breeze—hallelujah! I found my way to a McDonalds and booked myself into a hostel—it’s too nice here in Nice to leave. It only got warmer as the day went on and I took a train to Monaco, the second smallest country in the world, and famous for its Grand Prix race featured in Iron Man 2! The warm weather and the palm tree lined streets rekindled my sense of discovery in travelling. I had a crepe and a Monaco beer (figured I can’t get that anywhere else!), and wandered all around the country built into the side of a mountain. Steep staircases winded down to small roads, to yacht-filled ports.

When I got back to Nice I bought some snacks and made my way to the beach, complete with smooth stones for sitting, and crystal-blue Mediterranean water for swimming. I stuck my hand into the water (and my boots, unfortunately) and marveled at how incredibly warm it was. It was like bathwater! I sat back and opened my notebook, hoping for some inspiration from the colorful vistas. Off to my right the sun was setting, lighting the sky orange and red over the west of the Cote d’Azur; to my left, the pale green-yellow moon rose up from behind a lush hill, a medieval structure perched alongside, against a lavender sky.

I got one poem out, at least.

And then I came back here, to work on figuring out what to do about college and whatnot. I think I’ll stay in Nice for a while. There’s apparently an English library, the weather is incredible, and the hostels are cheap. I’d like to get to know this city, I think.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

12:20 PM

Prague, Czech Republic

Starbucks along Václavské náměstí

I’m sick of cities. I’m sick of towns. They’ve bored me to exhaustion—they are, in essence, all the same. I mention this first because I know it colors my thoughts. I hope it will pass as I make my way down to the ruins of the classical civilizations.

There are buildings. They are either bland modern structures, elaborate edifices from two to three hundred years ago, or Medieval churches. Sprinkled around are monuments. Everywhere, the same brands follow me. McDonalds, Starbucks, H&M. In Zurich there were three H&M’s one the same street, all within view of each other. Supermarkets are ubiquitous; sex shops and overpriced cafes too. The cars are not small. They are standard sized. I’ve seen no more Minis, or smart cars here than I have in the States. The people are all the same—they only speak another language..except they speak English too. People, everywhere I’ve been, are mean, and nice. They are desperate and lackadaisical. They ride the bus. They go to McDonalds and Starbucks.

The terrible monotony of it is driving deeper into me. I’ve tried different approaches. I’ve gone from city to city, a new one every day. I’ve spent multiple days in large cities, and small towns, or spent only a little time. I’ve mingled with locals and fellow travelers. But there is an unfortunate tedium that is beginning to define my explorations. I’m less than one month into my three month train pass. Something needs to change.

That’s why I’m headed south. I’m headed for Italy and Greece as soon as possible. I’m swinging up through Amsterdam to do what all young Americans must do in Amsterdam, then down to Paris for a day to visit the Louvre and restock on books. I then plan to visit the tiny Medieval village where Chocolat was filmed, a town virtually untouched by time (or so the guides say)—I hope that will rekindle my interests.

I have planned a trip to CERN as well, for the 18^th of November. For those who don’t know, that’s where the heart of particle physics lies, where the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) every day brings us closer to a greater understanding of the universe.

Added to that is my return to England, where I will be going to the town of York for Guy Fawkes day, and then possibly going to Oxford and Cambridge after that to visit the Medieval academies. I might also swing through London to visit the National Gallery, which I missed when I was there in September.

My eventual trip to Rome, Venice, and Athens also fill me with great expectation. These are the places I really want to see. I’ve grown weary of checking off countries on my list. Now I’m focusing on the places I really want to go. At least I know that I’ve used my Eurail pass very well, by now. I’ve probably used it for twice its worth at this point, so I’ll stop being paranoid about getting my money’s worth out of it.

There is a silver lining to this growing discontent, though. It’s giving me exactly the perspective I was looking for. Where others go overseas and find the differences, I focus on the similarities. Food, architecture, people, nature, driving patterns—I focus on what is similar. And it’s focusing me. It’s helping me to see how I want to be a part of this world.

Anyway, I suppose I should get to some of the travel notes themselves. First off: no one over here says anything when you sneeze! Isn’t that weird? I have nothing else to say about this…it’s just really weird.

Okay, so the last time I wrote I was planning to attend the Tivoli Halloween themed amusement park, which I did, the next day. It was really nice, and kind of funny in the way they went about it. It’s a holiday basically copied from the Americans and you can kind of see them working the kinks out of their imported holiday. It has the trappings, some of the spirit, but they’re still struggling with some of the core concepts. It’s kinda cute,actually.

The paths were lined with pumpkins and orange lights; the vendors were all selling Halloween themed foods and souvenirs. The rides themselves were decked out, one roller coaster being transformed into a haunted house—pathetic though it was—, and the Ferris wheel, which usually has a big balloon above each of the gondolas, had pumpkin heads.

I bought some candy at the candy shop—and here I must provide a warning to any who would try the horror that is Danish candy. Oh, please, enjoy their pastries, but avoid their gummies. They cover their gummies, not in sour powder, but in salt. SALT! And nobody warned me! The poor, unsuspecting American bought a bunch of candy which thereafter nearly cause him to vomit. I picked out a few pieces of skull shaped sour candy. Or so I thought. It was black liquorices (which I already hate) covered in salt. Definitely goes in the top three of worst things I’ve ever tasted. Even their sour belts—which were, marginally, sour, mind you—were missing something. Very strange. Avoid the candy at all costs.

Of course, I must balance out this caution to suggest that you spare no expense in obtaining Norwegian chocolate, which is exceptional. It has a completely different texture than the chocolate we get over here. It almost crumbles as it melts, and is very smooth. German chocolate too, which is very thick and creamy.

So, back to the amusement park: they had two shows that day which I was extraordinarily excited to attend. One was a Halloween circus, and the other a vampire story told through pantomime and break-dancing. The Halloween circus was an utter travesty. They clearly took employees at the end of the summer, handed them some random circus stuff they picked up at a Toys R Us, and said, “Here, do something.” I guess it was supposed to be funny, but it wasn’t even that. It took extreme self-control not to hop up on stage and grab the unicycle and really wow the audience.

The Vampire show, on the other hand, was incredible. It was well choreographed, well staged; creative, funny, provoking. It was worth the price of admission itself (seriously).

Beyond that, my final observation about the Scandinavians is that they wear their age very well. I can’t tell you how many times I have seen a woman whose face was not visible and assumed she was an attractive twenty-something, only to be very surprised when I saw her face (which, in itself usually looked younger than it obviously was).

After Copenhagen I took a train to Hamburg (the train went on a ferry to get there—how cool is that!?). Hamburg was more of Germany, which I now vow to never return to, unless I have a native to take me through a small town with a castle or something. The cities are just depressing.

From there, on to Zurich, which was a very nice day. I did a lot of walking through the town, and it’s probably my third favorite, after Copenhagen and Paris. I found my way to the big art gallery there and was lucky enough to catch the Picasso exhibit they had on.

I’ve never seen so many Picasso’s before. It was a surprising journey, to have my eyes travel along his paintings and trace his development as an artist, to see the Blue Period give way to the Pink, over to a form of Impressionism and then a complex Cubism, followed by a more realistic period in the mid-20’s, and then finally on to a simpler, essential Cubism for which, I believe, he is most famous. There are many artists and works of art for which this can be said, and Picasso is definitely among them: his paintings are something that need to be seen in person to truly appreciate. When you look at them on the page, all you really see are strange shapes and a creative mind doing something different, “stirring things up” as it were. But when you view them up close, well, you see so much more. You see the fine detail, and there is much of it. You recognize the thought behind a stroke, the necessity of a misplaced nose, or a distorted torso. The body, so expertly torn apart in his work, is pulled together in a meaningful way.

From Zurich I went to Budapest, my first foray into Eastern Europe, and the return of my genes to their motherland, was exciting. When I arrived I knew, immediately, that I was in Eastern Europe—it truly lived up to my expectations. Just off the train I expertly avoided being accosted by the very pushy taxi drivers hassling travelers. The train station itself was grand and large, but dark and cold. On the street, I saw the buildings all around, a few stories tall, elaborate designs along them, but chipped all about, stained too. Walking the streets I saw the most pushy sock-seller I’ve ever seen—a lady who grabbed a man, practically begging him (I think—it was in Hungarian) to buy the socks. Everywhere the signage made me feel uncomfortable. Previously, in any country I had been to, the languages were similar enough to English or Spanish for me to discern their meaning, but here the language bore zero resemblance to anything I am familiar with. I should also mention that it was cloudy—that added to the whole grim, Eastern-European-y-ness of the whole thing.

I set off to wander the streets and find a wifi connection to figure out what sights to see. I found one at a McDonalds (the only reason I’m grateful for their ubiquity), and set of or the Danube River and the Chain Bridge. I found it, crossed, and made my way up a big hill to the Buda Castle, the Mattias Church, and stunning views of Budapest.

From there I made my way back down to street level, wandered some back roads, and then dragged myself up an even bigger mountain to where I had seen a massive statue standing atop. At the base of the mountain I noticed a really interesting waterfall that looked manmade, but fell down along the side of the huge rock face into a small pool. At the top of the mountain I saw even more incredible, 360 views of Budapest, as well as the impressive statue of a woman with a feather. I couldn’t read the plaque, so I have no idea what it was about.

(Speaking of things I knew nothing about, I finally looked up the story of Lucretia, who seems to show up at least a dozen times in every museum I go to. If you go to an art museum, make sure you do a quick review of Lucretia, Christ’s Passion, and St. Sebstian’s martyrdom—that covers about a fifth of all the paintings from 1200-1500 in most museums, it seems.)

I took a little more time to walk along the river. Which got me to thinking: what is it about rivers that I like so much? It seems that no matter where I go I can’t help but walk along a river. Aside from going to a good museum or seeing a sight I’ve always wanted to see, it is my single favorite thing to do in any place. For every place I’ve visited that has a River I’ve either walked along it, or sat beside it. Curious…

Alright, well, I think that about covers it. I took the train last night and had a layover in Vienna. Had an hour so I walked around, but the sameness depressed me…again. I’m now in Prague, the most beautiful city in the world, or so I’m told. Maybe I’ve done too much at once? Maybe that’s why I’m jaded. Jaded—or surprised? I dunno. Anyway: Prague is beautiful. The buildings are more well sculpted than most places and most of their major buildings a gilded in gold and bronze, with lots of sculptures and monuments lining the streets. But it’s not enough. I don’t know why. But I think it’s a good thing.

It’s my new thought-mission—figure out why I feel this way about the places I’m visiting. And figure out its significance. I think it’s probably a good thing because, while I feel depressed because things are not what I had expected and are not giving me the supreme thrill I was hoping for, I am discovering some of the fundamental qualities of the cultures of the world—well, at least the Western world. It’s why I think I’m anxious to visit Japan next, with, perhaps, a stop in Turkey. It’s the Far East. If I recognize the same qualities there, I expect a rather large revelation; the same if I realize that it is fundamentally different.

But I don’t think I will find a difference. Not anymore. I think I’m starting to get to the root of what so many artists have been trying to express from time immemorial. Painters, writers, filmmakers—they are most often trying to get at the root of human experience. That is the power and purpose of art. It feels like seeing the Matrix (but not quite understanding it yet).

Thursday, October 14, 2010

11:50 PM

Copenhagen, Denmark

Airport Hostel; Lounge

No Northern Lights.

I was kind of disappointed, but what can you do? At least that is one of the European sights which will not go away in my lifetime.

I’m glad, nevertheless, that I went to Narvik. I got to experience the Arctic, and my host took me for a hike in the snowy mountains.

After that I was pretty much done with the cold, done with the north, done with Scandinavia. I was supposed to go to Finland, but I said screw it and kept going to Copenhagen. Around sixty hours in transit in one week has left me a lot of time for reflection and I feel the wheels turning. The ultimate goal of this journey is now being worked towards.

One thing I realized is that I’ve been completely disillusioned with Norway. It was incredibly beautiful, a very relaxed place, with tons of really nice people, but something was missing. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but Norway was missing some essential quality that I had apparently been expecting. I don’t know exactly, but its people do not seem nearly as satisfied with their country as I think they should be—or, rather, as I thought. After some lengthy conversation I discovered many of the flaws of the Norwegian socialist system. Green grass and all, right?

Anyway, I’m in Copenhagen, stuck here for a few days since there’s no empty trains leaving due to holiday traveler (what holiday? I don’t have a clue). So I guess I get to visit the Halloween theme park tomorrow after all!

That’s all for now. It’s really loud in here—too many people talking. I can’t think inside my head. I’m trying to drown it out with Medieval Choral music, but it’s not enough. So I’ll say goodnight for now.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

12:30 PM

Riksgränsen; above the Arctic Circle

Train headed to Narvik

It is snowing. I can barely make out the vast arctic wasteland through the white haze. It has become progressively worse, my further passage into the north marked continuously by how deeply covered this land is by snow.

I have finally found a place where the world behaves differently. The clouds are different. They are low everywhere, rounded smooth at the bottom and coming loose at the top like wild hair. Further north, everything is covered in a thick white cloud. It is just past noon here, yet the sun is angled as if it were dusk. Dead trees and fresh snow sparsely cover short, rocky mountains which slide down to dark, choppy waters.

We have just passed the border between Sweden and Norway as we travelled through a short tunnel. Funny enough, the Norway side has a big empty space in the clouds, revealing clear blue and bathing everything in sunlight.

This feels like being in a movie, maybe on Hoth. It seems incredibly surreal, this landscape. It’s something wholly natural, yet, up until this time, entirely contained in media for me. It is like something out of a fantasy novel.

I see all the houses (though there are not many of them) and the dilapidated train stations, everything separated by uncommon distance, and I remember that it is only October. January and February are still to come. And I think now, more than ever, Who the heck got here, put down their bags, and said, “Oh, yeah, this is a great place to raise a family”? Who survived their first winter and said, “I want some more!”

Wow, I have to comment on what I’m passing now. The train is travelling alon the upper ridge of one side of a big rocky vally. It looks as if someone took a hatchet and just chopped a wedge into the ground. Though the distance to the bottom is not terribly great, a cloud sits below us, nestled in the tiny space.

The whole place keeps getting more and more covered in snow, and the houses and other settlements are fewer and farther between. We frequently pass through these old, falling apart wooden tunnels. It’s like something out of a Disney ride.

I’ve entered, now, some sort of winter wonderland. The houses are all red. The snow falls softly, but continuously. Everything is blanketed thickly. We are at Katterat, Norway.

When I get to Narvik, I will still not be as far north as Tromso, a major city. I will still not be as far north as Karasjok, the Sami capital I wish to visit. And now I’m rethinking my idea to travel to those places, so utterly remote are they.

Now I am somewhat unnerved. We are riding along the edge of a mountain, a very thin edge, very high up. All I can see are rocks and frozen trees below, and an utterly unforgiving place to land.

This is all incredibly beautiful, and incredibly unnerving. It is the incredibly juxtaposition of things that are gloriously majestic and deadly. I cannot even see to the bottom of the mountain for how many clouds there are. I cannot even see to the top of the mountain for how much now there is.

Wait, now I see a bit, what appears to be a fjord we are travelling along. I feel so lucky to be able to see something as rare and incredible as this. For all the people who travel to Europe, how many venture so far north?

I need to stop writing because all I think I’m doing is rambling as I attempt to write and be awe-filled at the same time. Just know that this is a part of the world that I have been looking for. I have found it, at last.

1:02 PM

As we get closer to the coast the landscape changes further. The clouds are clearing up (hopefully I will see the Aurora Borealis tonight), and the snow is not present around the base of the mountain fjords. There are more houses, a suspension bridge. In the distance is a mountain that looks like a miniature Everest. The faces of mountains nearest me look, well, almost like faces, straining out over the water. Alongside the train I saw the foundation for what clearly must have been an old house. Along the water are a few sad attempts at towns, or something of the like. They are modern houses, colorful and strong, but spread out haphazardly, with nary a supermarket in sight.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

8:35 PM

Volda, Norway

Heltne 2 dorms

I’m not feeling very energetic at the moment, and therefore not particularly in a writing mood, but I need to at least record the events of the past few days before they start piling up.

Upon arriving in Volda I spent the better part of an hour or so wandering around town trying to find the “university canteen” where I knew I should meet my host, Natasza, at some point if I could—y’know—get in contact with her. I eventually did find her and Petra (who had also replied to my request and offered to host me). I found out then that I would be travelling with them into the mountains on Saturday!

Petra took me over to her dorm and made some food, and then we went over to Rokken, when we attended the university’s Romanian Night, comprised of watching Romanian propaganda movies and eating “traditional” Romanian food. Then next door was a showing of some extreme skiing films, so we attended that (and, of course, now I want to go skiing—go figure).

I spent the night at Petra’s and the next day went wandering about the small town of Volda with her and her French couchsurfer for the weekend. We checked out the fjord, and climbed a little bit up the big mountain that overshadows Volda. That evening we went back to Rokken for a jazz show featuring Beady Belle, a local musician. Very colorful performance, especially the final scat bit by the lady who really went all death metal at the end—totally nuts.

The next day we were supposed to go on the overnight trip to the inner Norwegian wilderness, staying in a cottage, reaching a peak of fifteen hundred meters and all, but there weren’t enough cars. I was mildly disappointed, but they still decided to go hiking so we went into the nearby mountain ranges and made our way through some beautiful forest. That night we ended up going to a bon fire in the forest with a bunch of local college students. I bought hot dogs for the occasion, of course.

Then, today, I finally ascended the great mountain of Volda with Natasza’s roommate and a friend of hers (and his friend from France). It was, at times, a somewhat scary ascent, often climbing straight up the side of the muddy mountain as if it were a ladder (and all in cowboy boots, mind you). In many places there were chains and ropes to help you along. There were such incredible views from the summit, and only six-hundred-fifty meters up! I can’t imagine what fifteen-hundred must be like! We could see all around us, for miles and miles on end, the alpine giants stacked on each other into the (uncommonly) clear horizon.

Back at the Heltne dorms I’m relaxing, washing clothes, and setting things up for the next few days, reflecting on the past few days, and thinking more about my future. I’ll be travelling to Narvik tomorrow and arriving on Tuesday (after more than twenty-four hours of nearly ceaseless travel). It’s above the Arctic Circle, where the Aurora Borealis readily shows itself, and is easily accessible by train, which is why I’m going there. I have my host’s home address, so I shouldn’t have the problem of being stuck out in the cold (granted, the weather’s been surprisingly mild here). I wanted to go further north to Nordkapp (the “most northern part of Europe”) and/or Karasjok (the Sami capital), but they’re rather a pain in the ass to figure out how to reach them.

After that I’m hoping to travel down through Finland and then over to the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg. Then I’ll probably go visit eastern Europe before hitting the south of Europe.

I’ve been doing a lot of reflection, especially with all the time in my head afforded to me while hiking. I think a lot about what makes Americans Americans, actually. I’m absolutely fascinated by it, our virtues, our faults. I think back to Paris, in the St. Christopher’s hostel astride a section of the canal. A drink-off between an American and a European. Who can chug faster? They go at it, and the American wins. The loser looks at the American and notices that his shirt is soaked, and points at his own, dry shirt, saying, “But I’m dry! He’s soaked! I’m dry!” The American shouts back, “But I got it done!” He slams his fist on the table, “I got it done, baby!” Such a fascinating illustration of the American mindset.

I’m also experiencing a new level of awe as I look at the extraordinary nature that surrounds me on all sides. These mountains about the fjords each seem to have a character all their own. How could one fault the ancient Norwegians for believing them to be sleeping trolls?

And I’m still finding concern with where I wish to direct my future. As I further consider my options I feel absolutely torn, each interest growing strong by the day, although I have my suspicions that some are leading the race. I kick myself often for not having explored certain options further while at Binghamton. The good thing is, though, that I’ve really boiled it down, and I’m getting down to the essentials of my interests and my values more and more each day. I’ve evolved (mostly) past a concern for how people will view my chosen career, and past the essential “coolness” of the work environment—it’s allowing me a more pure look at how I want to spend my life, and what I want to do with this precious time afforded me.

Well, it’s almost time to watch a movie. I’m not too happy about how much it cost to get here, nor am I thrilled that I’ve lost so many train-days here, but I’ve really enjoyed my time. I’ve had the socializing benefits of a hostel, even the internationalizing benefits, without the mindless bullshit that goes along with drunk teenage tourists just out of home for the first time. So I consider this a win. I can’t believe how much I’ve seen and experienced already, and it’s only been about two weeks on the Eurail pass! I’ve had my rest and now I’m ready to hit the road again!

Thursday, October 07, 2010

11:00 AM

Norway

In a bus, driving to from Bergen Volda, surrounded by Fjords

This—this—is nature unmolested. The fjords cut steep, rocky valleys through the coast of Norway. The spread of the water is, in some places, wide—one, two kilometers across—and in others just a mellow river’s breadth. The flat land available for towns is scant and sparse, and homes are built against the sides of the immense rock faces. Behind some of these houses you can see, as you can see frequently along these fjord walls, waterfalls cascading, thin and meek, to the water below. Everywhere one can see the activity of glaciers millennia past: boulders perched precariously in unlikely positions, fields of stones with centuries of moss built on them.

You don’t have room for a Wal-Mart here. Where would you build it? And how would people get to it? Even in a but we had to cross by ferry and one point, and the roads we’ve been driving now are terrifyingly small—it seems the edge of the bus hangs over the edge as we are forced to pass the occasional eighteen wheeler close enough to joust. Even in the larger towns it seems that the buildings are subservient to the land, and not the other way around.

Sheep graze along the side of the road. When th sun breaks through the clouds over the top of a fjord-mountain it sheds light like a god’s blessing. The more I see of the natural world the more I understand the minds and motives of our ancestors.

You may be wondering why I’m on the road again. Shouldn’t I be in Oslo, or at least Oslofjord? Yeah, but my host never showed up. So I’m headed off to try and rendezvous with some other hosts in Volda.

Oslo was as I expected. Nice. Comfortable. Familiar in its layout and structures, but comfortable. It was rainy and dark all day, but I wandered nonetheless. Right now I can’t even think to speak of Oslo, this rural landscape is so breathtaking.

And so I won’t.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

12:45 PM

Sweden? / Norway?

Bus on a highway

The train took us from Stockholm to Karlstad. Then, for some reason, we had to jump on a coach bus which goes direct to Oslo. So right now I’m on said bus zipping through the countryside on my way to the place I’ve been most eager to visit.

There’s little to tell of yesterday. I went to the National Gallery art museum and had an excellent time. Those audio guides they offer, you should always get one. They provide some really interesting insights to many of the paintings, often discussing important symbols in the painting you would otherwise (unless very highly educated in fine art) not know about. Especially in Renaissance paintings there’s a lot going on that at first, or even a second, glance you wouldn’t notice. You can have a girl just, y’know, chillin’ in the frame, and you think, “Oh, cool, she looks relaxed,” but now, she’s doing a whole bunch of things at once. Like she’s got her foot on an open book, she’s holding a blank page, there’s a special brooch she’s wearing, there’s a dog at her feet, and she’s glancing off-frame—and each of these things means something. Really interesting.

I got to see the Rembrandt self-portrait, as well as Manet’s “Parisian Lady,” among a wide variety of other extraordinary work of art.

I finished at around four, even though the museum was open until eight, so I went and got some food and went to the National Library where I did some Norwegian studying. Nothing more to tell, really. Not the most exciting day, but very relaxing.

As I headed for the train this morning I noticed something further about the Swedes that makes them seem so much like Americans (or New Yorkers, at least). Beyond the buildings, beyond the layout of the cities and towns, beyond their style and attitude—they move like Americans.

I’ve noticed, as I think I mentioned earlier in London, that in Europe I have difficulty moving through crowds. With them, against them—it’s all but impossible. From London to Paris to Munich, I found it always challenging to even walk with the crowd, much less against it.

But, this morning, at Stockholm Central, at rush hour, I was faced with an onslaught of Swedish business-people, flooding off the commuter trains at me, with the entrance to my platform behind them. It was until this point that I had been taking my ease of movement in Sweden for granted. I started walking and, as I would in Grand Central, or any other major city hub, quickly made my way through the crowd. The Swedes, like Americans, move like water. I was a pebble and I glided right through—no one stopped, everyone bended this way or that, myself included, in that wonderful unspoken commitment to getting where you need to go that all decent commuters engage in.

An as I sat on the train, and once again watched the city melt into suburbs, melt into the countryside, and marveled at how incredibly similar it all was, I think I’ve come up with my personal theory on why this is (possibly reinforced if I notice something similar in Norway). Scandinavians and Americans are pioneer people, alone in our own lands separated from the rest of the world. The Scandinavians have not had strong governments for very long—in fact, for not much longer than Americans. They are trapped up here in the frozen North as America is trapped across the Atlantic. Their history is rough and uncertain, as American history often is. We are two very separate nations placed in very similar situations, and what has come of it? Two peoples, indeed different in their own way, but incredibly similar as well.

I think it may be the lot of a people separated out from the central community, and facing a challenging landscape—the Australians, the fifty-first state of America, I noticed, are much the same.

That is all for now. I shall take some time to absorb some more Norwegian vocabulary and hope for the best.

Monday, October 04, 2010

8:50 PM

Östersund, Sweden

In the train, at the train station

I need to write this while listening to music in headphones since, for the second night in a row, people seem to have decided that the night train is the best place to have loud discussions. L’sigh…

I really want to jump right into today’s event’s, but, I suppose, in the interests of not confusing myself and the reader, I will start back in Stockholm, yesterday.

It’s strange—even from the train entering Stockholm I could already feel something very familiar, an American-ness in its aesthetics. The suburbs were laid out in strikingly similar fashions (from what I could see from the train) and the homes themselves seemed to be identical to the ones I’ve known all my life. This sense of parallel societies did not pass—throughout Stockholm, and even (perhaps, especially) up here in Östersund, I found myself experiencing a world that was—in its apartment buildings, its highways, its wharfs, its shopping centers—incredibly American.

Well, to be absolutely truthful, I hesitate to say that Sweden seems American. Perhaps it is the other way around. Sweden has a very strong Ikea-pride. It loves it’s national home furnishings mega-center. During the day I attended to a museum that covers the history of Swedish society from around the 1600’s. The first and last parts, covering nearly (I’d estimate) a fifth of the whole exhibition, was on Swedish home furnishings. Everything from chairs to tables, cabinets and shelves. The development of the modern apartment was shown in its evolution over the last two centuries. An entire exhibition was devoted to household plastic goods, with a focus on the 70’s.

Even now, as the train passes through suburban/rural mid-Sweden I am both comforted and unsettled by how easily this could be a ride on the Hudson River Line of Metro-North, or perhaps a drive through Binghamton.

But, when you consider the significant emigration of Swedes to the US and the US’s importation of Swedish goods, perhaps the similarities are not quite so unlikely as they at first seem.

Moving along: I love how the normal greeting here is, “Hei-hei!” Seriously! It’s like being greeted by happy-go-lucky kids or something every time you walk into a store. Honestly, if in America everyone at the store was forced to say, “Hi-hi!” they’d be (or at least seem) less unhappy. C’mon, how miserable can you possibly be saying something like that?

Okay, Swedish food. Um, fish. So I’ve had a salmon quiche and a sandwich with some sort of salmon spread. Oh, and they like cucumbers with their fish it seems. And let’s not forget about the hot dogs! Again I must make the comparison to America, except that in this case something I would consider truly American does not exist in the States, but is right at home here in Sweden. You take a grilled tortilla, throw down two scoops of mashed potatoes, a hot dog or two, some ketchup, mustard, and anything else you like—and then you eat it. Seriously, how did we miss that? It’s like KFC’s Famous Bowls thing, but in a tortilla…with meat! Heavenly, seriously.

The city of Stockholm itself is very nice. Clean, friendly, well laid out. But, once again, uninspiring. I don’t find myself with that oh-so-necessary internal conflict of, “Should I go here? No there! What about that place? Oo, this alley looks cool,” that goes along with an incredible city like Paris, and in many places London. Stockholm is a very orderly city, and I suppose that’s okay. I’m going back for a second day, now aren’t I?

I went to the Nordiska Museum—the one I discussed about society’s history—and the Historiska Museum, which was excellent. I went late and didn’t really have enough time there. I learned all about Swedish pre-history, and much about their Viking period, and a bit of what followed. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to explore more in depth.

I wandered around a bit after that and then headed back to the hostel (ON A BOAT!) to gather my things and do a quick bit of internet work. Then I was off to the train for some much needed rest (amidst the chattering of inconsiderate persons).

I arrived in Östersund at about 6:30 AM and hoped off the train into the early morning cold. I whipped out the scarf and hat and set off, map newly acquired, in search of adventure.

I had circled a few sights I wished to see and so crossed a foot bridge to a town across the water where it was said that there was a rune stone, the northernmost one in all Sweden. I wandered around for a bit, searching, until I finally asked at a supermarket. The kind cashier pointed across the street to a complex of buildings. Skeptically I went in that direction. In the middle of a series of short, white buildings I spied a large stone standing straight up in the grass. I couldn’t believe, it, and didn’t until I finally got in front of it and saw the strange Nordic writings. A tiny, ancient ruin, left untouched as it was surrounded on all sides by modernity!

I decided then to explore this area a bit more, and after winding my way through some suburban streets I saw what looked like a path leading up a mountain—so I took it. I ended up on a hike to the top of the mountain with splendid views of surrounding Sweden. But, again, I was shocked at how familiar even the nature seemed. I felt that had someone put a picture of Binghamton, or the Hudson Valley in front of me, and a picture of the part of Sweden I was looking at right then, I would not have been able to tell the difference. Very strange.

On the way down I found an abandoned cabin, and an odd little, out-of –the-way café. Finally back on the road, I witnessed the Swedish national cross-country skiing team already in practice for the winter, using skis with rollers on them!

As I made my way back to Östersund I walked along the black sea water, as close as I could, the spray from the lapping waves hitting my face. It’s inexplicable—out here, in this Scandinavian place I feel more comfortable with the cold, and with water even. I feel very comfortable even. There’s something about Viking artifacts, Viking literature, and the Viking environment that absolutely compels me, draws me in. Is there some sort of genetic bonding here? Check the records!

Next, I took a walk down main street, and over to the Sami cultural center. I wanted to learn more. During the time I spent at that societal history museum in Stockholm I learned much about the indigenous people of Sweden (and Norway, Finland, and Russia), who are called Sami (formerly, Laps). These indigenous peoples, like the Native Americans and the Aborigenes, have been heavily discriminated against. While they have not, apparently, been the victims of genocide or anything quite so vicious as the fates of the indigenous of Australia or the Americas, they have suffered their fair share of hardship, owing to unfortunate prejudice. Why does this always seem to happen? Why does the native population of a land incite such negative feelings in the invaders?

Anyway, after that I made my way up to the university grounds where I wandered around for a bit, feeling very drawn in by the inherently academic nature of everything. I forced myself away and visited the town library which was absolutely stunning—lots of open space, green plants decorating the open areas in a really spectacular way. I checked my e-mail and moved on.

Next stop was the local art gallery. It took me ages to find it, but eventually I did and tried the door. It was locked, but I rang the bell anyway. Two guys came to the door and I explained that I was there for the art gallery I had read about. They said it was just a short film and they weren’t starting for another two hours, but they’d put it on just for me if I’d like. Sure, why not? I entered the huge warehouse space and sat on a blanke and watched a very strange film called Revolutionet. It was about fifteen minutes long and featured a series of people sunbathing. Super-artsy.

I then made my way over to Jamtil, the open-air museum featuring Swedish life throughout the ages. It was a veritable ghost town so I left rather quickly and went back to the university where I inquired about studying there (they have an incredibly enticing way in which their studies are organized in each semester) and then went to a desk at the library to just read and take notes (soooo relaxing. Just what I’ve been needing).

Knowing Norway is just around the corner, visiting the university, and travelling around meeting new people and seeing old places is really helping me get my head even further set on my shoulders. It’s reinforcing many of the ideals that I developed over the past year (and especially the summer). I’m becoming much more confident in understanding what’s important to me, and what sort of things I enjoy.

This is also something of a difficulty in that while I understand that I want a life in the academic sphere, I’m not sure what part of that sphere I wish to rest in. I listen to my science podcasts and I’m torn towards research (again, I know). I visit the museums and I want to explore archaeology (again, I know). I listen to the languages around me and work to communicate in as many as possible and I want to study language (who’d’ve thunk it?). I read the literature in my bag and I want to find out how to become a palimpsest specialist.

At the least, I know that I want to study in Norway (even if the country does not meet my expectations) because the education itself is free. This means I can spend time exploring my interests a little further (although I sincerely hope to have much of it sorted out by the time I finish my travels. Once I have explored the Mediterranean area I will sit down and try to work out all my conflicting thoughts). Of course, in order to study at the undergraduate level I need to learn Norwegian. German or French (or even possibly Icelandic) would be more useful in the long run, but to make these short term plans work Norwegian is necessary. Hey, at least it’s the easiest language for an English speaker to learn!

Hopefully, when I’m about one month from being done with my travels I’ll start looking for a job in Norway. Then I’ll have about half a year to explore my interests while I work and build up my language skills in preparation for applying for a specific program.

I have but one rant to end this entry: shopping as a tourism prospect. Seriously, how much shit could you possibly need to buy, how much space do you really need to fill, that you have exhausted all retail outlets in a hundred kilometer radius of your home and must fly overseas to a big city, from which you must take a train to a small city, to do more shopping!? C’mon! It is not a wonderful thing that a happy little town like Östersund now has an H&M. What? The fifty H&M’s near you weren’t good enough?

Saturday, October 02, 2010

4:47 PM

Sweden

Train from Copenhagen, having just crossed onto the mainland.

The rest of my time in Innsbruck was lovely. I spent pretty much the rest of my time just wandering around and enjoying the town. My train ride to Copenhagen was nice as well. I was, at first, in a compartment with a woman who spoke virtually no English, yet insisted, for a good five minutes, on talking to me. Eventually the shrugging and lack of response must have clued her in because I was able to spend the next three hours in peace, reading.

Eventually our train was practically taken over by a travelling class heading home to Hamburg. They were chatting away in German and I mumbled to myself, “I’m so confused.” One of them heard this and asked, “You’re English?” “American,” was my reply. Well, that was it. They grabbed some friends from the hall and began talking to me excitedly in English. One of their friends sat next to me, one who had spent a year in Colorado and was apparently quite enthused to use her American English again.

It was very interesting to listen to the girls chatting in their native tongue, because I’ve noticed more and more that the young people of the world act all the same. Their words are different, but their intonations are the same, their frantic gesticulations the same.

Anyway, I was eventually allowed to go to sleep (after much discussion of our respective countries and their related benefits/drawbacks, and my German prasebook with its occasionally funny translations). At some point I awoke to a dark and empty car. I stretched out and fell back asleep, not awakening again until there was sun and many fields around me. Soon the fields gave way to endless ocean which we travelled across on a bridge for at least fifteen minutes before entering a tunnel beneath the water.

When I finally disembarked from the train and set out into Copenhagen, I was pleasantly surprised. Much as had happened when I had first set eyes on Paris, I got an immediate feeling of both comfort and excitement from the city I was in. Copenhagen is truly lovely. I wish I could put my finger on what makes it so much more wonderful than Munich or Berlin, but it is. To an objective eye it may seem much the same as those other cities, but this Danish gem is something else altogether.

For one it has the distinct sense of being “put together.” It’s a town that knows what it’s doing—where, when, and why. I wandered through their bohemian neighborhood, along canals, small shops, and charming buildings. I made my way through the quiet city center to an old fortress standing since 1663 (I believe) and still in military operation today. I wandered back through the streets, through a highly commercial center, out into a park, and back to the train.

I didn’t really want to leave.

For a town that blends the contemporary with the traditional, they do it very skillfully. It’s something Munich seems to be trying to do, but failing in my opinion. Perhaps I will return for the Tivoli(?) amusement park’s Halloween set-up!

Anyway, now I’m on the path to Stockhom, Sweden. I’ll spend the night there and then hopefully have a place to stay in Oslo for tomorrow night. Norway is so close.

Something I’ve noticed about Europe as a whole, now: they really like their graffiti. It’s everywhere on this continent, in every town, on every surface. But it’s some sort of high art, functioning communication here, even in some of its most obscure placement, unlike in NYC. The designs are detailed, intricate, and, frankly, beautiful sometimes. They are, at other times, loud. They say something short and powerful, and often in a place that forces you to imagine the vandal was in possession of wings.

And, finally, I think I am beginning to understand a fundamental difference between Americans and Europeans (or, at least, Northern Europeans, since I have not been to the south yet). This is the reason that I think Europeans, at least the one’s I’ve met, are so desperately in love with America. We Americans—we live out loud. We are fucking loud. And expressive. When you walk through the shopping district of Munich or Copenhagen, there is a soft murmur of activity. Not so in the States! In America there is violent laughter, shouting, running, pushing, screaming, fighting, yelling, and a whole range of extreme bodily expressions. When a group of Americans get on the train, you know. They’re the ones shouting down the length of the train, “Hey BOB! This first class or second? What? NO! We’ll get food later. NO BOB! No we can’t just sit in the food carriage. BOB! Just find our seats okay? And where’re the kids, for Christ-sake?” The only people who seem to compare are Italians—but, then, what did you expect?

Friday, October 01, 2010 (Part Deux)

11:30 AM

Innsbruck, Austria

Bench near the Bergisel, overlooking the city

Ah, so here is a taste of the inspired! Little Innsbruck, a small city in Austria, near the border to Germany—only a two hour train from Munich. Innsbruck is a quiet place, the only sounds are the hum of tires on pavement and the occasional church bell. No one honks, no one crosses until the green man lights up. The buildings are, for the mostpart, what I expected from Germany. Small, multi-colored, and charming. There are a few bad apples here and there, but it’s to be expected in this modern world.

I am sitting up near the Bergiesel, something, I believe, from an old Olympics that was held here, or near here. In front of me I can see at least a dozen church spires, and the orange tops of countless homes. The city is centered at the base of a mountain, the domiciles quickly becoming fewer as you get away from the city center (which looks, from here, to be only about 1-2 kilometers in diameter). So the city rushes back at the mountain and then tapers off at it’s base—you can imagine the city itself struggling to climb, reaching out house-fingers to grasp higher and higher. Some green pastures are occupied, and you can see further homes scattered into the mountain, until, to my right, what looks like a small village makes its final stand against the broad natural impediment to further expansion. This small village stops just below the cloud line, then there is a thick swatch of grey-white clouds, and finally, towering powerfully over everything else rise the mountaintops, capped pristine in snow. It’s as if they rise higher than heaven itself, the way they soar beyond the clouds—it’s almost like a surprise when you see them peeking out.

The mountains must turn up at an incredibly steep angle at that last point where the village ends. It looks less like a mountain and more like extraordinary city walls. I want to walk across town and ascend. There’s little else I can imagine at the moment but scaling its bold face. Now I think what wonderful things must await me in Switzerland!

In my wanderings here I went into a church at random. The outside was plain, and I was unsure whether to even bother. But indoors was a different story! Elaborate paintings covered the ceilings and the walls, nearly a third of everything was either clad in, or made of, gold, and the sheer variety and intricacy of the carvings was heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

Going back a little further even, the train ride was magnificent. It’s too bad that I’ve been spending so much time on night trains. The countryside truly is a wonder. Although I imagine that if I had the opportunity to see everything all day, every train ride, my urge to hop off the train into a strange small town would be uncontrollable. It’s true what I’ve been told! There are quaint little villages, almost all of them (which I passed) having castles or some Medieval thing of the sort in their area. I’ve half a mind to jump a train going back Munich-way and stop off at one of the towns just to see a ruin or two.

Friday, October 01, 2010

7:20 AM

Munich, Germany

Train car at the HBF station, platform 15

The train to Berlin wasn’t bad. The seats didn’t recline, but I met some very nice people. Two girls from a small town in Germany and one French girl travelling from her home in Paris to study in Germany. Of course, it didn’t help that there weren’t any outlets in that train—so my laptop was dead (no studying for me).

When I got to Berlin I left the station, looked at a map, and set off in search of the wonders of Germany!

Yeah. Not really. Berlin’s not much of a town, in my opinion. I wandered through a bunch of neighborhoods, becoming bored to my bones. I felt all that Parisian inspiration just evaporating. I focused myself on finding the remnant of the Berlin Wall. After about three hours of searching through the city I found it. It’s called the East Side Gallery, apparently. It has murals painted all over it on one side. Meh.

Berliners’ really like their graffiti it seems. It’s everywhere, covering subways, monuments, and schools. You can’t turn around without seeing some guerilla art. But the city seems like it’s fit for that. It’s very urban, uninspired in its architecture and unmotivated as cultural center. (I will grant that it was cloudy and rainy that day, but it can’t be much better in the sun)

I’m also finding that everything I thought about the French, is true about the Germans. The French are lovely, warm people, and fairly English-literate as a whole; Germans are rude, curt, and don’t seem to know a word outside their own language. And, as far as the language goes, I expected to love German and hate French, but now, at the end of my German travels, it’s most definitely the other way around.

So utterly bored was I that I went to the train station three hours early and sat around reading the whole time (and being accosted by the local variety of homeless). The station was absolutely freezing, and the train itself was only marginally better (at leas this time I had a reclining seat).

The next day I arrived in Munich and set off for The Tent. By the time I got there and forced my way through a freezing shower, I realized that I don’t think I’ve ever been so consistently cold in my life. With weather like that, perhaps you can understand the German temperament.

I made my way to the Oktoberfest grounds, which were astounding. It was like a huge carnival! Lot’s of games, rides, noise, and, surprisingly, kids everywhere. The beer tents seemed almost an afterthought. I went into a few of them, but I was uncertain as to how the whole operation worked, and what to do since I was alone. The tables were filled with people, some were reserved, there were beermaids rushing around, but I didn’t know how to get a drink from them. I cursed myself for not having researched it better before leaving.

I went back to The Tent and did some internet research, and tried to find a group to go with. I found a tent that was most frequented by the youngsters of the world, and set my sights on grabbing my drink there. So, back to Oktoberfest at the Hofbrau-Festzelt. I found some standing room there and I asked one of the people standing there how to get a drink. He kindly told me that I just ask a beermaid to bring it to my table number. So I stood at his table and asked the lady to bring a beer there.

I was introduced to his friends: a cohort of excitable young Portuguese girls, one of which had a very strong love of quoting Friends and other classic American sitcoms. The company was amusing so I spent the day with them. I only had two mugs of beer (and half of another), but since you can practically shove your head into one of them it’s a bit more extreme than I’m used to. As the night wore on I quickly became aware that I was extraordinarily drunk, agreeing to attend these girls back to their home in a town two hours away by train and then promptly losing the group in my drunken dizziness. I wander around the carnival grounds for a while longer and then…well, to be honest I’m not exactly sure. I got home just fine though! And the next thing I know I’m talking with some Oxford double-PHD student or something. Nice guy. And then I’m strapping my passport to my body and crawling into bed.

The next morning my head was pounding, but I forced myself up and to the store for some fruit juice and water. Replenishing my body, but still in significant pain, I set off in search of the soul of Munich, and therein hopefully the redemption of Germany from my poor experience thus far.

I went down the streets, looking around—it was all well and good, but somehow it felt uninspired and inauthentic. I ate lunch at the Augustiner Restaurant and enjoyed some Weisswurst and minced veal lung. The seat you with other people, and the Germans there were nice enough to show me how to properly eat the sausages, which are brought out in boiling water in a goblet. You cut open the skin and peel it off, then dip it in a sweet mustard and chow down. Oh, and veal lungs: very tasty.

I’m starting to feel like Anthony Bourdain, travelling around wherein the sights become secondary to the mission of acquiring authentic food at any cost.

The waiter was a pretty cool guy, if looking a little crazed in the lunch hour rush. When I asked for water he says, “Vis poppers? Or visout poppers?” Took me a minute to figure that one out.

I went on through a famous courtyard, to the archeological museum, to the art museum. The art museum was excellent. I turned around at one point and saw Albrect Durer staring me in the face. The self-portrait of Durer. I better get used to it, being in Europe and all.

On my way back to The Tent I met a New Yorker, and she introduced me to her friends (more New Yorkers and Connecticutians!) and I spent the night with them (went back to the Augustiner and the fairgrounds). Munich is more or less that same at night. Disappointing. Yeah, it looks nice, but it’s missing something. I don’t know what.

Oh well, on to Innsbruck, Austria! My feet are killing me, but I think they’re getting used to it. My back too, from carrying my bag all day (I seriously need to get rid of some books). My boots are getting really worn down, the heels are nearly gone. And my left knee keeps getting this strange warm feeling every once in a while I’m walking. A bit worrying. I should probably let it rest more today.

Ah, and about not looking American: I think the leather jacket, for some reason, makes people see my nationality very easily. I put it on, people assume I’m American—take it off, European.

Anyway, I’m headed to Innsbruck, even though I’m not exactly sure what to expect there. I don’t know anything about it, except that I’ve heard the name before. Then I’m considering beginning my Scandinavian journeys. But we’ll see where I am in a few days.