The Sea is Full of Corks

I'm a cork and so are you. And so is everyone I live with. And there's a lot of us.

The ocean is a big place, but this corner of it is small. And I live in a small corner of a small corner that is overcrowded with drifting souls.

I live in a halfway house for people wanting to move to the city. It's people in transition. I fit in in that regard but fit out in plenty of other ways.

There is always the struggle between introverts and extroverts. Generally, even when living with people, I can escape into myself when I need to. This place makes it hard.

Firstly, I work from my room far too often. And working from home, there's often people around the house crowding the kitchen when all I want to do is get a drink of water or make an egg—without all that chit chat.

And there are some individuals who take up more than their fair share of the space. They are not only physically larger but also such big personalities that there is little psychic room left over for the rest of us.

Especially little for us introverts who don't like having to fight for space.

That was the brewing situation over the last month, finally culminating this last weekend.

The guy in question was large and in charge and carried around with him such weight—psychic weight—that his already overbearing personality became suffocating with any addition of alcohol. And when he drank, he drank.

And on the final weekend, he created an entire weekend of farewell to himself. And on the first night of the weekend of debauchery—he really is a Dionysian character—he got drunk, we all did, and he got surly. This is a guy who seems to love people, but it may just be that he loves being around people because he needs an audience in order to feel happy.

I am not that way and so find it irritating.

My mind was getting more and more polluted with the psyches of others. And I literally, at times, had a hard time hearing myself think.

Finally, respite. He left—much to the joy of 1/2 of the people living here—and we are left to our own thoughts. Now it's time to organize them and try to go back to the focus I was once so close to prioritizing.

Embody the Drift

I came to San Francisco 48 days ago. Finally, this feels like normal life. I don't feel like I have to take advantage of *everything* but I still feel like I am taking advantage of plenty.

Yesterday, I got sucked into the wake of a large, ocean-going vessel of roommates and, with them, had a long, moveable afternoon and evening of dancing and drinks.

It started with Burning Man. One of my roommates—I have not some several—is going to Burning Man for the first time (while everyone else in SF seems to have been multiple) this year. Her camp was having a fundraiser to help pay for their expenses: you know, basic surviving in the desert for a week expenses.

That was the dancing and a little drinking. The music was typical Burner music: trance, techno, house, tech house and whatever other sub-sub-subgenres are out there now.
In back, there was a "silent disco" where people danced to music that was only audible through headphones. It keeps the noise down for the neighbors.

After a couple hours, I started to get tired—am I too old for this?—and we eventually headed back to the house only to stumble into a bar on the way.

Finally, an hour later, we got back to the house only to have 30 minutes to get ready for our next adventure: Sunday Night Dinner.

The location was a house—not dissimilar in effect to our house—but different in execution. Instead of an old crack house, 12 tech hackers live in a full-blown mansion replete with basement bowling alley.

Every Sunday, they have dinner for the masses: generally tech folks who have been around the start-up scene for a while.

I met a number of interesting people and ran into people I've already met. It's a small world, and SF is a tiny corner of it.

And the food was all vegan (the potatoes might have been only vegetarian) and actually pretty good. I could live on that.

By the end of the evening, though, I was exhausted. It was a long time with the same group of people. I could feel us developing a hive mind and while I usually resist, it was fun to just go along with it.

But then when I got tired of it, I got really tired, really quickly.

I collapsed into my bed and dozed for a couple of hours before finally garnering the strength to "go to bed." And then slept really well—according to my sleep app.

Saturday Afternoon in the Park of Delores

Delores Park is a sort of Mecca for those who enjoy park sitting, public drinking, marijuana-infused edible treats, and intense people watching.

In fact, it was in this park that I learned of the sublet which I ended up taking.

So far, I have managed to make it to the park nearly every weekend, even the weekend of 120 miles of exhausting riding.

There's an aspect of the park that almost seems magical, like it's a sacred place like Machu Pichu or Fairfield, IA where the energy meridians of the earth coincide.

Maybe it's just been imbued with that energy by countless park-goers.

All of this is to say, coincidence is abundant in the park.

Yesterday, Saturday, I was at the park with friends (of friends of friends...) and we were discussing targeted ads, specifically the algorithm that large companies use to know when women are pregnant or about to get pregnant.

We had bought some truffles from the truffle guy but hadn't eaten them yet.

[The truffle guy is a beautiful, ambiguously ethnic human being who makes and sells truffles in bronze bowls he made himself. He has really good, fun-to-read Yelp reviews.]

I've had his truffles before but never a whole one—they are super potent for someone who doesn't dabble in THC all that often.

So I bought 3 for 10 bucks.

Half hour later, none of us had tried one yet when we were approached by another ganja park vendor.

She was a less-than-beautiful, plain-white woman in her 40s and was selling ganja suckers. When we respectfully declined, she said in a nasty, almost offended tone: "Well if you like truffles, you'll like suckers."

Target marketing!

She saw our truffles, knew that we were into edibles and figured we'd be interested in her products.

This is where target marketing fails. Why did we buy from the truffle man? Is it just for the THC? Or is it also for the reputation (fame), past experiences, and the deliciousness.

The why is important.

[Also, we already had edibles; why would we need more?]

Makeshift Gatekeeper

San Francisco is a land of contradictions. It's where every café has beer but not every bar has liquor. It's where everyone's friendly but few are your friends.

After 2 weeks of living here, I continue to feel more and more like myself. Not in vacation mode, not in adjusting mode, just in being. With each phase comes new spending patterns. The first week, I noticed I was spending too much just adjusting. The second week, I went in vacation mode as I had a visitor. Then went to spend-none mode. Now back to just normal spending.

So I went out last night. Walked around, found a bar that proposed music later, and, not thinking I'd even be around for the music, went in. 

The bar was pretty empty, so I found a spot at the bar and opened one of my new books.

After thoroughly digesting the one-page forward and imbibing a 10% Imperial Porter, I was finding myself listening more to the ambient conversations than focusing on the book.

One group of guys, long-time friends, some in from out of town—for the Google IO convention?—were talking about tech stuff that I know some things about, while the bartender and her sound guy were desperately trying to find a door man for the show.

I finished a second beer and, as she asked me if I wanted another, I asked if they needed a door guy.

In most other cities, in most situations, bars don't trust dudes who just happen to be hanging out with $100 in change and potentially 3x that by the end of the night.

But in this situation, they did. Without even so much as a "What's your last name?" or "Can you leave your id with us so you don't just run off with the money."

Not that I would have, and maybe she sensed that, but I've been noticing, as a quasi-drifter—staying at an SRO!—how easy it would be to be a con-man. These people don't know me, and I have a trustworthy face and demeanor. But maybe it's my being trustworthy that has built that demeanor—and face.

So next thing I know, I'm at the door with a hundred bucks asking people for "7 to 10 dollars, sliding scale."

This bar has shows most nights but only charges a cover on some. This was one of those. So a lot of people either didn't expect a cover or didn't know what it was.

I found that the easiest thing was to ask for IDs, because that's pretty normal, and then while they were fumbling say: "There's a cover tonight for the bands." That last part—"for the bands"—was the important part, making me feel more justified in asking for money.

It's all about working with people's expectations.

Some would come in and ask how much; those were easy. Some would come in like they were on a bar crawl. There were, in fact, people on a bar crawl. 3 people came in, learned about the cover and were disappointed. Tried to haggle. I offered 10 for the 3 of them—they weren't here for the music—and the girl said that there were 15 of them coming. I looked around the bar, pretty full with an already-slammed bartender, and said "Then I don't think this is the right bar for you."

Was that too blunt? It was true. For them, for the bar, for me.

So then 15 people walked by the door looking either disappointed or angry.

The funniest thing I saw, besides the passed out cokehead getting carried out by his friends (which wasn't so much funny as unsettling), was out the door. From my position, the door was framing whatever happened out on the street like a mini-proscenium. But most of the action was happening offstage, leaving me to infer from what I could hear—and the little I could see—what was going on.

I saw a plastic cup go skidding by—blown by wind?—and then seconds later, this mid-40s guy in one of the bands comes jumping across my view and stomps on it like he had a score to settle.

Really, the funniest thing to me was the very fact that I was where I was.

The cokehead thing wasn't that funny. Just a white dude in his late 20s, early 30s who was kind of skeezy the whole night. But skeezy in a fun, party way. He was with friends and was "friends with the band" so wasn't just some bum off the street.

At some point, 4 of his friends hurriedly carried his dead-to-the-world body out the door, lying him on the sidewalk. I thought maybe it was epilepsy or something equally strange and scary. 

I didn't even recognize him at the time because he wasn't wearing his sunglasses, which he'd been wearing the whole time—in the "darkest bar I've ever been in."

Don't know exactly what happened, but I think he'll make it. And will maybe learn his lesson.

Then the last band ended—who were actually pretty good—and I forked over the money to the bartender. Not sure how much it ended up being, but at least one person—this elvish looking blonde waif—paid with a hundo and there were plenty of other 20s left after I got my cut.

It's a little sad, if you think about it, this random guy—me—gets 60 bucks for the night, while the musicians who put forth much more effort probably got a fraction of that apiece.

Such is life. And now back to my real job.

Home is Where the Startup Is

2 weeks ago today, I got to SF. And while I wouldn't expect to feel at home yet, I'm starting to.

The first week was excitement turning to routine turning to almost boredom. A week after I got here, I was sitting in a cafe feeling stuck in this new life.

Later that day, my ladyfriend (of the "Unicorns Exist fame) arrived after having bought a flight the day before. (And after having mulled it over for 3 suspenseful days.)

And so quickly, my stuckness became unstuck as we drifted around the city for 3 days as if in a cloud—a cloud of possibilities.

We hit up vegan/vegetarian-friendly restaurants, met new friends, saw the bridge, met old friends, and generally soaked up each other's company.

The sea was tiny that day.

Hence, I didn't have the wherewithal to write about it.

Her stay ended and I continued on still transformed, finding new joy in the routine of working from home, working from coffee shops, and doing long bike rides.

But finding a good space in which to work was still a challenge. Working from coffee shops wears on you, as your "co-workers" are strangers to you and seldom do you meet new friends—or even have the mindspace to do so.

Working from home is complicated: not having a desk, it's physically uncomfortable, not having a clear space, mentally beclouding.

But in one fell swoop, I found a workspace and a (potential) community of seemingly likeminded people.

It's called Noisebridge and it's a Hackerspace. And it's 2 blocks from my place.

Same Cork, Different Ocean

2 years ago, I took a break from my life and spent 2 months in Europe.

This summer, I'm spending 2 months living and working in San Francisco. It's my 2-year itch.

A month ago, I was sitting in Dolores Park with my friend and his friends, one of whom was leaving their place open for 3 months. Subletting was discussed, and over the course of a couple hours, I went from somewhat intrigued to practically convinced.

It's hard to say no to a city when you're drinking and being offered drugs in a beautiful park in the sunshine.

It's hard to say no to San Francisco.

The sublet was a room in a space that has been described as a "tech dorm", "tech hostel", and "squat." So SF. Not having seen it, I was blissfully ignorant of what to expect. Uncertainty excites me in general, and I was particularly ready for an adventure.

After committing to the sublet, there was scant further information. As my departure date loomed closer—that is, 2 days before leaving—I finally sent out some emails to try to get more information, hoping that everything was still set.

Got a quick response from the property manager, who told me how to find the place: "We are on the corner of 20th and Mission above the T-mobile store.The door is located about 30 yards up 20th st from the corner just past the eggplant dragon mural."

Eggplant dragon mural.

I ring the doorbell, after having lugged my 20 lb bike in a box along with a suitcase and carryon on 2 trains, through 2 airports, and through 2 cities, and waited. Eventually, Suzanne opened the door and seemed to know to expect me.

I walked up the stairs past a dozen bikes and got the tour.

The floors of the hallways have been stripped of any flooring down to the wood. Other bikes—some dusty, some broken—line the halls along with various construction equipment like sanders and saws. The one kitchen is nice but small. Considering the situation, it's surprisingly clean.

Currently, there's only one bathroom, which is shared by men and women and whomever else. 3 toilets, 2 showers. There's another toilet in a separate room down the hall—a modicum of privacy.

My bedroom is surprisingly nice. Carpet, queen-size bed, nice sheets, a hard-wood dresser, and a view over the neighbor's backyard. Small and no desk but nice.

My friend, the one who helped connect me to this opportunity, came by last night and was shocked at the... rusticness. I was a little... surprised... myself, but mostly pleasantly. I don't have to bring any chaos to this place; there's plenty enough as it is.

On Land

I'm on a new mission. After 2 years of recovering, refoundationing, and rebuilding, I'm adrift again, another period of punctuation in the amorphous flow of life.

I got back from Europe with only the promise of a job (giving bike tours), nowhere to live. Stayed with friends and parents and looked. Found the Castle: a 2-story graystone with 12 people living on 3 floors at the center of Logan Square.

People came and went, performed music/comedy/poetry, built things, went out too much, stayed in too much. And only one suicide attempt.

Then, after years of threatening to give up bike tours for good, I found my way out.

I have sympathy for people who are stuck—for I certainly was—but you can't get out if you're not constantly trying. It's like shooting rockets into space; you don't always know how much escape velocity you need.

For my escape, I uncovered web development, a métier that I enjoyed so much that I would do it for no money. That not being sustainable, it's nice that it is, in fact, remunerated. And pretty well at that.

But I did it for no money, pursuing my own projects—building websites that I wanted to use—and then fell in with a startup whose website I had already tried to use.

Dabble.co has been around Chicago for 2 years. They are an online marketplace for real-life classes: scotch tasting, glass blowing, photoshop, jewelry making, and so on. I submitted a bike maintenance class before I ever thought about working in websites. But then I couldn't work out the details, and the idea fizzled.

Here's the timeline as far as I can tell:

* 6/24/11 - We start following each other on Twitter.
* 4/6/12   - An email from a new contact: "So Dabble is looking for a developer..." (But I don't yet have nearly enough experience. Just started teaching myself a month earlier.)
* 7/9/12   - I have more experience, they still have a need; they agree to bring me in.
* 7/24/12 - Came in for the first time to Catapult, the startup incubator shared office.
* Did an unpaid stint with them for the rest of July, August and September; still needed experience.
* October, took a contract for a different website.
November, started working (contract) for Dabble for real money.
Little by little, the 20hr/wk contract became more like 30-40.
Which brings us to now: working 40hrs, making more money than I've ever made.

I'm also feeling freer than ever. Funny what a little money will do.

Quimper to Paris

I woke up in a Breton country house belonging to my friend Jennifer and her husband, Laurent.

Jennifer and I both studied in Paris together, during the Y2K scare, and at the end of the school year, we went on a hike of Auvergne, a formerly volcanic region in the middle of France, part of the Massif Central.

It's where the water comes from. In fact, we hiked up the volcano pictured below.

[If I were a graphic designer, I'd whip up a mock logo for a competing brand of water called "Vulvic." But I'd have to be a pretty graphic graphic designer.]

My entire trip throughout Europe had been pretty intense, staying with strangers (who often became friends), hitching rides, and never stopping for very long to rest. Finally, in Brittany, I had a chance to rest. Their lifestyle is inherently much slower than most that I'd seen. They weren't exactly farmers themselves, though their garden would be envied by most, but they were surrounded on all sides by died-in-the-wool farmers.

But I had to leave. I had a flight from Paris in a few days.

But aside from flight information, I had little else to structure my time. So I decided one evening, maybe the 2nd or 3rd that I was there, that it was time for me to fly. I did a long, extended a cappella version of Freebird and planned to leave in the morning. Here's my basic route.

They drove me to a rondpoint and I stood with my sign hoping to get to Lorient.

First person to pick me up was a woman about my age; now we're friends on Facebook.

We talked for a while - nice, easy conversation - and talked music, culture, Brittany, Celts, and whatever else. Somehow it came up that I was visiting Jennifer and Laurent, whom she knew through the theatre. Still not quite sure how.

Then, I waited. Je galérais. Finally, I got a ride from an old man who was much more difficult to talk to. I think he was a real paysan with a thick accent. Just when you think you know a language...

He dropped me off in a tricky spot; I was near a rondpoint, but the traffic coming through seemed to be going pretty fast and didn't have time to see me. But further down the road it became more of a highway and then traffic was really going fast.

I ended up waiting down the road for a while before I heard someone calling after me. I didn't remember making any eye contact with anyone, but either I did or they decided after the fact to help me out.

Once again, unusual. A family on vacay driving back to Paris. They were going to hole up somewhere for the night, making it a 2-day trip. They were nice enough, not particularly pleasant, awkward, or memorable. But I'll think fondly of them forever for their willingness to pick up strangers.

They dropped me off on the west side of Rennes. The highway comes in from the west, does a little bypass, and then comes out the east towards Paris.

There, I really felt stranded. After what seemed like an hour, someone finally stopped. I was so excited but quickly disappointed; he was just stopping to give advice: I was on the wrong side of town. Being on the east side would increase the likelihood of Paris-bound travelers.

Also, it was getting late. Late afternoon.

Following his advice, I took the bus into town. Thank goodness for public transit!

I considered taking the train, but it was well over 50 bucks, so I took another bus out of town. I considered staying in Rennes but, at the last possible moment, after finally finding wifi, I got word that I had a couch in Paris. Ali L'Original.

I can't remember his last name, but that's who he is on Facebook.

So I waited for a half-hour at a random rondpoint - after trying and failing at a couple - and, after getting ignored and even flicked off!, someone stopped.

I told him I was going to Paris. So was he. But. He wasn't taking the highway but the "départementale," backroads.

At that point, I was happy to have a sure ride than risk waiting all night at a crossroads. So we had 5 hours to chat, not 4.

His brown minivan betrayed a non-chalance and frugality that many other French drivers do their best to hide. He had some career for a while but was now a Private Investigator. That took me a little while to work out in translation, but it's essentially literal.

It got dark as we got close to Paris; I dozed and dreamt of a bed.

Finally, at 10pm - 22h - we got to Paris, specifically the 18th or 19th arrondissement, a predominantly African, immigrant, and Muslim area. I hadn't noticed, but my chauffeur was Muslim. His name, if memory serves, may even have been Mohammad or some other dead giveaway. His family was Moroccan or Algerian but had been in France for generations.

Then, to couchsurfing host, Ali, also a Muslim from North Africa, Morocco specifically.

I exhaustedly took the Métro to find my host and his cohorts - including several other couchsurfers. They were watching a movie in the park that had just ended and it was time to go out.

Time to go out, time to go to sleep; there wasn't much debate: I was horribly outnumbered.

Fortunately, we had a car. We stashed my bags and went to find a gathering on some abandoned railroad tracks. I wanted a drink, but it seemed BYO so I exhaustedly conversed with whomever, primarily the surfers also staying with Ali: a group of 4 Belgians and a young Austrian couple. We'd fit into Ali's apartment but it was juste.

Finally we left. To go to a bar on the rive gauche, totally touristy. The bar, in fact, was really close to the bar that my friend Ashley's current husband used to work at, also blindé de touristes.

I got my drink; we vacillated and finally got moving towards beds/couches/etc.

Ali's apartment had 2 couches in the living room where I slept, a spare room for the 4 Belgians, and then his room which he gave up for the Austrians. He slept on the other couch in the living room. Quel Mensch!

And finally ended my long day - early to rise, early the next morning to bed.

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.