Coda

(I wrote this a few months ago and never got around to posting it because it felt too sentimental. Rereading it today it didn't sound so bad. Here is a last post for Videza. For now.)

So this blog needs a coda. We made it back in one piece, twelve hours on a plane not withstanding.

This is hard to write because I do not have anything revelatory to offer. I don’t actually travel with the purpose of reworking my perspective on life, or finding deeper truths.

I travel because I love it. Because waking up somewhere new, learning a new set of streets, new words for “entrance” and “exit” are exciting. Travel makes time for other things, for thinking and brainstorming without the intrusion of routine, for breathing space.

It’s almost three weeks since I got back to Ohio. Life is different and the same. The strangest part is realizing that most people, everyone except Chelsea, can’t really understand the anomaly of the last three months. It was three months for most people – they worked, they read, they studied and lived.

And for me, looking at the pictures, at this blog. Remembering everything that happened and was said off the camera, it feels intangible. It would not take much to convince me that I never left. That it was a dream.

Which is why it is best to travel with someone you trust, because they will remind you that you were awake. Of the moments when you put your foot in your mouth and the pictures you deleted. And of the occasional dumb wonder that struck at unexpected times, when we realized that first a week, and then a month and then three had passed.

Well, I know you all believed in us, and knew we’d make it safely home. But now we are, and the fact is perhaps better comfort than your confidence. Thanks for reading and traveling with us.

Cheers.

Dodge the Ferrari

So before Orange and Avignon, Chelsea and I spent a few days on the Cote d’Azur, wandering the various seaside towns of the French Mediterranean. We spent some time in Monaco and Cannes, but stayed in Nice.



Now, we have spent nights in various sorts of accommodation on this trip. Mostly dorms found on www.hostelbookers.com or in the occasional one star hotel near the train station. We also had our fabulous evenings with the Englands. The dorms have all been quiet, although averaging 8 beds or so. Some hostels have had owners we sat and talked to, like in Wickow, and others have been more like hotels.

The hostel in Nice however was our first truly ‘hip’ hostel.

Coming into Nice we met a French girl on the train also looking for a hostel. She ended up following us to ours, and when we got there, no one at reception spoke French. It was disconcerting. After spending around a week in countries that do not speak English we’ve grown accustomed to apologizing and communicating with one or two words and smiles. And here, not only the receptionists, but the massive staff (bartenders, cooks, shuttle drivers, laundresses, etc…) all spoke English. Most, I would guess, were Australian.

We were told where the bar was and directed to the signs for that night’s dinner. The hostel had a bar as well as a kitchen, half of which was public, with the other half reserved for a few fellows cooking pizzas and making salads for the general crowd. For which, I will mention, we were grateful – a long day of traveling with food at the end is much preferable to a long day of traveling followed by a search for food.

As we sat waiting for our meal, bouncing our heels to the loud music and sipping our drinks, I realized something odd. My drink was still cold. It had ice in it. I’d gotten so used to drinks with no ice that it felt strange.



Looking around I felt stranger still.

All the girls at this hostel had done hair, and I think I counted five or six that were not wearing short skirts.

I think Chelsea and I might have stood out.

Her bright orange pants and my ragged baggy ones, our hair, which while cute is not coiffed, and our distinct lack of interest in good party spots or guys might have set us apart. Also our lack of social skills.

Give us nudibranchs and fantasy novels, games or politics, and conversation zooms. But what we did last night? Ummm . . . slept.

I don’t know how we both missed this skill. Talking to the woman in the chocolate shop about food and Los Angeles? Easy. To Trish in Wicklow about Facebook? Peaches. To Veronique about organic farming? Done. To our peers with loud music in the background and alcohol available?

Epic fail.

That said, it was an awesome hostel, and we did have a good time, just not the same way everyone else did.

Monaco was a different kind of disconnect. The streets were not actually as bad as I thought they would be. The people on the streets were mostly tourists like us, here for a day to glimpse the casino. The people driving were a different matter. Hence the title. All my stereotypes were fulfilled by a youngish gent driving a Ferrari with slicked back hair, a polo shirt and aviators that probably cost more than everything in my backpack.

The yachts were also impressive.

We choose to spend a chunk of our time at a Haagen Daz Cocktail Bar a few blocks from the Monte Carlo Casino. We paid ridiculous prices for excellent smoothies while catching snatches of the conversation next to us that seemed to consist of the words “Dubai” and “investment”.



All in all we learn more about ourselves, our limits and comfort zones and our ability to laugh at the ridiculousness of a situation, even as it happens.

Peace, my friends.

Barcelona is a Dangerous Place

As we climbed down the stairs to the entrance of Parc Güell, Chelsea and I were damning Barcelona. Our feet ached and bled, the various straps of our bags had embedded themselves so deeply into our sunburnt shoulders that to shift them even slightly sent sharp pains through our skin, and our legs were raw from rubbing together as we walked.

And as we came down these stairs we stopped. Music echoed up from an artificial cavern conceived by one of Barcelona’s patron saints, Gaudí. A man sat over what looked like a metal tortoise shell, and by bouncing his fingers on the indentations of this instrument he produced a sound similar to a steel drum, but sweeter and so full of color that it matched the mosaics marching along the walls. And we forgave Barcelona.

This city made us forget, in one moment, how tired and resentful we had been a second before. The bitterness came back a short distance down the road as our flip flops dug into the tender flesh between our toes, and yet the enchantment lingered and we laughed on our way to the hostel.

Barcelona is a beautiful city, from the Gothic Quarter’s narrow streets to the curved and colorful architecture of the aforementioned Gaudi. And these too, have their dangers. The danger of the fabulous architecture in general is very mundane: one looks up rather than where one is walking.


This phenomenon is made more dangerous not only by the usual hazards (walking into other people, walking into each other, walking into walls, telephone poles, street vendors, bicyclists, etc…) but by the fact that around each of the many trees littering the streets and adding to the urge to look skyward, there is a pit. Now this is not always a deep pit; some are scarcely six inches. Others range to about a foot or so. One can, I hope, readily see the dangers inherent in this.

You are not convinced yet of the dangers?

Would you like to know how many pairs of pants we have bought in the two days since we arrived?

Four.

And this only, by exercising the greatest restraint.

Now, in my defense, three of these four are Chelsea’s.

In her defense. Well. Nothing.

I joke. These are giant poofy pants that come in all manner of colors and textures (including orange and soft. Chelsea got one of each. Well, two orange). They are magnificent and full of win. The pants have been our splurge. But so much more could have been.


The clothing here is amazing: bright colors and strange designs (http://www.desigual.com/#/videos/). And the sandals. You know there is something strange going on when Chelsea and I have to resist shoe shopping. And possibly also with somewhere where we both wanted to go to the beach.



One final word of warning: Chocolate con churros are wonderful.


Adios amigos!

Ponderings a Month Before - 1

Part 1 - Chelsea

It occurred to me at about 1 am this morning that I am going to Europe in one month. In 37 days, I will board a flight across the Atlantic Ocean to land on a continent I've never touched before. For the next three months, I will see over 20 countries, hear over a dozen different languages - none of which I speak, and hopefully return to the states with some modicum of perspective on how truly diverse our world is.

Reality hit like a kid's forehead against a freshly windexed glass door. Hanna and I had always seen this in our respective futures. We've been talking about traveling together since High School, but it had always been a vaseline smeared haze: we will do this, but when? Two years ago we started carving out a plan. When Hanna graduated, we would go. Not in the summer - too many tourists - but if we left in August we'd still get the heat.

I told the company I worked for - over a year and a half in advance - and got it approved by my manager. Of course, he couldn't guarantee I'd have a job when I came back; that sort of permanence is rare in my industry. I didn't care; it was worth it. Everyone says "someday", but someday won't come unless you commit. If that cost a job, it cost a job.

We started to save. Three thousand, five thousand, thirteen thousand dollars in my account. Add in Hanna's six, and we had nearly a twenty thousand dollar budget for our three months in Europe. "More than enough," friends assured.

My branch was let go in February, and I faced the difficult issue of having four months before our trip and needing a job. I decided the trip was more important, and said upfront in my interviews that I had to be in Europe August, September, and October.

Zynga, crazy bastards, still hired me.

I blinked and we were buying plane tickets: August 3rd because they're cheapest on Tuesdays. Then Eurorail passes. Hostel deposits. Backpacks.

I was fitted for mine (an Osprey women's backpack with a detachable daypack) at REI by one of the nicest customer service representatives I've ever had. I'm going to try and fit three months into that pack. I ached the next day when it had 25 lbs. The representative said I should expect a fully packed version to weigh closer to 40.

(I still have to buy a netbook, camera, walking/hiking shoes, American souvenirs for thank you gifts, a nice sheet set to double as a sleeping bag, and possibly more flexible clothing. Also possibly a compass. Lord knows I'm lost as is.)