Beyond The Hole
Urban Backpacking Wisdom
November 15, 2002 @ 03:57 AM
Train-riding, hostel-sleeping, lonely-planet-toting, euro-tourists often describe themselves as backpackers. But they aren’t. Not backpackers in the real sense of the word. Sure they have backpacks, and they carry their stuff around in these backpacks, but they don’t truly live out of their packs. When I hear the word backpacker, I envision some hardy soul trekking cross-country through harsh climes with food, water, clothing — everything they need to sustain life — right there on their backs. These sorts of backpackers would frown on tourists calling themselves such, but then again I might be wrong.
In any case, to avoid confusion I prefer to refer to this form of lesser backpacking as urban backpacking. And when I say lesser, I don’t mean to imply that it is any less difficult, less rewarding, or those that engage in it are less ambitious, less capable, or less human — because I have found none of these to be true. Urban backpacking is simply a vastly different game then its outdoor cousin, played on a different field with different rules and different rewards. What follows is the accumulated wisdom of my nine weeks spent urban backpacking Europe.
Go solo. Or, at least be prepared to go it on your own. Traveling with a friend will ease your introduction, but will also let you ignore your weaknesses. Also, depending on your friend and the dynamics of your relationship, you may feel obligated to accommodate them too often. Holidays are short, make the most of your time. Travelling solo is an empowering experience. You may not always be having fun, but you’ll come away a stronger person.
Your journal is your friend. Often your only friend. You probably want to return home sanity intact, doing so requires a journal. Apply your journal daily whenever you have a rash of loneliness or become homesick. If you don’t speak the native language of the country you’re traveling in, you’ll miss intelligible conversation with humans. Instead “talk” to your journal. Give it a name. Don’t lose it. Additionally, I’d also recommend bringing a small pair of scissors, a glue stick, roll of scotch tape, and a spare pen. Then when while you’re writing about the places you’ve been, things you’ve learned, the people you meet, and other hard to remember details — you can glue notes, scrapes, pressed-flowers, dead bugs — whatever tangible bits you come across — right there in your journal! One warning, if you are lucky enough to meet any attractive members of the opposite sex, refrain from writing about how you fancy them until you’re on the train to the next town — they just might pounce on you and read it!
Two pairs of underwear is enough. One for wearing, the other for hanging on the outside of your backpack to dry. Not only is this fashionable, it also serves to let your peers know that, you too are a tourist and likely speak English. Believe it or not, underwear drying on your pack will find you new friends.
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Salzburg: Cafe Culture
August 18, 2002 @ 07:03 AM
Hallo, I am here in touristy downtown Salzburg! Unfortunately this post will have to be short, computer time is expensive here; money I have ear marked for confectionary treats!
First impressions of Salzburg: its not at all what I had expected. The cute half-timbered houses of my imagination are replaced, in reality, with old stone buildings. There is a permanent, solid feel, to this town. Like Munich and what I have seen of Germany, life in Salzburg seems organized and efficient, but by no means hectic. The coffee here is excellent, if that’s any indication of the quality of life (and it should be)! No offense to my friends in Germany, but the coffee I had there was not too far removed from dishwater. Perhaps Austria is a bit more fine-tuned culturally. Still, how does one explain those feathered Bavarian hats?
My activities: today is my third full day here. I´m planning to stay until Wednesday when I leave for Amsterdam. My appetite for sight-seeing has plummeted as my trip nears its unfortunate end. Instead, I’ve spent my time in Salzburg relaxing, enjoying (many cups of) the fine coffee, lounging outside in the warm summer air, biking along the river in search of the best picnic spots, making new friends, and meeting family.
This past Friday I met, for the first time, my distant relations here in Salzburg: Heidi and Ursula. They were most gracious, serving me coffee and cake, of which I can never seem to get enough, and thus eagerly took seconds, or perhaps thirds. I gave them a thorough account of my travels and we chatted into the early evening. I regret not having more time to visit and getting to know them better. (Heidi or Ursi — if you’re reading this, e-mail me, I’d love to hear from you)!
Salzburg is crawling with musicians and most of the tourist activities revolved around music. My first night in town I went to a concert in Mirabell Palace with my dorm mate Michael. Staying at the hostel are a number of music students studying here for the summer. You can often hear them practicing in their rooms during the day, and so far has been everywhere from pleasant to downright nerve wracking for some of the violinists. I’ve never heard Mozart, Brahm, et al. butchered in so many interesting ways.
One of the students, Helen, has been playing the violin since age five and is hoping to give private performances for various British aristocrats when she returns home to Scotland.
Before Salzburg and after Paris, I spent three days in Alsace, not far from the German border in what used to actually be part of Germany. Alsace is famous for its wine and its vineyards and its German tourists. People are more likely to speak German, then English. The tourists are everywhere and the vineyards are everywhere. I did a little hiking through some vineyards, visited a surprisingly fine little museum in Colmar — so nice they even let me check my baguette at the clockroom — sampled some wine, ate way too many Doner Kebabs, and spent my last night getting sick :-) All in all though a fun place. Well I´ve got to run, expect more when I get to Amsterdam — can hardly believe my trip ends in little more then a week. I´ve been traveling so long I´ve nearly forgotten what home is like — but it will be nice too see all of you once again. Miss you all.
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Madrid & Paris
August 11, 2002 @ 02:46 AM
Bonjour guys — I’m writing here in Paris with the dead time until my train to Strousbourg arrives later this afternoon. The French keyboard layout is driving me mad. It looks touch-type-able at first glance, but in actuality you spend half your time bouncing on the backspace and reverting to hunt-and-peck mode, as if some wayward child has swapped just enough keys to throw you off. But I digress, I believe I last left you hanging in Madrid, so let me continue from there…
The bullfight in Madrid. Why oh why did I go to see a bullfight? I suppose I was curious in such a way that couldn’t be satisfied except seeing this brutality first hand. Totally gruesome sport, if you can call it such, as it didn’t seem very sporting. At the outset I was intrigued — the music, the costumes — all comical and light-hearted. The matadores parade around, then they let out the bull, who, looking more confused then pissed, stands there waiting. What follow is a lot of not-especially-brave-looking attempts by the matadores to provoke the bull by flipped their brightly color capes around and shouting, then making a direct line to hide safely behind the nearest wall. After which some guy on a horse comes out wielding a trident spear-like-sharp-thing on a pole and the matadores lead the bull to charge the guy on the horse — who when within range levels his weapon at the top of the bull’s back. And the bull gores the horse — which is wearing what looked like some kind of wooden armor — not the rider. It gets worse.
Matadores come out with barbed darts and try to plant them in the bulls back over and over until finally the main matador comes out and proceeds to wear out the bull by provoking it to charge again and again until finally when the bull can barely put up any kind of a fight the matador draws his sword and ends it.
All of this is accompanied by much cheering, even as the bull’s corpse is drug out of the arena by a team of horses. I think for a sport to be entertaining, requires a certain amount of fairness and uncertainty — here with the bull fight you know exactly what’s going to happen, it’s just a matter of when. I only stayed for two rounds; sitting in the train station and waiting to catch the night train had more appeal.
After a restless night’s sleep on the train we were awoken at the border crossing. In line, as I fumbled for my passport, senses still numb in the cold morning air, I was greeted with an unfamiliar “bohn-zhoor.” I was now in France; a fact for which I was not prepared mentally. I panicked, tried to hide it, and went to find the connecting train to Bordeaux.
Once in Bordeaux, I sleepily wandered the station — trying to regain my wits and devise the next course of action. Soon, I realized I had no desire to stay in Bordeaux. Turning right around, I hopped a train to Paris. I wasn’t looking forward to Paris either, the whole notion made me sick. I had heard a lot of horror stories — high prices, disdain for Americans, the filth and smell, and tourists, everywhere tourists. But somehow I forced myself to trudge on — to buck up and convince myself it would be good for me and I’d be thankful later. Little did I expect to stay more than a few days.
As my high-speed TGV train careened around corners, creaking in a variety of alarming ways, I imagined the worst ahead and decided I’d rather take my chances continuing on this old mule of a train, then arrive in Paris. My heart sank as we drew into the city.
First impressions: all the above grips are pretty spot on, except most of the people are actually very nice. Everyone has dogs, they poop everywhere, and the only party that seems to be responsible are the guys driving the narrow sidewalk-cleaning trucks with front-mounted, fully-articulate, 500 PSI, poop-removing water nossels. I took a picture of one such custodian in action, to which he returned a rude hand gesture (no time for fun, now that’s dedication)!
Another interesting observation, every morning water erupts from all the manhole covers and streams through the streets. Seems rather foul; I haven’t been able to make sense of it.
My first two days in Paris I spent sight-seeing. This place is so packed with tourists, all the main attractions require a 2-hour wait. So, I spent some time exploring alternatives options: I toured the Montmartre cemetery, took a stroll through the catacombs and saw huge piles of human bones, walked up the hill to Sacre Coeur, and went in every bookstore I could find, (of which there are a lot).
Despite the crowds, I still managed to see the Arc De Triomphe, Notre Dame, and the Musee d’Orsay. I decided against visiting the Louvre after hearing one lose weeks inside and still not see everything. Besides, my patience for museums of any size or importance was at this point in time, considerably lacking.
Day three, I came down with a case of digestive sensitivity, plus a fever, and spent 35 out of the next 48 hours sleeping. My mood sank even lower, I was thoroughly miserable. Thankfully, after my prolonged rest and with the aid of some over-the-counter drugs riding in my backpack (thanks Mom!), I managed to drag myself out of bed and spend a day visiting the Eiffel Tower with Ryan, a guy staying in my room.
Now, being the day after, I feel great and my spirits are returning. Just in time, its past time I returned to the road. Next stop, Colmar and the Route de Vin!
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Seville, Arcos, & Granada
August 04, 2002 @ 08:35 AM
Hola! Let me poke my head out of Spain and fill you in on what I’ve been up to lately. I am currently spending the day in Madrid after a week down south in Andalucia — Seville, Arcos de la frontera, and Granada. Tempted mightily, I almost jumped across the Strait of Gibraltar and into Morocco to get myself a rug or fez, but decided to save that wild place for another time. From what I hear its not the safest place to travel alone and the recent fighting between Spain and Morocco has me even more wary.
So what is Andalucia like? Its hot. When I was in Seville it was around 40C (about 100F). I am finally starting to adjust to the Spanish schedule — get up around 9 or 10, have a small breakfast, then a big lunch between 12-2, then siesta from 2-5, and back to work from 5-9. If you are young you may then party until 4-6 in the morning.
It’s 4PM now as I write this — just got back from a big lunch — two thoroughly fried courses with bread, desert, and beer for 8 euro — and I think that is a bit on the expensive side for Spain. If I’m rambling its probably the beer.
Let me touch on some high- and low-lights of the last week in rough chronological order: On the trip from Barcelona to Seville, I missed my connecting train in Madrid and spent the next five hours bouncing between more then ten different desks (no kidding, I lost count after I started seeing red) — ticket counters and help desks — trying to get my ticket moved to a later train only to have no recourse but to buy a brand-spankin’-new ticket.
Later in Seville, I rented a room from a crazy old Spanish man with one good eye who spoke no English. Visited the Seville cathedral and saw Columbus’ tomb, only to learn that its not the only one — this of course made no sense to me, but I seeing as how I was drafting a tour group I didn’t pay for, I wasn’t at liberty to ask questions.
Then came the plunge of faith. For no reason other then a hearty Rick Steve recommendation, I decided I’d visit Arcos de la frontera. A scenic bus ride south and I stood amidst little white-washed buildings without another tourist in sight. Luckily there was a tourist office and I managed to find a place to stay: Senor Gonzales Oca’s pension. Who, although he spoke no English, managed to convey his close personal friendship with Rick Steves. The next day, as my bravery had recently been paying off, I asked Oca for a haircut. Now its a pretty risky proposition — getting a haircut when you can only describe what you want with hand gestures — but it turned out alright — certainly worth six euro. And I got a shave out of the deal, despite my wishes; Oca insisted. I could have sworn I said no when he asked, but when he threw my chair back and went at my neck with the straight razor I thought it best to just hold still…
The previous night I ventured downtown in search of paella — what I found was yellow rice with all manner of interesting and hard to identify sea critters. The little crab in the middle was cute, I even tried to eat it. I don’t think I was supposed too.
On the way back to Seville, had a very rousing conversation with an old timer in Spanish. Our throughput was perhaps five complete thoughts per hour, but the experience was rewarding nonetheless. Also met a nice German couple who offered to put me up should I ever visit them in Hamburg. Discussed how we are all sick of living out of supermarkets — I shared a little bit of Americana with them, telling them about Costco, big SUVs, big refrigerators, and big houses in America.
Back to Seville, I ran into some Scottish girls who had just come from Morocco in a book store — they had me convinced I should go. That night I went out for drinks and tapas with my 18-year old roommates from Bristol — another free place to stay in the future should I desire it. They call me Daz — apparently that is the popular shortening of Darren. All in all, a good day for making friends.
In Grenada, bunked with two South Korean kids in the hostel, Jason and Stephen. Unbeknownst to us our bunks were infested with some kind of remorseless blood-suckin’ parasitic tick chiggers who ruthlessly made a meal of Stephen, but spared Jason and I. Fortunately we got our money back.
I really need to wash my clothes as I might be carrying eggs. But I digress… pests aside, Grenada is a fun half-Spanish, half-Arabic place. Everything is either cheap or free. If you go to a bar and order drinks you get free food (tapas) — all manner of interesting and tasty morsels — add that to the fact that a beer is only about $1.20, you can have an entire meal just by ordering drinks. Even better wandering around late at night you’re constantly harassed by people handing out flyers for free drinks to get you into their bar.
Ran into the two Scottish girls from the Seville bookstore and their French Canadian pals doing just that — its a small world. Amongst all these late night activities I even managed to spend a day in the Alhambra — a conquered moorish fortress. Mom, you would’ve loved the gardens.
Today, spent the morning on a train and have an eight hour layover this in Madrid, continuing to Bordeaux this evening. My connecting train is a sleeper that leaves at 10:45pm. With any luck I should be in France tomorrow morning, poorly-rested but not bug-ridden. When you can get on them, the long-distance AVE trains here are quite nice. My train from Barcelona to Madrid clicked along at 160KPH (90MPH I believe)!
Thats all for now — gotta run and see if I can stomach a bull fight before I am slated to be back at the train station. Just when I was growing accustomed to Spain and starting to learn some spanish, its time to leave. Someday I will have to come back and explore Portugal, Spain, and Morocco more thoroughly. Till next time, ciao!
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Leaving Barcelona
July 29, 2002 @ 12:44 PM
Just back from a mad picture snapping spree at La Sagrada Familia. Trying to move tourists through that thing is like herding cattle.
Arrived back at the high security Las Ramblas Center hostel to find two Italian kids in their tighty whities. Oh joy. Found out I had to pay for clean sheets; I wasn´t looking forward to sleeping directly on my likely contaminated hostel bed. Festering wound on knee is plenty. Considering ointment.
Back at the EasyInternet cafe, wonder how this place is setup. Will analyze bootup garbage on my way out. 10 minutes and counting. Met a nice girl from Rotterdam on the Metro today. Lonely Planet guides and/or Chacos are a clear indications of fluency in English. She told me of a hostel in the Pyrenees where I could do some hiking and stay with a friendly family. Really considering ditching southern Spain altogether and spending some time in the mountains relaxing. Cities are not the place to relax. Regardless will catch the train to Seville bright and early tomorrow morning. Skipping San Sebastian in favor of hiking might be in order. Time running out. Ciao!
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Barcelona: Camera Shopping
July 29, 2002 @ 08:21 AM
Finally broke down and bought a new camera. When I ducked into the Pentax service shop this morning and found out the needed replacement part is no longer available from the manufacturer, it was clearly time to go camera shopping. A couple metro rides and a bit of walking later I found myself at the Fotoprix being helped by a nice young man who spoke broken English. With his help, bought myself a simple Canon Elph, called an IXUS here in Spain. I don´t dare check Amazon to compare prices to what I paid; I´m sure I paid more then I would have in the states.
Now, I’m off to retrace some steps, and take up as much photographic slack from the past couple weeks before I catch out for Seville tomorrow morning. Hasta leugo.
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Barcelona: Sants Estacion
July 29, 2002 @ 12:02 AM
Well spent four hours waiting in line at the train station yesterday only to find out the night train to Seville is booked solid until the 18th. Drat. So, I guess I will be taking the day train Tuesday to Madrid, and then on to Seville. I’m pleased to announce that during my wait, I put together an itinerary for the last four weeks of my trip. It goes something like: Barcelona to Seville to San Sebastian to Bordeaux to Paris to Alsace to Salzburg to Bruges to Amsterdam. Wish me luck. Its only been one day and my itinerary has almost run aground!
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Cape Dail, Monaco
July 28, 2002 @ 04:21 AM
Buenos dias from Barcelona. Last I write, I was relaxing on the beach in Nice. But just as I was growing accustomed to living on bread and cheese, I heard the call of the rails and pushed on to Barcelona.
Travelling to a new place every couple days breeds a certain infectious sort of impatience. You grow accustomed to new surroundings, new people, and the best experiences every single day. Bustling change becomes the norm, and anything remotely sedentary is unbearably frustrating. Such was the case in Nice.
I had a delightful final night: dinner at the hostel, then a nice long stroll on the waterfront. Meet an interesting woman and her seven-year old son, Max.
Max speaks both English and French, his mother being English and fluent in French from living in Nice for 10 years. When conversing with Max, she alternates English and French every other sentence. Max prefers French, but seems to understand both quite well. Seems best to get them started young.
Also met a nice couple from England, an American who´s been living in Amsterdam the past 4 months, and an older Italian man vacationing from his stressful day-trading career in Milan.
Spent the next day in opulent Monaco. Quite a clean little place, keenly pruned hedges, open-air escalators, security cameras, and all the other toys and trappings of some very wealthy people. Monaco´s three harbors must contain one of the largest and nicest collection of yachts, sail and speed boats I´ve ever had the chance to stroll amongst. And of course looking through the parking spaces near these same harbors, one is quite likely to see all manner of opulent cars. While I was there, I saw a number of Ferraris, 911s, Benzi, and even a couple Rolls Royces.
Saw the Monte Carlo casino from the outside. Nice big helipad its seaward side. Walked up the hill to the prince´s palace, where they have some guards equipped with silly hats marched back and forth. Went to the aquarium.
Went to the car museum. Lots of Roll Royces, Bentleys, early Fords, Cadillacs, Fiats, and Peugots — early Fiats remind me of the mock slot cars that you often find at fairs — the ones kids can hop in and pretend to steer. Nicest looking cars there, a ´37 Jaguar and a ´68 Maserati. Stealthily clipped some from flowers from the garden before taking off.
That evening took a night train to Barcelona. Arriving at the station around 11pm, I proceeded to wedge myself into the rather sardine-can accomidations; six bunks to each cabin. Sheets were provided and I brought my own snacks to litter them crumbs. Lights out and we we´re on our way. If it´s possible to be lulled asleep by the lurching of a train, it happened to me that night.
A most old and ill-tuned buzzer sounded our arrival in Spain at 7am the next morning. Catching a connecting train, I was in Barcelona by 9am.
Found a very nice hostel run by a spanish guy named Moses. He even did my laundry for free. Barcelona is a comfortable place for its size. Have been doing lots of sight seeing in the five days I´ve been here. Ran into James Tingey at his pottery workshop in Poble Espanyol — a small mock town where each building represents a different style and time period of Spanish architecture. Nick Martin was there, trying to spike a giant melon with Rum.
Went to the Picasso museum. Went to the Zoo.
Don´t go to the zoo. It was depressing. Poorly kept, sick looking animals. They had a penguin exhibit with some of the mangiest penguins I´d ever seen. In their cage grew all many of cacti, very odd sight. The crowning sight was an elephant reliving itself — really quite stomach-turning, but I just couldn’t avert my gaze.
Ah and most insane and disturbing thing happened to me yesterday. Whilst sun bathing in a public park, a Syrian man came up to me and told me I was very sexy — which earned him a very puzzled look from me in exchange — apparently not what he was expecting. At that point I decided it was a really bad idea to sun bath in such a place and quickly gathered my belongings and pressed on in the afternoon sun.
Shortly thereafter I then ran into what I think were some pick pockets or muggers. Walking around looking lost with my map out, a man approached me from behind trying to get my attention in Spanish. He seemed interested in my map, so I handed it to him. Then another man approached, flashing some kind of phony looking ID and asking for our passports. The first man quickly whipped his out. I told him no and started to walk away he told me to wait.
When I asked to see his papers first, he became uncomfortable and told me to leave; I happily did making sure neither followed. I suspect if I had pulled out my passport (in my money belt normally, safely locked up at my hostel) they would then have made a grab for the whole thing.
I´ve met some interesting folk at this hostel. A couple young spanish guys, three Brazilians, a girl from Quebec, two older women from Germany, an Aussie, and last night three gents from England. I´m the only American.
Ran into Perry from Rome at the net cafe, such a small world. So whats next? Tomorrow I leave for southern Spain: Granada, Seville that area. Really looking forward to it, although not the weather. It was about 100F there the other day. Wish me luck…
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Italy to Nice
July 22, 2002 @ 08:39 AM
Bonjour! The last couple of weeks have been a blur, and I am falling seriously behind on keeping you all up to date. Apologies to any who’ve sent me email and haven’t yet received a reply. You will, that is when I find a cheap net cafe.
So let’s play catch up here. When last I wrote I believe I was in Venice. Mike and I have since been to Florence, went to the Uffizi museum, didn’t see the David. Then to Siena, a day trip to the hill town San Gimingano, four nights in Rome, where we stayed at a hostel, Michaelangelo’s Palace, which might just have been a flop house! One of those days we went to the Vatican where my camera mysteriously stopped working in the Cathedral — coincidence I hope.
South to Sorrento, where the hostel lost our reservation and we ended up camping hobo-style on some luxurious cardboard boxes we found behind a dumpster. Another day trip, this time to Positano on the Amalfi coast, where it rained, a lot, then was sunny, go figure. Then back North for nine hours by train to Cinque Terre on the Italian Riviera up by France.
Mike left for Barcelona after a couple days, myself staying behind. The food, the scenery, and the weather were so idyllic I could hardly tear myself away. But depart I did, just the other day. I already miss my morning cappuccino. Just as I was growing accustomed to Italy and getting by quite well, its time to move on.
I now find myself on the French Riviera in Nice for the day but staying in a great hostel in Cap D’ial near Monaco. The place is right on the water, must be worth a fortune. It amazes me someone decided to make a hostel out of it and then only charge 13 euro a night. They even serve three course dinners for $8.50.
In my two days in Nice I’ve visited the Musee D’Art Moderne Et D’Art Contemporain, fun exhibit there: a Niki de Saint Phalle collection. You’ve probably seen some of it, she creates a lot of stuff with paintball guns, as well as some rather cartoonish sculptures of large women with small featureless heads and limbs in bright bathing suits. My favorite piece was what looked to be a rather Christian looking bronze shrine, complete with Jesus on the cross, yet also sporting lots of toy rifles and machine guns, random doll parts, and one very ugly spread-winged bat in the middle framed on either side by a sneering weasel heads. Wish I had a camera.
Shortly thereafter I stumbled upon a free orchestra concert outside, good opportunity to rest my feet. That night I went to the annual Nice Jazz festival, but only for a little bit as I then had to run back to the train station to make it back to the hostel by midnight (ick curfew).
Today I went to the beach :-) Highly recommended, bring a picnic lunch, and watch women of all ages bath topless while you eat (I am here to observe French culture). Whats up next: I leave on a night train for Barcelona the 23rd, arriving early in the morning on the 24th. Cheers for now.
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A Stormy Venice Eve
July 03, 2002 @ 12:28 PM
Buon giorno! It’s raining here in Venice. Yet, unlike Oregon, its actually quite warm and enjoyable. The natives however seem to have a differing opinion, ducking under any and all available shelter at the slightest sprinkle.
This city is such a wonderfully chaotic labyrinth of bridges, canals, and alleys. There isn’t a whole lot else to see, but there’s plenty of exploring to be had, and getting lost is as much pleasure as pain. Perhaps the only thing easier then losing your way is finding a gelato (ice cream) stand to lift your spirits. Through some logic which defies my understanding, I seem to eventually find my way. Mike and I are renting a room in an old Catholic Church on the North side of town.
Previously we spent two nights in the little town of Gimmelwald, perched high in the Swiss Alps. Gimmelwald sports a hostel full of friendly alpine hikers and climbers, a handful of cows, chickens, and goats, three families, and some of the most breath-taking scenary imaginable. I hurt my foot somewhere along the way, too much hiking in sandals I suspect. So instead of exploring the countryside as I would have liked, I walked up the mountain a bit, plopped down in the grass and ate some local strawberries while marveling at the countryside.
Dime is running out now, gotta go. More soon! Yours in haste.
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Alive in Munich
June 27, 2002 @ 02:09 AM
Hallo! I am alive and well sitting in a net cafe next to my traveling buddy Mike in downtown Munich.
My flight was mostly uneventful. I split my fourteen hours of flight time amongst friendly conversation with drunk Canadians, a selection of tasteless movies, and attempting to get precious sleep. I bought a sci-fi novel in PDX — William Gibson’s Neuromancer — but was too nervous to focus and read. The flight food wasn’t actually bad — by no means good, just not bad. Security made me open my pack, but they did such a lame job riffling through it, they wouldn’t have found anything malicious unless it was unwrapped and packed on top. Perhaps they were hoping I’d get nervous and make a run for it?
I got into Frankfurt at 10:30am, tired from lack of sleep and sore from sitting. Fuddled with the telephones trying to call Mike and Shannon at Peter’s. The phones use smart cards, but they aren’t keyed, so they fit in the phones upside down — not that I did this, mind you, just that you could. Got a hold of Shannon — what a relief — arranged to meet her and Mike at the train station in Munich at 4pm. Got my EuroPass validated and hopped on a fast ICE train to Munich (yes, it really was that easy)! Most people seem to speak English here, although they aren’t always quick to admit it, humble I suppose. The ride was nice: smooth, quiet and fast; I had trouble staying awake. One man across from me was sipping on a giant beer can with an elephant on the side. I found this very amusing.
Once off the train in Munich, I ran into Mike and Shannon as I neared the end of the platform. That evening Peter and Shannon took us out for German food. Heavy stuff that German food. Due to the limited amount of space at Peter’s, they had arranged for us to stay with their friends, Jenny and Ed.
The next day the four of us met at the train station and hopped on a southbound train to do some hiking in the Bavarian Alps. The scenery there was unbelievable. If I believed in God perhaps I’d feel close. I can hardly imagine anything more idyllic.
Some highlights include: enjoying a “refreshing” beer after a long hike (tip: this is a good way to get dehydrated), sleeping in a mountain hut, dangling my precious toes in a blue-green mountain lake where I was besieged by a small army of fish who — no doubt trying to eat me — only succeeded in tickling me relentlessly. I also managed to climb the summit of a peak, stomach a fresh glass of buttermilk (ugh), and spot a rather volumous German man hiking in a size-too-small speedo. The food and beer here are excellent, especially the confectionaries. I had a apfelstrudel the other morning which I can still taste.
My feet are holding out well, even after two days of hiking with only sandals.
Tomorrow is the first day Mike and I will be on our own. We’re both a bit apprehensive and unsure of what to do. We’ve done little planning and already feel rushed. However we did agree that we should head for Switzerland next. That´s all for now. More soon. Hope all of you are well.
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Backpacking Europe
June 09, 2002 @ 04:50 PM
The following was originally an email I sent to friends and family. I’ve included it here for completeness.
Greetings friends and family. As some of you may know, I am planning a backpacking trip in Europe this summer with my good friend Mike. My flight leaves June 24th, little more than a week after graduation (June 16th). Many of you have expressed interest in hearing about the journey, and I expect to be quite eager to share stories about the many delightful and not-so-delightful people and places I encounter.
I’ve created a mailing list to which I will feed my tales from the road. This message is an invitation to join that list, and follow the electronic trails of my adventure. Expect to hear some whining about day-to-day obstacles, poetic waxing, a whole lot of reflection on culture, travel, life, and rambling on whatever else finds my fancy. So I bid you please join, at the very least to laugh at my misadventures. If you find it anything less then evocative you can always unsubscribe.
To subscribe, send a blank email to:
beyondthehole-subscribe@yahoogroups.com
You should then receive an email confirming your request with further instructions. If you have any problems please let me know. Once subscribed, expect to hear from me (and only me) once or twice a week. Thanks for reading. Hopefully I’ll see most of you before I leave, but if not take care and have a great summer!
