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.

Ocean (Sans Ponies)

Most of you know that three years ago I did the Semester at Sea program – studied on a cruise ship while it sailed places and wandered those places when we got there and there were no diamond ponies in the ocean.

*brief skirmish*

(and I got my computer back from Chelsea…)

I blather about it often, so I beg your indulgence if I go back to it briefly.

Before Semester at Sea I was hugely excited about spending so much time close to the ocean. I’ve been relatively close to Lake Erie most of my life, but it isn’t quite the same thing. The oceans, the seven seas, have inspired so much. Poets and explorers alike have been captivated by the sea for thousands of years. And I admit, I was looking to be impressed.

And I wasn’t, really. It was vast, incomprehensibly so – I remember realizing that it would take me an hour or so walking straight down to reach the earth beneath my feet – but not what I was looking for. It also gave me horrific motion sickness.

I found the ocean fascinating in the way a screensaver can be, or the DVD symbol bouncing ever closer to the corners of a TV. While diverting, it was not the stuff of poetry.

And thus it remained for the first week or so. Then we hit rough water between Hawaii and Japan. The waves were double my height, and the forbidding storm grey, steel gray that is the province of poets. The sun set on this ocean, unobstructed save for the horizon and I leaned out on the slick rail. Sea spray hit my face and I tasted salt. And I have loved the ocean since.

And I have missed her for three years.

So getting to spend time in places near the various oceans and seas has been important, like running into an old friend. Who still makes me queasy if I’m not careful.

We’ve skimmed over our ocean voyages so far on the blog – mostly because the first few we slept through, and our last was governed by incredibly rough water and our gloom at having departed the Englands and England.

I would like to put in a good word for the Irish Sea, as providing a gorgeous backdrop for Wicklow and a sunrise I had not intended to see over it. The residents insisted that it was possible to swim, but Chelsea and I declined.

In Barcelona and Nice we actually went and fluttered about in the ocean. In Nice especially the waves had a kick to them, enough to knock the knees from under you if you weren’t paying attention. And I find it strangely comforting to be so very small and to play, carefully, with something so very big.

In Nice too we got to see jellyfish. Chelsea noticed them first – small black leaf-like critters – and decided it was best to evacuate the area.

She did not tell me what led to her haste. I chilled in the water for another moment and upon perceiving that Chelsea was done with the water I too climbed out. Then she explained why she retreated to dry land. To her credit, she was not sure they were jellyfish, they might just as easily have been leaves and paranoia.

A minute later an older man came towards us, holding out a Pringles can. As Chelsea and I tried to politely decline his offer of chips he showed us a tiny captive jellyfish. He had mistaken it for a condom until he noticed there were lots of them.

We have since learned that these were velella velella and they are Chelsea’s new favorite jellyfish. We have also learned that they are harmless to humans, although one should wash ones hands before touching ones eyes and face after handling them. And nudibranchs eat them.

Now we are on the way to Geneva, and away from the ocean. For now.

(ps. the ponies will make sense next time. Promise)

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!

On Recapping

The reader will have noticed, if you are following our journey with any attention at all, that our updates of late have been scarce, or perhaps missing would be more accurate. In the intervening time, a period of a week or so, many things have happened. And while I intend to oblige our readership with more detailed accounts of our more engaging episodes, I feel that it is perhaps necessary to supply some brief overview of highlights so that we do not fall too far behind in informing you of our travels.

(Please note that I have been reading a novel written in the high romantic style, and thus my own prose has taken on a perhaps more indulgent tone than it is wont, and I beg you, dear reader, to bear with me)

Of Fudge and Pheasants

Our most recent update concerns the emerald isle, but if you will permit me I find it necessary to backtrack slightly and say two words about Edinburgh.
It is a charming city, neither too large nor too small, and seemingly built entirely of an imposing grey stone, rather akin to the color of the sky (The English one, at least).

We partook of a range of culinary experiences, from an establishment where pizza is made (it referred to itself as a ‘hut’ although I find this odd as it was decidedly more comfortable than the quarters one usually associates with the word) to a tureen of pheasant and venison at a pub and to a most excellent purveyor of fudge.
Our stay in Scotland was brief, and yet complete in that we did have the privilege, while wandering this great city’s streets, to observe a man in traditional dress (a stripped skirt accompanied by all the accoutrements of that country) playing gaily upon his bag and pipes the tune known as “Scotland the Brave”.

Of Ferries and Military Time

It seems to be a requisite for any traveler of esteem to have those stories which are more entertaining in hindsight, and it is one such that I shall now briefly relate with a view to returning to the subject in the future.To be brief I purchased our passage from Britain to Ireland upon a ship. I assumed that this fine vessel departed at 2:45pm, since no sane person would leave at the corresponding time in the a.m.

I was proven sadly wrong.

Of Sweet Wicklow, the Garden of Ireland

Despite arriving with little sleep and at an hour whose very existence is unpleasant to recall, dear Chelsea and I arrived in Wicklow to find that the powers of the universe do indeed reward suffering and perseverance with blessings.Wicklow, with fascinating landscapes, ruins, and the most charming hosts we could have wished for, enchanted us within the hour and drove away thoughts of sleep with alacrity. I would endeavor to describe these wonders, but my poor scribe’s tongue lacks the vocabulary. So I shall simply add a few visual aids.
Of Equestrian Happenings

I have protested to my dearest travel partner that given her lovely and idyllic entry discussing the nature of horses and our first encounter with them on our trip, I should refrain from commenting on the experience. However, she insists, and who am I to refuse the request of a companion and honest friend?

Horses and I harbor a mutual distrust, stemming from their natural preference for contact with humans who know what on earth they are doing and from my own keen self-awareness of this precise lack in my education.

I would also like it to be recorded that the last time I rode any beast it was a camel, and this more than three years ago with the constant help and attention of a staggeringly brave ten-year-old.

However, not to be cowed, I did attempt the same journey which Chelsea recalls so fondly. I will gladly attest to the beauty of the scenery, and also to the bright sunshine which attended it to the glory of both.I must admit myself slightly distracted by my primary objective in this endeavor: not to be dislodged from my mount until such time as it was appropriate and under my own volition.

This objective was complicated by the fact that I never learned to “trot” and that without stricter guidance than was available I did not in fact learn in this particular instance. I am told that I bounced with rather alarming consistency and height, and, I may add, that it was with no small amount of discomfort.

I will not say that I was won over by the experience, but rather that it strengthened my resolve to caulk the gaps in my skill.

Of Buses and Punctuality

Upon our last day in the heavenly Wicklow, we rose before the sun to catch our first of several forms of transportation, this being a bus meant to pick us up at 4:30 am. Upon waiting for said bus to appear with no favorable result to report after half an hour we proceeded both to curse the national buses of Ireland and to alter our plans accordingly.

I shall not bore you with details at the moment, since I already fear that this entry has run verbose. But I will mention that “Children of Dune”, a small bog cat, “brekkers”, timely hot cocoa and friends all played parts in getting us through the mishaps caused by that bus.

On Monuments, Present and Past


Before continuing on the outline of our journey I must pause with an unjust brevity to remark upon the kindness of our hosts in Plymouth, the Englands. Throughout the sadly few days we were able to stay with them their exuberance, concern for our well-being and amiable demeanor enchanted and comforted us upon our journey.

Under their guidance we were conducted to a marvelous garden dominated by strange honeycombed buildings made of some thin and obviously durable material. The purpose of this place seems to be the preservation of the environment in general as well as the cultivation of such optimism as is possible in the face of the impending threats to our planet devised with such careful cunning by ourselves.
Beyond this we fearlessly challenged the elements in an attempt to see a ruin, of which history I was personally enamored, and discovered an alarming number of shops claiming proprietorship by a long dead king and his various relations and counselors. This ruin, was indeed there, diminished somewhat in glory by the hotel set on the hill above it and meant to imitate the structure now battered by time and the elements into so many crumbling walls.
I must not neglect to mention that during this trip we stopped at various points to enjoy such picturesque and charming villages as the countryside offered.

Of Our Current Situation and Disposition

We are currently onboard a ship once more, and pursuing a course for Saint Malo on the coast of France with the utmost expedience. You may assume, dear reader, that we have arrived safely if this is posted, since only in such condition shall your humble writer be able to do so.

I hope that my concise report meets with your approval and that your curiosity is satisfyingly piqued and any anxiety allayed. Until next we meet, au revoir.

Of Planes and Sleep Dep

Once upon a time, twenty-four hours ago, Chelsea and I arrived at Cleveland Hopkins International Airport. We got there two hours early. Our plane arrived forty-five minutes late.

Upon realizing the imminent problem of this situation, Chelsea pointed out to the lovely flight attendant that we would miss our flight to London and that this would be infinitely sad. And so the attendant, as a back up, reserved seats for us on a different flight, this one to Amsterdam. Amsterdam and London, close enough, right? At least we would get across the Atlantic on the right day.

However Detroit had other ideas. As we descended into that city, we realized that our flight to London should already have left and even the plane to Amsterdam might be tricky to get to on time.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Detroit airport, it is divided into two terminals: concourse A and concourses B and C. International flights leave from A. Domestic ones come in to B or C. The only way across from one to another is a tunnel. Now this is a lovely tunnel, its walls glow with rainbows, a soft soothing music emanates from its shimmering ambiance. It is an attractive, if strange and out of place, bit of architecture. It is less appealing when you have run all of concourse B and are preparing to do the same with as much of concourse A as is necessary.

Chelsea, bless her heart, but slowed momentarily. I worried that I had allowed myself to get horribly out of shape and would now have to catch up to her athleticism. I was soothed to discover that she was merely more stubborn with better hunting instincts and visualization. We collapsed together with mutual panting, shortness of breath and winded pain on a plane bound for Amsterdam.

Now one thing about planes, particularly those that cross oceans: If you have watched any of the series LOST, you try desperately not to think of it as you fly. It can be a quiet inner struggle, something put aside as you snooze and half-watch Avatar, but when a monstrous burst of turbulence hits, that image of Jack Sheppard opening his eyes on an island to the sound of screaming comes back with a gut wrenching jolt.

We had some of the worst turbulence I have ever felt, bouncing us around inside our flying metal canister for a little over half an hour. The plane did not break in half, which is awesome. That however, combined with a boisterous family of loud blonde Dutch children, apparently of the mistaken opinion that rest is for the weak, lead to very little sleep.

Our connecting flight left us briefly in the land of orange, clogs and tulips before dumping us into

London which welcomed us with grey skies and drizzle. Highly appropriate.

The long and the short is that we made it here, and I am certain it will be funnier in the morning. Sleep well all.

Ponderings a Month Before - 2

Part 2 - Hanna

In this past year my life has been laden with projects. I had a thesis and a portfolio, a play to stage manage, a club to run and a workshop to organize. And when I needed a break from that I would look for things to do in Europe. I would put away the word documents and spend some time wandering the internet. I looked for hostels and chocolate museums, train tickets and castles, rail passes and city passes and ferries and flights. And nudibranchs. It was a calming exercise, looking forward past the stresses of senior year.

I built an itinerary, stealing bits and pieces from professional tour routes and making up the rest with what may turn out to be a hopeful naivety. Part of it is guessing, part rumors of places I want to see and a few stops are for family or visiting places for a second look. Luck will also be making a cameo or two.

And for all that work, for all the giddy panic of looking at the calendar, I still cannot entirely wrap my mind around the fact that Chelsea and I are going to wander around these countries. In the end, all my planning will be useful, but ultimately insufficient. Photos and confirmation emails don’t prepare you. I won’t believe it until we touch down, until we step out into Heathrow Airport. I might not believe it then.

Wow. Heathrow. *shivers*

Last night my parents and I ran some basic German and French, when I remembered: “I need to know how to say ‘platform’.”

It’s funny how things like that stick with you. Not knowing “platform” was the hardest part of traveling by train and not knowing the language. If you walk up to a ticket booth, hold up two fingers and say “Paris” then the meaning is hard to miss. But what gesture do you use for “platform”? I've tried a few. Unsuccessfully.

“Bahnsteig.” Right. Now I just have to remember. And learn it in a few more languages.

Most of my projects are done now, and trip research has taken on a more serious bent. It’s time to reserve trains and ferries. Time to make sure we have a place to stay during Fringe Fest and a way to get to Andorra and a bus from Garmisch to Neuschwanstien. Time to come to terms with panicking because of everything I won't know before we get there.

I have shopping lists and a packing list. Things we need to buy in London and what we should bring. I’m still struggling with how many books to let myself take. I’m gathering email addresses and physical addresses for postcards. The next month will go too fast. The following three will go so much faster.

We’re almost there. How crazy is that?

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.)