I move out of my apartment. I won't need one for a while. I put what's left of my personal belongings in a 5x5 foot storage unit downtown. I've got 35 pounds of gear in the new backpack that I bought just for this trip (my old one that I used for twelve years finally disintegrated). Contents include: sleeping bag, bivy sack, thermal layers, weather proof shell, cook stove, dried food, maps, compass, wool socks, first aid kit, hunting knife, snow gaiters, European guide book, etc. Nothing big, just thirty small things that add up to a heavy load. I spend half the day in my empty apartment trying to figure out how to fit everything I need into my pack, and what I can possibly leave behind. Do I need seven pairs of socks? I can get by on four. Do I need three pairs of pants? I can make it work with two. Do I need every chapter in my guide book? I surgically remove a hundred useless pages. I catch the MAX train to the Portland Airport, and then spend 20 hours in transit: Portland to Vancouver to Montreal to Geneva. A cheap flight equals a long flight.
Day 2 (9-02-09)
I haven't slept at all, but feel okay. I arrive in Geneva around 10am. Customs consists of a sign that says "If you don't have anything to claim, exit through this door." So I do, and find my way to the city train, which I take downtown for free. I meander for a while and try to get my bearings. By chance, I walk directly past City Backpackers Hostel. I decide to snag a private room rather than a bunk. I've not slept in two days, and want some serious sleep tonight.
Thunderstorms roll in as I explore the lakefront of Lake Geneva and the old city center in a sleep deprived, culture shocked daze. I get soaked and hide under an ancient tree in the park for a while. I'm glad that I'm not up in the Alps today. It's gotta be hell up there. Geneva is clean and green. Everyone speaks French in this region. My first impression is that I've not seen a single homeless person or junkie. Not one person has asked me for money yet. A welcome change of pace from Portland. I sleep, but not well at all.
Day 3 (9-03-09)
It's still raining. I find my way to the bus station and manage to buy a ticket to Chamonix, France. I've read that it's cheaper and faster than the train. Chamonix is tucked in a narrow valley, directly at the base of Mont Blanc. Occasional holes in the cloud cover and wet weather grant me brief peeks at the white giant. I meet two Americans on the bus ride, Trey and Byron. They are army buddies back from Iraq, heading to the Alps to hike the Haute Route, a famous trail that goes from Mont Blanc to the Matterhorn. I'm actually planning on hiking it after I finish my first hike, the Tour Du Mont Blanc, a 120 mile trail that circumnavigates the Mont Blanc massif through France, Italy, and Switzerland. I end up getting a couple of beers with Trey and Byron in Chamonix at a British pub. I consider altering my plan so that our routes will be identical for the first two days, or just doing the Haute Route first with them, but that would require a huge shift in my psyche at this point, and I'd risk not having the energy or good weather left to do the hike I want the most, so I stick to my plan. I really hope this weather breaks soon. I stay in a private room at a small hotel in the old city center. Still can't sleep at all. Feeling very strung out.
Day 4 (9-04-09)
It's STILL raining. this could be a huge issue. It must be snowing up there where I'm going. I swing by the mountaineering store to buy a topo map of the region. I get dizzy in the store. Too hot and crowded inside with my backpack and rain gear on, and not enough sleep. I hit a cafe for a sandwich which helps a lot. It's hard to order food unless I can see it on display and can point to what I want. This usually dictates where I eat.
I manage to figure out the local bus schedule and hop a bus to Le Houches, a small village down the valley from Chamonix where I will start my hike tomorrow. I really want to camp, but it's raining so hard that I decide to get as much dry warm sleep as I can before heading up into the mountains. I find a local hotel, and inquire about rates for a single. It's $75, so I ask if they have anything way cheaper. They end up giving me a tiny room in the basement with no bathroom for $35. Works for me. I have to use a toilet that is literally in a mop bucket closet, but it is better than sleeping in the rain, and cheaper than a fancy room that I don't want or need. I finally get some real sleep.
Day 5 (9-05-09)
I wake up early and immediately look out at the sky. It is a mess, but I can tell that it is different today. This is fog, not rain. And I think it'll burn off by noon. I gear up, fill up my water from the tap, hit the road, and find the trailhead at the edge of town. If I'm wrong about the weather, I can always turn back, and sleep in the Le Houches basement again. Otherwise, this is it!
The trail begins with a brutal climb straight up out of the valley, past rows of chalets and vacation homes. Most are unoccupied at the moment. It's too late for the summer season, and too early for the winter ski season. It's the sweet spot for hikers looking to ditch the crowds. Beyond the chalets are the steep green meadows of numerous ski runs cut through the forest. After about two hours of steep hiking, the fog begins to lift and for the first time since I arrived in Europe I see the sun, blue skies, and Mont Blanc in its entirety. It's the largest mountain in all of Europe, over 15,000 feet tall. The view is epic. I reach a junction where I can choose the high route that climbs way up through the 7300 foot mountain pass, Col Du Tricot, or the low route that skirts the far outside. At the junction is a corral filled with bulls, and three frenchmen are chasing a bull through a meadow, trying to get it to run into the pen. After watching this spectacle for a bit, I start climbing up the Col Du Tricot high route. This route takes me through several fields with grazing bulls, and past glacial runoff streams and a long suspension bridge crossing. The glaciers that cling to Mont Blanc reach all the way down to my trail in places. There are gates that allow entry through the bull grazing pastures. At these gates are warning signs with many instructions describing how to not agitate the bulls. Unfortunately the signs are only in French...
After a long steep climb I reach the Col, ditch my pack and make a forty five minute side trip up to the summit. From here I can see Mont Blanc, the villages and valleys below, and the long trail I climbed to get here. The alpine slopes are steep, almost vertigo-inducing, but the views are epic. I'm alone, except for the sheep. Livestock inhabits even the most remote places here. Mostly cows, bulls, and sheep. I like the company.
The descent down the other side of the pass is more grueling than the climb. I'm careful not to slip or turn an ankle on the loose rocks. I pass two mountain refuges on the multi hour descent. These are typically working farms that have opened their doors to hikers and climbers, offering drinks, meals, and lodging. I stop at a seemingly utopian refuge, the name of which I forget, and buy a five dollar bottle of coke, which they serve to me on a silver platter with a glass (only in France...) I sit in the meadow outside the refuge, savoring every sip of the sugar water, listening to several groups of French hikers enjoying their wine and cheese, and take it the storybook view. It takes several more hours to reach the small village of Les Contamines where I plan to camp tonight.
I swing by the local pub in Les Contamines for a beer before checking on campsites and end up making friends with a British couple, Ian and Corinna, who have lived here for three years. They invite me back to their chalet for dinner and lodging. They seem legit to me. I think they are just a little lonely, as British ex-patriots living in France, and not fluent in the language which can make good friendships here difficult. I feel like a long lost nephew or something. They keep my wine glass full of the good local stuff, as we eat grilled fish and chips. Then we watch BBC on the tele, and I tell them about the hike I'm doing. Their son is 13. He has learned to speak fluent French and is thriving here. The entire first floor of their three story chalet is an apartment where I stay. I thought I'd be camping tonight, but am instead in the lap of luxury. I sleep like a king.
Day 6 (9-06-09)
Ian offers me a ride back into town, but I decline. I'm here to walk, not ride, so I get an early start. Corinna gives me a bag with chocolate bars, avacados, and and a croissant. The hike today is another brutal climb, longer and higher than yesterday's, and there will be no town waiting for me at the end of the day. It starts with an old Roman road that climbs steeply through the forest. This ancient road is barely distinguishable as a road, other than the large rocks that peek out of the steep mossy incline through the trees. Roman armies used to march up this very road when traversing the Alps. I'm sure French armies, German armies, maybe even American armies have done the same. I climb for hours. The forest gives way to alpine meadows filled with grazing cows and bulls, each with a huge bell around its neck. The chaotic orchestral movement performed inadvertently by these hungry beasts is hypnotic. I climb for hours to a high alpine peak. From here, a large chunk of the Alps can be seen, stretched out for hundreds of miles. Lush green valleys provide footing for the white cathedral-like monoliths exploding toward the heavens.
I end up hiking with an Israeli man, Assaf, on and off today. We keep about the same pace and are both hiking alone. He speaks good English, and the company and conversation are welcome. I also keep leapfrogging with three young Italian climbers. Two of them are very fast, but the third is having problems so they stop and I pass them. They seem annoyed. Eventually I pass them for good, and never see them again.
Today is another perfectly sunny day. I'm sore from yesterday, and getting more punishment today, but years of training make this hike very doable, even fun for me. My pack feels heavier and heavier with every mile though. The internal frame keeps cutting into my lower back. I try to adjust it, but it seems faulty in some way. I really am beginning to hate this new pack, but I have to make it work now. There is no turning back. The descent down the other side of the pass is long and painful. It's steep, slippery, and plunges for hours and hours. I barely reach the bottom by sunset, where I encounter a small road and parking lot at some sort of trailhead alongside an ancient cheese factory consisting of a few stone buildings and animal pens. I approach a toilet by the car park in search of drinkable water, where I am accosted by a very angry dog. It tries to bite my leg several times, but I keep evading it. I decide that I am going to drop my 35 pound pack on this dog's head to keep from getting bit. Just then, the Frenchwoman owner comes calling it. I am not a happy or nice person at this point. Words are exchanged that no one seems to understand on both sides. Fortunately I did not have to crush the dog.
I arrive at a French mountain refuge a mile or so beyond the parking lot right around sunset and dinnertime. I plan to camp outside, but they have bunks in an ancient stone barn available consisting of wooden platforms with thin mats and flea infested wool blankets, so I decide to sleep inside for warmth. They also offer a traditional French meal, so I eat dinner with about twenty hikers from all over the world in an old stone farmhouse that must be at least three hundred years old. The French woman running the place and cooking the food speaks no English. She is stunningly beautiful. She could be a runway model. At some point her teenage daughter, equally beautiful, in full traditional riding gear, gallops up on a horse. She converses with her mom in French through the window while still mounted on the horse, as mom stirs the iron pot of stew. Is this real? It feels like I'm in a story. The dinner bell rings and we all go inside. I eat with: my Israeli friend Assaf, a nineteen year old Irish boy named Dan O'Casey who is traveling solo, an older beautiful Italian woman hiking solo, several groups of French hikers, and an Irish/British couple about my age. The host brings out bread and vegetable soup, and I eat two huge bowls, before I realize that this is just the first course. It is followed by pasta, a beef dish, a cheese course and desert. I split a liter of great local wine with Assaf, the Italian woman, and the Irish and Brit at my table. We eat and drink for a solid hour, then study our maps before retiring to the barn. I listen to the chaotic cow bell symphony as I drift off, occasionally awakened by a screeching donkey.
Day 7 (9-07-09)
I wake up with various mysterious bug bites that will end up taking weeks to heal, but I could care less. I eat breakfast in the farmhouse with my new friends, which consists of bread, cheese, jam and coffee, then hit the trail. Young Dan O'Casey is moving fast, so I join him as we climb up toward yet another high pass that defines the French-Italian border. He ditches me about half way. Man, this guy can move! I've never been unable to match another hiker's pace. Leave it to some Irish kid to school me. I reach the top, and the the Italian woman and Assaf join me there. As we cross into Italy, a huge valley opens up below us, with a wall of mountains on either side. I spend the day traversing this valley, then climbing up the side opposite of the massif, at first with Assaf, then alone as I move ahead.
The climb today kills me. I stop many times. I'm totally spent. The sun is oppressive. It's definitely warmer and drier on the Italian side, and it's beating me. I finally reach the top, virtually crawling, and am eventually joined by Assaf. He shares goat cheese with me and I share my Oregon trail mix with him, and we take in the view for quite some time. The entire massif is finally exposed for the first time from north to south. The scope and scale of it makes the Cascades, even Rockies look small, at least from this vantage point. Assaf and I spend hours descending toward Courmayeur, a large Italian village nestled in the Aosta Valley. We pass through many bull grazing pastures and then cross several closed ski resorts.
We stop at a refuge for a coke. And then another coke. Water rehydrates, but it's the sugar and the caffeine we're craving. The Italian family running the place is so nice and friendly. The man, his daughters, and the ancient grandmother all yell and laugh and crack jokes at each other and with us. This is in stark contrast to my interactions with the French so far. These Italians seem very approachable and open. It's either a cultural shift, or maybe just a happy family. Hard to say. I'd be happy too if I lived and worked on the side of this mountain. The Irish/British couple that Assaf and I shared wine with last night, Neive and Chris, show up while we drink our second round of cokes. They look understandably exhausted. We all consider staying here for the night, but Assaf and I decide to push on to Courmayeur, and so do Neive and Chris. It seems close on the map, but turns out to be a never ending grueling descent from this refuge into the valley.
We are all completely wiped out by the time we reach the town. The four of us sort of stumble through town looking for lodging. We check rates at a local hotel. It's expensive but not outrageous, so I decide to do it and the others do too. I take a long, much needed shower, and meet up with Assaf, Neive, and Chris at a local Pizzeria, where we each devour our own pizza and two pints of beer without missing a beat. It's by far the best pizza I've ever eaten. The Italians running the place are super nice and friendly, cracking jokes the whole time. I am developing a fondness of their genuine joy for day to day life. Assaf is hopping a ride tomorrow through the Mont Blanc tunnel back to France in the morning. He is done. We exchange e-mail addresses and say goodbye.
Day 8 (9-08-09)
I hit the road early, wind through the upper reaches of Courmayeur, and find the trailhead that climbs steeply through the forest. Another intense day of steep hiking, which leads me from 4000 feet up to remote alpine regions at 9000 feet. I pass Neive and Chris at some point. They are going to take a lower route, so we part ways at the junction. I pass two hikers that tell me about a helicopter that crashed just yesterday in these very mountains. I heard several helicopters yesterday when I was hiking. It seemed like something was going on up here. This explains it. I guess everyone on board died.
The day is quiet. I find a quiet place in my head too, and get into the moment. I think I'm finding some clarity now, a rhythm to my adventure. I've got a handle on the logistics. Now I free my mind of the details and start absorbing the bigger picture. When I reach the high point, I am alone, and feast on dried Salmon that I've carried with me from Portland. I can feel every single bite transform instantly into energy. Food is a powerful drug on this hike. Every single bite elates me. The rest of the day I hike in almost complete solitude to Refugio Bonatti tucked deep in the Italian Alps. I guess all the other hikers are taking the low route today. Too bad though for them. The terrain and the views up here are mind boggling. But the work is hard. Getting here has a cost. My back is paying the price. My pack is becoming my nemesis.
I am pleasantly surprised when I finally reach the refuge. It is new and fancy. It almost feels like a resort, quite different than the French refuge. Camping is actually illegal on this Italian section of the trail. I brought a bivy sack instead of a tent because I planned to camp illegally behind rocks. But with refuges spaced about a day's hike apart with plenty of open beds, and traditional four course Italian and French meals, it would be insane to pass it up for long cold nights alone outside. This refuge has a large dormitory filled with beds. I have to sleep with a bunch of smelly mountain hikers again. We all toss and turn all night. Despite the warmth of the refuges, it's actually quite hard to get a good night's sleep at them. Too much chaos.
Day 9 (9-09-09)
I leave early, off into the mist alone. It's foggy but will break soon. I pass several ruins of farms that have been abandoned over the course of centuries. Within a couple of hours I reach Refugio Bianco. This place looks new too. I stop briefly, and have my first Italian squat-style toilet experience. I gotta say, it's more natural than sitting. Then I embark on a huge ascent to a mountain pass that marks the Swiss border. From the top I can see everything, the endless valley I just spent a day traversing on one side, and Switzerland on the other. There are huge mountains directly in front of me with glaciers jutting and dangling from the upper slopes in precarious ways. An Ibex stands stoically on a cliff. I sit at the top as long as I can, until I get too cold. The wind is fierce and penetrating at this altitude. My pack is attacking my back now. Sharp pains ensue.
As I descend into Switzerland, the terrain gets much greener. Midday I stop at tiny little farm and cafe in the middle of nowhere on the side of a mountain and throw off my pack. I'm fed up with it. I take my buck knife in hand, and proceed to cut the internal frame out of my pack. I must look like a madman to the other hikers resting here. It feels good, like I'm exorcizing a demon. After the damned frame lies dead on the ground, my pack goes limp. I reload it, and try it on. Much better. no more back pain, but all the load is on my shoulders now. I can work with this though. I'd rather have sore shoulders than a wrecked lower back.
I continue down a gravel road. Out of nowhere, a donkey comes charging up the road straight toward me. It's he-hawing madly. I've never had an encounter with a donkey before, and this one is insane from what I can tell. I decide to step off the trail and walk up the hill about 50 feet as the donkey gets closer. I wonder if it's going come up the hill after me, and how to defend myself against it. But it keeps running up the road. As it passes me it turns to look at me, and let's out a terrible screech.
I take a wrong turn, catch myself, backtrack 30 minutes, find the real trail, and descend through several tiny Swiss villages. This becomes my longest day of hiking. I cant find a good place to stop, and I have energy, so I just keep going until sunset. I hike something like 20 miles, up and down several small mountains. By day's end I'm wrecked, but have to climb about 1500 feet to Champex, the town where I hope to find a cheap bed. I could camp tonight, but it's getting very cold up here in mid September, and I've been moving fast and hard with little sleep.
As I hobble through the main and only street in Champex, a little lakeside mountain resort village, I pass Neive and Chris sitting outside at a cafe having a beer. I have finally caught up to them after taking the high route a day ago when they took the low route. They invite me to eat dinner with them, so we feast. I splurge on beer and some of the best lasagna I've ever eaten. Then I collapse into a hotel bed and sleep like the dead. I seriously consider taking a rest tomorrow.
Day 10 (9-10-09)
I feel recharged today. Must be the lasagna and private bed. I set out to do the biggest ascent of the entire Tour Du Mont Blanc. It takes the entire day to make it up and over. The hike is rather technical. Lots of hand over foot climbing. I love this technical stuff. I try not to set off rock slides on anyone who might be below me, and am very alert for anyone above me who might knock something loose. After several hours of hard work I reach the top. It's cold and windy at the top, which is little more than a little v-shaped notch where two mountains collide. Barely enough room for the ten people who happen to be here now. I don't stay long. Too cold. I just want to get down the other side to the warmer valley.
The descent is longer and more grueling than the climb. This is usually the case for me. Easier on the heart and lungs, but way harder on the feet, knees, legs, and back. When I finally reach a creek bed at the bottom, I stop to eat some food and talk to an old German man in his mid 70's. He's shirtless and sun baked, doing the same route I am. He's talking up a storm with a thick accent. He seems a little off his rocker, but happy. I guess he's done the Tour Du Mont Blanc many times. He confirms what my map is telling me. I have two options: climb another huge mountain to a refuge, or hike out an hour on a long but flat trail to a small town called Forclaz that sits at the high point of a automobile pass through this region. I cant deal with climbing a second mountain today so I opt to hike out to Forclaz.
When I get close to the town I start seeing day hikers in white trousers and sunday dresses coming from town. The town is little more than a hotel, cafe, and gas pump. Old vintage cars climb up and over the pass. Some stop here at the cafe for wine and cheese, or an expresso. I sit out on the patio, eat a steak, drink Swiss beer, and watch all the sunday drivers showing off their amazing old cars which are all in mint condition. The drivers themselves look to be in mint condition too. Decked out in fancy French and Italian driving gear, complete with the hat and scarves. Many of them look like they are straight out of an old movie. For all I know they may be. I must look like a caveman to these people. When the nicest cars with the most beautiful drivers pull up, everyone gawks. It's a real spectacle.
I turn in early, and sleep long and hard. I'm losing steam. I figure I've hiked about 100 miles so far. As for elevation gain, I can't wrap my brain around it right now. Maybe 20,000 feet. I've done single day climbs of 7000 feet before in the Cascades on giants like Adams and Shasta. No picnic. But this takes the cake because it requires the same level of intensity sustained for many days on end.
Day 11 (9-11-09)
I get an early start and backtrack from the little mountain pass village for an hour along the creek bed, and tackle that second mountain. The refuge is closed, so I'm glad I decided to hike to the town yesterday. A Swiss climber and I figure out how to get the fresh water tap working, and I fill up. I continue climbing for a couple more hours, until I reach a remote refuge on the Swiss French border. I stop for a coke. The lady running the place has got to be hundreds of years old. She's all hunched over and can't be five feet tall. I cant believe she's even up here. She only speaks French, as she cooks food and makes drinks for wary hikers. The refuge is cold and dark inside. The wind blasts right through it. I don't think it's been updated in 75 years, literally. I sit outside for a long time and gaze into France as a fierce wind whips across the high pass. I huddle close to the the side of the building, using it as a wind block. I am at the very upper end of the Chamonix Valley now. I still have at least a day and a half left, but I can almost see the rest of the hike from this high point. I can almost see the place I started several days ago.
The weather has been perfect, but I hear from others that storms are coming. Now that I can see the valley where I began and where I'll finish I really don't want this hike to end, but it would be nice to finish before the weather turns. I can't imagine doing this in the rain (or snow). I spend the rest of the day descending into France, then climbing some very steep terrain, which involves several ladders bolted to the side of vertical rock walls. I make it to a refuge by sunset, and eat with a group of French hikers. We split a liter of wine. The refuge is rustic, cold, and smelly, but the wine is good. As the sun sets, a thick white fog moves in and settles. I think my perfect weather has finally run out.
Day 12 (9-12-09)
My plan is to finish the Tour Du Mont Blanc today. I leave early, and climb up to La Brevent, a gondola station high above Chamonix. The fog is thick, visibility is poor. When I finally reach La Brevent, I am on a knife edge ridge 3500 feet above the valley. On one side is the socked in valley covered with a cloud blanket far below me. On the other is an infinite view across the Alps and bright blue skies. I see the French hikers that I split the wine with last night. They rode the gondola up to this station, and laugh when I told them I climbed it. They seem skeptical that I could be up here so soon. I have one word for them: cheaters. They laugh.
I spend the next few hours hiking down this knife edge ridge. At first I'm high above the weather, then finally plunge down into it. My feet are done. My shoulders are done. Somewhere along the way, I pass an older Frenchman. He is in the woods, dressed in a suit, fedora, and trench coat, carrying a briefcase. Very odd sight in this remote location. I don't even want to know what he's all about, so I just nod, keep walking, and try to put some distance between me and this man.
The last three miles to Le Houches are the longest. I finally hobble into the village from which I began this hike eight days ago. I can't believe I'm finished. I stop by a cafe and eat a large burger on the patio. There is a young man having lunch out there and we start talking. I tell him about my hike, he tells me about his upcoming trip to America. He grew up 20 miles from the German border and has never been to Germany. He seems astounded that I have no itinerary, and he says that is what impresses him about the Americans (and Australians) that he meets: their ability to just wing it. I guess I take that as a compliment, though I'm not sure it was meant as one. It's hard to tell with the French...sardonic.
After I fill up, I feel recharged. I need to get back to Chamonix, so I can catch a train to...somewhere...yet to be determined. It looks like I've missed the bus to Chamonix, so I have to walk several miles through the valley to get there. After walking 120 miles and climbing over 35,000 feet, what's another three of four roadside miles. About half way back to Chamonix, it starts raining, very, very hard. It's dumping buckets. I'm used to Portland rain, but this is Portland rain on crack. There's nowhere to hide or wait it out, so I put on my rain shell and walk for thirty minutes in the downpour. It's quite miserable, but I'm very glad I'm not up in the mountains right now.
When I get to Chamonix, I try to find a bed, but every hotel is totally booked. I end up sitting outside under a little overhang for an hour, hoping that the rain will ease up so I can try to find a room. I've just completed the biggest outdoor adventure of my life, and I'm now sitting alone, shivering in the cold rain with nowhere to sleep. It's bumming me out. Not the kind of celebration I was hoping for. Finally the rain eases, and I race to secure a bed, finally finding one at a western hotel in town. Expensive but awesome. After a long hot shower, I stumble to a pizza joint as the sun sets, carryout a huge pizza back to my room, and eat the entire thing as I watch CSI: Miami in French on a huge plasma tv. It's strange to be back in the world again, let alone a European world infused with American television dubbed in high quality French voice acting.
Day 13 (9-13-09)
I decide to take a rest day today. I figure out the local laundromat, and wash everything: my clothes, my shoes, even my flaccid spineless backpack. Everything I own has a quarter inch of my own salt encrusted on it from eight days of mountain sport. After my chores, I decide to ride the cable car up to Aiguille du Midi, the highest vertical ascent cable car in the world, which climbs over 9000 feet in 20 minutes to a summit station at 12,600 feet! I've never seen such a bizarre feat of engineering. The summit station looks straight out of a steam punk sci fi novel, with bridges and tunnels blasted out of the rock and tiny elevators that climb to the metal spire at the top, which costs extra of course. One tunnel leads straight to the glacial slopes outside, where climbers are staging their Mont Blanc summit attempts. Personally, I think riding a cable car up to 12,600 feet is cheating if you're climbing a mountain, but that's just me. It was raining hard at the bottom, but the view from the top is stunning, above the weather. I watch climbers working their way up the 15,000 ft Mont Blanc, and wish I'd brought my snow climbing gear. While I'm up there, it starts snowing hard and the excellent views disappear. It costs me about $60 for the ride, but it's a once in a lifetime experience, so I think the ride is worth it. I toy with the idea of hiking down from the mid station, but I'm still very sore and promised myself I'd relax today.
The big question on my mind is: what next? I have no itinerary at all, no reservations, no place to be. And I've got over six weeks left before I head back to the states. My only plan was to do the hike that I've just completed. My second plan was to possibly hike the Haute Route from Mont Blanc to the Matterhorn through the Swiss Alps. But there are problems with this plan. The biggest problem is that the weather is changing. I got lucky with eight days of perfect weather on the Mont Blanc Massif. But now it's pouring rain in the valleys and snowing in mountains. This will make the Haute Route difficult at best. Secondly, I'm pretty wiped out. Tackling another 100+ miles of difficult alpine trekking at this juncture seems like a bad idea. Lastly, the first three days of the Haute Route are identical to the last three days of my Mont Blanc hike. Too much of the route seems redundant. But the last section of the Haute Route, near Zermatt at the base of the Matterhorn, appeals to me. I develop a plan of making my way from Chamonix, France to Zermatt, Switzerland by train tomorrow and hiking on the Matterhorn for a couple of days if the weather cooperates, and that's a big IF. I check into a cheap local hotel and rest up. My day off feels like a week off, and I'm ready for action...
Day 14 (9-14-09)
I have some time to kill before the train leaves for Zermatt, Switzerland, so I take everything out of my pack and try to figure out how to lighten my load. I ditch what's left left of my Mont Blanc guide book, I ditch my Haute Route guidebook. I also make a big decision to ship about ten pounds of gear to my dad. This includes my bivy sack, my snow gaiters, my thick winter gloves, some thermal layers, my sleeping mat, etc. By shipping this gear back home, I am committing to not camping or hiking too long in snow zones from here on out. It is getting cold up high, and raining a lot down low. I don't want to camp in the rain or snow. I can afford not to, so why stress my body like that. I am keeping my down sleeping bag for emergencies, and also so I can camp in dry weather if I want. Now my pack is about 25 pounds. This will allow me to hike faster and longer, and conserve energy. My pack feels incredibly light now, which is a huge boost to my psyche, and my shoulders.
Not having all my camping gear will require that I find some sort of shelter every night, which changes the game a bit. My plan originally was to camp, especially for the first part of the trip. But I quickly realize that the best way to meet people is to stay at refuges and hostels, where I can eat, drink and sleep with other hikers. I am beginning to believe that the social adventure is more challenging and potentially more rewarding for me than physical feats at this point in my life.
Getting to Zermatt requires four trains! But despite all the transfers in little villages, it's very straight forward and efficient. The Swiss have really perfected the art of mass transit. Zermatt is a beautiful yet strange place. There are no cars in this town. The only way in is by foot or train. There are little battery powered lego-like cars that act as taxis and buses. The streets are filled with people, snow sport tourists for the most part. I see snow boarders walking through the streets with snow caked boards and hats. Unbelievable! It's mid September, but there seems to be some serious powder somewhere up above this town. I'm tempted to rent a board tomorrow and find that snow, but it sounds very expensive. So I stick to my plan of hiking up the Matterhorn as far as I can without climbing gear. Free snow. I find a nice hotel that offers me a decent deal for a small room on the ground floor of a back building.
Day 15 (9-15-09)
Zermatt is situated at about 5,300 feet. My nebulous goal is to climb to the hut at 10,000 feet on the Matterhorn today. The weather is wet, so I doubt I'll make it half way. I haven't even seen the Matterhorn yet, which supposedly towers over this town. I pack my small day pack with water, trail mix, first aid kit, put on my gortex weather shell, and head toward the upper edge of town. I pick up a trail and climb it to a tiny ancient wooden village called Zmutt at 6300 feet. This place is in a time warp. It's early and there are few signs of life, so I meander straight through the middle of the village on a 3 foot wide dirt trail which is the only "road" in town. I continue to climb up into the rain and mist. I feel a lot of pressure in my head. I'm in a cloud. At some point I cross a creek by a hydroelectric dam. After a morning of wet climbing I reach the timberline, and it begins to flurry. I cross a huge snowfield, come over a ridge and reach Schwarzsee at 8300 feet. There is a restaurant and a cable car station up here that goes straight down to Zermatt. This is the last outpost of civilization.The hut at 10,000 feet is closed for the season as of today. They are actually covering the sign for the hut as I stand here. I decide to climb a bit higher anyways, just until I hit the shit storm.
At about 9000 feet it starts snowing hard. The wind is picking up. I catch small glimpses of the Matterhorn's summit, then watch the storm system engulf it. I'm now in borderline whiteout conditions, so I hightail it back down to Schwarzsee. By the time I get there, my hands are cold and stiff beneath my light gloves. My feet are stiffening up too. But I'm below the storm now, so I decide to hike all the way back to Zermatt down another route, completing a big loop. As I descend the weather improves dramatically. The sun even comes out, and I start sweating. But as I look back at the Matterhorn, it's completely encased in blackness. Really glad to be down here, not up there. On my way down I encounter a flock of sheep and they seem to think I'm herding them down the mountain. I make several attempts to get around them, as to not herd them all the way to town. Finally I trick them into getting off the trail so I can pass.
Back in Zermatt it's raining hard. I hide out in a British pub, drink beer, eat food, warm up, get dry, chat with locals. Crazy weather. I'd like to take another stab at the 10,000 ft hut on the Matterhorn but this weather is insane. There's no way to do it without all my climbing gear. And even then, what's the point if I'm in whiteout conditions...
Day 16 (9-16-09)
I wake up and check out of my hotel. Too expensive. I walk down to the local hostel in the pouring cold rain. It wont stop! They wont let me check into the hostel until 4pm, or even use a locker until then. I walk through the downpour to the train station a mile away and try to use a locker there, but my backpack wont fit in the $2 locker, only the $8 locker, so I just keep my pack on and hide out and try to stay dry. This really sucks. I get colder and colder.
What to do? I buy some Swiss chocolates and Swiss coffee mugs and ship them to my mom. The post office only takes cash, I find out half way through my transaction, so they hold my gifts while I run around in the rain trying to find an atm. This day is going nowhere fast. Time to move on before I lose my mind, so I decide in an instant to head north to Bern, Switzerland. I buy a ticket and am on a train in less then an hour.
Bern is cool. It's got an ancient town center, but is also hip and modern. The hostel is totally filled up. The next hostel is totally filled up. This is becoming a problem. That's the price I pay for not reserving lodging. I find a small hotel across the river. $90/night, no private toilet. Expensive. After checking in, I walk for hours up the river, down the other side, through all the side streets, up the hill to the rose garden and parks. Excellent views of the city. Bern has style, but I can't figure out what to do here except spend money. Being in a city is an adjustment. My mind is still back on the Matterhorn. I wonder if it's still snowing. I wonder who's up there right now, working hard on some ridge, climbing some knife edge between life and death. I guess my heart is there, not in some quaint ancient town-turned-glorified shopping mall.
Back at my room I study maps of Switzerland and Europe for hours. Im not ready to city hop yet. I need more hiking. I read about an area in Switzerland not too far away which is supposed to have some world class hiking and climbing. Home to the world famous mountain, the Eiger. Maybe the weather is better there. Maybe I can find some walkin' zen there.
Day 17 (9-17-09)
I hop a train to Interlaken. This town is the point of departure for all kinds of mountain adventures in what people seem to be calling the Bernese Oberland, or Jungfrau Region. Whatever it's called, it's awesome. There is a network of trains that go way up into these mountains, connecting many small villages. There are also gondolas strung out between many of these villages. It's a hiker's nirvana. The snow hasn't hit this region yet, except way up high. I spring for a six day Jungfrau train pass which will take me anywhere I want to go. I can use it with the gondola system and buses too.
I head to Grindelwald by train, which seems to be a centrally located village with a lot of food and lodging options. I find a hotel. It's off season, so they give me the nicest room they have on the top floor for dirt cheap, $53/night, I think... It's the nicest place I've stayed in Europe so far, for the money. I can actually see the Eiger from my room! I decide to squeeze in a five hour hike before sunset. I hike up past Milchbach, Pfingstegg (sp?), way up a gorge to Baregg, nestled in between the Schreckhorn and Eiger, I think... There is a stunning view of a glacier up here that I cannot begin to spell or pronounce. As the sun sets, I hightail it down the foothills back to the hotel, where I splurge on lamb. I decide, with this meal, that I really don't care for large chunks of meat. Three out of four times it's full of fat or gristle, or is too tough to chew, or is improperly prepared. It's going to take me weeks to digest this thing as it rots in my stomach. No more big chunks of meat...
Day 18 (9-18-09)
Score! The sun is out. Bright blue sky! I take a morning train way up to Jungfraujoch, the highest train station in Europe. The entire upper half of the ride is blasted through the Eiger. There are two stops in the mountain with carved-out pedestrian tunnels leading to windows in the Eiger's north face! The train ride ends at a large steampunk structure called the Sphinx, perched on a ridge at 11,300 feet between the Monch and Jungfrau mountains. The station is packed with tourists, mostly Japanese. There is a tunnel from the Sphinx that leads to the open glacier. I step out onto it for a few minutes and watch climbers heading off into the great white void. It's very cold and windy up here. After about twenty minutes, a weather system moves in, and the entire area is in a whiteout, so I catch the train which descends back through the guts of the Eiger down to the valley below. I'm back in Grindelwald by 1pm, where it's perfectly sunny again.
The day is young, so I decide to climb the Schwarzhorn, a 9600 summit across the valley from the Eiger. It's sunny and snow free on the Schwarzhorn. It takes some leg work and lung work to get up this hill. I find a perfect perch below the summit, sheltered from the wind, where I spend an hour soaking up the sun and the energy of this place. The views are magnificent. Dozens of snowcapped peaks stretch out for miles. I almost doze off, as I watch a paraglider spiraling through the sky around me.
I get back to town around sunset. I buy a book called The White Spider by Heinrich Harrer at a newsstand, about the history of climbing on the Eiger's North Face, and all the death and misery linked to it. I consume half this book tonight as I look out at the very face I'm reading about.
Day 19 (9-19-09)
I wake up, find a laundromat and do laundry for the second time. The machines are ancient. People have written all kinds of instructions all over them in German and Japanese. Not much English help though. I study them for a long time. Sort of figure it out. The hardest part is determining if I'm buying detergent, softener, or bleach. I get some random liquids and powders and hope it's right.
My goal today is to traverse this entire region, making my way toward Gimmelwald, a tiny village tucked up in the hills. I walk from Grindelwald to Grund. Then catch a gondola up a huge ridge to a station overlooking a spectacular valley far far below. From here, I hike all the way down into the valley. Then I take a very steep, ratcheted train up the opposing wall toward Gimmelwald. The combination of hiking, gondola rides, and trains is interesting. I just know what direction I need to go. When I feel like hiking, I hike. When I get tired, I spot a gondola route or train, and make my way toward a station. The process takes all day, and I get to explore some amazing terrain along the way.
On my final train ride up the mountain to where I think Gimmelwald is, I meet an Australian named Damon. He has a pack on, but it doesn't look like a full backpack. I'm trying to figure out what he's doing, so I ask him if he's hiking. He says no, he's going to jump. He's a base jumper, and is heading to a 1500 foot ledge above the valley floor. I gotta see this, so I ask him if I can watch him jump. We get off at a mid station. The trail he takes is barely a trail. Only other base jumpers use it. He's moving fast, almost running. I can barely keep up with my full pack on. It's at least 30 minutes through dense forest to the cliff edge. I'm also trying to remember our route so I can find my way back alone. The last part of the hike hugs the side of the cliff edge. The way down is staggering. I can't believe he's going to jump off this thing. We chat as he puts his flight suit on. He's fine with me filming it. When he's ready, I creep down as close to the edge as I can without getting myself killed, and watch and film him. He counts down: "three, two, one...see ya Richard!" then jumps with incredible grace off the cliff and disappears. A few seconds later I can hear his chute open. Then I can see him floating to the ground. His chute is just a small dot from here. Unreal...
I spend a long time finding my way back to the train mid station. There's one trail split that I really just have to guess on. Wrong. Then I backtrack and go the other way. Finally I find my way. After another train ride and another hour of hiking, I reach Gimmelwald, which consists of nothing more than a few old wooden buildings: bar, cafe, mountain hostel, and a few farms perched on a mountainside. Amazing. I check into the hostel, and eat a pizza on the back deck, watch the cows grazing and listen to their bells ringing. It's serene. As night falls I try to strike up conversations at the hostel. It's crowded with young Americans - the first concentration of Americans I've encountered on this entire trip. Ironically, I have no luck keeping up a conversation with any of them, so I retire to my bunk and finish my book, The White Spider. Everyone at this hostel is in such a different place than me. They're all very young, and act very young. Which probably just means I'm old. It's like an exclusive party for them, in a seemingly secret place that they've commandeered. Not what I expected, or wanted, to find here. They must have read the same back door resources I did. They are arguing with each other about who gets to charge their iPhone and digital cameras next using the one outlet in the bunk room. Then they debate about language and cultural differences between America and England with the one Brit in the building. It's the first time so far on this trip that I've been truly annoyed with everyone around me, and they're my own countrymen. What's it all mean...probably nothing I don't already know.
Day 20 (9-20-09)
I ditch the hostel early to put some serious distance between me and the goofs, and hike for two hours down the steep mountainside into the valley. I finally walk right by the spot where Damon, the base jumper, landed yesterday. I see several base jumpers in squirrel suits jumping. It's a surreal sight. I keep an eye out for Damon. I don't see him though. I reach a small village in the valley, and stop for an americano. The barista is beautiful. She's Canadian. We chat for a while. She asks about hikes, and I tell her about my favorite ones in the area. She jokes to her workmate that she's getting great local hiking info from a tourist. She says I've seen more around here than she has. I'm tempted to linger, but I move on. Eventually I make it to a train station, get back to Interlaken, then buy a ticket to Zurich. Not sure why, really. Just seems like a logical node on a path heading north-ish. I believe I'm finally tired, really tired, and ready to city hop for a while.
I spend hours on foot trying to track down the backpackers hostel in Zurich. When I finally find it, it's fully booked. Then I spend another hour tracking down several more cheap hotels. All booked. I end up paying $150 for a nicer hotel. It's the only thing I can find. This is going to kill my budget. It's the most I've paid so far for a bed and a shower. I begin to second guess leaving the Bernese Oberland. I could have gone back to Grindelwald and stayed in luxury for a third as much, and hiked for another week...
After I get situated I explore the city. I love Zurich. It has a booming old center with more bars, cafes, clubs, and restaurants than I've ever seen in one place. Like Bern, it's ancient, yet hip and modern. But like the rest of Switzerland, it's also very expensive. A bottle of coke is $4. A can of beer is $5. A fast food meal is $12. I can't figure out what to do here, other than meander and spend lots and lots of money. Maybe that's just what people do? Everyone's rich here. I think I need to get out of Switzerland.
Day 21 (9-21-09)
I spend the morning walking around Zurich, hit an internet cafe, climb a small hill overlooking the river, find a comic book shop with lots of great French and German sci-fi graphic novels that I've not seen before. As I walk, I spend a long time just thinking about where to go next. Am I heading east or am I heading north? It's time to decide. This next train ride will dictate my vector for days, possibly weeks to come. I decide to catch a train to Innsbruck, Austria, mainly because it's on the way to Munich, Germany, and I want to position myself to travel the Romantic Road and/or the Rhine River through Germany.
I have the option of riding directly from Zurich to Innsbruck after a two hour wait, or I can leave now, make three connections, and get there two hours early. I get cocky, and leave now. Somehow, during my first connection, I miss my train, and end up on another one to the same destination without even realizing it, but I arrive two minutes late, so I miss my second connection altogether. I'm stranded in a place called Buchs. I don't even know which country I'm in. The annoyed teller at the Buchs station tells me I have to take a local bus to Feldkirsch, and then wait an hour, and catch the next train to Innsbruck. He says to use my train ticket on the bus, but the bus driver doesn't like this at all. The bus ends up driving through a small nation, Liechtenstein! But at least when we cross the border, I can triangulate my position, and we seem to be heading east. The Austrian portion of the ride is beautiful. Mountainous, many forests. The landscape feels very rural and untamed. Eventually I make it to Innsbruck. I learn that one direct train ride is usually a safer bet than taking several connections to try to get someplace quicker. But even with all the hassle, I still arrive in Innsbruck faster than I would have if I'd taken the direct train. And I got to see Liechtenstein. So I guess it's a tradeoff.
Innsbruck is interesting. It feels more like a working man's city, that just happens to have an old touristy center. I meander through the outskirts of downtown and find a cheap motel. There are streetcars everywhere, but I walk. I walk through the city for hours, eat kebop in old town, walk the river through the park, then find an old Irish pub where I finish the night. I try to strike up a few conversations. The Italian from Tyrol is the only one interested in chatting. We talk at length about one of the greatest mountain climbers of all time, Reinhold Messner, who is from Tyrol. I've been reading Messner's books for years. We talk about America. I walk home in the middle of the night after several beers. But it's really peaceful. The moon illuminates the mountains beyond the city. I think as a walk:
I'm starting to see a trend. All the old town centers have been converted to glorified shopping malls. I suppose this is only natural. Our civilization is built on consumerism, so it only makes sense that the ancient cultural centers now reflect our new shopping culture. I'm just not accustomed to seeing 500 year old European buildings at all. So to see them for the first time, but filled with stores like The Gap, McDonalds, J Crew, it's a bit of a surprise to me. I don't know what to make of it. I guess I'm more interested in the mountains surrounding this town than the number of recognizable retail stores in its ancient center. Why do Americans come all the way to Europe to shop at J Crew and eat at Hard Rock Cafe? Or are they all asking the same question too and wishing there was something else to do? Maybe shopping for new blue jeans in an old castle IS more fun than shopping for them in a midwestern suburban strip mall. Fair enough. In America we have consumerist entertainment like theme parks, and even modern European style shopping malls, popping up all over the place now, designed to look and feel like ancient Europe, complete with roundabouts, cobblestone walks and castle facades. Now I am here on the other side, witnessing ancient Europe as it is being redesigned to look and feel like American (or just plain Western-International-Global, if you will) consumer culture.
Day 22 (9-22-09)
I decide to move on today. I feel like the only thing left for me to do here is climb the mountains outside of town, but I'm not really feeling it, so I decide to head to Fussen, Germany, just across the border to check out one of the most famous castles in the world, Neuschwanstein. Even though Fussen is not far as the bird flies, the train route is convoluted and takes me up through Munich, then back down to the border.
As I cross the German border, two guys in street clothes board the train and approach me. They show me their badges, make sure I see their guns, and ask several questions about my travels and check my passport. Since they are not in uniform, I am skeptical to say the least. I'm ready for whatever comes, but in the end they are legit. I just haven't had any border crossing events like this yet, so it is totally unexpected.
After six hours in transit I finally reach Fussen. It's a little tourist town which serves as a jumping off point for castle tours and the Romantic Road. There are two castles I want to see: Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein. They are right next to each other but several miles from Fussen. There are many tourist buses all over the place, but it really doesn't seem appealing to me to do the bus thing. It looks like there is a trail through the forest between here and there, so I decide to hike to the castles, get there by sunset, and find a b&b or hostel or somewhere to crash. I spend an hour just figuring out how to get out of town on foot, which probably still beats the gridlocked traffic, then take what I think might be the correct trail in the woods. There are a few junctions and it's very poorly marked. At some point, the trail marking just stops. I stumble upon an old church in the woods, then several old ruins as I climb a steep hill. From the top I can see all of Fussen, and also the castles off in the distance. I find a trail that heads toward the castles. I have to circumnavigate a big lake. As the sun sets I reach a tiny village below the castles and score a nice room in an old boarding house of some sort. The German woman running the place is quite a character, in traditional "Disney-esque" German clothing. She's very jolly.
This whole place is a bit like Disney really. There are huge parking lots that hold hundreds of cars and tour buses. The Neuschwanstein Castle on the hill looks much like the Disney World castle. In fact, it's rumored that Disney modeled their castle after this one. Once again the line between emulation and true European history gets blurry. This place is the real deal, no doubt. It's not a re-creation, but it's drowning in tour buses and mobs of vacationers. It's basically a real world fantasy of historical significance which is now emulating a theme park, which in turn seems to be emulating a fantasy world. An entire economy has sprung up around touring these two castles: gift shops, hotels, restaurants, horse drawn carriage rides, even a post office for mailing gifts wherever you want.
Day 23 (9-23-09)
I get up early and wait in line at the ticket office, like my German host lady recommends. I guess tickets for the castles sell out early. I score morning tickets for both castles. First I visit Hohenschwangau, then make the 30 minute hike from the hill it sits on to Neuschwanstein. Both castles are remarkable feats of architecture. But after the initial awe wears off, I begin to see these majestic places as little more than a bunch of huge rooms built to store lots of stuff. And no matter how many precious metals and ornate trinkets adorn the spaces, they still feel empty to me. There's a kind of loneliness or sadness that lingers in the air as I see chamber after prize-filled chamber with my guided group. This place is the manifestation of one man's ego and wealth and power. And everyone here today is marveling at it. It leaves me trying to peek out of the windows at the forest beyond, and soak up the stunning views of the countryside, which to me is the real treasure of this place.
I hike back through the forest to Fussen, eat a German hot dog and a pretzel (love the pretzels), and figure out how to purchase a train ticket to Munich using the automated ticket machine. The train ride to Munich is very nice at first. The train is empty, the windows are down, and a fresh cool breeze fills the car as I roll through the countryside. I kick my shoes off, prop my feet up and gaze out the window, fading in and out of sleep. Then, with each stop, the train fills up more and more with school kids. Apparently this route doubles as the local school bus. Soon the train is packed full of screaming insane German children. By far the best-turned-worst train ride on this trip.
Then, as we get closer and closer to Munich, the train begins to overflow with drinking crowds that are heading to Octoberfest! I can't believe I didn't think about this before, but I'm heading to the biggest beer party on earth right now! Half the guys getting on the train are wearing lederhosen. And the women are all wearing the traditional low-cut tops, and are sporting the braided pigtails, while tinkering with their iPhones. It's a surreal sight.
Munich is big, lots of huge old buildings mixed with modern. I have a very hard time finding a room. Every single room in town is booked for Octoberfest. I talk to some people that reserved their room months in advance. They tell me I'm screwed. I spend an hour trying every single hostel and hotel around. I consider getting a red eye train out of here. Finally, I find a room, the last one, for 90 Euros. Coming here during this festival was probably a mistake. I love beer, but drinking without my crew in a big tent with thousands of drunk Germans is not my idea of fun, really.
I go for a huge walk through the city. As I walk the sun goes down. The city looks way different in the dark. After making a few turns, I realize I'm totally lost. I am literally walking in a giant circle. I stop in a pub for beer and a horrible pizza. Then the band starts, and it's horrible. It's a soulless cover band playing classic rock songs that were never good to begin with. This place is really depressing me. I try to start several conversations that all go nowhere fast. I then ditch the pub and try to find my hostel but get very lost. I resort to asking people on the street, but no one I ask speaks English, or at least not enough to help. Some are just too drunk to help. I try my German but this just confuses them more. It's hopeless, I cannot find my intersection on the map. I give up around midnight and sit on the curb and listen to a street musician playing Somewhere Over The Rainbow on the violin. It's like salt on my wound. Shit. What am I doing here... Finally I get lucky, find my street on the map, get my bearings using a church landmark in the distance, make it home, and crash.
Day 24 (9-24-09)
I decide to ditch Munich and see more of the Romantic Road. I don't like the idea of being locked into some bus tour, so I decide to train hop on my own and see some of the major points of interest. I catch a train to Wurzburg. It's supposed to be one of the highlights of the Romantic Road. When I first roll into town, I don't quite get it. It kind of reminds me of Muncie Indiana, but with street cars. Lots of tacky post war architecture. Dollar stores. The place feels depressed. But the further I walk, the older things get. The Muncie-like streets finally open up into big cobblestone squares, which lead to giant cathedrals. I cross the river on some historical bridge. On the other side is a huge castle on the hill, surrounded by vineyards. I sit in an open square for long time, people watching. An older crazy German woman sitting close by keeps talking to me. She speaks no English, but with my German we have a very simple conversation. She needs to know what time it is. I tell her. She is talking about the weather. Then she carries on about Obama. She loves Obama. She likes that I like him. A group of girls sitting nearby is amused by us. They are staring and giggling as we have an toddler-sized chat. Wurzburg is nice, but I feel like I've seen it. I still have plenty of day left so I decide to move on to my final Romantic Road destination, Rothenburg.
I roll in to Rothenburg about an hour before sunset. It's a bit of a walk to the city center, but I'm impressed with what I find. It seems to be a perfectly preserved medieval city, complete with walls, battlements, moat, ancient German architecture, cobblestone streets, exposed timber frame shops and buildings, the works. it even smells 500 years old. Most of the old city is car free. It's pretty awesome. I roam around until well after dark. I walk the battlements, roam the alleys. This place fits the perfect stereotypical idea of old Germany. I find an old hotel to spend the night right in the middle of the old city center. My room is on the third floor. There are deer heads, swords, suits of armor, big solid wood tables, and giant rafters everywhere. Fun stuff. This is time travel. It's off season too, so the town is not drowning in tourists.
Day 25 (9-25-09)
I take a walk through town again, stop in the castle garden on the edge of the city overlooking a beautiful forested valley. The leaves are changing. Th smell of autumn is in the air. I look through arrow slits, photograph rooftops, and then split town around noon on a train bound for Frankfurt. Low profile farmland that has dominated the landscape since Munich is giving way to forests.
Frankfurt is about what I expect. Big, new, somewhat sterile. It got totally pounded in the war. It's the only city in Germany, maybe all of Europe, with several skyscrapers. The riverfront is beautiful. I walk at least 2 miles from the train station to the hostel. Fully booked, again! The hostels in every city are almost always booked. I think almost everyone must be reserving beds days or weeks in advance. I meander with my pack on through what's left of the old pre-war city center. There is a large pedestrian district, but it's very new, Americanized. Starbucks and McDonald's and The Gap everywhere. I stop for a wiener and a pretzel, then sit at a fountain as I ponder what to do. These big cities really aren't doing it for me. They're expensive and are all geared toward shopping. I decide to ditch Frankfurt and head toward the castle region of the Rhine River. It's not far by train to Mainz, at the upstream end of of the "cool castle zone".
I arrive in Mainz after sunset. I expect it to be quaint and mellow, but it's rather frenetic, at least by the train station. There are young people loitering and being loud and obnoxious everywhere. I duck into a kebop place for dinner, but the middle eastern man working there is a dick. The situation gets tense. He's pissed because I don't speak much German or something. Not sure. It's ironic because he's not even German. I guess it's his one chance to feel powerful all day. I'm getting stressed. I just want to get back into nature. All I see around me are hoards of people brewing in negativity, self destruction, and desperate approval-seeking party mode. I don't like it. Genuine interactions are rare. I try to generate them. I smile, wave at children, help tiny japanese women carry their giant luggage up flights of stairs at train stations. This helps a little, but I see too many high school brats throwing glass bottles out of train windows, people leaving McDonald's packaging all over the trains, horns honking, tires screeching. Disrespect and self destruction seem to be the common denominators. Cities seem to be designed primarily for shopping, drinking, partying. How many different ways are there to drink and do drugs? The guide books will tell you. It saddens me. Now I am in my hotel room at midnight listening to hooligans out on the street carrying on like idiots. I need to find the Good stuff. Maybe I can take a boat trip down the Rhine tomorrow or do some hiking in the Rhine River Valley.
Day 26 (9-26-09)
I get up early and hit the laundromat for the third time. It's modern, easy to decipher. Then I check out and walk down to get my first look at the Rhine River. I then stumble onto a huge Saturday farmer's market, situated by an ancient cathedral in a large pedestrian zone. I am now seeing the other side of Mainz. A better, friendlier side. I miss the boat for taking a trip down the river, so I decide to hop on a train, and experience the Rhine by rail.
The train follows the river and I start to see castles perched on hilltops. But passengers seem stressed. The guy behind me keeps sighing very loudly and grunting and knocking things around in his seat aggressively. Chill out, dude....The women across the isle are frantically looking around with scowls on their faces. They seem miserable in some way. Why? What is up? Am I just imagining all this bad energy, or is it really there? I let it wash over me, but at the first stop I get off the train in Bacharach, and instantly feel better. There is a really cool old castle on the hill above the village, so I hike up to it. It is also a hostel, but it's booked up for the next six months. I get a pretzel and a beer and sit in the castle courtyard overlooking the river for a long time, just soaking up the sun and the views. I'm so glad I got off that train. This is the best way to see the river and the castles.
When it's time to move on, I ponder getting back on a train, but can't stomach the thought. The next castle is only a few miles downstream. There are trails that meander through the hillside vineyards, and there is a river path too. I decide to hike it. Walking the Rhine River is a great way to experience it on a human scale. Trains blow past me, cars zip by, even bikes ring their bells as they ride around me. I'm the only one walking. Barges dominate the river. But I'm in no hurry. Being here right now is what I'm doing. This is Good! Every few miles there is a castle on a hill, and I leave the river path, climb the hill to the castle, take a break, explore the place, then climb back down to the river and continue to the next castle or village. I do this until evening. I end up in a village called Schonburg, I think. I'm not totally sure. I climb up to the Rheinfels Castle ruins at sunset, pay 3 Euros and wander around all the towers and tunnels by myself until it closes. Then I find a cheap old hotel to stay at. The lady running the place speaks no English, but I manage to book a room for the night speaking only German. It takes while, but I pull it off! I plan to keep walking tomorrow. It's the only time I find real peace in Germany. The trains are generally filled with neurotics, and huffy puffies or screaming kids. I just want to explore and wander.
Day 27 (9-27-09)
Today is a very long but very good day. I get an early start and walk downstream. At the next village, I take a trail that goes way up above the river valley. At the top there is an old house foundation, then the trail dives into a forest. There is a poorly marked junction, and I take the wrong path. After an hour of walking, I realize it's the wrong trail, as it's still heading directly away from the river. But I'm in no hurry, and this forest is amazing, so I keep going. I want to see where it goes. It ends after about 3 miles, way up in the countryside. Crops all around. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was in Southern Indiana right now.
I backtrack all the way back to the junction, and take the other path which eventually, after several miles, leads me back down to the river. I pass many villages today, each with different levels of small town Sunday activity. It's nice. Right around sunset I reach Koblenz, the end of the "cool castle section" of the Rhine. It's hard to tell how many miles I've walked in the last two days, with all the detours and side trips. But I am totally exhausted. Koblenz is a beautiful town. There are families and lovers strolling through the park. Kids playing and riding bikes. Huge homes on the hill across the river. There is a relaxing vibe here. I find a place to crash and sleep like the dead. I think tomorrow I will leave Germany while still on a good note.
Day 28 (9-28-09)
I wake up and walk through town to the confluence of the Mosel River and Rhine River. I need to decide where to go next. The only other castle that I've read about in Germany and really want to see is the Eltz. It's up the Mosel and sounds like it's difficult to reach by train. I could probably just hike to it from the nearest train station, but decide to ditch it and catch a train straight to Luxembourg. The ride is beautiful. It winds up the Mosel River, which is arguably more scenic than the Rhine. Maybe I should have hiked to Luxembourg. But the rest time does feel good.
I arrive in Luxembourg early. It is an interesting place. The ancient town sits on a plateau surrounded by a huge ravine. But the ravine has been developed over the years. There are numerous bridges, footpaths, and cobblestone streets that connect the ravine with the city center above. Everywhere I look there are partial vistas of castle ruins, train bridges, ancient terraces filled with new gardens, parks, streams, woods. I feel a bit like I'm in an elaborate model train set world. I explore for hours: the ravine, the hill tops, the shopping districts, the ruins, etc. I end up finding a cheap room at a brand new youth hostel. The place is very modern and clean, and the staff is friendly. I sit out on the deck and drink a beer while I watch two young aspiring rock climbers belay each other up a tall stone train bridge support. I wish there was a reason to stay here for a while, but there really isn't. By sunset, I feel like I've really seen Luxembourg.
Day 29 (9-29-09)
My generally vague plan at this point is still to keep heading north, maybe as far as I can. Brussels, Belgium, seems like the next logical destination. But then there's Paris. I'm really on the fence about going to Paris. It's pretty far west, definitely a detour, and I believe that city is going to be utter chaos. But, it's PARIS! I gotta do it. As I roll into the city on a train, I see countless works of graffiti covering every visible surface. This place seems off the hook. I arrive at the East Station (one of six main train stations) and start walking through the city toward the river. I am pleasantly surprised. Paris is damn impressive. Every bridge, every grand hotel, every monument is a work of art. The city has an edge to it like any huge city would, but it's a soft edge, at least in the central city. Its crowded, but not chaotic, really. The walks are broad, the buildings and monuments are huge but not skyscraper-imposing. There's a sense of crowded spaciousness in Paris. I like the proportions and layout of the streets and parks.
I walk an epic walk. From East Station I find a cheap hotel, get a room, ditch my backpack, then walk down to and across the river and find Notre Dame Cathedral. No photo can do this structure justice. I sit outside the front of the Cathedral for an hour and just marvel at the scale of this building. I can almost feel the gravitational pull of it's enormous mass on me. When I'm done marveling, I just sit and watch other people marvel. Eventually I walk up to the front door, and to my surprise, it's totally free to walk right in. Inside is equally impressive. I'm almost choked up. Not sure why. There's a lot of power and energy in this place. From Notre Dame I walk along the river to the Louvre. It's Tuesday, so it's closed. I'm not in the mood to be inside looking at art anyway, so I keep walking. It's a beautiful day. From the Louvre I walk up the Avenue des Champs-Elysees all the way to Arc de Triomphe. Reluctantly, I pay to walk the stairs through the guts of the arc all the way to the top. Well worth the money. I can see the entire city of Paris from here. A dozen streets branch off in every direction from this point, and directly below is a massive automobile roundabout which is the very physical manifestation of chaos. Someone tells me that it's the only roundabout in Europe where the cars entering the circle have the right of way. I also here that any wrecks that happen in this insanity are split 50/50 by the insurance carriers. It's impossible to determine fault. As I take in the view the sun sets. The Eiffel Tower is a beacon in the distance. I choose the street that seems to head in its direction and make my way toward it. I arrive at the Eiffel Tower as it gets dark and the lights are coming on. The tower becomes a giant light show. An epileptic's nightmare, but the rest of the city is watching it, like a fireworks display. I walk around underneath it, check ticket prices, try to buy a ticket to walk the stairs, but the stairs close at dark. I decide not to go up. I'd rather go up during the day when I can see more. I spend the rest of the night slowly working my way back along the river, then through the north east section of of the city to my room. I do great until I'm within five blocks of my place, then have to weave in and out of every street to find it. Im home by midnight.
Day 30 (9-30-09)
I consider staying in Paris another day, maybe at the Louvre. But part of me wants to leave some stones unturned. I want to come back someday. And when I do, I can ride to the top of the Eiffel Tower and hit the Louvre. So I decide to catch a train to Brussels, Belgium. I try to purchase the train ticket at an automatic machine, but the French spelling of Brussels is just different enough that I'm not convinced it's the same city. So I wait in a long line at the ticket counter. At some point, a young frenchwoman cuts to the front of the line, gives the old guy who was next a story, and he lets her go ahead. I'm thinking: what the hell. Everyone else is in a hurry. Everyone else needs a ticket out of here. Everyone else has a story. That's why there's a line. But whatever. I'm not actually in a hurry. I can stand here all day. I probably would have let her cut too. But it's just the principle of the matter. As if her life is more important than those around her.
When I get on the train and find my assigned seat, who is sitting next to me but that same frenchwoman, a girl really, as she's probably in her mid twenties. I decide I'm not going to talk to her. I mind my own business, read my guidebook, study the map of Brussels. She asks if I am traveling, and for how long, and to where. At first I just answer her questions. But she keeps trying to strike up a conversation so I finally reciprocate. She actually turns out to be very cool. Her name is Lea. She's a Jewish Parisian living in the Turkish Quarter of Brussels, Belgium. She's runs her own theatre company. She writes and directs live performances. By the end of the ride, she invites me to meet up with her later for some Belgian beer. I accept.
I spend the afternoon doing laundry in the African section of the city. I meet a nice African man that speaks very good English. He helps me figure out the token system at the laundry. He likes Brussels because it's a melting pot. His wife is white, and they are accepted here. He says Belgium is a very live-and-let-live place. After laundry, I roam for hours trying to find a hotel. I have a very difficult time finding anywhere to stay. The few places I do find are booked. Finally as I am nearing a point of exhaustion, I find a hostel. They say it's booked. I sit in the lobby for quite some time just trying to figure out where to go. Finally they offer me a double that they don't think they will sell tonight, for the price of a single. They must see the hopelessness on my face and are taking pitty. I rent the room, and finally take a long nap. Brussels is very gray. Not a lot of green space. Not very many trees. Monolithic churches and government buildings punctuate an otherwise fairly drab and dingy cityscape. I think there is probably more to this city than meets the eye though. So far, the people I've met seem very friendly, down-to-earth. Less about fashion, more about genuine interactions maybe? I dunno. It's a gross generalization, I'm sure.
In the evening I walk across town to the square where I am to meet up with Lea. I wait and wait. Forty five minutes later, I'm convinced she's not going to show. This is fine. I enjoy just sitting here in the square watching all the people. I'm too tired to walk, and there's nothing else to do. Then suddenly, she arrives. Her rehearsal ran late. We have a couple beers at a cool local pub. A few of her french friends pop in and say hi. Then she takes me to the best frites cart in town, good Belgian french fries. She asks repeatedly why Americans call them french fries. The French have nothing to do with them. I shrug. She tells me about her grandma: a survivor of a concentration camp during WW2. Crazy stuff. Then I tell her about my Grandpa Foster that trained as a pilot in WW2, and my Great Uncle Richard who died in the war when his jeep drove over a land mine, and my first step dad, Bill, who was stationed in Africa as a code breaker. It affected everyone everywhere.
Finally we hit one last cafe for a final beer. Her apartment is on the opposite side of the city from where we are now, but close to my hostel, so we walk all the way across town together around midnight. It's amazing how quiet and safe this city is in the middle of the night, even in the poor Turkish section where groups of poor young Turkish dudes loiter late at night. Everyone's just doing their thing. No one is looking for trouble. As we get close she invites me up for tea. We hang out at her place, listen to Brazilian music and drink tea until the wee hours. She spends four months in Brazil each year, working with children and theatre and film. She speaks fluent Portuguese. And her English is good too. I speak slowly and concisely with her, and stay away from slang, and we do just fine. I find out that she left home when she was 17. She's traveled all over the world, and she is only 23 years old. Big life for such a young person. She invites me to hang out with her tomorrow, even stay at her place as long as I want to avoid spending money on a hostel. This day is a milestone, beyond just meeting a cool French girl. My trip is exactly half way over. Time wise, I'm no longer heading out, but returning. Geographically, and in terms of adventure, I'm definitely still heading out...
Day 31 (10-01-09)
At some point I make it back to the hostel that I'm paying for and get some sleep. When I wake up I spend what's left of the morning doing another big walk through Brussels. Then I toy with the idea of going back to Lea's today. She invited me to come over, but we left it vague and open. I decide to try to find her place and pay her a visit. It turns out to be very difficult to find. I take many wrong turns. Almost lose my way entirely, then recognize a street here or a building there that gets me back on track. Eventually I find the roundabout close to her apartment. But it's got several streets radiating outward from it. I can't even figure out which street is hers. After walking all the possibilities, I finally recognize her door stoop. I ring the bell repeatedly but no one answers. I'm about to throw in the towel, but decide to go to the corner market and try to call her. As I'm trying to explain to the market owner that I need to make a call, who walks into the market but Lea. She invites me over and makes me lunch. It's such a simple yet meaningful gesture. I like watching her cut up vegetables, and listening to her stories.
Lea has work to do in the afternoon, but gives me a key to her apartment and invites me to come back around 7pm. If she's not home yet, I can let myself in. I spend the afternoon meandering through the city. I find a park with built-in reclining lawn/lounge chairs and kick back and relax and watch the clouds roll by the Cathedral steeples. Afterwards, I snag my backpack from the hostel locker room, and head back to Lea's. When I get there around seven, I try the key but it doesn't work. I ring a few times. No one answers. Crap. Just as I'm about to turn around, I hear her running down the stairs to let me in.
We toy with the idea of going to a movie, but the theater is not close to here, and both of us are kind of tired, so we decide to carry out pizza and rent a movie. We end up watching The Ballad of Jack and Rose on her laptop. She turns the French subtitles on to catch the nuance of the dialog. I really enjoy her company. I think she's very bright, ambitious, creative. I'd give up the rest of the trip and stay here if I could. She has a sleeping loft with a skylight, and a couple of little angel figurines hanging from the low ceiling...
Day 32 (10-02-09)
I have tea with Lea and say goodbye to her. She has to get back to work, and I have to hit the road. I think that to her I am a small diversion. I'm okay with that. I'll be that kind of diversion for that kind of woman any day. She asks me to give her updates from along the way via e-mail. I wonder if we'll keep in touch though, and if so, for how long. My gut says not long, but I'll make the effort.
I want to go to Amsterdam, so I have to leave from a different train station than I came in on. I am pretty sure I know how to get there, but after walking for a long long time, I realize that I have no idea where this station is. I take so many wrong turns. I see the tracks. I see the trains, but there is no direct way to walk. I go under the tracks many times only to pop out in some dead end area. After way too much effort and frustration I find the station. There is a small line at the ticket counter, but it takes forever to buy a ticket. Finally, I'm on a train and heading north through the Netherlands to Amsterdam.
Amsterdam is crazy. But I like it. If feels seedy to me, but in a Portland kind of way, a way that I can relate to. I walk around and find a hotel. My room is dirty, and everything is broken. The tiny tv is broken. The shades are broken. The shower has mold growing in it. The sink is dirty. The bed seems broken. There is a small safe in the room but the door is ripped off of it and laying on the broken desk. It's almost comical. This place is disgusting. And it costs me $100. There are several tight random staircases that somehow barely form a passage from the lobby to my room. After I check in, I hit the streets and explore for hours. I get a couple beers in little pub, and meet an American, Jess from Atlanta. He's on vacation. He asks if I want to go to a coffee shop and have a smoke. I don't really smoke pot, but I'm in Amsterdam. I decide that I won't buy any, but if anyone offers, I'll partake. I don't want to be rude, after all. We get a couple drinks and take turns smoking from his pipe. Everyone in the coffee shop is smoking pot. Everyone in every single coffee shop in this city is getting high right now. Tobacco is not permitted in most cafes. Kind of ironic. You can buy little packages of weed at the counter. There are many varieties from which to choose. My American friend has already discovered his favorite variety. The problem with pot, is that I've never found it to be a very social drug. I find it more introspective, and therefor I don't really want to talk now. But I try to be polite and enjoy the conversation for a while. We walk around the city until night. I would probably feel weird, except that I know everyone else we see is high too. When the buzz wears off, I find my way home and turn in. There are people running up and down the stairs and halls all night, slamming doors, banging on doors, girlfriends screaming at boyfriends. Total chaos. They are tourists from all over the world. And they're all coming here to party like washed up college students. I barely sleep.
Day 33 (10-03-09)
I wake up and get the hell out of this horrible hotel. I can't decide if I should stay in Amsterdam another night. I really want to hit the Van Gough museum. I take my backpack to the train station and lock it in a locker, then spend the day walking all over the city, in and out of the canals, through the parks, by the Ann Frank House. I spend a long time in the Van Gough Museum, soaking up all the masterpieces. Really amazing work. This city is very interesting. There are canals everywhere. And boats tethered to the canals, and people living in the boats. There are more bikes in this town than I've ever seen in one place. Every square inch of the city has bikes chained up. And people ride their bikes everywhere. Most of the bikes are one speed cruisers. And the tall, slender, handsome Dutch people sit upright and cruise through the hordes of tourists. The Dutch are beautiful. The women all wear blissful smiles as they pedal swiftly through the alleys, rosy cheeks, ringing their little bells to let you know they're coming. There seems to be two Amsterdams. The played out, tourist-ridden, smoke yourself into oblivion Amsterdam, and the Amsterdam steeped in culture and arts and graceful laid back locals. They must despise that their city has been claimed by the world as a get-away from its hypocritical puritanism.
As I meander back downtown, I start looking for a cheap place to stay. I find a hostel that is cheap. The lobby is filled with people drinking beer and smoking pot. I have bad feeling about this place, but it's cheap and can't be any worse than the hotel last night. Or can it? I make my way up multiple flights of super narrow and steep staircases, each branches off into other multiple stair routes. I feel like I'm in an M.C. Escher print. I finally find the room I'm supposed to sleep in. Unbelievable. I'm shocked at what I find.
The room is about 16 x 20 feet. A couple of light bulbs dangle from the ceiling. There are seven single beds. Three actually have frames. The other four are just mattresses strewn about the floor. Everyone else has claimed their crash pad, so I take the last bed.
Guy one is absolutely stoned out of his mind. Long black hair, huge beard. Thick British accent. Late 20's or late 40's, I really can't tell. No one else can understand him because he's so high and so British. Every time he speaks, everyone else keeps asking him to repeat himself, until I finally translate for everyone what he's saying. If I don't step in, they go back and forth forever. This guy never leaves the hostel in the 12 hours I'm there. He even wakes up several times in the middle of the night to smoke from his water bong. Completely out of his mind.
Guy two is a young Canadian. He's passed out when I arrive around dinnertime. As I relax on my bed, he wakes up and immediately fires up his huge water bong. The room instantly fills with smoke. Someone else opens a window. He leaves the room once to go to a coffee shop, but comes back soon and never leaves the room again. Correction, never even leaves his mattress again.
Guy three is an older Swiss man in his 60's. I never once see him leave his mattress. But he is coherent and tells stories to everyone about a Korean woman he split a hotel room with his first night to save money. We talk a bit about Switzerland.
Guy four is an Asian guy, in and out a lot. Doesn't talk much. He's probably totally freaked out by this situation...
Guy five is an old Dutch man. Late 60's or maybe 70. He sits in his bed and drinks one can of beer after another. Eventually he goes downstairs to drink more, then passes out.
Guy six, Jules, is a 19 year old from Montreal. He is interesting to hang out with. He has a French accent, but it's different than the French - French accent. He smokes quite a bit, but he also goes out and explores. He's into drinking good local beer. We go walking late at night, find a good local pub and drink beer and tell stories. He's traveling the world for an entire year. He started in Asia and is working his way west. I tell him about the trekking I did through the Alps. He seems very excited about the idea of camping. I warn him that the weather is turning, but camping can be a great way to go, if he wants to get out of this circus for a while. He plans on buying a small tent now. He seems to describe his travels as a sort of spirit quest, and I think he thinks that I am on one too. Maybe I am, but I try not to label it too much. But he seems inspired by the routes I've chosen and the outdoor spin on my trip. And frankly, I'm inspired by the balls this 19 year old has to travel the world for a year alone. Good for him!
I explore the red light district. It's bizarre. Window after window of service providers. The smaller the alley, the more windows there are. Hordes of tourists meander through the tight alleys, gawking, and boasting, and drinking and smoking. The working women taunt them, entice them, flirt with them, try to lure them in. Some of the tourists are just window shopping, and some are really shopping, I probably pass a hundred windows. The district is much larger than I imagined. It's not just one street, but an entire neighborhood. There are also theaters and sex shops everywhere. It's like the Disney World of sex. Some of the women are really beautiful. The spaces look clean. It's a spectacle, but seems relatively safe, and totally legal. They pay taxes, have to pass inspections, have to follow strict rules and regulations, have to get tested for AIDS regularly. Legalizing prostitution seems to add some level of sanity to the oldest profession. At the very least, it seems like a safer environment for the girls this way.
On my way in for the night, I see Jules downstairs watching tv and smoking. He offers me some, so in keeping with my rule system, I get high with him. At some point he stupidly ashes in the trash can and catches it on fire. The french kid running the place makes everyone stop smoking as punishment, and he pours glass after glass of water on the fire until it's out. I can't believe this city hasn't burned to the ground yet. After the fire incident I go upstairs and try to sleep. My backpack is still locked up in the train station, so I have nothing with me, which is probably for the best. I use my jacket as a blanket, and sleep with my shoes on. I'm so ready to get out of here at the break of dawn. My head itches. If I end up with lice, I'm really gonna be bummed. It seems inevitable….
Day 34 (10-04-09)
I wake up super early and make a break for the train station, snag my backpack from the locker, and buy an expensive ticket to Copenhagen, Denmark. I actually really liked Amsterdam despite the grit. If I ever came back though, I'd spend some money on a nice clean hotel, or find a place to camp, and seek out more of the art and local culture that seems to hide beyond the billowing clouds of pot smoke produced by all the tourists. I'd like to see other cities in the Netherlands too someday. I think there is way, way more to this place than pot and prostitutes…
The train ride to Denmark is an all day affair. First it goes up to Hamburg. At which point, my next train is double booked, so I end up standing in a tiny hallway by the restroom on the train along with a dozen other perturbed travelers for over an hour. I talk to a Romanian/Polish girl. Her English is thick and broken. She thinks English sounds poetic, and tries really hard to converse. She loves America. Asks a million questions. I'm polite but keep her at arm's reach. Not sure what her angle is. I think she's just young and eager to be anywhere else. At some stop, a bunch of people get off and I finally have a seat. When we hit the coast of the North Sea around sunset, the entire train rolls right into the hull of a gigantic ferry! Once on board, everyone is instructed to exit the train and go to the upper decks during passage. The ferry looks and feels like a shopping mall. Lots of duty-free shops, restaurants, and bars. I go outside for a bit, and get blasted with the strongest wind I've ever felt. I can literally feel the skin being pulled back on my cheeks. It hurts. And it's frigid. The seas are high too, and this giant ship is rocking back and forth. I stagger as I walk, The whole situation is a bit mad really. This is not a place for humans. But we make it across to Denmark. The train slowly rolls from the ship onto solid ground and we continue on to Copenhagen. I get to town late. It's always a bit unnerving to roll into a new city in a new country with a new currency at 10pm. Train stations are always a bit squirrelly, especially at night. But Copenhagen seems nice. Even the train station seems pretty mellow.
I luck out and find a cheap, clean hotel just a few blocks away. This hotel is the perfect model of form meets function. There is a place for everything and everything in its place. My room is small but every square foot has been engineered for maximizing its usefulness, with a sharp, clean, minimalistic style. Quite a refreshing change of pace from the hostel in Amsterdam. I take a long shower, and do a serious shampoo. Then sleep long and hard.
Day 35 (10-05-09)
I spend the morning exploring town. Copenhagen is the antithesis of Amsterdam. It's clean, crisp, calm, quiet, mellow. I'm not saying I like it better, I just like experiencing both extremes within a 24 hour period. I walk all through the city. Up the long spiral ramp of the ancient observatory, through the old town center, around the botanical garden, through the King's Garden. The blue sky is piercing, and giant white puffy clouds amble along. Wind turbines, cathedral spires, and smoke stacks dot the horizon. A little bit of skyline for everyone.
I spend the afternoon walking around Christiania, Pusher St, and the vast maze of paths winding around the lakes beyond. This is an alternative community with it's own laws or lack thereof. It's almost a communal situation. I don't fully understand it. Picture taking is forbidden by the local residents. There are many makeshift buildings, stores, bars, community centers, all painted in murals and graffiti. I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking at. Who owns what? Who manages what? I see a lot of young people in Christiania smoking pot. Officially, it's illegal, but I understand that here it is tolerated, and seemingly encouraged.
After spending hours meandering through Christiania and the lakes beyond, I spend the evening at a cafe on one of the big open squares in Copenhagen, listening to a man playing guitar, and people watching. Beautiful people everywhere. I love the peaceful serenity of Denmark. The Danish are supposed to be the happiness people on Earth. I do sort of get that vibe. But it's somehow different than friendliest. There is an aloofness to them. Polite and kind. Very little eye contact.
Day 36 (10-06-09)
I wake up and decide to catch a train to Oslo, Norway. The ride takes all day. The weather slowly changes as I head north. Most of the train ride is through forest speckled with small towns. At the border town, customs agents board the train. The one that approaches me is a very cute Viking goddess. But she's dead serious. She asks me many questions. She asks where I'm going, and for how long. She asks why I'm traveling alone. She makes me unpack my entire backpack, and she searches everything. Even my dirty laundry. She asks where I'm staying and I say with all honesty that I have no clue. What I'm doing simply does not compute to her. She's looking for some logic to my existence here. But there is none. I have no reason to be on this train. Yet she can't find a single shred of mischief in my bag. The situation is amusing to me. I like her, actually. I am an inch away from asking if she lives in Oslo, and if so, would she like to get a drink! But I refrain. I can't tell just how that would go over. And I'm in BFE right now. It could go very wrong.
When I arrive in Oslo, it's raining buckets. Very cold buckets. I walk around after dark in this foreign city for an hour trying to find the hostel. No luck. I find two hotels, fully booked. I finally find a hotel with a room. It's a very basic hotel, yet very expensive. It's so cold and wet and dark outside that I just want to curl up in bed for a year and sleep. I've got a chill that I can't shake. But I'm starving, so I brave the weather and end up at a Hard Rock Cafe. I've never in my life been to one, that I can remember. Maybe Chicago once? I try some Norwegian beer which is quite good. The food sucks. The burger and beer costs me $30. I suddenly realize that I'm totally screwed in this country.
The cost of being here and the severe dark cold weather make me begin to wonder exactly what I'm doing way up here. If the weather breaks, I can walk, but if not, I'm stuck spending tons of money indoors. Inside always equals expensive. Roof always equals rent. At this moment I just want to be somewhere warm, and not alone.The Dutch make a lot of eye contact. The Danish and Norwegians, not so much. The vikings have a thick shell. This manifests itself physically too. Though it's a beautiful thickness, not one of gluttony.
I read the vikings had a god of Skiing. I also read that the Europeans would end their prayers with: And God save me from the Vikings, or make me one of them! I get it.
Day 37 (10-07-09)
I am thrilled to wake up to bright blue skies. It's amazing how profoundly weather can alter any experience. I walk across the entire city on one of my epic urban hikes. I end up at the Vigeland Sculpture Garden. It quickly becomes one of my favorite places in Europe. Maybe it's the time of day (no tourists), the weather (brisk but perfect), the season (autumn), or my state of mind (clear), but the work really speaks to me. All of the sculptures are human forms interacting in every conceivable way. Some are loving, some are fighting, some are playful, some are serious, some are young, some are old. It's a monument to the human condition. The forms are nude and smooth to the touch, but made of hard and cold stone. And though the work feels universal and timeless, it also feels uniquely Norwegian. This monument could not exist anywhere else but here. And there are clues in the work like braided hair, physical challenges, stoicism, lack of modesty, that hint at the ancient viking soul of the sculptures.
Afterwards, I walk miles, all the way out and around the peninsula to the Viking Ship Museum. There are three authentic ships on display, and one is almost entirely intact. I take the ferry back to town and roam through a castle on the bluff overlooking the harbor and city. The wind picks up and leaves fall from the trees. I love this kind of autumn day. I slowly make my way to the Munch Museum, but it's closed, so I walk all the way back across town to the Vigeland Sculpture Garden. Outside equals free. Inside equals expensive. All I can do in Oslo is walk and enjoy the parks and weather. Which is pretty much what I like to do anyway. I am really starting to love this city though. It's not the architecture so much as the vibe.
Day 38 (10-08-09)
I'm on a train heading all the way across Norway from Oslo to Bergen. Lots of water, then forests, then snow. The train climbs up and over a 3000 foot pass in the middle of Norway. It's snowing hard up here. The train has to stop at a tunnel and wait for an oncoming train. Everyone gets out and smokes cigarettes and plays in the snow for ten minutes. Then it's back to business. If not for the warmth and comfort of the train, we'd all be in trouble. No one is dressed for this weather. I am reading Tarzan on my Google Phone when I need a short break from the endless beauty. It's the only reading material I have right now. I've been ditching my books after I read them. Too heavy. At first, I tried giving them to bookstores, but trying to do so created mass confusion. Now I just leave them in hotel rooms or at hostels. I usually hide them, so they'll be found later. Tarzan is actually a pretty good story until the end. Then it gets utterly Hollywood. Tarzan is saving his friends from a forest fire in states. Really? The final stretch of the seven hour ride is the best. It clings to the side of the fjords. It reminds me a bit of B.C. from Horseshoe Bay to Whistler.
Bergen is remote, and getting blasted with dark, cold, freezing rain. I suit up and walk through the rain for a long time. I cover most of the city, and even get up into the forests above. There's a funicular to the top of the hills overlooking the bay, but I hike it. I find a reasonable room at the YMCA, and eat dinner at a cafe downstairs. $30 for some chicken wok and a beer. Ouch.
I am walking down an alley, and a couple of young guys come out of a bar, about fifty feet behind me. Then I hear a grumbling, like that of a large animal. Then I hear it again but it's louder. Then I hear the sound of pure rage, like I've never heard before. An insane bear or an ancient battle cry? I turn around and see the source of the rage. It's a young Norwegian man in his early twenties, six foot five, thin, long blond hair. As I look back at him, he lets out another murderous cry. His mouth is wide open, his eyes are half rolled back in his head, and the veins in his neck look like they're going to explode. I see an honest to goodness Viking today, or at least the spirit of one taking possession of a young local. Everyone within a one block radius has a look of fear in their eyes when they hear him, including me. I put as much distance between myself and his chaos as possible, then watch him lurk off across town, as his friend tries to help guide him while also preserving his own life. Darkness falls too early. I hibernate at the Y. It's cold and dark here. Feels like The End of something, of everything.
Day 39 (10-09-09)
Dawn breaks, and I have an urge to head south, far and fast. I want to get back to the world. I check out but leave my backpack in a locker at the YMCA. I hike back up through the forests above town. The weather is nicer. Blue skies. I spot a mountaintop in the distance and decide to go for it. I make it to the top of the first ridge, then discover a giant reservoir between me and the summit. I know I can figure out a way to get around it, but it requires descending all the way down into the valley and then climbing straight up. I'm not feeling it at all, so I circle back to town, and do the postcard thing and say goodbye to Bergen. I like it here, but the weather can be quite oppressive, and I can't seem to connect with anyone. Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's me. Something to consider. I make it back to the YMCA just in time for free waffles! Then I catch a long evening train back to Oslo. It's dark so I can't see much outside. I end up back at the expensive hotel I stayed at before.
Day 40 (10-09-09)
I decide to make a detour to Stockholm, Sweden, before heading south. Apparently there is only one train to Stockholm today, and I missed it. There is a bus but it takes eight hours. I don't think I can handle an eight hour bus ride, so I take a rest day today in Oslo. I visit the Munch Museum. It's free! His work is interesting. Some of it is compelling, but most of it, I could take or leave. Then I do laundry at the dumpiest laundromat yet. Half the washers are out of order. Afterwards, I take a shower and an epic nap. I go out at 7pm but can't find my groove. I'm feeling kind of alienated and isolated so I just get some takeout pasta and try to buy a beer, but I guess you can't buy beer after 6pm on Saturday in Norway. I hang out at my hotel, watch tv, check e-mail. My train isn't until late tomorrow…I actually love Oslo. But it's the type of place that requires friends and money...
Day 41 (10-11-09)
Rainy day. I spend the morning walking slowly through the city in the pouring rain. My hands are so cold I can barely feel them. I duck into a 7-11 for a coffee, just to warm my fingers. Almost everything is closed today. Only expensive restaurants are open. I'm ready to move on. I kill an hour checking e-mail then catch a long train ride to Stockholm. I buy a novel for the ride. The Death of Bunny Monro by Nick Cave. It's insanely expensive, but gives me something to do on the long dark ride. I blaze through 200 pages. Morbid depressing story, ha! Thanks Nick.
I arrive in Stockholm late at night. Never a great thing. When I pop out of the train station I cannot get my bearings. There is water all around. I can't figure out which way I'm heading. I have a strong instinct that the hostel will be booked even if I somehow could manage to find it in the dark. After stumbling around in the dark for a bit, I give up and hit a nice hotel close to the train station. I'm extremely tired, but will get my shit figured out tomorrow.
Day 42 (10-12-09)
I quickly ditch the hotel and get my bearings, which takes a while. I was way off last night; I never would have found the hostel. Now I'm really glad I didn't try to find it in the dark. I locate the City Backpacker's Hostel, secure a room, lock my backpack up, and do my Big Walk. Stockholm is comprised of many islands, and I manage to hike almost all of them in a day, first north, then east all through the garden islands, then the central old town islands. I have a hard time finding a personality or pulse to Stockholm. The people seem rather cold. There is no geographical focal point. I like all the parts. There is nothing wrong with any of it. I just can't find the metagame here. But I walk and walk and walk. It feels good just putting some miles down. I do enjoy the huge parks and all of the water. Everything is very expensive.
The hostel is in a basement. My room has two bunk beds. It's co-ed, windowless, prison-like. It's really clean, but still smells of dirty socks, so maybe it's not clean... The hostel is crowded, mostly with youngsters. All kinds of accents and languages fill the air. I head out and grab a beer at an Irish pub to kill time, then come back and wait in the tv room for a movie that's scheduled to play, but the staff never queues it up. I end up talking to the following: an older burned out Australian man who has been literally everywhere with outrageous stories to match, a very loud and obnoxious American from LA who insists on bragging about every drug he's ever tried, and a Swede who got sent back from Israel because he did not have a round trip ticket. He says he was going there because he had been studying the bible. I guess Israel considers one-way tickets a huge red flag. Now he is stranded at this hostel for some reason. I turn in early while the others party late into the night. I don't know why, but I don't feel like drinking with these people.
Day 43 (10-13-09)
I wake up super early and catch a 6:20am train back to Copenhagen. Glad to be out of the dungeon. I've finally completed a huge loop through Scandinavia. I'm ready to make my way south through Eastern Europe, and Copenhagen is the single ground route to the mainland. I check back into the hotel I stayed at before when I was still heading north. It's so simple and clean, but with style. The Danes really seem to have a unique sense of order and style, which I can really appreciate. The city feels very crowded this time. There must be something going on. I see lots of Russian and African sports jackets. I really need to find a new book to read. I've been plowing through books on the train. I visit three local bookstores, each with varying degrees of English sections, but can't find anything I really want to read. I swing by the train station before turning in and purchase a ticket to Berlin. It'll be a seven hour ride tomorrow.
Day 44 (10-14-09)
The train ride is long. The crossing of the sea is nuts. I can't believe this huge train fits in the hull of a ferry. This time I cross in the morning. It's nice outside. The seas are calmer. Dozens of wind turbines dot the surface of the water. We make a brief stop in Hamburg. Maybe I should see Hamburg, but I blow it off. I perk up as the train finally rolls into the city and I watch Berlin unfold before my eyes. There is graffiti everywhere. There's also a lot of green. More trees and open space than I thought. I guess a big ol' war can thin a crowded space. I see a church that not only looks like it has been hit by a huge bomb, but HAS been hit by a huge bomb in the 1940's. It's left as is, steeple broken in half, missing chunks of roof. A monument? I'll have to find it later. The train rolls into the station, which is modern and impressive. I set out on foot across the city. Much of it is rather new looking and clean.
I walk long and far from the train station along the riverfront to the city center. I find a hostel. It's pretty cool. There is a great bar on the first floor where lots of young international travelers are hanging out, playing pool, drinking beer and listening to good music. I ditch my pack and hit the streets. I walk the entire city end to end. The gate, the Holocaust Memorial, Potsdam, and eventually I find the bombed out church I saw while on the train. It's a museum. I check out the capitol building, with the glass dome and the spiral ramp that is always open to the public so everyone can look down on the lawmakers everyday. It's symbolic of the need for transparency and openness within the government. I like the message, even if it's just a architecturally engineered metaphor. As night breaks I head back to the hostel and hang out in the bar. I befriend the bartender who gives me a free beer. His girlfriend is from Arkansas. She's been here a year or so and has learned to speak German fluently. I also meet four members of a trash metal band from New Zealand. They are trying to move to Berlin permanently. The paperwork is difficult, so they've been crashing at this hostel for a long time. Weeks or months. I end up drinking with them and roaming around the city. They take me to another hostel which has an even cooler bar, but mainly because they can smoke there. They have a stuffed animal, some Sesame Street character I think, and they position it in ridiculous poses all around the city and photograph it all night. Eventually they are all so drunk that our little party starts to fracture off into smaller parties, until I decide to turn in.
I didn't really understand the Holocaust Memorial until I walked through it. It's a huge array of stones, arranged in a grid with just enough room to walk in the aisles between the stones. The ground is uneven so some paths dip deep and the aisles become cavernous. As other people walk through the grid, I see them pass before me on perpendicular paths. Sometimes they cross my path way far ahead, sometimes we almost collide. I have to slow down at every intersection to make sure no one is coming. It's impossible to see right or left until I am standing at the intersection. I can only see straight ahead as I walk. I take random twists and turns through the maze. Sometimes I find myself avoiding any aisle that someone else is traveling, and other times I find myself trying to trace someone else's route, which is almost impossible. The symbolism is deep, but it's the type of thing you can only really experience firsthand.
Day 45 (10-15-09)
Today I set out on foot again and walk through the city to Checkpoint Charlie. I walk along an exhibit that takes up an entire city block, about the history of the wall: the tank standoff, the East Berliners that were shot dead as they tried to cross over. There is a German(?) guard holding an American flag at the checkpoint. Tourists take pictures with this guard for the price of one Euro. It's a tourist machine, but still, it feels like a powerful statement to me. The East Gate yesterday also had a guard stationed, holding an American Flag. If national pride exists these days, I think I'm feeling it right now.
Was the victory of WW2 our greatest moment? Have we be reduced to invasions of third world countries, oil robberies disguised as humanitarian missions to overthrow dictators we don't like (and fund ones we do like) ever since? Have we sold our Made In America sense of pride and honor by outsourcing all of our manufacturing (and tech) to factory nations with borderline-slave-and-child labor to maximize profit margins, NOT passing it on to the consumer, while disenfranchising a huge portion of our own workforce. This isn't a product of liberalism or conservatism. It seems to me a product of unchecked global corporate imperialism which transcends party lines. The board members run the show now. They are the kings that rule the world, and governments and armies are just tools at their disposal. As taxpayers, we can't even vote them out, because there is a political firewall between our elected leaders and those that control them. Could it be that unchecked capitalism and democracy are not totally compatible? How can we have a government by the people for the people when the upper 1% controls 99% of the wealth, and they make sure most of us are in credit debt and mortgage debt so deep we'll never see the light of day? I have no idea what the answers are to all this stuff. No one does really. The world model has grown too complex to fully understand. But being here, and thinking about the big wars, and how war has changed, and how America has changed since the 1940's makes me think. Have we lost a certain integrity - a sense of honor about the way we conduct ourselves on the world stage? In my lifetime, the message I've seen from the actions we've taken is this: if you have something we want, we're going to come and take it from you, and there is not a damn thing you can do about it. There's a clear distinction between hero and bully. I'd rather be a nation of heros again.
I make my way across town to the East Gallery, the longest section of the Berlin Wall still standing. Each section contains a commissioned mural. After a full day of walking through every nook and cranky of this city, I make my way back to the hostel, but there are no rooms available tonight. I head to the main train station and barely catch a train to Prague on a whim. At least I hope it's Prague I'm going to. The ticket looks ambiguous and I bought it very quickly at an automated machine with only a minute to spare, followed by a sprint to the platform. I should arrive in Prague at 9:30 pm.
When my train arrives, it's cold, dark, raining. I can't get my bearings at all. I can't even find a city. There should be a park right in front of the station, and a hostel just beyond that, but I see no park, no hostel, only a run down, sparse industrial area. I spiral out on foot as it gets later and later, trying to find anything that even remotely resembles a city. There are some road signs that I cannot read. I'm clearly not even on my map of Prague. I don't even have any Czech currency. I find a couple of flea bag motels in gravel lots off the road in the dark with bars on the windows. I can't bring myself to go into these places. They might take Euros. I doubt they take credit. And if they do, I really don't want them to have my credit card info. Finally in the distance, I see a sign for what looks like a nice hotel. When I arrive, it is way too nice, expensive. Looks like a corporate business hotel in an office park-like suburb. I have no choice at this point. It's almost 11pm, and I'm wiped out. The guy at the counter has a map, and I finally figure out what happened. I arrived at a different station in the far northeast side of Prague, not the central station. I didn't even know Prague had two stations. Tomorrow I will walk to the city center and find a cheap hostel.
Day 46 (10-16-09)
I decide to walk from the north train station to the central station. This turns out to be almost impossible. Sidewalks end, roads turn into psuedo-freeways. I ditch it all and take a concrete river path, which also ends. Then I have to climb up out of it. Why do I do this to myself. I could have taken a taxi downtown or something. Instead I walk for hours through inhospitable places. The weather is turning. Freezing cold rain. I keep taking wrong turns and end up in another industrial area behind the city center, but I can't get across a huge freeway to where I want to be. After many failed attempts at finding a route, I finally find a way by following some train tracks all the way to the central station. Really, is this what I've become? The weird guy with the backpack walking down train tracks through industrial zones in the Czech Republic… Once I reach the station, and am greeted by skeptical glances from those that see how I arrived, I walk out the front door to where I thought I would be last night. There's the park. I walk through it to the hostel, which is nowhere to be found. The hostel does not exist. Then I walk for an hour through the freezing rain down every street in central Prague trying to find a hostel. I'm soaked. My hands are numb. I cannot find anywhere to stay. I feel really off my game. I keep getting lost. I finally stumble onto a way overpriced Best Western. God, do I really have to stay here….but I can't find anything else. So it goes. I dry off in the room for quite a while and get my head straight and warm up. I gotta get out and explore Prague, rain or shine. I gear up and hit the streets. I walk fast and hard, cover some ground, warm up. I have a point of reference now, so I keep my bearings. Finally I see the Prague that everyone talks about. I hike all the way to a castle that overlooks the city. The gothic cathedral up here is insanely huge. Rain pours from the gargoyles' mouths. A bird shits on a tourist's nice jacket. His wife consoles him. Bummer dude. The views of the city from here are astonishing. An organic patchwork of red roofs interconnect in a unique fingerprint that is Prague. There is more jaw dropping architecture per square foot here than anywhere I've been so far. They say it's the city of one hundred towers. I don't actually count them, but sounds about right...
As night falls I take another walk. I end up at an English sports pub. The bar tender is an older Russian woman. She's very pretty. I meet an older British man who is flirting with her, an ex-pat, living in Prague, watching Rugby and drinking the last of his life away with some of the best beer in the world. We talk for quite some time about places we've been, things we've done. He played rugby for years, or so he says. I believe him though. He has an honest, yet totally resigned, vibe. Is that future-me? Eventually I meander home, and resign myself to loads of sleep.
Day 47 (10-17-09)
Still very cold and raining. I could stay, but I've literally walked the city, more so than I ever wanted to, due to the train snafu. I catch a train to Vienna, Austria. The ride is cold. Snow covers southern Czech - northern Austria. It feels like winter, yet it's only mid October. I hear that there is an unusual cold front sweeping Europe this month which explains the weather I keep running into. I still get enough perfect blue days, that I don't feel like mother nature is punishing me. It's kind of fun experiencing the whole spectrum of weather conditions. I arrive in Vienna at a train station on the far south side of the city. I decide to walk to the center. I AM on the map this time, so I won't have a repeat of Prague. Plus it's daytime, and the sun is coming out. I find a nice low key hotel on the way and ditch my pack, then walk all the way through the center to the Danube River north of the old town. The entire pedestrian zone is under construction, creating massive pedestrian bottlenecks. It's very difficult to walk around. The cathedral in the center of the city is under renovation and half covered. It's remarkable, but obfuscated by mountains of scaffolding. I head to the museum quarter but it's getting late and all the museums are closing. I'll come back tomorrow.
I find a pub on the way back to the hotel for a beer and dinner. The bartender is an American from Iowa. he came to Vienna three years ago on a Fulbright Scholarship, met a woman, and decided to stay. After dinner, I chill out, stay in, relax, read. I'm tired, worn out. But I don't want to stop. I've come far. I've been reading Frankenstein. I find many symbolic similarities between it and another book I just read, Tarzan. Both stories are about pseudo-humans that grow up outside the bounds of any human context, and must teach it to themselves to survive in the world of people, which proves impossible. Geneva, Chamonix and Mont Blanc are all major settings in Frankenstein.
Day 48 (10-18-09)
I decide to spend more time in Vienna, not because I'm crazy about it, but because I don't quite understand this city yet. And I'm glad I do. I find a lot. I spend the morning at the Leopold Museum looking at the largest Egon Schiele collection in the world. Incredible paintings. Many Klimts too, and Piranese prints. There is also a Munch exhibit going on, but I got my fill of Munch in Oslo. There are some places I want to see that are not walking distance (well, anything's walking distance, but I'm trying to be normal right now), so I buy a day pass for the subway, and figure it out. It's a super efficient way to get around. I take the subway way out to a Royal Palace with the largest formal garden I've ever seen. There are three hedge mazes, which I pay to play in. Every single plant in this place is sculpted to perfection. Giant spherical bushes, cones, cubes. I walk the palace gardens for a couple hours, during which time a thunderstorm rolls through, then clears again. Rain, sun, then rain again. Then more sun. I hear that it's possible to take a boat from Vienna up the Danube to Budapest. This sounds really cool. I take the subway all the way across town to a ticket office on the river. Turns out that the boat to Budapest is done for the season. Looks like I'll be taking a train.
I walk home from the river and stop at an Irish pub. The bartender is a beautiful French girl. We talk extensively as I drink a couple pints. She's an artist. She wishes she had a garden of her own. Sounds like she's gotten stuck in this job for longer than she'd have liked. She's married. Her husband is a cook at a nice restaurant around the corner. I decide to catch a movie tonight. As I check times, an old broken man approaches me. I end up taking him to McDonalds for a burger and a beer. It was supposed to be coffee but he switched it up at the last second. He has been all over the world except China and Australia. He really wants to get to Australia before he dies. He tells me outrageous stories about everywhere he's been. He was in Mexico a few months ago, when he was jumped, robbed and beaten. He walks with a bad limp now. He's waiting for his pension to kick in in a couple of months. Looks like he's in a bit of limbo now though. He speaks good English. he knows a lot about America. We joke extensively about Arnold Schwarzenegger. He wants me to stay but there's nothing more I can do for him now. I give him some more money. He thanks me profusely. Everyone else in the McDonalds looks at both of us with distain. Not much compassion floating around it would seem. I leave him to his burger, and hit the movie, Inglorious Basterds. The film has German, French and American scenes in it. It's a new American WW2 film about a squad of Jewish American commando nazi hunters. It's very interesting to watch such an overtly anti-nazi film in Austria of all places, the birthplace of Hitler. I walk home at midnight.
Day 49 (10-19-09)
I head to the train station and try to catch a train to Bratislava, Slovakia. But the train there only leaves from the station on the west side of town. I have to take the subway back downtown and transfer to another line that goes out west. I cut it close but make my train. The ride to Bratislava is pretty short, only about an hour. The train station feels old world. Rough around the edges. I feel like I'm slipping into another world now. I walk downtown from the station. The city feels old. Maybe a bit drab. It feels more like I'd expect Eastern Europe to feel. The city sits on the edge of the Danube River. I walk for a long time and finally find a really nice hostel. The young guy running the place is super friendly. He's really happy I'm here, and bends over backwards to make me feel welcome. They have free computer stations and wi-fi, a refreshing change of pace from Switzerland and Scandinavia, where they charge five dollars an hour. After I ditch my bag, I hike. There are many rich neighborhoods up in the hills, and a big old castle that they are currently renovating to drive more tourism. The view from there is nice, overlooking the river and a huge complex of communist block style apartments in the distance beyond the river. Despite a certain hardness I see in the architecture and the psyche of the city, people are very friendly. There is a lot of eye contact. I like this. People are curious. As night falls I decide to go into a local bar. Once inside, I realize it's very local. no one speaks English. They play thrash and metal on the juke box. People are drinking hard and having a great time. I manage to order a Czech beer. I love the Czech beer. Everything is cheap. A pint of beer is a buck fifty. Up north I paid over seven bucks for a beer. As I dive into my second pint, a young Slovakian orders drinks at the bar for him and his girlfriend. For some reason I decide to strike up a conversation with him. He's the only person in bar that speaks English, and quite well too. I guess he worked in a factory in London for a year or so. He invites me to his table. His name is Miro, and his girlfriend Jana, speaks no English. He thinks I'm British at first, but is blown away to find out I'm American for some reason. His exact response is, "No way! What the fuck are you doing way over here? " He can't believe I'd be traveling here. We end up buying drinks for each other all night, and have a great time. Jana is only nineteen, but he says in Slovakia, that's actually kind of old. The age of consent is fifteen, and the government is trying to change it to fourteen. He says the country's population is aging and they are worried about depopulation. Then he laughs and says that the gypsies are even worse, adding that eleven is normal for them. He says they make up their own rules. He's probably exaggerating, but who knows.
Eventually I make it back to my hostel and check my e-mail. I meet a Spaniard who is on vacation. He just came here via Helsinki then Estonia. He shows me pics he took in Estonia. Snow covered, very beautiful. He also shows me Google Earth images of where he lives on the northern coast of Spain. He's very proud of where he's from, and rightfully so, if satellite imagery is any measure of the quality of a place.
Day 50 (10-20-09)
I'm very tempted to stay in Bratislava longer. I've seen everything, but I really like the people, I'd also like to do some hiking and see a couple of old castles several miles beyond the city on the Danube. But I only have ten days left before I have to head back to the states. I don't want the trip to end. I really need to make it back to Italy before I fly home. But I like getting off the main tourist circuit in Europe, so I decide to keep heading east as I move south. I snag a ticket to Budapest, Hungary, then wait for a couple hours at the station while the train is delayed. There's a drunk guy causing trouble in the waiting room. I stay alert, in case he gets out of hand or tries to hurt someone. Eventually he settles down. People engage him with distain. I think he's a gypsy. There are other gypsies begging hard for cash everywhere inside the station. I stay pretty firm with them. I can tell that trying to help them out is a slippery slope here. But they do really seem to need help… Finally the train to Budapest arrives.
The train ride is interesting. An old man keeps trying to talk to me, but he only speaks Hungarian, I think. But there is a German girl sitting next to us who speaks his language. So I end up talking to her in German, and she translates from German to his language for him. The conversation never evolves past names, places, origins, etc, but it's fun (and exhausting). The Hungarian landscape is somewhat dismal - many industrial areas which seem to be in various levels of disrepair. There are little villages every few miles. In the distance are a couple of hills capped with castle ruins. There are also a couple of huge domed cathedrals in the distance, which I catch glimpses of through breaks in the tree line. I see various tents and makeshift dwellings in the woods. Gypsies? It's obvious that there is very little money floating around these parts.
When I roll into Budapest and step off the train, I am immediately greeted by a gypsy cab driver that wants to take me to a cheap good hotel. Sketchy. I decline. He asks where I'm going. I say I have no idea, but I'm gonna walk. He seems puzzled. Other "hotel representatives" greet me as well. Maybe they're all legit. But maybe not. It's impossible to tell. I quickly learn that they are the only ones in this whole city that seem to speak English. There are checkpoints at the end of the platform to keep the gypsies from greeting people directly off the train, but these checkpoints don't seem to work at all, probably because they are operated by gypsies too.
Budapest is perhaps the most exotic place I've been on this trip. I really feel like I've crossed into another world here. The city is huge, loud, chaotic, dirty, polluted. The architecture is ancient and massive. The cathedrals are off the scale of impressive. The Danube is huge and cuts the city into two parts. Buda is the half with the ancient hilltop palace stuff, and rich hillside neighborhoods. Pest is the poorer, rougher side where my train arrived. I get a hotel as close to the train station as possible so I can ditch my pack, and walk all the way across Pest, across the Danube on a huge bridge, and up through the woods to the the ancient hilltop fortress in Buda. The view of the city from high in the hills is impressive, and a bit hazy. The energy here is aggressive and chaotic. I definitely have my guard up while cruising through outer Pest. The riverfront area is mellow and touristy. By day's end I've walked about twelve miles through the city, and climbed some serious hills in Buda. I'm longing for ocean and sun and nature. I will leave early tomorrow and continue south toward the sea.
I go to the train station at night to make sure I get a ticket on an early train. I have to take a number. This could take a while. Many people are milling about. We're all waiting for the LED display to show our number. There is a band of young thugs harassing almost everyone. They are looking for trouble. Out for blood. They are just sitting in the ticket room, and laughing at people as they walk by, and trying to trip them. They seem drunk and loud. I've never wanted to shut some punks down more than I do right now, but there's nothing I can do. I just hope they don't hurt someone. I'm not sure how I'd react if they did, but it certainly wouldn't go well for anyone, most of all me probably. But I don't think I could sit here and just watch either. I decide that I could take one of them down. Hopefully the leader. I could break him before the others knew what happened. But then what. Do I end up in a Hungarian prison? That can't be good at all. My imagination runs wild processing every possible outcome until eventually they leave, but I see them again outside messing with more innocent people. Pathetic losers. Amazing how some people spend their free time. I finally get my ticket to Zagreb, Croatia, then make a b-line for my hotel across the street. I really wander what Croatia will be like. Wasn't there a bloody war there about ten or fifteen years ago? But it's supposed to be nice now. heh…
Day 51 (10-21-09)
I bust out of Budapest at the crack of dawn. I'm on a train with small compartments, each with 6 seats and a private door. The further East I go, the older the trains are. In western Europe, many trains look and feel sort of like airliners inside. But here, they feel like antiques. Makes no difference to me, but compartment trains force way more human interaction, because you're in a tiny sealed room (about 8x8 feet) with up to 5 other people. This can be good or bad, depending on the people. I share this ride with just one person, a 72 year old Hungarian professor of natural science who happens to be teaching at the university in Zagreb. His wife is Slovenian. This man is remarkable, and hung over. He's travelled as a scientist all over the world. He tells me stories about his research with permafrost and soil degradation in the Northwest Territories. He has a very thick accent, but an extensive English vocabulary, which includes the whole spectrum of science terminology. I'm guessing at one time he was really on his game, but now he seems really on his bottle. About an hour into the ride, he opens up his suitcase and pulls out two large, rather warm cans of beer. I can only wonder how many more he has stashed in there. He offers me one. It's probably 8am, but we drink and kill time bullshitting about his travels, and American foreign policy. This leads to a discussion about the war in Croatia which happened while he worked there. He is actually fond of America, along with many Croatians, because America provided Croatia with a lot of intelligence which helped them defeat the Serbs (though he adds that America probably only did this due to Croatia's 1000+ kilometers of strategic coastline in the region). He said the Serbs were attacking the Albanians and Muslims in the region. Ethnic cleansing. The Croatians didn't really like the Muslims, so they didn't care. But the attacks started bleeding over into Croatia, and then the Serbs started developing strongholds in Croatia. At this point, Croatia decided that the Serbs were a bigger threat than a help with Croatia's distain for the Muslims, so they decided to help the Muslims and fight the Serbs to get them out of Croatia. They succeeded. He doesn't seem very traumatized as he describes it. I assume the fighting was very localized, at least in Croatia. But I don't want to pry too much into such recent and personal matters. Plus, there are some language barriers between us, especially as he drinks, which can lead to communication issues, so I mostly let him ramble.
The border crossing is serious. Lots of people in uniform scurrying about the train. Long hard looks and double looks at my passport. By now the professor seems a little sauced, and is speaking to the uniforms. He's either vouching for me or making fun of me in some other language. I just let him do his thing. The uniforms nod, and split. I think he was vouching for me. He says I will have no problems at all in Croatia. He says Croatians like Americans, and I am white. He says white Americans are fine, no problem. I'll blend right in. He says it's good to blend in. he says Asians, and blacks, and Middle Easterners, and gypsies on the other hand might have issues. I can't tell if he's trying to be funny, sardonic, or serious. I can't tell if he's speaking for Croatia, or just projecting his own prejudices on an entire nation. It does seem that ethnic lines are drawn hard in the sand around here. I'm pretty sure he's being serious and speaking for Croatia, at least the older, aging generation in Croatia.
By the time we arrive in Zagreb, I have no idea what to think. I walk the professor out to the bus station and thank him for the beers and the stories. He gives me a big handshake and tries to call his wife like ten times on his cell phone. He yells into the phone repeatedly. He pounds on buttons. He has a huge belly and it's somehow involved in the dialing process. It's like watching a caveman discovering fire. But he does it! Eventually he gets through, and he makes plans to meet her.
Zagreb is really nice, clean, green, quiet. There are many parks and old trees. The city feels small, accessible, fairly modern, but kinda old. There are municipal train lines all over the place. There is a really nice town center, a huge open market, lots of families milling about. I am totally shocked at how peaceful and normal and nice this place is. It's almost too nice, too quiet. I snag a room by the train station and explore on foot. It's autumn. Leaves are turning, but it's still very green. Bright blue sky. I meander the streets and parks for quite some time. Then I sit on a patio and drink a Croatian beer and watch the world go by. This place is the exact antithesis of Budapest. The people are nice, but maybe a bit skeptical of me. Hard to really say. I take a nap then go back out at night. I meet a beautiful young woman running an internet cafe. I check my e-mail, then we chat for a bit. She's really nice. Progressive thinking. Not at all like the Professor on the train. She's travelled a lot. She recommends a nice local pub with good music. I head there after getting a couple slices of pizza, and drink a couple more Croatian beers. I end up meeting another Croatian girl at the bar who tells me about her travels to Mexico. She said she was robbed twice at knife point in Mexico! Damn. I apologize on behalf of my side of the world. But I think, by her tone, that she almost enjoyed getting robbed, at least in hindsight. It's probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened to her. And it makes for great bar stool conversation. Tired from so much train riding, walking, then drinking, I stumble home and crash.
Day 52 (10-22-09)
It'd be fun to stay in Zagreb and meander up through the hills above town, and meet more of the younger progressive locals like the internet cafe girl. I like it here. But the clock is ticking now and there's bigger fish to fry in Italy. I gotta finish the loop that's been forming in my mind. I'll catch a train to Ljubljana, Slovenia today, since it's sort of on the way to Italy. Sadly I'm not going to make it to the Croatian coast, which is supposed to be very nice. It's just too far south from where I need to head right now.
The train ride to Slovenia is beautiful, through a lush forested mountainscape, along a river, spotted with tiny villages and church steeples reflected in the water. I savor this ride. As I roll into Ljubljana the weather turns. It starts raining. Not just rain, but buckets and buckets of rain. And it doesn't stop. I try to meander through the city, but am soaked from head to toe. I duck into a cyber cafe to wait out the torrential rain, but it never stops. I spend hours catching up on e-mail and American news. Then I brave the rain, and hike up to the castle on the hill. The hike up to the castle is amazing. The forest canopy shelters me from much of the downpour. I wander through the free parts of the castle, then hike beyond it up into the forest park, where it begins to pour more buckets. I soggy slog back down into the city and hide out in a bar for the afternoon. The bartender is friendly. We chat for quit a while. This rain, not just today, but in general is really getting to me. Mainly because my home is on my back. I'm not staying in luxury resorts. I need the outdoor living rooms of each city to be habitable. Ljubljana is amazing, actually. I could stay here for weeks. It's the perfect blend of ancient-castle-on-a-hilltop-above-town, tech savvy, modern, and nature-centric. Outdoor sports seem big here. Climbing, kayaking, mountain biking, etc.. But the rain is killing me. I need my last week in Europe to be sunny and easy. This rain is not letting up at all.
Before I book a room, I head to the train station to find out when the next train to Venice leaves tomorrow. It turns out there is only one train a day to Venice, and it leaves at 2:30am! It doesn't make sense to book a room if I'm only going to be there for a few hours and check out at 1am. I decide to spend the evening trying to stay dry, eat food, walk and explore during breaks in the rain, then catch that 2am train. By 9pm, I'm really starting to wonder what I'm going to do for five hours in the rain. I've had all the food and coffee I can handle, and beer will knock me out. I end up going to see a Slovenian film. It's an art film, very surreal, and the entire thing is narrated in the local language. I have no idea what it's about. But at least it's a dry place to sit for two hours.
After the film, everything is closed except for loud drunk infested clubs and bars. So I head to the train station to wait at midnight. But the train station closes at 10pm. So I have to sit outside for two hours. I kill time reading a book under moon light and light pollution. The rain is subsiding. Eventually a few other people start to congregate that are also waiting for the train.
When I board the train, I expect to kick back and relax and get some shut eye, but it just rolled in from Budapest and is packed. And everyone on board has staked their claim, and is sprawled out and either sleeping across several seats, or pretending to in order to maintain their acreage. And NOONE is budging as the lights come on and newcomers board. this could not get much worse. I barely squeeze into my seat, as the guy next to me is taking up the other three in the section, and is snoring loudly. I read for a while, too tired to stay awake but too uncomfortable to sleep. I spend hours just hanging out in the breezeway between two cars. It's dark out, so I can't see a thing. As soon as the breakfast car opens at the break of dawn, I snag a table and eat the longest. slowest breakfast I can, just to have a comfortable space to be. I finish the entire trip in the breakfast car, ordering coffee after coffee.
Day 53 (10-23-09)
The train rolls into Venice around 10am. I can't believe I've been up for over 24 hours. I'm pretty strung out. I thought I'd have to take a boat to Venice, since it's a clump of islands, but the train crosses a long bridge over water and rolls right into the ancient city. Venice is awesome. It feels like a fantasy playground. It's completely overrun with tourists, but everyone is on the same page about that. Even the locals, I'm sure, have come to terms with the reality of this situation decades, even centuries ago. This place is just too unique to be spared from the mobs of world travelers. I stumble from hotel to hotel until I find one that has a room. My room overlooks a small square with a church and a fountain. One hundred fifty bucks. Whatever. Can't take it with me. I lay on the bed and listen to the sounds of Italy, the sounds of Venice. High heels, romantic voices, laughter. It's soothing. I fall asleep for a couple of hours.
Two hours of sleep recharges me, so I hit the streets and walk for hours through the alleys, over the bridges, along the canals, through the crowds and traverse the entire ancient sinking city. It's almost exactly what I expected it to be, but surreal that I'm actually here right now, doing it. I walk for three hours, getting lost in every little nook and cranky until I finally reach San Marco. San Marco Square is half under water. People rent rubber boots to wade around for fun. There are makeshift gangways that serve the long lines waiting to get into the cathedral. I stare at the reflection of the hordes of tourists in the flooded city center. I ask around: why all the water. I get get a different response from everyone I ask. I almost like not knowing the truth. I like just watching all the tourists splashing around with their rubber boots, or tip toeing around small lakes to traverse the square. Chaos. Pizza, sandwich, beer. In 24 hours, I walk almost every street in this "city". I love it. But it's a spectacle.
Day 54 (10-24-09)
I check out of my quaint room (in a building that is probably over three hundred years old) overlooking the square, and check my backpack into a facility at the train station. I have two and a half hours to kill before a train to Florence, so I roam around the city one last time, saying hi and goodbye to this truly unique place. I'm really glad to have come here. I doubt I'll ever be back, unless I had company.
I finish my fifth book on the ride to Florence. It's called Blink, about the power of split second mental processing and decision making. It contains many interesting threads, and seems relevant, since I've almost exclusively been making split second decisions since I quit my job in August. And the results have been quite rewarding.
I spend the remainder of the train ride enjoying the Italian countryside. Could I have walked to Florence? What kind of obstacles would I face? How long would it have taken? I ponder this as I jet down the rails in comfort.
I had this notion that Florence would be somewhat mellow, laid back. False. Florence is PACKED. Narrow sidewalks. Busy streets. Too many cars, too many bikes. All coming too close to too many pedestrians. Every piazza and square is packed to the rim with people. This city might be the most crowded place I've seen on this trip. It only beats Venice because it has cars and bikes too! BUT, I can understand why it's so packed. The Duomo and every other major site in this city is off the charts spectacular. It's amazing that buildings like these even exist, and it does say something about humanity's relentless creativity and ingenuity. There is a frenetic quality to this place though that rattles me. Venice didn't bother me, because it was just people. Adding cars and narrow sidewalks to the chaos is too much for me. An urban planner's nightmare. So I do what I always do, and walk up the tallest hill I can find in the distance. At the top is a church with superb panoramic views of the entire city. Then I keep walking (of course) beyond the church and through the woods above Florence. I find a road with a sidewalk that meanders through the hills, and I follow it all the way back to the city. The loop is huge, and I start to worry that it doesn't even loop back to Florence. The signs make no sense to me. But my internal gps tells me I'm in a big loop and will eventually get back to town, and I do, around dusk. The city is crazy congested even at night, and I am tired from my long walk, so I turn in early. The overpriced hotel sucks.
Day 55 (10-25-09)
I take an early train to Rome. The clocks got set back an hours I slept, so I arrive way too early and have to stand around for my train. Rome is huge and fun! There are millions of people, BUT the city is big enough to handle them, unlike Florence. I shop around for a cheap hotel by the train station. I find a very cheap hostel with dorm beds, but I just can't bring myself to do that anymore. I can sleep outside, or in a private room, but I don't like crashing with all the smelly feet of traveling slackers. It's depressing. I think Amsterdam broke me of hostels. I secure a nice room then do an epic walk across town. I walk around the Coliseum, Palatine, and all the way to St Peter's and the Vatican. I walk right inside St Peter's. There's no line, and it's free! It's the most spectacular building I've ever been in. It really truly is. I cannot believe how insanely huge and impressive this place is! I pay to climb the hundreds of stairs to the cupola at the top of the dome. It takes a lot of time and patience to get to the top, in a long line of others seeking higher ground. But it's worth it. I can see the entire city from every direction. I linger on the roof at the base of the dome on my way down for a while as the sun begins to set over Rome. I end the beautiful day by walking to the Spanish Steps, before turning in. I love Rome, but I wish I could share this with someone…
Day 56 (10-26-09)
I pay to go inside the Coliseum. There are locals dressed up as Roman soldiers that you can get your picture taken with. When one of them sees me, he waves his plastic sword at me, and says: "Jesus, come here! I'm going to kill you" in a thick Italian accent. It's a joke, and a funny joke at that, since I have long hair and a beard right now. I just look back and say: "It's okay, I forgive you…" He laughs. Good stuff. After spending a while at the Coliseum I head to Palatine, ancient Rome, mostly in ruins. There are random pillars that hold up nothing but the sky. Foundations of homes that used to belong to Caesar, literally! Many archeologists and student assistants move dirt. From the gardens there is a great view of the Forum and beyond. After roaming through Palatine for hours, I walk to the Pantheon. I was always intrigued by this building the most in college Art History class. It's a single room with a massive hemispherical ceiling. At the very top of the hemispherical dome is an open circular skylight that allows a single shaft of natural light into the space, which seems to be just enough. The outside is recognizable but barely, since I approach from the rear. There are no windows. There is only one entrance to the structure, and I gaze at it a long time from the fountain out front before venturing in. Once again, this place is free! There is something about the scale and proportions of this building that really, really appeal to me. I consider it a perfect design. There's a kind of simple radial symmetry, coupled with gigantic scale and ancient powerful energy that makes me linger here for quite a while. If places can store power, this place certainly does.
Eventually I make my way all the way to the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel. The Vatican Museum is arranged in a very linear fashion. In order to experience it, you must walk the established route. And there is an infinite line of tourists doing this, so it's impossible to skip ahead. It's basically one long huge line that moves at a snail's pace for several hours through dozens and dozens of rooms that I can't even attempt to describe. Is it worth it? Yes. Will I ever do it again? Probably not. The grand finale is the Sistine Chapel. The rule in this special place is "no cameras" and "no talking". But people are taking pics and some people are being very loud. The guards are constantly telling everyone to shut up and stop taking photos. I love the Sistine Chapel but it's impossible to enjoy in this context. I'm not sure which is more annoying, the people being loud and taking pictures, or the guards constantly trying to silence the entire place, which is a losing battle. For me, experiencing a place like this is not about pretending that I'm standing in the Sistine Chapel alone, and watching God touch Man. Experiencing this place, any place, is to recognize the warts and all. Aspects of visiting these great monuments to human civilization suck. I'll never be able to think about the Sistine Chapel again without hearing the constant shushing from the guards, and the disgruntled reactions from the asses being shushed. I just want to yell at the top of my lungs: Shut the fuck up and look at the god damned ceiling! It amazes me that most people cannot be quiet for a ten minutes to respectfully experience a place of artistic, historical and religious significance. It makes me really wonder why…I mean, isn't that why they're here? Or is it? I think that's why I appreciate my time in the Alps so much. The mountains are cathedrals, museums, monuments, built by God, not by man.
Finally I make it out of the Vatican City. Seeing it all first hand, the unimaginable wealth, reminds me what a successful business the Catholic church is. I mean no disrespect, but there's clearly an insane amount of money getting pumped into this religion, this city, this nation, or whatever it is. One last trip to the Spanish Steps. I hang out for a long time and people watch. Time to leave Rome. Time to head north. Time is almost up…
Day 57 (10-27-09)
Today is a big day. I try to check out of my hotel, but they are having credit card machine issues and require that I go get cash. This totally depletes my checking account. Then he doesn't even have change, so I have to let them keep three euros they owe me. Typical tourism bullshit. I ate at a little cafe yesterday, and the nice local woman running the place was telling me about how some of big popular restaurants in Rome do all kinds of tipping schemes. And they don't always make fresh meals anymore. Lots of microwave heat-ups, etc. She told me of a recent case that became very public when a restaurant tacked on an outrageous tip to the bill of a Japanese couple. They discovered it upon returning home, and pursued a legal case. Anyways, I need to catch a train north, so I let it go, and split.
I head up the Italian Coast to Cinque Terre. The ride from Rome to La Spezia up the coast is beautiful. Lots hills and farms an hilltop villages. Great ocean views. From La Spezia I catch a regional train to Riomaggore. Apparently I was suppose to validate my ticket before getting on the train, and the man checking tickets writes me a fine for 5 Euros. That's all the cash I have. I try to explain that I just bought my ticket. I even show him my other ticket from Rome. It's obvious I'm on a one way trip up the coast, and am not reusing this ticket. But he shows me the fine print on the back of the ticket in English. More bullshit. He barely finishes writing me the ticket and taking the last of my cash before I arrive at my stop. Riomaggore is utopian. It's a tiny village clinging to a cliff right on the sea. From here, there is a trail that is carved into the cliffside that connects the five villages of Cinque Terre: Riomaggore, Corniglia, Vernazza, and Monterosso al Mare. All five villages are dreamlike. Frozen in time. Most of them are only accessible by the one regional train, and by foot. Vernazza is my favorite. When I walk into the village, I hear a bell ring. As I walk through town, all the shops are closed. I can't find anyone. So i keep walking down through the village to the waterfront and town center. There is the church, and everyone in town is standing around it. There is a somber quietness blanketing the town. I ask a young boy what's going on. He says a girl died. She was seventeen. I decide to keep going and give this town some room. But I'd love to come back here some day under better circumstances. After walking most of the day up and down cliffs and through the ancient villages, I arrive at Monterosso. It's also the only village with a sandy beach, so I go for a swim in the Mediterranean Sea for the first time in my life, and cool off. After I dry off and watch the sun set over the sea, I grab a beer, then a latte, then catch a regional train Genova, Italy, so I can catch a train back to Geneva, Switzerland tomorrow. I roll into Genova after dark so it's hard to get a decent view out the window, but it looks like a sizable seaside city with some industry. I find a nice hotel and crash hard. Hard to believe I woke up in Rome, hiked the entire Cinque Terre, and then travelled to Genova all in one day. Cinque Terre is by far the highlight of my week, one of the highlights of my trip. I hope to make it back someday. If so, I will spend more time, book a b&b or something. But I got exactly what I was looking for this time.
Day 58 (10-28-09)
Today is a very long train ride from Genova Italy to Geneva Switzerland. Northern Italy is beautiful. The coast gives way to mountains. At some point the train passes through Birg, and I realize I've been through Brig before, on my way to Zermatt. I've officially completed the loop. This train wraps around the northern edge of Lake Geneva, beyond which are extraordinary views of the Alps. I can see Mont Blanc across the lake and think back to my time circumnavigating its massif. It feels like a lifetime ago. but I remember every detail. Writing it all down helps.
The hostel in Geneva is booked solid. This is a huge blow. I go to about ten hotels, all booked. Unbelievable. I finally find a cheap room for $150. A fast food meal is $15. A pint of beer is $8.50. This place is killing me. Tomorrow I fly home. I am sad to be at the end of this journey. And I don't really have a home to go back to. I plan to couch surf in Portland until I figure out what to do next. Need to figure out where I want to be, and what I want to be doing. If money was not an issue, I'd probably just keep doing this. I've been to 15 countries in the last eight weeks. I've hiked hundreds of miles through mountain ranges, down rivers, along the coastline, and through towns and cities. I've travelled thousands of miles by train as far north as Bergen Norway, as far south as Rome Italy, as far west as Paris France, and as far east as Budapest Hungary. I've met so many people, and made a few friends. I've pushed myself to the point of physical and emotional exhaustion. I think I've discovered my limits and have tried to ride that very edge as long as I could. I've seen the best and the worst that the tourism industry has to offer, and I've discovered ways to avoid the tourism machine all together and stay off the beaten path when it suits me. I could have done better to spend less, but it's hard to stick to a shoestring budget, with all the sacrifices and compromises and discomfort that entails if I don't really have to. I will have to assess the financial toll when I get back to the states and see the size of the hole in my savings account.
Day 59 (10-29-09)
I head to the airport early to catch a plane to the States via Hamburg. The flight is delayed. Then cancelled altogether. They end up getting me on a flight to New York, JFK, where I have a huge layover before a direct flight to Portland. I spend the day retracing my steps. Sorting out the million memories of the last two months. Wishing I was not coming back yet. But I feel free now, truly free for the second time in my life. The first time being when I headed west in a pickup truck with no job and no destination in 1998, and eventually landed in Portland. Has this trip changed me in some fundamental way? Absolutely. I can say with confidence that I am a different person than I was two months ago. Will the adventure change my life, my future in any tangible way? Yes. It already has, and will continue to. Does it matter. Yes, it matters more than not doing it.
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