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