India, Abridged or: I’m Irresponsible and Haven’t Written Shit, So Here It All Is.

I arrived in India on September 7th, nearly two months ago.  At nearly the exact moment those tires kissed the Delhi tarmac, I closed my journal, slipped it into my bag, and set my eyes on this massive subcontinent. Today, two months later, having departed India for Thailand and the countries of Southeast Asia, that journal has yet to reopen.

Look, India has a talent for making time disappear.  Days somehow melt into weeks, and things like dates, schedules, and itineraries evaporate in the heat.  In this way my impetus for journal writing withered with my concept of time.  I will do my best to relay the details of my two months there, as it was, by any measure, quite a time.

My arrival in Delhi–an event that seems like ages ago–was exceptionally unpleasant.   Arriving after dark, I had no guidebook, reference, reservation or direction.  I decided to destroy my spine snooze on the terminal benches until daybreak, then catch a bus or taxi into town, find a bookstore, buy a guidebook, make my way to a reputable hostel or guesthouse, get a room, and take a 37-hour nap.

Instead, I was taken to Chandi Chowk, perhaps the most insane street in all of Delhi, and therefore the world, where the confluence of massive crowds, syphilitic beggars, aggressive touts, and unabridged filth and stench come together to create the Perfect Storm of “Get Me. The Fuck. Out of Here.”

This does not do the insanity justice.

Delhi, for the most part, did not last.  4 days later I was in Srinigar, where I stayed on a houseboat on the picturesque Dal Lake. My dad had said he did the same back in the day, and I was eager to do so myself.  A nice boat, a pretty place, but an unending stream of merchants–buddies of the houseboat owner–would break the peace and insist on trying to sell me a $10,000 hand-carved coffee table or a $6,000 Kashmir carpet.  Fuck off, gentlemen, unless you’re selling Peace and Quiet.

From Srinigar I endured a 14-hour jeep trip over dirt roads to Leh, a picturesque village nestled in between Himalayan ranges.

There for a week, I ventured out with other travelers to see Buddhist monasteries, temples, and the surrounding landscape–or rather, moonscape, as Leh is so far up there (9,200 ft), vegetation has a hard time of it.

They have another spot in the Hamptons, for summers.

The native villagers and farmers of the region are mostly of Tibetan descent, and possess a lot of character in their sun-kissed faces.

Thanks Corbis!

From there, I took a bus south to Manali, a little town nestled in the Himalayas.  It took a couple days of doing absolutely nothing to unwind from the grueling 22-hour trip. Careening madly over twisting, precipitous, nonexistent roads, I sat sleepless amongst puking locals, waiting for either our destination or the sweet embrace of death.   Apparently car sickness strikes the Indian native easily: upon leaving the bus, I noticed every single window had a streak of vom running out it and down the side of the bus, save for mine and the window of Ella and Claire, two other travelers in front of me.

From Manali I did my trek, and returned to town to hang with Mike and Graham, two solo travelers with whom I was to become brothers-in-arms/joints.   They both, unfortunately, were from that weird little island in the north Atlantic… ironically called the United Kingdom.  Yeah.  Right.  Not after July 4th, 1776, bitches.   Oh snaaaaap.  That’s right, I said it.

All aside, they are both absolutely stellar guys, and have become my de facto bosom buddies. We’ve stuck together ever since Manali for the most part.  Indeed, as I write this, Graham is venturing across India towards Kolkata for his flight here, and Mikey is on his way up a few weeks later from the southern tip of India for the same.  When we are reunited, we’re off to Laos for river floating, jungle hacking, and otherwise trying to get ourselves killed in the name of adventure.  Hopefully we succeed.  Glory, bitches.  Glory.

…I digress.

From Manali, I flew to Goa, the tiny state situated half-way down India’s western coast.  Goa is known for its beaches–Utopian, palm-lined, coconut-sprinkled, relatively deserted, with the balmy Indian ocean placidly lapping at their shores.  It was in Goa–Palolem Beach, specifically–that Time decided it had had enough of my bullshit, packed it’s things, left a note on the fridge, took the cat, and left without saying goodbye.   I was there for over 3 weeks, and it really, really didn’t seem like it.  Not my fault, I insist, because as paradise goes, this gets pretty close.

The man with the basket on his head carries around fresh coconut, pineapple, and papaya. For less than a dollar, he'll chop it up for you right there on the beach. Unfathomably tasty.

Before Graham arrived, Mike and I split up our time in Palolem with a trips out to the surrounding countryside on motor scooters, getting lost down little roads and coming across hidden gems of India’s local life.  Down one dirt road, we discovered swaths of bright red chilis drying in the sun.

Hot.

Hotter.

Thinking of my brother, and our continuing feud my constant domination over who can eat the spiciest food, I nearly ate one.   Thinking of the picker’s livelihood, I relented.  The eating of chili peppers would come later.

We also ventured down to Gokarna, about an hour and a half away by train.  It was Palolem on a diminutive scale–smaller beach, literally deserted, and enough quietude to write the next Great American Novel, which I most definitely did not do.  Instead, I spent my time in my hammock, sipping a banana lassi, and occasionally stretching my arm out to receive the joints that Graham seemed to be endlessly rolling.  Like I said, new best friends.  Also, sorry mom, dad, past and future employers… when you’re sitting on a beach in India, sometimes you have to smoke some weed.  If you don’t like it, you’re probably Republican, which–trust me–is way worse than smoking weed.

I did, in fact, write about the train ride to Gokarna.  I will turn it over to the journal now.

“In the late afternoon, we boarded the train bound for Gokarna — remote(er) beaches about 90 minutes south of here.  The train was just shy of two hours late (typical, and even expected, for India), and Mike and I tried unsuccessfully to keep ourselves cool in the sweltering still air.  Locals milled about clutching third-hand suitcases and makeshift ones fashioned from old burlap rice sacks.  This was a true slice of Indian life; women in bright saris of pink, saffron, gold and crimson tended impossibly cute children who wore their pants comically high on their skinny bodies.  It wasn’t hard to see where they’d gotten this fashion–fathers impassively stood nearby, their wiry frames dressed with trousers that rested well above their navels.   Everyone would occasionally cast a glance down the long gleaming rails into the distance, looking for the first signs of the train.

When said train would arrive was a mystery of course.  Scheduled for five minutes before two, it was now nearly two hours late.  Various inquiries to the bored station agent over the course of those two hours elicited the same response: it would be here in five, maybe ten minutes.  After the third inquiry, Mike and I decided to leave the station agent to watch his cricket game, and returned to our spot in the shade to play cards.

Before long, commotion on the platform heralded the arrival of the train–a small dot, wavering in the heat at the vanishing point of the rails.  As it pulled into the station, everyone burst into motion.  Mike and I jumped aboard moments after the train had come to a stop, and found ourselves jostled from behind by anxious locals doing the same.  Turns out this haste was for good reason.  No more than 15 seconds after the train had stopped, it began to move again.  Locals hurled luggage on board or passed it through windows before breaking into a jog and hopping on board.  Indeed, all subsequent stops on our two hour journey were like this– a flurry of manic commotion as the train arrived at a station, followed by a crushing battle between those trying to get themselves and their luggage out, and their counterparts trying to get in.

The journey down was pleasant enough.  Our car was 2nd Class, Unreserved–the car for the teeming masses-and though we barely had standing room, the scenery more than made up for it.

Forests of palms drifted by, occasionally broken by fields of rice paddies.  They were strikingly green, contrasting against the red Indian soil and the dark foliage of the surrounding jungle.

In these, Indian women toiled, their saris providing splashes of vibrant color against the verdure.

Brilliant white Egrets stood nearby like little sentinels.  Occasionally they could be seen perched on the backs of the lumbering water buffalo that placidly traversed the fields.

The train often traveled on an elevated embankment, affording us startlingly good views of the surrounding countryside.

We arrived in the late afternoon, made our way via a bumpy 20 minute rickshaw ride to our little beach, procured two beach huts and promptly gorged on seafood curries for a job well done.”

Thanks Journal.  We’ll catch up with you later in the program.

In the end I made my way to Gokarna twice, once with Graham to meet Mike, and we managed to get the best seats in the house on the way back–sitting in the open doorways of our train.  Sitting there, feet dangling out, the warm wind keeping us cool, we took in the scenery for those precious hours, smiling contentedly to ourselves.  Another indelible memory, I thought, as we jumped off at Palolem station.

During the last weeks in Palolem, Graham, Mike and I ventured up to a spice plantation and took a tour.  A friendly guide took us around the plantation, which has been owned and operated by the same family for several generations, and showed us the various spices, how they’re grown, harvested, and prepared.  I come from a family with a strong culinary streak, so reaching into the ground to pull out a turmeric root was fascinating to me.  Smelling the leaves of the Allspice plant, seeing the little baby Cardamom pods beginning to sprout, picking a dangling cluster of peppercorns form the pepper vine… it tied the spices I use on a nearly daily basis to their origins.  Also, get this… the Banana Tree?  Not a tree.  It’s in the grass family.  Like, your lawn grass.  Technically, the Banana Tree is the largest species of grass in the world.

Hard to mow.

The guide, stopping the group at a moment by a diminutive plant, asked if anyone liked spicy food.  A few of us chuckled, knowing this was bait.  Mike, god damn him, piped up and pointed to me, volunteering me to be the Guinea Pig.  The guide, smirking, reached down and pulled off a tiny green chili, no bigger than the tip of your pinky finger, and handed it to me.

Not refusing a challenge, especially from a Brit, I popped the little fucker in my mouth and bit down.

Let me stop here and say my experience with all things spicy is long and storied, stretching all the way back to when I was in tutelage under my brother (simple salsas, a few chili sauces, nothing spectacular… the padawan has now become the master).  Like  passionate lovers, Spicy and I have shared moments of joy, moments of pain.   Here’s a usual rule though: Spicy, as a flavor, usually takes a second to hit.  We all have experience with this is in some regard–only after you’ve taken the bite, chewed it, and began to swallow do you really understand the heat it packs.  In this way, dealing with Spicy is a bit like getting kicked in the balls; you know the pain is coming, but you can stand there for a second, the calm before the proverbial storm, and prepare yourself.

This did not happen when I bit down.  There was no warning.  As soon as I bit down, it was if I exploded a pressurized ball of spicy aerosol in my mouth.  Everything instantly became very, very warm.  Sweating, nose running, I chewed deliberately without breaking expression while Mike and Graham doubled over with laughter like the Limey fuckers they are.   The guide, in what I would like to think was a show of new-found respect, patted me on the shoulder.

This pepper, this tiny little thing, was a Piri-Piri Chili (also known as the African Red Devil).  A chili on par, though much smaller, than the much-vaunted Habanero in terms of pure heat.

We continued through the plantation, dodging giant spiders hanging low in gigantic webs.  These puppies looked like they’d crawled right out of Satan’s ass, and they were big.  Real big. You can’t tell here, but this guy’s leg span equals that of your hand.  Not your palm, your hand.   Your whole fucking hand.

Oh hi there. Cool, um, mandibles. I'm gonna go.

Mike asked what happens if you get bitten by one.  The guide responded, “Bad things.”

We toured through Vanilla vines, and discovered why it was the second most expensive spice in the world (long story short, finicky plant, needs hand pollination, produces one or two pods per plant per season, etc. etc.).   Saffron, for those who were wondering, is the most expensive.

Stopping at a Betel Nut tree, our guide had a worker demonstrate how to climb it’s palm-like trunk.  The impy worker scuttled up the tree, then, using his body weight to sway the flexible trunk back and forth, eventually bent it far enough over to reach the adjacent tree, into which he jumped.  In this way, a worker can walk into a Betel Nut plantation, climb a tree, and traverse the entire plantation without ever touching the ground.

Worker Man is Spiderman.

The worker offered to have us give it a try.  First Graham, who gracelessly murdered his attempt (sorry Bro, you did), and then me, who fared little better.  Between us, we successfully made all white people look like clumsy idiots.

We spent the last few days doing what we do best–relaxing on the beach, eating Indian food, and going to the barber for head and face massages.

India was wonderful.  Sometimes.  Sometimes, it was, to be honest, a total bitch.   I’ll address this with examples and reasons, but for now… consider this post The Good, and next post The Bad and The Ugly.  That post I have written already (I had to vent), so I’ll publish it on Monday methinks.

Then I’ll backtrack to fill in my time in Turkey (and a few parts of Croatia I missed), before getting to where I am now.  Thailand.

Thanks for reading this far guys.

…Guys?

Hello?

Intermission: Trek in the Himalayas, or “Let’s Play Find the Oxygen”

Croatia pt. 3 and Turkey will have to wait.   By popular request, a brief update of my current whereabouts and activities, accompanied by photos.

A few days ago, whilst standing in front of an Indian bakery trying to figure out which of the available breadstuffs in the window had been sitting there for the least number of days, I was approached by a friendly couple–Belgian guy with his Israeli girlfriend, both around my age–wondering if I wanted to go trekking.

Trekking, for the uninitiated, is not debating with your geek friends the merits of The Next Generation over a Little Ceasers’ Pizzilla 9000 and Pop Tarts.

It’s hiking, on an extended scale.  A trek can be fore 3 days, or 13.  No matter the length, you hire a guide; a man who knows the trails, the passes, and the best views.  He hires a porter (who usually comes with a pair of doleful mules) and a cook.  Your tent, sleeping bag, food, and supplies are all taken care of, and heaped on the back of those poor fucking mules.  Your cook and porter then race on up the trail as you leisurely enjoy the scenery and follow the guide.

You arrive at your camp 5 or so hours later, and find it set up for you, dinner already cooking.     Not only do they make your food, they clean up, bring you warm washing water, they collect your firewood, they build your campfire, bring you endless cups of tea (fresh black masala tea or chai).  Pretty much all effort is taken care of, save for the actual walking part.  They basically make you feel like a pampered colonial asshole, but you learn to like it.

So, this friendly couple–Ben and Libby–asked if I would like to join them, as a way to defray costs (more on this later).  I had intended to splurge and do trekking while I was here anyway (the Himalayas ain’t exactly on the way to work, so carpe diem, etc), so this worked out perfectly.

We ironed out the details, picked our guide, and the following day were off on our 5 day trek to the top of some nearby summit.

I’ll turn it over to the pictures in a moment, but first…a message to my friends who are known to enjoy a little of the ol’ Mary J, and especially to my bud Kellen, who is probably mainlining distilled THC in between his toes as we speak:

Yes, it’s wild, and therefore yes, it’s free, and yes, you just pick it.  Yes, I just about made an accident in my pants when I discovered this.  Partly because it’s just plain fantastic, partly because the weed itself is strong enough to render a sea elephant permanently catatonic.   Totally brain dead.  Full on sea beast.  No joke.  Boom.

On to the pics.

Starting up the trail. Is that?...

...why yes, yes it is.

After a couple hours, we emerged into an alpine field and beheld a shepherd's tent.

We posted up on the rock and grubbed on some packed lunches.

And these were the shepherd's kids. Filthy, ridiculously cute. This radio was their most prized possession.

The family keeps a herd of buffalo, making a living from milk and cheese. Also, the buffalo have white eyes. It's the stuff of nightmares.

Arriving at a little plateau after about 5 meandering hours, we beheld our camp: set up, with dinner already cooking. Anand, our guide, stands at right.

Our cook and porter, manning up the stove.

Pakora, which was invented in an attempt to fry and eat pure Happiness. Totally worked.

Comparing the collected varieties of the Wild Cannabis... purely for horticultural research. Discovered that when combusted and inhaled, I end up trying to explain to an Indian man who speaks no English that time, in fact, is relative.

The next morning, early. Dawn light over the ridge.

Overnight the weather had cleared, giving me a peek at my surroundings. Kind of lost my shit when I woke up to this. True story.

First camp was at 3000 meters, give or take.  For us Yankees, that’s nigh 9,300 ft, already higher than the Schilthorn peak I rode up to in Switzerland.

Yours truly and Libby.

Because I was with a couple, I sometimes felt a little fifth wheelish. This is Jackie, the porter's dog, who accompanied us for the trip. He and I bonded, and Sir Jacksalot (as I deemed him) was soon my de facto significant other. This picture pretty much captures his entire personality. Heart of gold, brain of pencil shavings.

Stopping to eat lunch in a clearing, again surrounded by buffalo. Jackie Boy keeps watch while I nosh.

Two locals watching the herd. And getting some quality knitting time in, apparently.

Up, and into the clouds.

The landscape as we near 11,000 ft. There's a dot on top of one of the hills, which, looking closer...

... is me.

Campsite of Day 2, 13,000 ft. My tent, as the sun goes down. After which, turns out, it gets fuuuuucking cooooold. Shocker, I know.

Anand, getting ready to make a mean Lamb Curry.

Landscape at sunset. Turdbat in lower right, ruining shot.

Dusk over the Great Himalayan Range.

And moonrise. The night skies, at that altitude and that far removed from civilization, were the most spectacular I've ever seen.

Morning of Day 2. My domicile. Every morning we were awoken with a cup of hot chai.

Our spot. We were here for 2 days, as it served as our basecamp for the day-long summit hike.

Backdrop, with Jacknacious providing context.

Ben, at the breakfast table. Toast, oatmeal, pancakes...

Lots of stone cairns, on the way to...

...to here. The summit.

A small alpine pond, on the way up.

And another, near the top, ~15,000 ft. It's a holy lake, apparently home to the local Hindu rain god. Indeed, I can say is that when you touch the water, your hand feels suddenly very very cold. No, really.

Eating lunch after scrambling up the snow final stretch. 15,800 feet. Good view, oxygen hard to come by.

On the way to the actual summit. I felt like a fat man with emphysema.

Summit, and a view of our way up. Overwhelming sense of accomplishment mitigated by oxygen deprivation delirium.

Trying to keep view of camera inside enclosing tunnel vision.

The summit ridge. Blue dot is me.

Cairn.

More cairn.

Our camp, from the descent. Dinner of vegetable curry, dahl, lentils, and rice.

Group shot, and Jackie's betrayal.

Around the campfire. Jackie and I kicking it, Ben and Libby behind.

Descending in to the adjacent valley. The birch were beginning to turn, and contrasting against the Rhododendron. Yeah, all that green is Rhody. In Spring, it's a carpet of pink, white, red and purple.

Rounding a corner, hit with this. The picture does not come close to doing justice.

From the valley floor.

Our camp in the base of the valley, for night 4.

One of our mules, as the sun goes down.

On the way down, stumbling into a herd of sheep and goats...

...and their shepherds, shearing them by hand.

Goats, by the way, are perhaps the most retarded looking creatures on the planet.

Their babies are ridiculously cute though.

Parting self-portrait, looking smug.

All in all, the whole trip cost me a whopping $170 dollars.

Ok.  The internet cafe is actually closing on me, so I should go.  Thus ends the intermissive update.  More soon.

August 2009 – Croatia, Pt. 2

Apologies for yet another long blog hiatus, it’s hard to snag a computer here in the Himalayas.  For example, yesterday I discovered the “Internet Cafay” [sic] was closed because of a yak.  I’m not making this up.  There was a giant yak standing in front of the door.   Nobody was coming in or out, because, seriously, have you seen a yak?  They’re like a furry version of a tank.  A tank with two giant fucking spikes on the front.

Devil Cow

So instead I watched two stray dogs have sex, then drank a Mango Lassi.  It was delicious.  On to Croatia, Pt. 2.
____

“My accommodation was a short bus ride from the old city in the home of Djuro, a portly middle-aged Croatian man who spoke in a slow drawl through a perpetual grin.   He sported an impressive comb-over of black hair, greased to a high shine by pomade or maybe snot.  In the right light, one could say he was creepy.   The right light being pretty much every light.

For the four summer months of the tourist season, Djuro turned his modest home into a hostel, cramming spare rooms with bunks and cots.  Those few months gave him enough under-the-table cash flow to spend the rest of the year doing whatever he wished, like feeding his pet python or abducting orphans.

I had booked a bed in a 12-bed dorm.  This turned out to be a mattress, apparently stuffed with stilettos, on the floor of a large room.   I arrived in the afternoon, and after a shower, began to meet my other dorm fellows as they returned from a day at the beach.

I noticed very soon they were not fellows.  Girls, actually, all around my age.

Hm.

Considering the last females I spent any meaningful time with were a herd of Swiss cows, I was happy with this turn of events.   Djuro came down to see that we were all settling in ok, or maybe to just make the girls feel uncomfortable.  On the way out, he  flashed me a grin and a wink, which I took to mean either “lucky you” or “I will steal their panties”.

Let me interject here and say something about traveling.  It has nothing to do with panties.

Travelers, by nature, are adrift from king and country, friends and family, home and hearth. We are bereft of all those nouns that allow us to be comfortable in our native environ and therefore remain comfortably distanced from those outside it.

I’ve found that when we venture abroad, we seek out companionship to fill the void we’ve created.  The Traveler becomes more gregarious, more congenial, more outgoing than their quotidian alter ego they left at home.  They’ll disregard the usual social decorum and, upon hearing the native English speakers at the next table over, turn and introduce themselves.

For example, I’m a cynical bastard when at home and amongst my besties, prone to social xenophobia and antipathy*.   Abroad, I’m friendlier than Mr. fucking Rogers.

::takes off shoes, puts on slippers, hangs up cardigan::

In this way, everyone in that dorm became fast friends.  In our normal walks of life we would’ve occupied different social circles and perhaps never had gelled.  But there, away from our native UK, Australia, Canada, and America… we formed a merry band of pals.

As night fell, we gathered that on the terrace outside, each bringing a bottle of wine or some cheap beer to our impromptu pow-wow.  We shared stories and traded shots like old chums, cheersing to our respective countries and occasionally to Djuro, who was probably upstairs playing with his Nunchucks.

Later we headed down to the beach, taking over a little beach bar that was playing fantastically bad techno.   Mia, a Qantas stewardess who is now in the running for my new best friend, found the unlocked door to a liquor storeroom and drunkenly absconded with 3 bottles of whatever she could grab.  In her haste she chose alcohol that was barely a step up from paint thinner, but ‘gratis’ is good so we all cheersed to her criminal action.

We wandered to a deserted jetty with our plunder and reclined on some nearby beach loungers.  The merriment continued until the warm water  proved too enticing.  We disrobed to various stages of undress and jumped in.   Later, dried by the night’s warm breeze, we happily diminuendo-ed under the stars with a final cocktail.

It just was one of those nights.  The kind of night you’ll fondly recall decades from now as a reprieve from the weights of the routine: marriage, mortgage, cubicles and 401(k)s.  The wanton abandon, the reckless inhibition brought on by one too many, the exhilarating sense of savoring a unique moment you know you’ll never forget… come morning, it will all have withered under the fog of a hangover and hastily rediscovered decorum.

Even then though, as you catch the smirking reflection of your puffy face in the bathroom mirror,  you know that last night we sucked the marrow from life’s meager bones, and god dammit, it was magnificent.

This about sums it up.

______

*Not really, Mom.  Just trying to make a point.

Next up, more Croatia and on to Turkey.

August 4th – Dubrovnik, Croatia

After hugs and effusive farewells from Hans, I set off from Switzerland to a hastily chosen destination: Dubrovnik, Croatia.

I admit I had no intentions of going to Croatia, or anywhere in the Balkans really, at the outset of this trip.  Even when I arrived in the Alps it hadn’t occured to me.  The breadth of my knowledge regarding Croatia is limited: I know it has a pretty legit national soccer team and it was recently embroiled in a nasty war.

The country, not the soccer squad.

Even pointing to Croatia on a map would’ve been an embarassing endeavor, my finger probably ending up in Yemen.

How I chose Croatia was the result of a conversation I had with Hans one night.  We were sharing a bottle of Port and discussing the merits of the local geology: Switzerland’s beauty in the summer, more of that plus skiing in the winter.  Perfect.  The only thing that the country didn’t have was a beach.

“…a beach”, I thought.  Now that’s something I could go for.  Also, more Port.  I filled my glass, which held–quite literally–little more than a thimble.

Hans retorted in defence of his native land.  “Ze beach ess der!”  he said, pointing emphatically out his window.  He was referencing the little man-made jobby across the road, the one on the shore of Lake Brienz.

More accurately, the one on the shores of the glacier-fed Lake Brienz.

“Yeah but…”, I started, but cut myself off.

Hans tipped his thimble back, downed his port, and grinned at me.  He was sure he’d sent home the coup de grace on my argument.

I gave the shrug of defeat, knowing that our positions were irreconcilable, and he burst into peals of laughter.  He offered me the cookie tin for the 4th time in the last 15 minutes and I took one, accepting the proverbial olive branch.  Hans, chuckling, poured himself another glass. The port almost instantly filled the cup and spilled over the side.  Hans gave a little squeal of alarm, then grinned as he lifted the brimmed glass to his lips.  “Ees a perfeekt pour”, he chuckled.  We cheersed gently.

That night I looked up my options on the net.  In turn, the beach-riddled countries made their pitches.  Greece presented its glistening reputation, but was ruled out by its costs.  Ibiza opened with its wanton hedonism and promises of sordid stories, but it bet wrong on what I was looking for.  Spain played a good hand, but logistics getting in and out ended its bid.  And what’s this?  A Wild Card… Croatia.  Cheap, gorgeous, and lightly tread by tourists, thanks to the residual negative stigmas of the recent conflict and the fact it resides in uncooth Eastern Europe.  A google image search of Dubrovnik was all I needed.  Azure water of the Adriatic.  The heat of the Mediterranean sun.  The polished limestone streets of an ancient city.  And beaches.  Booked.

After spending the night in Geneva’s airport (long story, also thanks for the inflatable pillow Mom), I was on a 7 AM flight.  I arrived, stepped out off the plane to walk across the tarmac (that’s under-developed charm for you), and was hit with an intense heat that told me my climate had changed.  And that my black jeans were not great call.

A short bus ride and I was in town.  The old town of Dubrovnik was embraced by thick castle walls, squeezing the town into a dense array of  impossibly narrow streets, precluding any traffic that wasn’t solely human.

Quaint alleys, steep staircases, little avenues huddled beneath the eaves of timeworn dwellings… it was all very archaicly charming.  The large limestone paving stones of it’s main promenade are polished to a high luster by hundreds of years of foot traffic, so much so that if you look carefully, or at least drink heavily enough, you can see your reflection in them.

Little alleys lead off the main promenade...

...and turn into stairways...

...revealing hidden courtyards. P1020601

I wandered through a little hole in the castle walls, and found myself on a terrace cliffside, watching youngsters jump from alarming heights into the warm Adriatic.

I made my way to the hostel–a short bus ride from the old town–changed out of the black jeans, and hit the beach.

________

More on Croatia later, but first, by my parents popular demand, a photo of me and Hans (along with his nephew and his girlfriend), taken up at his little cabin.   That fire bit in the background is called a Swedish Candle.  Upon my request, Hans showed me how to make one… they’re brilliant.

And here’s where I’ve been since late August.  This is the view from the roof of my hostel.  The Blue Mosque.

As per usual, more soon.

July (and some August) – Brienz, Switzerland

“Left Sweden two days ago [July 15th] with lots of hugs and a lingering sorrow.  Made it into Basel, the confluence of France, Germany and Switzerland’s borders, and settled into a 3-hour train ride through undulating fields in the north toward the jagged feet of the Alps.   Though set on making up for a sleepless night, I failed, persuaded to the window time and again by a landscape that cannot be denied.  I have determined that the vistas of this quaint country are beyond description–the words would be rendered overwrought and ringing hollow by the necessary superlatives.

I will say simply that those impossible mountains, cleaved by those legendary valleys, compose a sight which I cannot imagine improved.

After snaking along the turquoise waters of Lake Brienz from Interlaken, I arrived at my destination just as the sun  completed its premature set behind the spires of the Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau.   Stepping off the train, I heard a thickly-accented, badly-mangled version of my name.  Turning, I saw Hans, standing awkwardly by his little hatchback.  I gave him a warm handshake and an enthusiastic greeting.   Even at the age of 82, he was shy.

He was in remarkably good shape.  He supported a rotund belly on surprisingly muscular legs that spoke of his enduring mobility.  His hair had long since departed, save for a white crescent that wrapped around his head like a miniature Ceasarian crown.  A little white goatee drew to a point on his chin, but his eyebrows–thick, bushy things–had retained their jet black color. He had a prominent hunch, and even standing up his chin would often rest on his chest as if he were in deep thought at best, nodding off at worst.   He looked a little bit like a long-retired Mephastopheles, but his impish smile and gregarity proved him anything but.

We drove a few minutes down the road to his home.  He lived in a small, traditional Swiss house, the same one he had bought in his 24th year as a wedding present to his late wife.  Wood carvings adorned the walls and shelves, and a few mounted antlers told of his days as a sportsman.

Hans spoke little English, ableit very enthusiastically.  Limited to a smattering of present tense verbs and a handful of nouns, communication was initially difficult.  Soon we developed a kind of repartee that proved pleasantly effective.   Over the course of the next few days I learned of Hans’ history, of his life here in Brienz, and how he came to be where he is today.

Hans arrived in this house in 1951–he 24, carrying his new bride (only 20, he said with a wink and a chuckle) through its threshold.  He had bought a tiny mechanic shop on its ground floor and started his own business working on mostly tractors and farm equipment.    3 years in, his business was running smoothly and he had hired on a few part time workers to help with the demand.  5 years later, in the early 60’s, the shop had tripled in size and he was employing a staff of 16 full-timers.   He augmented things with a little dealership, and suddenly found himself competing with rival businesses far beyond the streets of the meager township of Brienz.  Along the way, he had become a respected and prominent member of the community.  Everyone knew him, everyone loved him, and he was even urged into local public office by his admiring neighbors.   He raised two children–Johannes and Anna-Katarina–and saw them off to college and beyond.  Life was good.

A competitor in Interlaken, the nearby city, offered to go into business with him, forming a kind of partnership and profit-sharing plan.

Within 2 years, Han’s was forced to sell off his shop, dragged under by the partner who had squandered everything with overzealous management.   His shop and his dealership were liquidated at a fraction of they’re value, and quickly bought up by a national gas-station chain.   He had lost everything he ever worked for.

Hans tosses his head back and laughs when he tells me he lost nearly 3 million dollars on that deal.  His tone is one of carefree amusement, as if he lost a small bet to a good friend.   He insists that life was still good–he had his health, family and friends, and warm home.  There was no use, he intoned solemnly, in anguishing over the past.

Now entering his golden years, Hans turned to what had been a hobby to provide him and his wife with some income: Raclette.

Raclette is a Swiss specialty, a tradiontal dish where a large hunk of mild cheese is melted bit by bit, with the chef periodically scrapping off the gooey part onto boiled potatoes or a thick slice of bread.   The cheese is often mixed with a variety of diced meats (bacon, proscuitto, ham), and garlic, leek, or onion to add some complexity.

So simple, so so good.  Of course it can be a logistical nightmare to heat up this large hunk of soft cheese.  Not only are the blocks large (10, 15 pounds), they melt easily, and 10 to 15 pounds of melted cheese is not a welcome addition to  oven or stovetop.

Hans, after cleaning up Raclette one too many times, jury-rigged some scrap metal he had lying around, attached a simple space heater, and invented this.

Han's Solution

Attached to a tank of propane, it heats the leading edge of the cheese beautifully and evenly, with no fuss, no muss.

He made one for himself.  Then another for a friend.  Then more friends.  Soon, orders were coming in from all over the country–hotels, restaurants, festival organizers, and lots and lots of individual citizens.  By the early 80’s, he was making a comfortable living off the machines.   And each one was hand-made by him in that little shop of his.

The years passed quickly.  His wife of 54 years died peacefully in 2005, and though he was a popular figure in town and had more than one widow make her intentions known, Hans resigned himself to a life of relative solitude.  His children had moved out and started lives of their own.  His friends, those who were still alive, he saw occasionally for coffee. He spent his hours working in his shop and enjoying an occasional creaky stroll through the surrounding countryside, but began keeping to himself.  His doctor, seeing a decline in the man who had always been so cheery and congenial, advised him that it would be wise to have some company.   With old age setting in, Hans needed help in the shop; why not have some young traveler come stay free of charge for a bit and give a few hours a day assistance?  Hans agreed, and soon began having travelers come from all over–from Scandanavia to Japan.   He loved it, and accepted whoever wanted to come.   And so, one day in mid-July of this year, he met his first American traveler coming off the late train from Basel.”

______________

“I’ve been here a couple weeks now, and Hans and I have become fast friends.  We sit across from each other in his little workshop, laughing as we try on different swear words in the other’s native tongue when we drop a screw.  Every hour and a half or so, Hans will drop everything and throw up his gnarled hands, declaring “Ees coffah tie-em!” We then retire inside to his living room, kicking back in the reclining lounge chairs and enjoying an espresso and some cookies.

Coffee Time is Hans’ chance to talk about days gone by and wax nostalgic: the time he shot that Ibex, or the floods in the spring thaw of ‘78.  His friends routinely drop by unannounced, wherein Coffee Time is declared again, sometimes only ten minutes after we finished, and the process is repeated.   It is not uncommon for Hans to down 4 to 5 espressos a day.  I can’t keep up.  He’ll see me with a glass of ice water and, raising his little coffee cup, declare with a laugh, “Ze life… too short to dreenks ze vater!”

I shrug.  I guess it is.”

_________

“Hans and I were up at dawn.  He’s insisted on taking me up to the Schilthorn by gondola.   I offered to pay my own way, but he insisted I had done enough work that week to earn the trip.  It’s obviously a pleasure for Hans to take foreigners to the most spectacular places he can find, so I acquiesed.  And so, from the floor of the Lauterbrunnen valley, up we went.  Really up.

And then up again.

And, somehow, up again.

We emerged from that little gondola at last, nearly a half hour later, and beheld… this.

Just shy of 10,000 feet.  Thank you Hans.”

___________

My time in Switzerland was full of hundreds of memorable moments.  My hike to the top of the Rothorn, making hay at 5000 feet, driving a herd of cows from one alpine pasture to the next, getting a little tipsy with Hans on Swiss National Day, watching a group of old guys yodel, catching the William Tell play at the Interlaken open air theater (featuring a cast of 280, all locals, including a herd of cows, a herd of goats, and 15 robust stallions), the list goes on. A few photos as a parting shot.

Hans' little workshop, little hatchback, big backdrop.

At the town's Swiss National Day celebration, 3 of Hans' machines in action.

Half way there on my hike to the top of the 7500' Rothorn. Four hours up, two down. Slept well.

Hans' taking a breather on a short hike we took.

I would have loved to stay longer–Hans insisted I stay as long as I like–but my ship was setting sail.  Alas I had places to go, people to know, distant lands awaiting.

Thus once again I set off towards the east.   Always into the east.

Swedish 4th of July: A Retrospective. Really Retrospective.

So I haven’t been able to tear myself away from the beach had a chance to update recently, but I’ve buckled down today and written three posts to be published today (the following 4th of July pictorial),  Thursday, and Monday of next week.

As for me, I left Croatia a week ago on a 31-hour train bound for the cusp of continents–the mighty Istanbul.  More on that (and my time in Croatia) in those later posts though.

Without further ado, a 4th of July party in Sweden.

“What is July 4th?” they would ask.  The mere way they stated it–July 4th, rather than 4th of July–was evidence enough that they had no idea that the 4th of July was that irreverant fireworked hot-dog-and-cheap-beer-infused Day of Summer Days wherein America, in all her walks of life, decided to get together, fire up the barbie, and use the excuse of patriotism to have some friends over.

And that was what I intended.  I ran the idea by Peter and Cilla, who were of course more than accomodating.   And so I whipped up some plans for the first overseas party I’d ever organized…  Independence Day: International Edition.  Not starring Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum.

With burgers and hotdogs bought, some cheap Budweiser, and the fire pit started, I awaited the arrival of my new friends.

And arrive they did.

Halina (on left) and crew.

...and more crew.

Halina had brought everyone–Isabel, Jean-Charles, Anna, Filipa, Louise, Melody… the proverbial Gang.  It was shaping up to be quite a showing.

Halina leading the pack.

Chateau Eriksberg

I readied the grill, prepared the burger (thick, with challot, breadcrumbs and egg yolk) and passed out the beers.  Let the rumpus begin.

Ze Grillman (and Austrian Mike helping with the drinking)

The usual faire.

The usual brew. And Melody.

Peter and Cilla joined us as the food finished, and we ate heartily.  Licking our fingers of ketchup and burping the space free for more beer, we stoked the fire and Cilla broke out the Boule set.   Game on.

Peter working his magic.

Peter and stick.

Boule Match 1: Austrian Mike, Cilla, and some retard.

Everybody caroused around the fire as we finished the cheap beer and upgraded to cheap wine.   The air remained warm and the light soft as the evening fell upon our merry bunch.

The ladies in red, white, and blue. Yes, on purpose.

Enjoying a drink and a view up at the gazebo.

Anna, enjoying the enigmatically named "California White".

Halina and Isabel. They maaaay be related. Maybe.

Louise and Halina looking chic.

With the fire at embers, we headed down to the lake for an 11pm sunset and a splash.

Taking the path down to the shore.

At the shore for the sundown. Just shy of 11pm.

Our little dock.

Filipa post-swim taking a draught of that California White.

Anna and Halina, looking very Ralph Lauren Ad.

Yours truly, looking bearded.

As dark as it gets. Just past midnight.

Filipa keeping the trees company on the way back up.

The house and the lakeside veranda, from the way back up.

Invigorated by our swim, we headed back up.  The group clamored for a singing of the National Anthem–mine, not theirs–and I obliged.   They all piped in, loud and proud, knowing the tune but not the lyrics.  We finished with bravado, raised our glasses, and drank to the USA.   With that, we took the party into the night, the festivities never lagging.

By the time people left–rushing in time to make the last train back into the city–we were all buzzed with the warm feeling of a truly memorable evening.

Kudos to Anna for adding her wonderful photos, and of course to Halina who had as much of a part (if not more) in making it a great night as I ever did.

June 24th, 2009 – Midsummer’s Eve, Sweden

“Midsummer’s Eve.  Until I arrived here, I had never heard of it.   Sure… longest day of the year, summer solstice, etc… but those were mere meterological points of interest that some NPR host would bring up briefly during my morning commute.

The Swedes, however, take it much more seriously.  I can understand why… the endless light that blesses the  Swedish summer translates to an abyssmally dark winter.  Then, the sun rises at 10am and is down by 3.  Accompanied by frigid weather, you can begin to understand why Sweden, according to my hosts, has one of the highest rates of suicide in winter in the world.  So midsummer, the day where the light lasts longest, is a holiday of great importance. 

Noa had told me in the week leading up to it that nobody our age knows what they’re doing on Midsummer until the last moment.  Much like New Years Eve, there are so many parties and events going on that people hold their plan-cards close to the chest until nearly the day of, waiting to see which parties are victorious and which lose out in the vicious combat of party natural selection.    Noa had a legion of loyal friends though, and a great place to throw a big party.  So mid-week, he sent out an invite to the masses.  

At the house, Noa and a few helping friends started preparing early–food, firepit, and shelter (it’s tradition that it rains on Midsummer), and buying alcohol.  The alcohol part was a bit of a headache (::badump psh::).

In Sweden, Alcohol sales are controlled by the state. As in, total monopoly.  This came about many years ago when a King decided it’d be a good idea to abolish all regulations in regards to alcohol.  Soon every house, home, and chicken coop in Sweden was pumping out home-brewed alcohol for sale and personal consumption.  Back in the day, the average Swede downed 45 liters of pure…as in 180 proof… alcohol every year.  That’s over 100 bottles of your standard vodka.   In fact so much grain was being used for alcohol that it was beginning to cause food shortages.  Not to mention livers resembling salted slugs. 

So, in an effort to turn around a nation of hungry winos, the state scooped up all control of selling booze.  The stores–Systembolaget, as they’re all named–are the only outlets for all varieties of alcohol: beer, wine, liquor, Smirinoff Ice, everything.  The only alcohol you can buy in normal supermarkets is castrated beer… the max alcohol content is 3.5%, with most varieties coming in at a dizzying 2.1 or 2.2.  For alcoholics, that’s like fighting a house fire with a turkey baster.  Systembolagets are only open till 7pm on Friday and 3pm on Saturday, so picking up a late night twelver to top of your bender tank ain’t happenin’.  Needless to say, these measures staunched the alcoholism. 

Midsummer carries with it many traditions, the most famous of which is the maypole.  Midsummer is, etymologically speaking, a fertility celebration… the return of the light, the harvest, bounty, etc.  Thus, the maypole is a representation of this fertility.  Constructions differ, but the traditional one consists of a large pole passing upward through a hoop.  A prize if you guess what it represents.

Spoiler alert. It's a dick, and a vagina.

Before it is raised, each part is adorned with leafy Birch boughs and flowers… the men decorate the pole, the women the hoop.  Again, the symbolism is subtle.  The raising ceremony is quirky and charmingly Swedish.  The men, carrying the pole, try and get, um, their pole…. in the women’s hoop, with which they’re playing keep-away.  Then it switches (golf clap for mixing up traditional gender roles, Sweden).    One the coitus connection is made, the complete assembly is raised up and everyone dances around it, holding hands and singing silly songs; songs as familiar to every Swede as Jingle Bells is to us. 

 While Noa set up, Peter took me to the local town’s Midsummer celebration, a family affair that took place in the afteroon.   I watched them raise their own maypole, this one more of a dick-and-balls motif, and marveled at how sacchrinely cute and the little blonde children were, with wreaths of flowers in their hair.   Hallmark photographers would’ve had a field day at this thing. 

This is a Nyckeharpa, a traditional Swedish instrument.  The woman, believe it or not, is American.  Never got her story. 

We headed back to the house as the crowd dispersed, and waited for our own party to start.”

__________

“I was helping put the finishing touches on our own maypole when a friend of Noa’s came over. 

“Wylo, there’s someone here I want you to meet.  She lived in the US…. Los Angeles, actually.”
I wandered down the hill and saw three girls, two very obviously sisters and one a friend.  They looked a little out of place–most of the others there at that point were full-bore hippies.  These three certainly weren’t.  Neither was I, so it boded well. 
Noa’s friend greeted a blonde girl I took to be the Los Angeleno, and then introduced us.  “Halina, this is Wylie.”

Halina was cute girl with bright eyes and a smile that curled up slyly from the corners of her mouth before breaking forth into laughter.   I immediately assumed she was American, not because of her Los Angeles history but because her English was perfect and her accent homegrown Californian.   She was, in fact, born and raised in Sweden, but had toured not just America but much of the world as a backup singer for a very popular rock band.   As I learned later, Halina was a stellar singer and songwriter of her own right, entwining blues riffs on an acoustic guitar with a smoky and remarkably adept voice.  Indeed it was in Los Angeles that she had done voice training at a music school in Pasadena. 

“Pasadena?  I went to college out there.”
“Really?  Which one?” she said. 
“Occidental?…” I squeaked, with the usual rising tone of trepidation; a small liberal arts school like Oxy flies below the radar of even my American contemporaries. 
“Really?  I know some people who went there!”

Uh oh.  Occidental, bless it’s heart, was a great school, but with such a small student body, you knew everyone and somehow any and all dirt on them, even if you didn’t want to.   This was suddenly going from pleasantly serendipitious to dangerously coincidental. 

“No way…Who?”
“Do you know (redacted)?” she asked.

Of course.  Of course I did.  I knew her very very well.   She was a good friend of mine. 

“Ok that’s ridiculous,” I said.  Halina burst out laughing.  We both were astounded at the odds.

I just met this girl out here in the Swedish woods, who had, it was later divulged, been flatmates with one of my good friends.  The fact that I’d never met her while living in Los Angeles, as I hung out with her flatmate plenty, was startling in its own right.  Technically, we ran in the same social circle.    But now, here in Sweden, we meet up.  Strange. 

This was the beginning of what turned into me spending most of my free time heading into Stockholm and hanging out with Halina and her friends.  She was a phenomenal host–showing me the local’s view of the city, letting me tag along for whatever outings her and her pals were doing, and not hating me when I misjudged the metro train and arrived late.   As we hung out more, her friends became mine–Anna, Jean-Charles, Louise, Filipa, Paulina, and of course Halina’s lovely sisters Isabell and Milene.

Within a few weeks,  I felt the time was right to gather my new buddies for a little bit o’ American revelry… 

A 4th of July party.”

The story of which, and the many many many pictures accompanying, will come later. 

As for me, I’m trading in the Alps of Switzerland for the  beaches of Croatia tomorrow morning.   10 days of island and beach hopping.   I fly into Dubrovnik, the ancient walled city perched on the shores of the Adriatic….

…then up the coast, with some nights on the islands of Hvar and Brac before going on to Spilt, and then inland through Plitvice Lakes Park to the capital city of  Zagreb.  The Adriatic has spectacular water–some of the clearest in the world–and it’s constantly at a balmy 77 degrees this time of year. 

Oddly, this may result in less time in front of a computer screen.  C’est la vie.

June, 2009 – Sweden, Pt. 2

“I settled in at the kitchen table and met the rest of the clan.

Cilla, Noa’s mother, was a mousy lady in her early sixties.  She had retained a vibrancy of youth though–her toothy smile, her mannerisms, even her petite voice were distinctly girlish.  Noa had inherited his sandy blonde hair from her, though hers had now become streaked with grey, worn pinned up on her head.  She spoke in halting but good English with a quiet voice that rarely become inflected beyond a soft murmur.  I would learn that despite her quiet presence, she was the matriarch of the household, the queen of the castle, and all relevant decisions around the house either lived or died at her whim.  She was a artist (painter) by trade, and often was found wearing her faded denim overalls, splotched with thousands of multi-colored paints and featuring orange patches where two holes had worn through the seat.

Her husband, Peter, was an aging British ex-patriot, and a character the likes of you rarely meet and never forget. His long, salt-and-peper hair was always pulled back into a little knot at the back of his head, framing his austere features. He was a thin man, but obviously atheltic in his youth.  With the onset of old age, his body was still taut and wiry, but the beginnings of a slight hunch had crept into his back.  He had bright blue eyes that would wink shut in fits of laughter, and his classically English mouth–thin lipped, drawn tight and down at the corners– did not give him the sullen appearance one might think it would.  Indeed his mouth was usually breaking character , widening into a wry smile as he cracked a sarcastic quip.  His jolly nature and dry wit inspired fits of laughter in himself as well as others.   And if it was a hearty laugh, if his smile widened just enough… his teeth would fall out.

Peter’s set of false teeth–the upper fronts–were insubordinate.  During any moment of mirth one could count on them attempting a daring flight from their lipped prison.  They were often thwarted half way to freedom, giving Peter a predictably ridiculous appearance that only proved more hilarious, and to no one more than Peter himself. 

So many of Peter’s mannerisms, so much of his humor, and so many nuances of his behavior struck me as bizarrely familar.  It took me a little while to figure out, but I eventually pinned the person which, in certain instances, he bared an incredible resemblance to: my own dad.  It was hilarious.

Ossian was Noa’s amiable older brother–a guy who was always in motion, talking as quickly as he moved, laughing often and finishing sentences with “but it’s no problem!”.    He had a good work ethic and despite having a fairly impressive day job as a network director at a financial company in town, he made a point to “work from home” enough to help out when it was needed.  In the end, I related to Ossian as much as I did to Noa, despite the age difference. 

Peter and Cilla argued often but in good nature–her tone rarely rising above a murmur contrasting his increasingly elevated levels of animation, often for nothing more than the amusement of those around.  These arguments more often than not were over decisions regard the house and the course taken in renovating it, as that was the task for the summer months. 

Renovations would be my work for the duration of my time here, and there were plenty.  The house desperately needed repainting, which meant stripping the Linseed Oil paint with scrapers and heat guns. 

30 year-old paint

With so much surface area and so many details, it was an undertaking. 

Details. Lots.

Putting up scaffolding. Check the contrast between new paint (low) and old (high).

Working under the eaves = paint in hair, sore shoulders.

We’d start at 9 in the morning after a quick breakfast, work a few hours, enjoy a long, always delicious lunch cooked up by Cilla, then work a couple more hours before breaking for the day.  

Cilla on the north veranda, post-lunch

View from north veranda

Work felt good–outside, in the sun, getting sweaty and covered in dust–a stark contrast from my AC-ed cubicle at the office.   In the afternoon we’d wander down steep game trails over the bluff and through blueberry thickets before emerging at the lake for a cool dip.   The late light was always beautiful and the water pleasant. 

Yours truly, Geronimo McPasty

After a while I’d wander back up and find dinner cooking, often outside on the fire pit.  

Noa's wok skillz

Noa and Peter. And wok.

Grilled corn, shrimp, and blocks of Halumi-- a salty cheese. Swedish specialty.

Afterward, a beer to accompany the  sunset, viewed from the gazebo outback. 

The gazebo...

...and it's view.

 Considering sundown was around 11 pm, what followed was usually some reading and bed.  The only downside to this routine was the occasional tick.  This one enjoys rump roast.

I named him Doug.

 The days have turned into weeks and the weeks have flown by.  Every day has been packed and yet somehow leisurely.   A few weeks after I arrived we celebrated the biggest Swedish holiday of them all–Midsummer’s Eve.  As you might guess, it’s a celebration of the summer solstice, and goes off in the same manner as our 4th of July.  There are many charmingly dorky traditions associated with it, some of which have been mocked in Ikea commercials, but basically people get together, put up a maypole, dance around it, drink, dance, drink more, rinse and repeat until late in the night.  Noa had elected to host a party at the house, inviting all his friends and whomever else. 

It was here, out in the Swedish woods, that I met Halina.”

But that’s for next time.

June, 2009 – Sweden

“So I have fallen behind.  Shocking.  Truth is, my journal had to compete for my attention here in Sweden, and it lost.   Badly.  Custer did better at Little Big Horn.   Bernie Madoff lost less.  

…I’m out of clever.  

I’ve been here two weeks now, and while life now has a routine, I have yet to accomodate to the light.  At this time of year, the sun sends its first rays over the horizon just after 3 AM, its last almost 19 hours later at 11.   Dusk never fades to dark, and even past midnight you could read a paper in the crepuscular glow.  The stars never come out.  It’s a eerie effect, a bitch to sleep through, but a beautiful sight.

My arrival came with a pleasant surprise.  I arrived in the evening around 9–later than I would have wished, despite the sun still shining brightly above. The street was empty in the nearby hamlet, and traffic on the main road was sparse.  I had no phone with which to call my host family, and no directions beyond where I stood.   There were no restaurants, cafes, or stores to finagle a call out of–the few streets that stretched up the hill were lined with darkened homes.  On my side of the road, I could make out a massive, elegant building past the stately trees and lawns of some giant park.  Too big for a home, but no signs suggested otherwise.  

I spotted a lonesome payphone and dialed the number I had. To my relief, Noa, the youngest of the family at 26, picked up.  He and I had arranged my stay over email a few months back, and he was happy I had finally made it.  He told me to hang tight.  5 minutes later he came over the hill on his red bike.   By that time, I had smiled and waved at more than one car appearing to slow to the curbside.   Slick.

I crossed the street, and we headed back the way he came.  Noa was a taller guy, rail thin but wiry and lean.  His sandy blonde hair came to his shoulders after a tuck behing the ears, and his high cheekbones and light eyebrows could’ve made him Joseph Gorden Levitt’s twin.  His smile, when it was coaxed out, was lifted right off Heath Ledger (celebrity references are not my usual method of describing someone, but this kid bared an uncanny resemblane to both of them). 

We walked along the road, making small talk.  I was describing my flight when a woman, out for a jog, approached us from the other direction.  I looked up and gave her the traditional smile and nod, which she reciprocated, before passing by.  A dozen yards later, Noa interuppted me.  “That was the princess”.  

The neighboorhood princess?  I was going to tell him that Los Angeles has enough of those to power reality TV until 2250, but Noa continued.  “I haven’t seen her outside the palace in ages.” 

Palace? I glanced behind me.  There was that huge building surrounded by those manicured grounds.  There she was, running towards it.

"Great fixer-upper, country location, lots of history, comes with security detail, tourists."

And there, creeping along with her was a black SUV with several large, apparently well-armed men peering out it’s windows. 

“The princess of….” 
Noa shot me a look.  “Sweden?”
“Ah.”
“Soon to be Queen.” 
A nod and a smile from the princess of Sweden, I thought to myself.  That’s… ok, yes, Memorable Welcomes for 600, Alex. 

We wandered up the gravel road and through the oak woods to the house.  It was a large place, built nearly 150 years ago in the traditional style (big timbers and plank boards) by by Duke So-and-So and his Industrialist Heiress bride.  It stood nearly three stories high, and intricate woodwork graced the eaves and balconies.  It was painted in a warm yellow, the details contrasted in dark brown. 

Chateau Eriksberg

It was a beauty, but even from a modest distance one could tell the elements hadn’t been kind.  It needed some love (repainting mostly), which, it turned out, was what I was there for.

The house itself is perched on a high rocky bluff, and out the back there’s a commanding a view of the lake, a small island, and the Scandanavian forest beyond.  Strangely, I’m only 30 minutes outside the cobbles streets of central Stockholm.   Yet there was a total sense of isolation–the house sits on a large plot of land cloistered by oak, pine, and thick savannah grass.  There are no signs of civilization in sight.

Looking toward the house from the road. Noa at the hoe in the potatoes.

It's this in every direction.

We stepped in the side door and climbed a well-worn set of wooden stairs.  We came into a kitchen and I was hit with a delicious smell.  I had eaten a measly sandwich a few hours prior, and found myself suddenly ravenous.  “You hungry?” Noa asked.  ”I’m ok, had a sandwich earlier,” I blurted out.  My stomach facepalmed. 

“A sandwich?” Noa scoffed, “Here, we’ve got leftovers.”  As Noa spooned a bowlful of thick stew for me, I met the rest of a charmingly eccentric family…”

Tomorrow the rest, and more pictures.  Lots.

June 6th, 2009 – Amsterdam

“We headed down to the computer terminals in our hostel and agreed to give couchsurfing another shot.   If anything, we wanted to meet up with a local Amsterdam..ian…er… even if just for a drink.

Amsterdam does not have a lot of couchsurfing hosts, and the ones that are out there are usually swamped with requests.  We were lucky to even get a response from Binnie, let alone an invite for dinner.   We arrived at her place just past 7.   In a twist of classic Dutch charm, she lived in a houseboat, moored on a central canal.  We stepped gingerly across the plank to her deck and rang the bell.   A few moments later a beaming girl with wavy blonde locks came bounding up from below.   She immediately reminded of my 7th grade crush.  Very cute, great smile.  She excitedly invited us in, talking animatedly and asking us all sorts of questions, one of the first of which was what kind of wine we’d like.  I tossed a look back to Hotdog.  He did the most imperceptible of nods, and I knew we were on the same page.   This girl was cool. 

Below deck, we met her friend, Dia–a eccentric greek guy with a slight build and an inexhaustible ebullience.  He had met Binnie a few days prior as a couchsurfer himself, and they had become fast friends.   In fact, Binnie was monumentally congenial–within minutes we were all talking over each other like old friends. As the evening progressed and the Merlot dwindled, we became more and more innured to our situation.   Here we were, laughing over anything and everything with out great Dutch host and fellow Greek wayfarer, all the while tucked away in the cozy cabin of an Amsterdam houseboat, rocking gently on the water.   We made it back to our Hostel in the wee hours of the morning, but with plans to meet up again.”
_______

“The next day we awoke early and got packed up.  Sadly, Hotdog’s trip abroad was at an end.   Later that morning he was off, back to the states and a career that required attention.  We started to off towards the bus stop for the airport shuttle.  I realized then I had taken Hotdog’s company for granted.  Traveling through new lands where we spoke not a word of the native tongue, I always knew that if it went from buckets o’ sunshine to shit on a fan blade, I had a brother in arms.   It took the anxiety out of everything.   Now, that luxury had run out. 

The bus arrived almost as soon as we got to the station, catching both of us off guard.   Others boarded first, and soon the bus was waiting on just us.  “Alright man”, I said, “hold down the fort and I’ll see you soon.”  We gave each other hugs, our packs awkwardly getting in the way.   ”Good trip, good trip,” he repeated, a habit of his when he’s not sure what to say.   The bus driver looked at us expectantly, and Hotdog jumped aboard.  I gave a wave as the bus pulled away.  It would be the last time I’d see him for nearly a year.  

I crossed the street and wandered into a broad park.  I found a secluded spot, sat down on the ground and watched some Dutch youth a ways off toss a frisbee.     Hotdog and I had always filled up any silence with our well-oiled banter.  Now it was quiet.  There would be no more familiar faces or companionship on this trip–only strangers, foreign languages, and unknown places.  I suddenly felt as though I were treading water in open ocean.  I chided myself under my breath.  “Peachy move, Wy.”  

 I watched the kids with the frisbee.  They laughed as they tried to make up ridiculous ways to catch it.   The the morning clouds were burning off, and the sun had begun to filter through.  I felt oddly stirred, as though faced with an opponent I knew I would beat.  I smiled and got up.  “Well,” I said, sliding my sunglasses on, ”sometimes you gotta say, What the fuck.” 
________

“Binne, in her infinite generosity, had insisted I return and crash at her place that night.  I wound up staying there for two days, up until my flight to Sweden.   On the last day there, I offered to make use of Binnie’s miniscule BBQ and cook up some dinner for her, Dia and me.  The showers that had come and gone all day were absent, but the sky remained ominous.  I prepared some veggie and beef skewers while Binnie and Dia took turns as DJ.   With everything ready and the weather holding, I made a dash for the deck and started the charcoal.  Right on cue, it began to rain. 

BBQ on deck, in rain. Photos from Dia (thanks man!).

Knocking off the chip mother nature had placed on her shoulder, I wrestled to keep my fire dry with an umbrella.  It was the only umbrella Binnie had, so I resigned myself to a soggy cookout.   My head started to get very wet.  My guidebook, its purpose served, bravely sacrificed itself for the cause.  

Oddly, this attracted looks from passerbys.

It took the better part of an hour, but soon we were sitting inside Binnie’s warm houseboat, enjoying the fruits of our labor and a hard earned glass of wine.  When we finished it was dark outside.  Binnie expertly rolled a joint and we passed it around.  The hours drifted easily by as we told stories, related experiences, and played cards.  I taught Binnie and Dia how to bridge a deck after a shuffle.   Later, we discussed the various sayings that were unique to our cultures.  Binnie dramatically took a sip of wine, and recited a Dutch favorite–”Ah, delicious… like a little angel pissing on your tongue.”

Mastering the bridge

It was 4 AM when we finally retired.   Binnie had to get up in the morning for work, and I for a flight to Sweden.   I lay there in the dark awhile, musing over the evening with my two new friends.  I fell asleep listening to the rain, perfectly content.”

Next (finally) Sweden.  And some of the best moments of my journey thus far.