Opiating the Masses

Stories are coming back to me the more I dream, which comes back to me the more I sleep soundly in my own bed. [...my own borrowed, sublet beds.]

Once, I was in Tübingen, Germany for no apparent reason. Maybe my friend Russ had studied there during his junior year abroad; maybe I met a girl on the bike tour who suggested I visit. She ended up living not too far away and we met for lunch at a biergarten.

Turns out, the city had been around awhile before I got there, officially appearing in the late 12th century, staking its claim to fame in 1477 with the founding of the Universität. And it felt like it, each downtown house exuding history like American houses exude bland conformity.

[If you look closely at the buildings below, you'll notice one window that doesn't match with the others in its row. Someone told me some long, convoluted story about it; now, apparently, the odd window is effectively part of the neighboring building, the wall having been broken down hundreds of years ago.]

The whole 2 days were a bit surreal and included me coming across an old friend to meet for drinks (thanks to Facebook), which seemed almost organized by the Universe for my bemusement.

But this post is about religion more than spirituality.

I was walking through the altstadt when I saw a guy standing on a ladder orating. The crowd before him was small, about a dozen people standing, looking either askance or engaged. I looked askance but sat down to unravel the mystery.

Even without understanding what they were saying, I knew what they were talking about. The zeal and passion came through and betrayed their intention; this was the German equivalent of the black preacher in Chicago who sets up shop on State street with his microphone urging sinners to repent.

But, like everything in Germany, this was more organized and effective.

I watched, amused and horrified as two women in their 30s or 40s sidled up to a younger woman who had been watching. A conversation ensued, which, I'm sure, started with "What do you think about what he's saying?"

Then, one speaker got down and another got up; I realized that most of the audience either had already spoken or were about to. Their presence, though, gave the impression of a movement, something the guy in Chicago lacks, who gives off the impression of pathetic solitude--and therefore insanity.

Eventually, I became the prey, and a man in his 40s sat down next to me and something to the effect of: "What do you think?" I explained I didn't understand much, that I spoke English, which then opened the door for him to proselytize me in English.

The conversation was surprisingly innocuous for several minutes, covering mostly background information with sprinkles of jesus-is-god stuff. Then, he launched into his story, one that I found intriguing and not so off-putting. On-putting? He apparently was in the U.S. of America when he was in his early 20s and was doing a bike ride across the country. There were moments that he thought he was going to die; there were nights where he had no place to stay; there was drama. And each time, he called out to God and got his problem solved.

[I didn't mention that I was having the same experience in Europe except that, for me, the Universe itself was coming to my aid--not some anthropomorphic Deity and His Son.]

Regardless of what he said, I appreciated *how* he said it. It wasn't the usual scare tactics; it was more about finding joy, finding happiness, through love. Sounds cliché now, but the way he spoke made it sound earnest.

Then, though, I realized something. I was American and his story was about finding Jesus in America. Coincidence? Possibly.

Then, though, I realized that I was wearing my shirt with a dozen bicycles all over it. His story tied together two things about me in order to connect. Could they have been fabrications? What if he has his born-again story that he contextualizes differently for each person? What is truth and should it matter in matters of faith?

I feel a little scuzzy about it, but I don't think it should really matter. In this case, I have faith in his motivations, so I'll allow for some distortions of reality.

There's truth and then there's Truth. And to approach Truth, you often need to discard truth. In fact, I would suggest that we need to; the truth typically obscures our notion of Truth. There's the who-what-where-when-how, and then there's the Why. The Why is what ties things together but is somewhat independent of more mundane issues.

If you're not convinced, I would say that all literature, theater, and poetry are just as dishonest. But it's dishonesty with a purpose, and the audience knows it's being lied to.

In music, we have the luxury of approaching Truth without messing around with reality.

And then there's Quality...

and while you sleep we suck your blood

I was in Amsterdam and had no place to sleep. I wasn't worried. Somehow these things tend to work themselves out.

It was my third night in the city and I had already drunk enough good Belgian beer and smoked enough Dutch weed to consider the visit a success. The first two nights, Wednesday and Thursday, I had stayed with couchsurfers--Stefan and Judith. Neither could host me Friday, but I felt like staying a few more days; I put my faith in the universe and set out. There was a party at a squat according to, a website to which my friend Nicole alerted me, having lived in the city herself at one point. On the way, I took another suggestion of hers: Cafe Gollem. I can only assume they got the name from Golem and not Gollum. I can't quite find the answer on their site.

There, I sat at the bar and ordered a Trippel. I noticed some individuals sitting alone, noticeably a girl sitting by the window. I was pretty open to talking to whomever--little did I know that at Cafe Gollem "ledereen praat tegen iedereen." And then the girl at the window came up to order, which she did in a language that sounded strangely familiar. Turns out, she was from Texas. Not that exotic, but strange enough to meet her at a hole-in-the-wall in Amsterdam.

So I heard her order, asked where she was from, and then next thing I knew, she was inviting herself to sit next to me; turns out, this girl Lisa had been in the 'Dam for 5 days and didn't know too many people yet. Starved for conversation, we gorged.

She was a dancer, as in modern dancer, so I got to name-drop all the dancer names and modern dance methods that I knew. Eventually, we both decided to check out this squat party along with former host Stefan.

Found the squat but no people, no party.

Drats. It looked like it was a cool space--some big structure where they formerly repaired tram cars. Industrial but spacious. So we got some food and then I asked Lisa and Stefan who would like to house me for the evening. I ended up on Lisa's floor on a couple of yoga mats, which was not much better than her schlafplatz: a camping mattress on a wooden frame. Her mattress had been destroyed for harboring modern society's old world pest: bedbugs.

She had warned me about the bedbugs but had said the bugman had been by the day before and said they were gone. I trusted the bugman.

The next morning, no bites. I took all my stuff with me, hoping to find a couchsurfing host at the weekly couchsurfing meet-up. Lisa joined me but I could not bring myself to subject myself to yet another home situation--especially one that I would be jumping into late at night. The devil you know won out and I spent another night on Lisa's floor.

Finally, Sunday I left Amsterdam. I was going to hitchhike but was tired so took the train. It was 50€ I would rather not have spent, but I was tired and needed the rest. I found a compartment by myself and started to read the paper, a French newspaper called "La Libération", started by Sartre and friends.

Almost predictably, Murphy's Law?, I was joined by a family that occupied the remaining 5 seats: two parents, 3 rambunctious boys.

Got to Ghent, Gent, or Gand and found my couchsurf host at the train station--a blind guy named Didier. How strange and wonderful that I could enter into his world and see first-hand how easy or difficult things become when you can't see.

There's plenty to be said about my time in Gent, but suffice it to say that I woke up after the first night with 7 or 8 red bites on one foot. To the bedbug expert, this may not sound like a bedbug problem, but to me it sounded alarms. I spent the next few days a hypochondriac, worrying about whether or not I should worry.

This went on for weeks when I ultimately decided I have no need to worry. Lisa has said that there's been no resurgence in bugs; no one else I stayed with reported having them.

All this comes at a time when bedbugs are all over the news. Every couple of days in the Times, there's a new article about bedbugs and how wonderful and terrible they are. [To be fair, the only good thing about bedbugs is that they don't spread disease like other bloodsuckers.]

Now I'm hypersensitive, so whatever bite I find on my body (mosquitos are terrible in Chicago thanks to a lot of summer rain), or whatever small bug I see reawakens the sleeping worry giant. My new sublet, a step up from the co-op in terms of cleanliness, has never had a problem with them, but I saw some small bug, possibly one of those small spiders, and immediately feared the worst. So far, no strange bites, just the lingering sense of impending doom.

retroviseur macht klar

How will time clarify my experiences and put them in context? Only time will tell. I hope to dig deeper into my Europe experience, which, up until now, has been relatively superficial.

The last four days of my 2-month sojourn were in Paris. Or, rather, around Paris. The first 2 nights were in the 92; the last 2 in the 93. For the latter, you can say "quatre-vignt-treize", but the cool way to say it is "neuf trois". It's a rougher part of Paris, "la banlieue chaude", the part that had some really cool fireworks a couple years back--car burning and whatnot.

No riots while I was there. "Riot" in Froggy is "émeute"; "chaud" means dangerous; "beu" means weed.

I was staying out there in the ghetto with a friend I met in Chicago. All my French friends I met in Chicago. Or somewhere else. But few did I meet in France. And rarely without an introduction. Frédérique (Fréd), I met while doing the bike tour. But she wasn't on the tour, just standing around near Buckingham Fountain. I heard her say something in a French accent and started talking to her. I think we only hung out once: right before she left (the city, the country), we met for tea at Argo Tea. I also got to meet some other American she met; good thing she met me too or she'd think we're all crazy.

So I didn't know her all that well but still far better than I knew most of my couchsurf hosts. I certainly feel like I know her--we've been friends on Facebook for a year or more--but I still don't know much about how she functions and what makes her tick.

The first night, I met her at the train station as she got back from Annecy. If that town sounds familiar, it's because I went there with Lisa about a month earlier. Her family either lives there or owns a house; Fréd goes a couple times a summer much like I go to New Buffalo. So she was back from a weekend away, suddenly thrust into hosting duties for some dirty, couchsurfing American.

Her apartment was well outside Paris--halfway to Charles de Gaule--and more rundown than I was expecting. She is only there temporarily, has been living there for a couple of months after getting a surprise job. Soon, she hopes to find a permanent place in Paris. As such, its furnishings are mostly from the landlord, including the mattress on the floor in the kitchen/dining room where I slept. I've slept in worse places.

We didn't have much time to talk when I first arrived, but the second night, she met me at a couchsurfing event and tore me away from some new friends [later when I returned, the bar was overflowing with CSers]. We found a cute place to eat that wasn't too overpriced just north of Les Halles--close to the rue Montorgueil but not on it. [That, by the way, is a bustling ped mall with restaurants packed in like sweaty Parisians on the metro. Don't remember it being that way in 2000; now it seems a little too trendy, well-known, possibly even touristy.]

The conversation was surprisingly deep and broad--good thing: I'd been through a 1001 surface-level conversations and was craving something more substantial. We talked about relationships mostly--my favorite conversation topic. She had just gotten into a relationship after getting royally dumped a year earlier; I was just about on the way out of a relationship with Lisa, with whom I traveled to Annecy with. Fréd was in a 2-year relationship, maybe longer, and got dumped via text on Christmas. Terrible. And, as she said, it took her a year, but she got over it and opened herself up to the possibility of finding someone and then did.

At the time, I found her story of heartbreak to be more calamitous than mine, but now I'm not so sure. Getting dumped after 2 years is certainly negative, but I'm thinking more about negative reinforcement. Say old man Pavlov gave his dogs a shock 2 hours after eating; they won't necessarily associate the eating and the shock. My shock came just at the moment of falling in love--just as the dog was savoring the meet juices running down its throat. As such, I haven't been able to get much past a couple months (weeks) without having a Pavlovian reflex of panic.

When you travel, you think you're meeting people, but really you're meeting yourself.

break down pt deux

This is my best guess of where I've been recently:

• 7/15: Thu: Tübingen one more night with couchsurf host Jessi, found out through facebook that a friend, Dave from South Africa whom I knew from Chicago, had just moved there, met up with him and drank in public square
• 7/16: Fri: rideshare from Stuttgart to Munich, train to Eichsätt, met with friend Laura, watched Blues Brothers in the park, slept on her friend's couch
• 7/17: Sat: great bike ride with Laura, biergarten, but then had to go back to Munich, nowhere to stay in Eichsätt, sitting at train station, randomly met with fellow traveler and couchsurfer Sietske who found us 2 beds to sleep on
• 7/18: Sun: rode around Munich on bikes we found, went to anarcho-hippie dinner party, climbed scaffolding of church and drank up high
• 7/19 Mon: hitchhiked with Sietske from Munich to (almost) the Czech republic, stayed at a hotel in the middle of nowhere
• 7/20 Tu: hitchhiked from hotel to Cesky Krumlov with Sietske, stayed there
• 7/21 Wed: hitchhiked from Cesky Krumlov to Pilsen, stayed in a run-down hostel, broke phone by sleeping on it
• 7/22 Thu: my one day in Prague, took bus from Pilsen in morning, walked around, couchsurfing bar night at night, stayed in a hostel with Belgians I had met the night before
• 7/23 Fri: hitchhiked from Prague to Dresden, went out with folks from the hostel
• 7/24 Sat: hitchhiked from Dresden, met with couchsurf host Christian, went to multilingual party at his ex-girlfriend's, slept there
• 7/25 Sun: woke up at the party apartment, slept on Christian's couch, hung out with Merle
• 7/26 Mon: 2nd couchsurf in Berlin, Paul, who also was hosting 2 Austrian girls
• 7/27 Tu: 2nd night at Paul's, went to squat for Volksküche that didn't exist
• 7/28 Wed: Amsterdam, hitchhiked from Berlin to Amsterdam, couchsurfed with Stefan
• 7/29 Thu: Amsterdam, 2nd couchsurf with Judith, a first time host
• 7/30 Fri: Amsterdam, stuff in train locker, met a girl at a bar (not what it seems), went to a squat for a party that didn't exist, slept on her floor
• 7/31 Sat: Amsterdam, stuff still in train locker, slept on Lisa's floor (girl from bar)
• 8/1 Sun: went from Amsterdam to Gand
• 8/2 Mon: stayed in Gand
• 8/3 Tu: hitchhiked from Gand (Gent) to Caen (pronounced "quand"), couchsurfed
• 8/4 Wed: stayed with Jennifer, old friend from Paris days (10 years ago) and her new husband and baby
• 8/5 Thu: stayed with Jennifer & co., played Go with her husband Laurent
• 8/6 Fri: hitchhiked from Brittany to Paris, arriving around 23h, couchsurfed in the suburbs of Paris (92)
• 8/7 Sat: woke up in the 92, slept there too
• 8/8 Sun: woke up in the 92, went to the 93 the northeast 'burbs of Paris, the more dangerous ones
• 8/9 Mon: stayed in 93, train into Paris to walk around, went to couchsurf bar night, met Frédérique for dinner
• 8/10 Tu: woke up in the Paris suburbs, flew to NYC, walked around Brooklyn, few to Chicago, slept at home--the closest thing to home that I have.

somehow we're all connected

I've been telling the same stories over and over again. It's helpful to have an arsenal for awkard moments in cars with people who picked you up on the side of the road. One theme that keeps coming back is Facebook. For one thing, I've been keeping friends and family abreast of my travels with it; for another, I've been making new friends and adding them to my network; and for yet another, it's helped to facilitate coïncidental meet-ups in the most random of places.

First, Quentin. A friend from grad school, he was actually an undergrad student in my class when I was a TA in grad school. And so we're not exactly the same age. But, opposite of what you think, he is not 10 years younger but 10 years older. He had a regular IT job for a while but decided to quit to finally get his degree--in viola performance. I hadn't seen him for many years--4 or 5--and so had to learn to Facebook that he was getting divorced. His extended family saw oppportunity in crisis and sent him to Europe for 2 months to take his mind off things. Already our stories resemble each other--aside from my noticable lack of divorce.

We stayed in contact through Facebook, following each other's position just as friends back home do, the one difference being the noticable lack of jealousy in our comments. We decided to meet in the middle, which is probably the best and only reason to go to Luxembourg.

Quentin and I tried to meet once after our meet-up in Luxembourg--this time at the top of a mountain to watch the arrival of the Tour de France. Q posted on FB that he was headed to Morzine to continue following the Tour from city to city. I was going to watch that stage too and so left him a note telling him I'd be calling when I got there. But, faute d'internet, a lack of internet, and he didn't get the message until the next day. I hitchhiked from Geneva--boo, hiss--and got made it in 2, really 3, rides. The first guy was French but of Arab extraction and was too excited about the United States and the direction in which Obama is leading it. Direction is good, but it would be nice to advance some in that direction. The second guy was really hard for me to understand but was great: he dropped me off in his town and then decided that he had some time to kill so might as well take me all the way there--about another 30 or 40 km.

Got to the mountain, called Quentin's cell phone(s), which were both off, and wandered around looking for him. Later we found out that we were within a kilometer of each other near the finish. Close but so far. So I had no place to sleep and had to make do, after watching the World Cup final, with sleeping on some newspapers on the side of a road. After it got too cold, in the middle of the night, I had to be resourceful and found an advertising banner to wrap myself up in. Plenty warm but hardly slept. Sun woke me up at 5:30.

Final FB story. After I hitchhiked to Zurich, I did carsharing to Stuttgart and then took the train to Tübingen, a student-flavored town in Swabia. Or Schwabia. I got there, planning to spend 2 days, and posted "Evan is in Tübingen" on FB. My old friend Jay--whom I've known since grade school, and then high school, but really becoming friends with through Ultimate frisbee in college and both living in Hyde Park in Chicago--told me that a mutual friend from Chicago had just moved there to work on some application of math to develop artificial learning. We got connected through Facebook and met up for a drink and then breakfast.

Like I tell people: it's a tool, one that can be used to bring people together. But bring people together too much and you lose privacy and your wallet. Use it wisely--like the internet in general--and reap the benefits while hopefully avoiding the downsides.

in-group, out-group

I've been trying to explain to people, as I try to figure it out myself, what I like about traveling, what I get out of it, and what I don't like. In the process, I've been delineating the difference between being a traveler and being a tourist. I was in the middle of elucidating someone once, when he turned it around and said it better than I could:

When you're a tourist, you go to a place to see the sights; when you're a traveler, you go to discover a place.

It has something to do with preconceptions; a tourist will invariably take a photo of the sights--the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben--despite the 100s of millions of photos just like it. Perhaps this is a perfectly natural impulse but outdated; now that we have google image search and flickr, do we need any more digital copies of Eiffel towers?

That being said, I took some photos of the Eiffel Tower, but it was merely a backdrop to an event that I stumbled upon: a public viewing of a world cup match. With the combination of event and setting, I saw the photo as telling a good story. I prefer to chase after good stories than the usual sights.

Maybe that's another nuance of the above quotation: when a traveler visits a place, they seek to experience it--or, at least, to have experiences with it. When a tourist comes to a place, they go to observe it as if watching a movie.

And, though I have my preferences, I can hardly say that I fully evade being a tourist. Sometimes, or in some cities, it's just the path of least resistence. I went on a bike tour of Berlin, for instance, and though I felt like a total observer, it was a good experience and helped me situate Berlin in both time and space. Fortunately, that experience was balanced by staying in an artist loft, going to an anarchist squat, and having coffee at an East Berlin soup kitchen. And the fact that I had a bike to ride around on my own to go exploring.

What I've decided, is that some cities are really just good for visiting (Paris, Amsterdam), some are good for living (Dresden, Lyon, Antwerp), some aren't good for either (Luxembourg), and some that are so hard to crack, it takes years to infiltrate the community enough to get a sense of it (Munich, Brussels).

All this has something to do with how much I feel accepted by the city. Munich felt like a good old boys club of hard core Bavarians who tolerated tourists but kept them at arm's length. I felt fortunate to be couchsurfing and so had local friends to explore with. Amsterdam, Prague, and Paris, seem to have so many tourists, and so many people staying temporarily that they are loathe to be overly friendly. But at least they are good places to visit. With Paris, a city I know better than the others, I feel like the French clique opens up to me only rarely, and when it does, it slams shut as soon as the moment is over. It's a sisyphean struggle. I feel the same when I'm hitchhiking. I go from outside to insider (quite literally) and then violently back to outsider and have to start all over again.

Berlin felt so unbelievably cosmopolitan--most people were recent transplants and there only temporarily--that I felt almost like a local, especially when I had a bike. It felt the most like Chicago or New York where people are seeing people come and go all the time; better meet them while you have the chance and then be facebook friends for life.

Lyon managed to feel like this somewhat despite the fact that the population is probably more like Munich's: longterm locals. I think it's just a cultural that makes the people in Lyon more open to outsiders. Maybe it's no coincidence that Nazism had its base in Munich. It's funny to me that that's where I met Sietske (a traveling friend for a couplein days), found free bikes to use (on the street...unlocked...felt sorta like stealing), and went to a dinner at a squat--but not a normal squat: the people were living in their trucks and were squatting a parking lot.

That's a pretty broad overview; stay tuned for more specific stories and adventures maybe tomorrow or soon.

a brief break down

I made a list of the the places I've been recently and thought you may find it helpful:

• Wed 7-14: woke in Zürich, will sleep in Tübingen
• Tues 7-13: woke in Zürich, slept in Zürich
• Mon 7-12: woke on a mountain in Morzine-Avoriaz, hitchhiked to Zürich
• Sun 7-11: woke in a Holiday Inn Express in Geneva, slept on a mountain in the Alps, hitchhiked in between
• Sat 7-10: woke Chamonix, slept Geneva
• Fri 7-9: woke Annecy, slept Chamonix
• Thurs 7-8: woke Annecy, rode bikes with Lisa around lake, slept Annecy
• Wed 7-7: woke Lyon in 15th floor apartment owned by Olivier's brother, took train to Annecy, had to change trains several times because of a fire at a train station ahead, slept in Annecy
• Tues 7-6: woke at Olivier's near Pouilly-le-Monial, went to Georges Du Boeuf's winemaker's Disneyland, slept in Lyon
• Mon 7-5: woke at Olivier's, hiked around, went for frog legs, slept there
• Sun 7-4: woke in Lyon at a hotel, met Olivier at the train station in Villefranche-sur-Saone, slept at Olivier's
• Sat 7-3: woke in Blonay, Switzerland, slept in Lyon
• Fri 7-2: woke in Blonay, slept there
• Thurs 7-1: woke in Fribourg, Germany, mitfahren to Lausanne, train to Vevey, train to Blonay, walked right past Lisa who was sitting in a café, slept in Blonay
• Wed 6-30: woke in Hannover, mitfahren to Mannheim, hitchhiked to Fribourg
• Tues 6-29: woke in Hannover, slept there, found nude beach along the bike path
• Mon 6-28: woke in Hannover, slept there, did laundry
  
• Sun 6-27: woke in Cologne at a hostel, hitchhiked to Hannover, got picked up by the Polizei who gave me a ride
• Sat 6-26: woke in Luxembourg, was going to stay with someone in Wiesbaden but got no response, went to Cologne on a whim, got one good ride all the way north through Luxembourg and then to within spitting distance of Cologne
• Fri 6-25: woke in Luxembourg (well, really, Arlon, Belgium) and hiked across border with Quentin to save 8 bucks
• Thurs 6-24: woke in Antwerp, planned to meet Quentin at train station in Luxembourg, found a couch that morning, took train from Antwerp to Luxembourg, met Quentin and his bike, picnic in park, good Belgian beers, slept in...Arlon
• Wed 6-23: woke in Brussels, train to Antwerp, met friend from bike tour for lunch
• Tues 6-22: woke in Paris, hitchhiked to Brussels, first couchsurf with Mehdi.

And before that I was just in Paris.

respite oasis: Zuerich

Things have been flying past the windows of the high-speed train so fast I almost can't make out the shapes of things, merely the threads of colors woven together. I'm in Zürich, but it seems almost moot since I'll be headed to Tübingen this afternoon with a ride share. It's worked out really well so far, but recently I've been getting a lot of "car's full" responses. But if it's not ride sharing, it's hitchhiking; and if it's not hitchhiking, it's taking the train. Methods of travel abound, crammed densely together like the towns piled on top of towns in the Swiss countryside. Or the German countryside. The French countryside seems a little more spread out, but I still like the density of each town, even if, en masse, they are further apart.

I've spent almost 2 days here and have gotten a good sense of the city. I think it would be really fun to go out in--there seem to be a lot of night clubs and the like--but as a city to visit, I don't think it merits much more time than a couple days.

First, it's expensive. I was desperate for some coffee (see how our addictions force us to go out there and interact with people) and found some restaurant with a woman drinking a cappuccino at the bar. Lots of Italian restaurants in Zürich, and this was the same. I realized that the coffee might be pretty expensive here compared to other places, and, sure enough, it was 5CHF. A Swiss franc is 90% of a dollar, so the exchange rate is in my favor, but still...90% of 5 is still $4.50 for an espresso. Turns out, though, that the same drink costs 4.50 CHF at Starbucks; the prices of things are just that high. Cheap restaurants have meal prices that start at 15 CHF, and I saw a burger at and Irish pub advertised for 25 CHF. So it is.

And there are bikes, though not as many as in Antwerp or even Paris. Probably about the same amount as in Chicago. The city's a little denser, so it's more apparent. But bikes are not the correct way to get around. There are bike lanes and other infrastructure, but the way around Zürich is the tram. Everything seems to bow down to the tram system, with it's streetcar tracks embedded in the pavement and spidery electrical cables overhead. The tracks are, in fact, a danger to cyclists, and the trains coming every couple of minutes make it difficult to walk around. The intersections, in general, seem to prioritize trams and cars over walkers, making walkers sometimes wait at 2, 3 or even 4 separate lights before crossing one street.

I finally found the Niederdorf area--the altstadt--which, though similar to a lot of other old cities I've been to, was nice to walk through. I got another coffee at this place called teecafé; a single was 4.60 and a double was 5.50 CHF. So I got a double--also because I needed it.

I took the tram several times with no ticket and had no problems. The first time was simply because I was too tired from hitchhiking and training and being outside all day and sleeping on a mountain to care. Just like in Geneva, nobody ever checked tickets. And then I found out that one ride costs 4 CHF! The problem with their system is that you don't even know if you're doing it right; there's no affirmation for playing by the rules. At least in Paris and Chicago there are barriers to cross that make you feel accepted by the system, even if it's simply mechanical feedback. At some point I realized that a day pass--24 hours--was only 8 CHF, so I finally started playing by the rules.

I've decided that Zürich, like Chicago, is a good place to live. Get a monthly pass on the tram, get a good job at a bank to pay the bills, and go swimming in the river at night. It seems like a good mix of hustle and bustle and tranquil family and friends time. But to visit, I think it's probably best to come in for the nightlife and then sleep all day.

Lux

This all began in Antwerp, where I got a hold of Quentin and made plans to meet in Luxembourg. He picked some random town way in the north (like 37km north of the capital) and I planned on hitching or training to mee him. Alas, it was too difficult so I took the train to the capital directly and texted him to meet me at the station. It worked. Odd.

I had secured us a couch and a welcome picnic through the last minute couch list in Luxembourg. A Belgian responded and said he could host but lived 20 minutes out of town--like a suburb or something.

We walked in to town and found a nice ped-mall, a lot of banks, and a big park. Finally, an hour later, after a couple beers in the park, we met up with the picnic which was pretty awesome. People from all over, enough opportunity for me to speak French but everyone could speak english too for Quentin.

Many beers, Belgian ones, strong, and then I joined some frisbee players (I still got it). From 5:30 to 11 we hung out and ate and drank; pretty ideal.

Then, to a bar; some guy from the picnic paid for our beer as a "welcome" gesture--clearly the Luxembourgians don't get enough visitors--but then it was time to go catch the train to go home. In another country. In fact, we took the last train to Belgium, which the Luxebourgish see as a suburb of Luxembourg. Belgium?!?!?

Shit. I knew about this, in fact, before--that we had to sleep in Belgium, but Quentin was a little annoyed, having just left Belgium earlier that day. And then I was annoyed that it was 10€. Shit. It was only 1.50€ to take the train anywhere in Luxembourg. Clearly, crossing the border is expensive. But that much more?!?! The first in a string of unwelcome surprises. Annoyed.

Other surprises, though we got to the apartment at 12:30 am, Pierre had to work in the morning so we had to be out by 7am. Shit. But whatever. We made it, got up, even sneaked in a couple showers--but no breakfast. Then Pierre insisted on powerwalking to the train. So I said that we would say goodbye there and mosey. Yup, mosey. I don't know if he knows that word, but it's really the only perfect word for the situation. We moseyed and decided to avoid the extra border fee and to walk to the next small town in Luxembourg and only pay 1.50€. The hike, of course, ended up being more like 10km, 3 hours, through small towns and over hill and dale. Beautiful. We had a couple fence crossing incidents, but my antibiotic cream saved me from an infection. And I got a big blister. But we had a great time and got to catch up--a little bit of RAGBRAI on foot and in Europe. And sans parties. But lovely.

Luxembourg is nice but it's a little overrun with bratty, spoiled douchey teens. And it's beautiful out--totally summer--which is apparently not normal.

Paris->Bruxelles = priceless

It's for days like today that I'm glad I have this blog.

To begin with, I was really starting to have a less than nice time in Paris. All I wanted was to create a little social circle for 2 weeks, meets lots of people and then leave. Is that so much to ask?

Really, though, what got me the most were the broken plans. Genre: I'll meet you at 19h...actually 21h...actually I'm not going to respond to my phone anymore. False promises partout.

I think it's like any big city; people are busy, stressed out, and don't have time for a travelling foreigner with all the time in the world.

Speaking of all the time in the world: I hitchhiked from Paris to Belgium in less than 7 hours.

I started by taking the train to Gallieni, the terminus of the line 3, the one I used to take when I lived near Gambetta. It was like old times. Ironically, the bus line Eurolines is situated at the same station, something I didn't realize until the map in myPhone told me. I spent a good 15 minutes at the entrance to the A3 but didn't feel good about the prospects: people seemed amenable but were going in the wrong direction. So I moved. I walked east, over a stupidly big hill with my stupidly heavy bag and carry on and found the next entrance. I felt better that this time, at least, everyone was going my way; it wasore a matter of finding someone amenable. After not more than 5 minutes, voilà!

The guy spoke French rapidly and with abandon, hard to understand, so I took what i could make out and ran with it. He was adopted from Brazil by Belgian parents but lived 100 km NE of Paris. He mentioned how in that region the society is very closed and his parents had difficulty getting accepted. He was about my age, drove a car that, in the states I would have called a pimped out Honda civic, and was a truck driver. I disabused him of his misconceptions about chicago, and he left me at a toll booth.

I thought this would be a good place too and so waited. I tried out a couple different places but to no avail. After about the 4th place, I decided to get away from the autoroute and try some county roads. I walked a km to a rondpoint and hardly had time to stick out my thumb when a chainsmoking gardener former pharmacist stopped and offered a ride. 20km later, he left me at an intersection that seemed even more remote. I had little hope but was open to the possibility.

Sure enough, the first car to pass was this retired guy who took me only 5 km north.

I put myself at a crossroads and waited around. This time, I figured I was in the best place possible and so waited and waited. And waited. None of the people passing even fit the stereotype of one who would dare pick up an autostoppeur. After 45 min or more, I walked north. I thought maybe I would appear more amenable while walking. Nope. Made it 3km (did I mention my heavy bag?) and stood for a while at another crossroads with a lot more traffic and potential.

Finally, the drought ended when some handyman or electrician stopped, even saying, didn't i see you at that other village? Yup. So he actually went a little out of his way and dropped me off right back at the A1 headed towards Belgium. Back on course. This time, there was a nice shady place to sit (did I mention it was sunny and beautiful the whole day?) and wrote out "Belg" on a piece if paper.

15 min later, this guy stops in a relatively nice Peugot and, though reluctant seeming at first, agrees to take me to the Belgian border. Awesome. Now I finally feel again that I might actually make it, that I won't have to sleep on the side of the road. I came to terms with that reality but was happy not to resort to that.

We have a really interesting convo, still a lot of me disbusing notions, and he deposes me at a gas station at the frontier, still 70km to go.

I was confident in my location but not in the time of day. It was getting to be 7pm at this point and I was seeing a dearth of potential rides: men alone in their car. Lots of couples, families, whatever. I was talking to some Arab guys at one point--of the lowclass variety--and one guy said they could take me to Liege, at 30km fron Brux. I didnt feel quite right with the situation, especially when one of them said: could you help with gas? 5€? I was ok with this. But then when I said ok, he said: well how about 10€? awkward. At one point i had my bags in the trunk almost ready to go but ended up deciding against it.

Then came the best ride. A real Belgian, who does official visits of Bruxelles for dignitaries (and apparently Lady Gaga). Our conversation mostly consisted of him going on about politics or whatever--all very interesting considering the political turmoil in Belgium right now.

He, like most everyone else, was grateful for me coming along, breaking up the monotony of the journey. And his monotony must have been great; he was driving up from Barcelona. 13hrs plus stops.

And then he took me all the way to Mehdi's, out of his way. Then I got fed, was given Pastis, and offered pot. People are such wonderful creatures.

Saturnicity

 Saturday began with me finding 2€ in the street. I felt much better but still had a fleeting scratchy throat that made it even harder to speak French with a believable accent. I'd gotten to the point where people in boulangeries and cafes didn't think twice, didn't even notice how great it is that a Yankee could speak their language. I was tempted to inform them that I was in fact American [there was a period there that people were telling me that, if anything, my accent sounded German], especially when I was sitting next a couple American couples who ordered everything in English, not even attempting to read the French. 

Things haven't been going as swimmingly as I would like, but maybe it's more a matter of letting the currents take me. Finding synchronicities, good fortunes, happy accidents are always good signs that I'm on the right path even if it's a path I wouldn't have chosen. 

The lessons we need to learn aren't always the ones we want to learn. 

So continuing Saturday's fortunes/misfortunes, I was supposed to meet a friend for drinks and then go to a party.  But, at the last minute, I got a text that cancelled the plans, citing a feeling of unwellness. 

And, surprisingly, I felt actually disappointed, realizing that I haven't actually had too many plans or adventures in the past several days--first being deprived of energie from the cold, second just not finding people--and was looking forward to something that could be cool. 

It could also be not cool, but at least it would be new, foreign, and so at least somewhat interesting. 

But a door closes, a window opens. 

I called my friend Clément who had also mentioned something going on, and he was in the metro on his way already. He asked where I was and had me meet him on the quai, the platform?, of the metro where our two lines would intersect on the way.  It didn't seem like the easiest plan, but it worked out; arrived at the station literally 2 minutes before he did. 

When things work out like that, it makes me happy. 

So we went to this thing, which he explained as a having to do with his girlfriend's highschool friends and "fanfares".  Whatever that is. 

Turns out, it was a super unassuming space in the villified banlieu [Clément was surpised it was so nice en banlieu], but the people waiting in line to get in all seemed like they were going to some art-music-danceparty--chic but cool. 

And it was, in fact, a competition between "fanfares", which ended up being a lot like Emvironmental Encroachment" or "Mucca Pazza" in Chicago but mostly playing covers of pop songs: coldplay, nirvana, etc. My favorite was when the emcee introduced a song as Terre, Vent, Feu!

And it was pretty amazing. Some pretty tight groups, others more theatrical, one that just sucked, but most were pretty good. What a surprise, inattendu.

I put some pictures up on FB and made a recording on myPhone.  Good times.  

Odeur pt. deux

Still on the smell thing: the parc where I get my internet fix has its own smell, subtle but revolting. I hardly noticed it at first but now the slightest whiff makes me feel dead inside. It's something like rubber--of the burning variety--and it seems to be mostly localized around the playground area, probably emanating from the rubbery "safety floor" that has replaced stones or woodchips in parks around the world. It's an even trade: no more infected wounds for a mild exposure to VOCs.

distilled

Ah the smells of Paris. To be fair, I wasn't smelling so hot when I arrived: 2 days of travel, sleeping awkwardly in the plane, not really eating but nibbling. But there's no competition with Paris.

While I may not love the smell of the metro, it's pretty unique and always brings back happy memories. That said, however, the offensively pungent stench of whatever the "clochards" have left behind is something I could do without. It goes so far beyond a quizzically tangy urine smell: it's almost as if the clochards are embarking on some secretive distillation of bodily essences. It's like the walls themselves have absorbed years and years of vagrant piss and are now giving it back. It's like karma: for all the years we have ignored the homeless, now we have to suffer the consequences.

But it's not just the homeless. Lots of people do it. I learned that public drinking is not technically legal but is tolerated in certain areas. One of those places must be on the westernmost point of Ile de la cité. There, I saw at least a dozen couples romantically picnicing on the banks of the Seine, a couple groups, and, of course, some drunks. (the problem
in France isn't so much public drinking so much as public alcoholism.) All those festivities were on the south side of the island, being in the sun, but as soon as I turned the corner, in the shade, I found several fresh pungent puddles.

This tolerance is instilled in the French very young. As I was typing this, sitting in a public park called "Square René Legall", I saw several nannies, all of African descent, take their toddlers over to the grass to piss. "Tu dois faire peepee?"

And then there's body odor, which I don't yet understand. All I know is that my own body seems to be more vulgar than usual. Maybe it's and infectious disease? Maybe it's the fromage "puant"? Maybe it's part of my continuing effort to fit in.

And there's also the pollution which is pretty much how I rememeber it but so much worse than Chicago. And smoking. Which is no longer legal in cafes and bars (and has caused a decline in frequentation) but is still all over: on the teraces of cafes, the apartments of friends, at open-air picnics. Neither is good for this pestering cough that I've been fighting for a couple days now.

People: (e)Lisa

I have met nothing but incredible people so far. I keep telling myself that like attracts like, but deep down I know I'm just lucky. Or it could be that I have good taste--discerning.

I hope to give you a little insight into what makes these people so great.

To begin with, the first person I met, while still on the plane, Lisa.

It was the kind of conversation that could have been the basis for a movie, one with a lot of flashbacks. The kind of conversation from which you don't expect much but in the end provides confirmation of the seemingly endless potential we have to connect with our fellow humans.

In fact, it played out like a lot of my music: slow at first, building, climax, denouement.

It started out with her by the window, an older Indian woman in the middle, and me approaching the aisle seat. Just before I sit down, the Indian woman asked if I would mind switching with her due to her bad knee. The first thing that came to my mind was "Age before beauty", which fortunately was interrupted on its way to my mouth.

The point of small talk is to pave the way to big talk. Il faut quand même quelques points de repères. And I learned through small talk that she was from Seattle on her way to visit her youngest daughter who was studying in Dijon. So far, pretty normal. And I learned that they had quite the trip planned to the extent that they knew what city they were going to be in each night. Clearly, not my kind of people. And yet, the conversation floated along like a river that doesn't yet know that it's headed towards the sea.

Finally, it comes out: she had divorced her husband a year ago and was in the middle of a midlife transition--I would hardly call it a crisis but it certainly could have been. Transitions don't have to be crises; they can also be opportunities. And she had taken the opportunity to work in a school, helping out in the special education class, and was looking for ways to combine her talents with her interests.

I told her about things like Reiki...and Burning Man...although I would think the former to be more helpful and more idiomatic for her.

And then somewhere along the way I made a connection. Earlier, I was doing a crossword and listening to some businessmen talk about...well...business, and I realized that all people, to some extent, have a need to solve problems. Whatever job we do, we are asked to solve problems--problems of varying sizes. We all have our preference as to the size and amount. Being a composer, living the lifestyle, I'm inundated with both the creating and the solving of problems. [Interesting side note: I might make more money solving other people's problems.] For Lisa to work with special children, she had to use her ingenuity and people skills to determine how to communicate and work with each child.

I've had the image of a cork in the sea in my head recently. I realized that I am sometimes not even in the sea but in the air, throwing myself into the void knowing that I'll float when I come back down. It's in these moments of certain incertainty that I see through the cracks in the façade of my conception of life and start to see it for what it is: inconceivable.

people, places, things, adventure

I got up in the middle of night, not quite Monday, not quite Tuesday, and, in a dreamy stupor, dragged my bags and bones to the airport. 6:30am is a little early for a flight. After 2 buses, which came right when myPhone said they would, and a train, I got to Ohare with plenty of time to spare.

I got to Boston in an uneventful flight that I hardly remember and spent the day wandering. Took the T to Cambridge and walked all the way back. Made me realize how unwalkable most of Chicago is--(so spread out). Really liked Boston.

Met a surprisingly interesting woman on the plane (who turned out to be just a little afraid of flying) and got to Paris at 7h30 dazed and fuzzy. RER B to Les Halles, line 4 to Montparnasse, and I started to wander (in search of an adapter to charge my phone and internet).

(Dear iPhone, I don't want to capitalize Internet; it's not a place.)

While I could have the Net on my phone, it costs something like $20/mb. That's like 24€. I can't even conceive how many mbs I use, so I turned off roaming. Maybe I've been so badly burned by phone roaming I don't want to risk it.

But none of the stores were open; I was confused. While *you* may remember that it's still sometime after 7h30, my brain thinks it should be later. When I saw people opening the stores, I really thought they were coming back from lunch. I noticed the FNac, in fact, because of the 20 people gathered out front, which I found bizarre for midday but perfectly strange for 9am.

Got the charger, sat on a bench and drifted into a mental fog for 15 minutes, bemused myself catching people looking out the corner of their eye at my "shoes". (Pics of shoes on facebook; yes, they are shoes, but are intended for barefoot enthusiasts. If we're not friends on FB, find me. I may not be able to post too many pics here.). Had already had coffee but for some reason didn't feel the need. Might've helped. Finally got online at pomme de pain.

I had told Laura, the girl whose family I would be staying with, that I'd come for dinner. But, feeling as I did, I thought it would be nice to depose my bags chez eux. And then take a 2h nap.

And then go back out and meet people for drinks, taking the last train (0h58h) to the burbs where they live. Not really the 'burbs and not really la "banlieu" (which has a pretty negative connotation, like "inner-city") Meudon is pretty nice, upper middleclass and feels almost more like a small town than a suburb.

I'll try to give specifics on the people I've been meeting. So far I'm batting 1.000, finding only wonderful, interesting people. Pics maybe too.

Now, though, it's 1h de matin, time to coucher. Last night i dreamed like a fool, remembering only one in which I was hanging out, speaking French, and was doing a horrible mock Americain accent make fun of it. I'm a jerk even in my dreams. ;)

preparation

Like a cork in the sea, we will rise above the wave ahead.

I do music, so I'm wont to see life in musical terms. Right now, for instance, I'm coming to a cadence. Without moments of punctuation, the flow of time seems endless. The ends justifies the middles. The beginnings are just ends with more hope. Defining these moments help us to take a step back, get some perspective.

I'm finishing a period of about 6 months of voluntary homelessness in which I focused on making music--and not making money. I'm beginning a period of 2 months of drifting in a sea of hospitality between Paris and Prague, visiting friends, making new ones, and (re)discovering cultures through language.

When I quit everything (teaching music theory and music appreciation at Chicago State), I started a blog, the first one that I've managed to update consistently. After some searching, I found a quotation about a Danish writer, Jens Peter Jacobsen, about how he insists that his characters "embody the struggle" against whatever societal forces that keep them from living life in their own way. Writing music, already, runs contrary to the American model that values hard work, regular hours (9-5), and owning property in the suburbs. Going further, I quit gainful employment and went off to be by myself in a house in the woods. Sounds like Walden. But, just as Thoreau was close enough to Concord to walk there with his laundry, I was close enough to Chicago to go back nearly every weekend--either by car or train (and once by bike).

I realized that my struggle was less against external forces than internal ones--ghosts from my past and my own habitual thoughts and actions.

Now, my challenge is to go with the flow

Don't push the river, it flows by itself