Pragu (Now With Real Tomatos!)

(Quick Aside: Hey reader, remember me? I have returned from my paid Hiatus (Thanks goes to the Bruce and Melinda Gates Foundation for their continued support of my travels worldwide) and am ready to continue on my rambunctious ramblings. I hope you enjoy and sorry for the delay!)

It is rare to get excited about a shower. We often take this daily routine for granted in our fast-paced semi-adventurous topsy-turvy lives. But when I snuck a peek the night before at our showering facilities (as is a necessity when checking into a hotel) a fire of anticipation was lit inside me that could only be extinguished the next morning when the blessed water fell playfully on my silky smooth skin. I could hardly sleep that night, despite my utter exhaustion, due to my excitement over a shower. You see dear, dear friends, by this point we have seen our fair share of showers and each has surprised us in their (O, let's say) uncleanliness. Hostel showers are a (O, let's say) phenomenon that must be experienced first hand (or foot (ouch.)). In some instances they are relatively clean and have continually warm running water (this is indeed an achievement) but more oft than not you feel dirtier coming out than when you went in. So to see a shower that has been cleaned within the last 24 hours, is in your room so you don't have to walk down a dirty hallway/staircase/atrium in bare feet to get to, AND has complimentary Dove soap is indeed a Hallmark occasion. And one to be taken advantage of.

My God was it refreshing!

I got out with a shave and a smile. And, already spoiled by this pyramid of greatness, I had something else to look forward to, something else to fuel that raging fire of anticipation within me.

Breakfast.

We had made a bad habit of 'missing' our past complimentary 'breakfasts.' But these, as is expected in hostels (devotees will remember my first London experience) usually consist of tea, coffee, some sort of bran, and white bread. Not, however, this one.

We had awoken early (*gasp*) to catch it, and catch it we did (what a sentence!). It pleased mine eyes when thy fell upon the scene that was before us (and this particular instance would not end in disappointment, but, rather, the greatest of satisfaction (like the Stones said, 'I can get Satisfaction' (didn't they?))):trays filled with cakes, fresh breads, granola, yogurts (yoghurts), juices, teas, coffee, smelly tasty cheeses, sliced meats, eggs, sausages, beans, potatoes, fresh fruits, salads, and more...and more! (Quick aside: I have just realized that my mind remembers almost to perfection what I ate at this breakfast even perhaps how many cups of apple juice I had (5) but not so much the names of the places we would see later that day or what historical significance each landmark had. Hmph, it's funny how the mind works. Oh well.) I can say without blush I indulged in one of the seven deadly sins that morning. And it wasn't sloth.

Fully satisfied (stuffed is such an ugly word) from this eatery of excellence (indeed, How I do long for it now!) we moved slowly and gingerly towards the city center and a walk to remember (starring Mandy Moore and Chad Michael Murray (how do I know that?)).

The sun sang as we ambled along, enjoying the easy pace of the city-folk and the remarkably laid back style of such a bustling and historically significant metropolis. We snapped a few pictures hither and thither and mostly just smiled our way past each strikingly beautiful landmark. There was an energy in Prague that I had yet to experience anywhere else, one that invigorated and heightened my senses. I looked from person to person nodding in a way that suggested, 'I get it, I am one of you, accept me.' I looked from beauty to beauty sighing and cooing and remarking, 'Why, isn't that remarkable?' or 'My, what a sight to behold!' I looked from building to building, debating if I could afford to live in each one and what an apartment cost in such a grandiose location. At one point I briefly considered approaching a woman walking her dogs into an apartment building and asking if there were any spaces available this time of year. Luckily for her and my parents, I thought better of it and instead continued our ambling ways.

As with almost all big cities Prague is endowed with a multitude of Parks. And as with all big cities we've visited we thought it was our duty to enter these parks and enjoy a leisurely stroll through gardens of green. Our choice for a "Leisurely Stroll" was chosen from a complimentary map given to us by our hotel and was subtly named Petrin Hill.

It was always Dave's favorite part of the day when Scott or I mentioned a light walk up a hill (devotees will again recall his troublesome time up a "hill" in Barcelona) so as we approached this particular park a wave of frustration ridden anxiety passed across his face. Before us was another uphill climb for a moment of sheer awesomeness. For at the top of this hill laid, we were sure, a view that left all previous views bereft of substance (bereft of life, even!). Dave's anxiety was quickly replaced by a fleeting joy, however, when his eyes fell upon what looked to be rail tracks clinging to the side of the hill. 'Is there a tram?' His eyes wild with delight. He knew the question before asking it, though, and as soon as he asked it I feel he knew the answer. 'I'm not paying for it.'

I was feeling spritely, if not jovial, and a quick jaunt up the hill was just what I was in the mood for. As Dave quietly huffed and puffed and cursed his way up it, it took all of me to withhold from sprinting wildly up the hill and opening my arms in an arching spin a la Maria from The Sound of Music. Scott and I continually tried to find the shortest (and steepest) path to the top, which continued to (well let's say) worsen Dave's mood. But, at the top of this surprisingly steep hill, an oasis laid before us and all was righted. We rested awhile on white benches situated around a ready-to-bloom garden. The sun was high in the sky and it beat upon us like a heavy hammer. Shade was our ally and we sat fairly silent for about twenty minutes, watching a smorgasbord of Prahans wander about the small garden atop this large hill. After our feet were fully rested we decided to explore this hilltop, which in fact was somewhat of a devoured fort with high walls and curiously strewn buildings. Wandering away from the fort, however, we found what appeared to be a miniature Eiffel Tower and the first thing that came to Scott and my mind was, 'I have to climb it.'

Dave sat this one out and up Scott and I ventured. The view from atop this 300-staired mini tower was startling. A panoramic view of the entire city was afforded by a rotund observation deck and easy (perhaps too easy) opening windows. It was a romantic moment between the city and I as I said lovingly, and most assuredly as silently as possible, 'You take my breath away.' After snapping a few pictures we stepped down the steps (too redundant?) and looked around for Dave, eager to rub it in his face. Both of us quickly explained it's awesomeness and Dave responded in monosyllabic grunts, intent on the fact that he did not pay the 20 kronas for a view that he thought he had already seen (and partly he was right, though the view was majestic it did not really afford anything unseen from the ground). We agreed to disagree and carried on our way.

We were a bit worn for the day's outing and the sun was just deciding to wane in the pleasantly blue sky, so we decided to take the tram back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. Little did we know what we would encounter that afternoon.

Prahallelujah

I wanted to try to come up with the corniest title I could using Praha and I think I have succeeded with this one. It was between that and Prahahahaha, but I feel Prahallelujah has a better ring to it.

Now to the adventure!

(Not really)

(There weren't any real adventures in Prague)

(Oh by the way Praha is Czech for Prague, I may use Praha, I may use Prague, We'll see what kind of mood I am in when I come to it, it may be both)

We arrived in Prague (American mood) during twilight. An easy rouge hung gingerly over the city (I'll take the Poet Laureate position any day now Congress). We were on the outskirts, though, as someone had made us get out one station too early (It was me!). Praha (Czech mood(it changes that quickly!)) public transportation was foreign to us at this point so we timidly shuffled up to a group of taxi drivers speaking with police men (a good (or more likely bad) sign). The largest one came over to us. His over bearing presence made us rock back on our haunches and hang our heads low like timid children asking for a cookie that they know they can't have (O it gets better). He gave us a head nod and a snort--an indication to start talking and make it quick, I presumed. 'How much,' I asked like a cowering cockatoo (what?! Damn this alliteration addiction (haha!)), 'to the Pyramida Hotel?' He looked us over (gave us the old one over, as they say), sized us up saw the backpacks (save one (thank you Dave)) and replied while looking down his nose to our quivering bodies (perhaps it was just me that was quivering or perhaps this is a gross exaggeration because I totally wasn't quivering), '400 crowns.' 'Ok,' I said quickly and hopped off the kerb (thank you 1950s American literature) and into the cab. For in that precious pause of his, both he and I had decided that whatever was said it would most likely be agreed on. He saw in me that the question was not so much a query but a plea for help, 'get us to the Pyramida hotel and we will pay you a set amount that you say before we get in your car.' The ride was silent as we each tried to convert 400 crowns into dollars in our heads. The fact that none of us knew the exact exchange rate made this rather difficult (indeed, and it would lend itself to the majority of our conversations that we had in Prague (American mood)). So we arrived, emptied out my wallet, said a stuttered goodbye and stepped into a real hotel.

I just realized something extremely monumental about the former story: we took a TAXI to a HOTEL. Who are we? What have we become? The first day of the trip I made a vow to only spend 20 Euros a day (possibly less). What is this then? A TAXI to a HOTEL. No wait, let me re-write that: a TAXI to a 4-STAR HOTEL. What is going on?

Ah, but there is a twist to this story.

(sort of)

My dad through his numerous connections (shoot, people honk their car horns and wave at him ALL the time) happened to know some wonderful folks in Praga (Spanish mood), who were gracious enough to offer us this wonderful, wonderful deal. 55 Euro a night for a three bed room in a 4-star hotel. O, and breakfast was included (booyah!). This was less than what we payed at almost all of our hostels.

And it was spectacular.

A room with a view, if you will allow me to be lame and cliche, is what you could call our arrangements. We drew back our curtains and we drew in our breaths (that's so corny it makes me want to puke (yes I did just read The Catcher in the Rye, nice catch (oh!)), but sometimes corniness=awesomeness (my vocabulary is off the charts tonight!)). From the eighth floor we could see the city twinkling magnificently. I looked quietly at this sparkling city, easily admiring it's beauty, when, of a sudden, I became hungry. I wanted to taste it. I wanted to digest it. I wanted to rub my belly in delight after satisfiably gorging on this magical city. So we went --we went to eat.

After taking the metro to a spot near the Charles Bridge, we walked gingerly on those amber-lit cobble stone streets looking--looking for a place to eat (please forgive my metaphorical indulgence and by now, I realize, ambiguity, but at this point we were actually hungry and we were really looking for a place to eat). We found a quaint restaurant that served authentic Czech cuisine (or so it said) and ventured in. It had a pleasant atmosphere with a piano player tinkling lightly and melodically on the keys (that inside joke is a rough one because only one of my readers could possibly have any idea of what it is in reference to (I'm banking on at least one laugh here), but really it was too hard to pass up) (P.S. it is not meant to coarse, it is only an inside joke). We ordered a litre of Pils each and sat smiling waiting for our meal. I had a modest chicken and rice affair, while Scott and Dave splurged on 750g of stomach destroying meat and veggies (in a thick cream sauce), but more on the stomach destroying later. For the moment we were satisfied and after swooning over the bill for a minute we left the restaurant to its 2 or 3 other customers.

The night had taken steady control over the city now and the streets were beginning to empty. We hopped on a tram that we assumed would go back by our hotel (they all must go there, right?) and sat back nervously satisfied. Why nervously satisfied, you ask? Because we never found a ticket vendor so we had no tickets for every ride thus putting me at an unease whenever a plain suited gentleman entered the tram by himself (for it was a 40 euro fine!), and we had no idea the routes of the trams, we merely hoped our whole way through the ride. On this particular ride hope turned to worry, which, in turn, turned to fear. Statements like, 'I think this looks right,' and, 'I remember that,' turned to, 'I think this might not go by our hotel,' and, 'Just one more stop and then we'll see,' which, in turn, turned to, 'Alright, yeah, we are definitely going the wrong way, and, 'We should get off.' So we got off. In the middle of a residential neighborhood, in the middle of the night, in God knows where. Should we pray? Instead of praying we just stood there. We waited for the next tram that would go in the opposite direction. We just stood there. What was more unsettling about being stranded, and the relative silence when cars were at an interlude, was the fact that the tram stop was literally right in the middle of a 4-lane highway. So as cars intermittently flew by we tried to look as cool and comfortable as we could--like we meant to be standing at this lone tram stop in the middle of this residential neighborhood in the middle of the night. Luckily the next tram came which we took back to our starting point and caught the correct tram to our hotel. It was an anti-climatic end (as most my stories seem to have, now that I think about it) to a rather exciting evening.

But now our beds were calling and we, like so many times before and to come, were exhausted. We slept easily in these comfy companions to our bodies (does that sound right?) and eagerly awaited the next day. It should be a good one.

Berlin and the Beast

We left Hamburg late. We got to Berlin late.

Darkness overtook us at first as we ventured up, up the Hauptbahnhopf's many layers. Confusion had struck us like a match -- well flamed and exciting at first, then slowly it eased away. We randomly jumped on an S-bahn, which happened to be the right one, then randomly hopped on an undergroun, which again happened to be the right one, then randomly exited and happened to see our hostel across the street. After traveling for a while one looses the greater anxieties of reaching a destination and, instead (at least in my case), takes a more Taoists approach. The hostel was new and eye-painfuly modern. It was a hip place, save for the twenty-something american tourists that littered the lounge area. They all seem to make things plain.

It was strange that night. I had spoken to a certain teacher of mine, a Mrs. Matz, for those in the know, and she said she would be at the hostel at exactly the same time with 12-13 high schoolers in tow. So, this causing the most anxiety of the night (for those in the know know why), I wanted to quickly check my mail and then procure a pint at, perhaps, another locale. While writing a blog spot at the computer and with Dave hovering gingerly over me, I heard a, 'Hey.' A colloquial greeting that one can only familiarize with a common background. 'Hey,' Dave responded and so it began. Every now and then a high schooler would venture up and ask us the same standard questions, 'Where...?' 'How...?' 'What...?' And us being kind and gentle people responded pleasantly and in turn asked our questions, 'Where...?' 'How...?' 'What...?' Most sentences consisted of a few 'awesomes,' and at least one or two 'crazys.' But as aprubtly as they had come so too did they leave, I saw not of Mrs. Matz, for she was sleeping off a headache in an unknown room somewhere in the hostel. I must say this disappointed me a little (the shock, I know) because it would have been interesting and most certainly blog worthy to perhaps procure a pint (one of my favorite expressions, as you can see) with my former teacher in this foreign land. But it was not to be and the night dragged on before us as we, ourselves, searched for an interesting pub (and found none) and thus wandered the night away.

The next morning did not greet us with heaps of sunshine like that of Groningen (Is he being serious? How could you know how the weather in Groningen? What a cruel, cruel game this author plays.). It was a tad rainy with hints of wind. After another in a series, in a series, ina series of slow mornings we were out the door by mid-afternoon (our pride is palpable if we make out before noon!). Our first stop was the wall.

It was drab and dreary as we walked slowly along this grea artifice. Fitting, I suppose, as per the memories (those which I do not possess, but others may have) this monument eokes. It os littered with graffit/art which lends to the peculiarity of the structure. It stretched on, further than our eyes could see, to some unknown destinaton. We walked only about a block of it before it started to drizzle. This interrupted our befuddled and bedazzled daze and shook us into moving to Museum Island.

Museum Island has Museum's. We went to a few of them. What more can I say?

Now for my best Tom Wolfe impression!!!!!!!!

Later that night....

We had just finished eating a peculiar dinner at an italian restaurant where the pastas are comprised of three noodles and the pizzas are as huge as a giant pizza man's head (?), when we came upon and old building. Scott mysterious friend had told us about this place...this Tacheles...but from his vague description (mall-like was uttered I believe) we were unsure of this building that we gayed longingly at from across the street. It was tall...maybe 5, 6 stories...It had an unmistakable broken-ness to it that one could only associate with crack-dealers or struggling artists. As we moved slowly toward this lightly litted entrance we saw peppered with graffiti that was delicately placed upon white walls with one shady man slowly smoking a chalk-white cigarette...we hoped for the latter.

We were timid prey slowly approaching the watering hole. Would this quench our thirst satisfiably???? Would there be a predator waiting serenely beneath the murky surface????

The building looked dead save for that lone smoking figure hovering around the gaping entrance. The first sign of life, however, came to us as we slowly made up the brightly tagged stairs. It was the sound of brass. A brass sax to be exact!!!! And the blower of this horn stood above us as we inched our weary way up the stairs to the first floor. It was an impromptu band of sorts that greeted us on that landing. Comprising of the aforementioned horn-blower (a blower of horn, if you like)...a bass player...guitar strummer...and a bongo beater...all these loosely dressed boys were surrounded by buckling and swaying and moving and grooving hipsters that sent good, good, good, good, vibrations to us the O So Unseasoned members of this strange and somewhat secret side of The Den of Lions (Berlin!!!). The sax-man blew hard into unsatisfiable baby, all the while kicking, throwing, moving, pushing, shoving his feet back, back with bended knee like a prancing dancing show horse. The hipsters moved without err to every hard-hit banging beat. After standing...sagging... a while (Yes, attempting to look IN) we figured we could only go up.

Up, Up, Up!!!!!

Each floor was covered wall to wall with bright, colorful, interesting, frustrating, stupid, brilliant graffiti. It was brightly lit so as to enhance the glow of the art work...and to the on-looker (i.e. outsider) at ease. Along with the walls one could find art work (works of art, if you like) in almost every room in this beast. Work that ranged from the strangely sublime...to the satisfyingly surreal...to the sadisticly sickening. All, however left an impression (Indeed, one woman I overheard upon leaving, 'Well, I've seen it now I never have to see it again.')

We grabbed a beer on the top floor and gazed cooly over the sparkling buildings of Berlin. We felt IN now. We had been there a little over an hour. We had heard the jazz man blow...we had talked with the artists...we had scoffed and smiled sheepishly at the naivety of the Bourgeousie, As far as we were concerned this Tacheles belonged to the night...and we owned the night.

But this night...this our property...waned, and the adrenaline induced surprises were gone. Our cool-ness...chic-ness...anti-establishment-ness turned into sleepi-ness after the second beer. We figured this was the time to leave this creature to its own devices. We listened to the sax man blow a little while before we ventured down those stairs that had carried us here in the first. Back then we were so naive...we thought...What a different world it was three hours ago!!!! We were but children before Tacheles...now we were (almost) men. And these men had another spot to conquer...another world to see...These men were on an adventure...these men were to live...to breath...to experience. These men were to go to Prague.

!!!!!!!!

New photos

You can find new photos at the usual place. Aqui.

Hamburg

How did we get there? Are we gone already? How did we leave? What did we do?

We had very little time in Hamburg, only 20 hours, thus this entry will be short and, hopefully, a little sweet.

There was nothing too memorable or exciting about Hamburg that could be worth a compelling retelling. So, my friend and foes, I will give a pretty standard itineraristic (Booyah!) story. We arrived at our hostel at 9, lovely place, clean, nice beds, friendly, what more could you ask for (cliche!)? Went out to eat, we did next, had a pleasant candle light dinner, is what we did. Decent food, decent beer, good friendly folks, a good spot. Did some internet stuffs, went to sleep in the best bed of the trip. Had a tough time waking up the next morning. Next morning checked out, asked our concierge what to do for 5 hours next. Boat tour, he says. Okay, Boat tour, we say/ We go to harbour, pay for Boat tour, walk around. See, look, sun sparkles off turbulent water there. See. Get back in time for Boat tour. Tours us around harbour (english spelling!) saying more things in German than our English audio guide. Look there. There's the oldest.... There's the newest.... There's a container ship that.... There's one more... two... three... five.... It got cold. We lost interest. A bit disappointed. Ready for museum, we were.

Went to the largest museum in Hamburg, did we. It had old master, new masters, modern art, contemporary art. Old masters: did not see. New masters: said, 'ooh I like that,' 13 times. Said, 'Idig it,' 3 times. Modern art: 'Whoa,' I said 4 times. 'Cool,' 2 times. 'I like that one,' 15 times. Contemporary art: 'I really don't like that,' 7 times. 'Is this art?' 23 times. 'That one is okay, I guess,' 3 times. There were paintings. I looked at them, many with serene and pretentious deliberateness. There were sculpture, I feigned interest with my my arms crossed across my chest. There were po-mo and pre-mo and mo-mo and mo and no-mo and new-mo and nouveau and I looked at it, I looked nearly at it all. Then I sat down. I was ready to go. We go. We go then to the Lion's den. To Berlin.

We go to Berlin.

Groningen

You're gonna hate me.

After my supreme build up, I realize, like Ediburgh, I cannot complete this story at this time. It was too full of an experience to try to condense at current time of writing where everything is rushed, my mind, though inspired, runs on 5-7 hours of sleep and thus falters with proper...proper...something (see already in this pre-written (for I write my memoirs in a journal than transfer them to the blog) segment my mind waries (not a word? not in my case) my expressions!), and I have not had time to dwell and adore and mend and create and destroy and love and hate the story that shall be told.

So, apologies, but look for an ode to Groningen (one in which I hope I am capable of) when I return to Guildford and my head returns to my high standards of literary capabilities.

Hamburg, though, I think I can do.

Brugges-Brussels-Amsterdam

The reason I group these three cities together is mainly out of laziness. We have seen so much it is impossible for me to tell a captivating (like each and every one of my previous blogs! (I am in an exclamation point mood of late(!))) and interesting story for every stop on our trip of dreams and wavy memories. Thus I will simply say the following (and perhaps save some of the words earned at these cities for oral retelling rather than the printed format):

(Also nothing completely crazy or cunningly compelling occured)

Have I mentioned it was cold? In Brugges it was this snow/sleet/rain/wind/torture from the moment we arrived. We walked around a bit, took a pretty cool (literally (c'mon everybody!)) brewery tour, tasted some excellent Belgian Beer, did some more walking, saw some sight, attempted to avoid the rain, went to sleep, awoke next morning, did something, and then headed in the direction of Brussels.

Brussels is a fine city with genuine and in most instances, very friendly people. The only drawback to Brussels was it was cold (bet you didn't see that coming (exclamation point)). Like Brugges, Brussels would be a lovely city if the sun was shining heavily and happily and if it was, O I don't know, warm. Full of parks and terrific architecture and art nouveau, Brussels seems like an excellent walking city. Unfortunately for us it was snowy, we had a nice hotel room and an abundance of delicious Belgian beer, and that mother of all sinners, that killer of all energy, stealer of all souls (what is it with me and souls of late?): a TV. Mix that with museums and some other outdoor activities when it wasn't raining/sleeting/spitting on us, and that nearly sums up our Brussels experience. At least to my already fading memory.

Amsterdam was...well. It is tough to describe Amsterdam from our view point. The weather was lousy, our hotel was insufferable for the astronomical price, the museums were expensive and, in my humble opinion, terribly (ok not terribly) overrated, everything was touristy or seriously sketchy, and what was that smell? Perhaps I will waste my breath in my later days with retelling some things we did in Amsterdam (like the sub-par Rijksmuseum and the ok van Gogh museum) but I will not waste time or energy here and now on this place I did not care for.

For there exists a much a better place I wish to tell you about in Holland, a much friendlier place, a much more exciting place. A place where one feels at home. A place they call Groningen.

The train ride to Brugges

It was our plan to go from Brussels to Brugges on the night of the 20th, stay the night in Brugges then come back the next evening to Brussels and stay two nights in Brussels. This worked fine, and some would say, now with hindsight, almost to perfection, except for one thing (that we'll get to in a moment (and all of you know by now what happened so this suspenseful cliffhanger is purposeless (but I enjoy it anyway and for those of who don't know be prepared to be shocked!))).

We arrived in Charleroix airport from Girona, which like Girona is its own city--seperated from Brussels by a rather large distance. This being the case we got a fairly good deal that consisted of a bus ride from the airport to Charleroix station, then a train to Brussels Midi, then a train to Brugges. A simple journey for us, already seasoned travelers. It would prove otherwise.

Where Spain was sunny, Belgium was rainy; where Spain was warm, Belgium was freezing; where Spain was cheap, Belgium was expensive. Let the fun begin!

All rolled smooth, besides the frigid rain that pounded against our waterproofed chests and weather-worn faces, until the train from Brussels to Brugges. The boys were tired, I could see it in their faces. It had been a long journey and our thoughts were on beer and bed. The train stopped in Brugges and we yawned our way out. We got outside and were met by rain, wind, and cold (a Belgian greeting I'm told (I've never actually told that but it sounded good)). We walked a little way with the other departees--I behind the talking Dave and Scott--towards the taxi/bus stands. As I listened to the clitter-clatter of the rolling luggage wheels bounce along the cobbled streets I looked directly before me and asked, 'Dave, where's your bag?' (A question that will live in infamy)

He looked nonchalantly to his back and answered my query with a, 'Why, it sits upon my back, as you currently see it,' look. But then his right hand made an involuntarily grasping motion as if searching for a luggage handle to a black Osprey roll along/backpack, and suddenly the realization came to his face. His eyes became wide as they met mine, an O formed his lips and a disgruntled gurgle protruded painfully from his mouth. 'What should I do?' His eyes wild with fear, anguish, anxiety, excitement. He searched my eyes quickly for some answer of hope, of reassurance. 'Run, Dude.'

He walked quickly at first, unsure of himself and his surroundings. Another, 'Run, Dude,' excited his engines and he moved slightly quicker. His lonely backpack swung back and forth as he 'sprinted' 'speedily' down the wrong corridor. We caught up with him on foot and quietly asked, like most civilised and helpful people, 'Where are you going, Dude?' A shrug was the answer, followed by a somewhat depressed and seemingly despondent, 'I don't know.' Scott, meanwhile, ran up to the platform nearest to our train only to see the train slowly amble away (of course). He came back with a smile (for, God help us, we could not help but enjoy this, it had been cold and bleek since we arrived and a hearty chuckle was needed) and said with a satisfied and a touch disstainful (I suppose) sigh, 'It's gone dude.'

We stood silently and looked around. A light flickered in our hallway, eerily enhancing the extreme emptiness of this train station of stolen dreams. (Poetry? Yes please.)

Looking around this station so void of human souls, what little hope Dave had of finding his bag that night flickered and died like the last gasp of a waxed out candle. To interrupt our stunned silence, intermitenly there would exist the slow tap-tap of high heels hitting the hard floor and echoing off the lofty ceilings. It was ingratiatingly creepy. And I loved it.

We went outside to the cold. A strong wind sprinkled with the lightest of mists leaned cold and wetly against our faces. We decided on a Taxi to our hostel to save Dave further embarassment and to lessen the chance of him leaving his backpack on the bus. The taxi ride was quiet but only for a moment--Scott and I smiling sheepishly from ear to ear, Dave wallowing listlessly in a bit of self-pity--when finally the question was asked: 'How did that happen?'

I remember it quite clearly my dear Watson. Our destination had been announced and I rallied the troops to, 'arise, grab your packs, and deboard!' or something similar to this nature. Scott and I proceeded post-haste and were ready and able. Dave removed his bag from the top shelf, placed it in the chair across from the aisle beside him, and promptly sat down. 'Tired?' I wise cracked, as we had been sitting for nearly 6 hours on the day (thus the wise crack was a stunning supercilious success!). 'My feet,' he explained with a point, a tired, agonizing point, and for a moment he and I were lost--lost in the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind--staring at those shoes. The train stopped, I took my eyes from his feet, turned round, and was out the door, he behind me. He without a bag.

There it went on that train to who knows where. There it went on that train of captured souls. There it went, not yet to return. But a bag did not stop our journey (nor could much else!) and we were in Brugges. It was cold but we were in Brugges.

What shall we see?

Goodbye Barcelona

We awoke to the slamming of doors. Our australian room-mates had decided to build a chest in our hostel room and fill it with an endless supply of plastic bags at 7 in the morning. I had set an alarm for 10, so to get a restful sleep but also so as to seize some of the beautiful daylight. But with the Ruckus caused all early-morning, sleep was far from omni-present, indeed the girls in our room finished their chest of drawers (packing) and went out the door at exactly 10. So I was awake but sleepy, but a shower and an Emergence-C fixed all that and I felt ready (listo, if you will). Our first feat was La Sagrada Familia.

To say it in three words, It is Striking. To behold such a monument of sheer brilliance, of sheer liveliness, of sheer inescapable beauty, leaves one feeling small, unimportant, and out of place. No matter what angle you take with the creature (for the building is a living breathing being, so full of the architect's life and sacrifice) it completely overwhelms you. To my mind, however, the interior is a bit of a disappointment, the majority of it is still under construction (and won't be finished until 2020 at the earliest!) and what could be seen was not small (in now way is it so), not stunning (for surely it will be stunning) but just a certain je nais c'est quoi that mind has misplaced at the moment. We spen a couple hours around La Sagrada and Scott and Dave decided to pay the €2 to go up the tower elevator and down the spirally stairs. I opted out and went into my own private hell.

Dave's was the mountain the day before, Scott's was a certain Metro ride in Madrid, and mine (as so often is the case, it seems) was children.

I waited outside La Sagrada for a time as I waited for Scott and Dave to move an inch in the stationary queue in which they were standing. As I posed uninterested on a railing, a shrieking sound pierced my ears. It continued at different pithces from all around the slight inclined walkway in which I was standing. I first thought it was a murder of baby crows lost from their mothers, desperately attempting to destroy the eardrums of all that were near for their cruel attmepts at revenge. But instead of pleading birds, I saw a group of ill-dressed children creeching at each other. I rolled up the short-history of La Sagrada Familia pamphlet I was holding and thought quickly how many of these children I could strike over the head with it, before they overtook me with their tiny little hands and squeeling yelps. I counted 3, maybe 4, that I could take and figured it wasn't worth it as there were 17 of them that I could see, but hundreds, maybe thousands of them, that I could hear.

I walked away from their shrilling and into the museum--escaping into the peaceful serenity of a well-lit collection of fact-feeding rooms. Is trolled through slowly to delay any chance of another encounter with these bird-children. I exited the museum feeling slightly better, my head-ache subsiding, when, of a sudden, there they were again, chirpping to each other in a new and most ear-splitting way. Aggrevation (that's for you grandma) was all I could think of as I attempted to give them that eye that says, "Please shut up before I strangle you with that stupid necklace that you're wearing around your neck." But it didn't work and the sparrow calls continued. I walked away as fast as I could and found my serenity in the streets away from La Sagrada for 40 minutes or so before I head back and meet Dave and Scott. And, of course, near to the second I returned to the arena IT began again.

They were surrounding me. Trying to confuse me by running behind me to different benches all the while making their evil war calls. I nearly broke down and gave in (probably in some cinematic gesture (a la Charlton Heston) falling to my knees and shouting to the heavens, 'You've won!' 'You monsters!' 'You've won!') but I became strong and walked away to meet Scott and Davewho were shouting glorious praises about the elvator ride, the view, and the staircase down, while I silently listened. When they asked waht I did, I looked around, added that O so important pregnant pause, and responded, 'Not much.'

We left La Sagrada to meet with Scott and my friend from Barcelona, Marina. She gave us a quick tour around her proud city and then escorted us to a lovely and lively little Tapas Bar near the city center. we feasted on an excellent meal, one that rivaled many I've had in the past months, and with my rosy cheeks (from the beer and the heat) I smiled a most satisfied boyish smile. After dinner she took us to Gaudi's houses in the rain. It was a rather somber moment as we would have to say goodbye to our kind host (as she is not returning to Guildford in April) and the rain fell gingerly upon, almost tepidly, upon us as we stared up at these creations. It was time to go.

We parted ways in a metro station. All through the metro to the Hostel we raved about how great marina was, what a shame it was she was not returning the next semester, and what a kind person she waa. It would have been a touching moment to overhear, but now those words are lost forever, resounding in the tunnels of the Metro.

Next we went home. Next we went to sleep. Next we woke up. Next we checked out. Next we took the Metro to the bus station. Next we took a bus to Girona. Next we got to the airport. Next we boarded a flight. Next we were in Brussels.

Then Dave lost his bag.

Hello Barcelona

We arrived in Barcelona days ago now. Back when we were younger, perhaps more naive (perhaps not). Back when the sunlight patted the top of our heads like a caring mother, and rain did not splatter our eyes our cloud our thoughts. It was smoother, perhaps easier back then.

Plus, Dave still had his bag.

I do not remember getting off the train. It seems, perhaps, I thought it never ended, but exists as a constant happiness in my mind. But surely it ended for there exists a formidable smell in my sub-conscience of the first breath of air I inhaled upon stepping foot into the sunshine of Barcelona.

Our Hostel was nice and flashy. helloBCN it called to us and a greeting we returned to it. We dropped off our bags, took a look around, and ventured outside. Our first feat was to scale a mountain.

We decided to have a look around what we thought was a nice park full of curious buildings and forts that was quite near our hostel. We started walking up an incline in the direction of our park and the sun beat down hard upon us--the (momentarily) happy travelers. We came to a set of steps that led up to the heavens, it seems, and could only think to scale them. As our faces got closer to the sky (for a kiss, perhaps), we felt the burn. Our legs were a bit weary from the endless train ride and thisexcursion awoke them sharply from their dreamless sleeps. But the soreness was worth it. The first view when we reached the first precipice was a panorama of ecstasy. We were completely content with ourselves and with sunny Barcelona. So, after breathing it in for a moment, there was only one thing to do.

Go higher.

Scott and I pointed upward, Dave pointed downward. "You'll hate us now but love us later," was the essence of our words to poor heavy-breathed David. He could only look at us in red-faced anger, slowly shaking his head in disgust as the incline continued in front of him. Scott and I had to stay at least two steps in front of him to prevent him fromm physically strangling us.

And so we climbed.

We climbed up. Up to the top. The top. It was worth it. Astounding views would be easily overtaken by stupendous views, which, in their turn, could only be followed by breath-taking views (especially in Dave's case (Heyo!)). And as the day waned, and our photos closed in on their own end, we began down the mountain toward the Contemporary art museum. It was closed, we would find out, but that did not keep us from it's beauty. The sun was orange in the sky and struck it in just such a way, just (put finger tips of fingers up to mouth, kiss, spread apart, and utter a satisfied sigh).

We left this perfection of beauty for a night of sub-par paella, a stock market bar, €3 liters of beer, late-night chess. a kebab of perfection, and a broken plant vase. Al stories in themselves, worth, perhaps, endless retellings, but no time now because the next day came (and of course, by now, has gone) and it was a magical one. (I'm not sure if magical is the word, but I didn't want and underappreciative understatment or, really, an overindulgent overstatment, so, I suppose you could say it surprised us with its subtle trickyness.)

Get ready, Senor Gaudi, Here we come!
(Cheesy awesomeness wins awards!)

A train ride of awesomeness

Our earliest morning in Spain proved to be the most, well let's call it, Interesting. We went to the Madrid Train Station to buy a ticket for the next train to Barcelona, a presumably easy feat. Upon arrival, however, the tourist class (2nd Class) was sold out until 3 o'clock in the afternoon. This was no good as we had a limited time in Barcelona as it was. So Scott suggested the next class up (Preferente (Business)), to see if there were earlier seats. "Arriba Clase," I said with an unsure grimace. The man looked us over briefly and then checked his computer. He said (more like pointed to his computer) there were tickets available on an 11.30 train for €160. After a brief choking fit I looked at the other two with as much a pleading face as I could muster. But budge they would not, and "I think it's okay,' passed seamlessly from their lips. 'Alright let's do it,' was finally administered and the purchasing process began.

My Spanish somewhat escaped me in the heat of the moment and I could only find the words, "Solo, no juntos," in my vast English-Spanish Dictionary in mi cabeza. These words were uttered in an attempt to explain we wanted to pay seperately, not together. "Seperado" he finally said, which made me nod my head slowly, but proved another meaning than I had anticipated. I gave up my (parent's) credit card and waited for the receipt. When it came back at €479 I nearly keeled over in sheer unabated agony. "No" I practically screamed (slight exaggeration, as in reality it was more a soft anguished whisper). But when he saw Dave get his credit card out as well and my shocked disgusted face, he realized his mistake and fised the bill. Though €160 still seems broken to me.

However much we paid, one could almost (almost) say it was worth it. The seats were comfy and the train was fast and smooth. I was not too happy, though, at the fact that I had to sit across from a giant businessman who consistently tried to overtake my leg room. Meanwhile Scott and Dave had seats to themselves (a fact we realized on route to the train after purchase was Scott asked what seat I had. "16A," was my number, "2A," was Dave's, "3A," was Scott's; behold the meaning of "Seperados"). But by the time the free (free) lunch came (and after my colosses of clout scarffed it down in the time it took me to butter my bread) I was as happy as a fish, or maybe a duck (wait for it).

Our meal was served most genially and it consisted of a rather edlictable duck mousse with an orange sauce, a superbly cooked and not altogether surprisingly tasty Hake with a marinara sauce and wild rice and fesh peas, a touch of soup, nice fresh bread, and lovely creme puffs comleted the ensemble with perfection. Then a choice of beverage enlightened me and I could not help but smile at the country side that flew by.

Madrid Ends

Internet was scarce in our latest stop, Belgium, so I apologize for delays, but here comes a bunch. Get ready for the ride of your life (Sir Nate does not guarantee this will be the ride of your life).

After a night of relative wandering in the city of Madrid, we awoke bright and early to seize another beautiful day. It was one o'clock and we were out the door headed toward the Reina Sofia. Our pace was slow and laboured on account of a relatively late night, but eventually, and after great pains, we made it to Atocha station and let the roar of the traffic overtake us.

We walked a short distance to the museum and stood put in another queue for a few minutes. It was warm but the air breathed friendly breezes upon our faces, putting us at an unbeknownst ease.

The temporary exhibit at the Reina Sofia was a colossal collection of works by the master Picasso. It consisted of four floors of non-stop artistry. From his period of realism, to everything cubic, it had it all. Including his great masterpiece, Guernica. We glanced at it from an adjacent gallery, and knew what it was. We did not wish to ruin the savor we would soon take in it. We looked without seeing at everything else on the floor until, finally, we moved in front of it. It is truly astounding, and no doubt without equal. Measuring about 35 feet by 25 feet it is a giant in which everything and nothing happens. There are very few things in this world that truly inspire awe, but Picasso has accomplished this feat with great aplomb (one of my favorite words, dedicated readers will note) and serious ingenuity. It is a sight to behold.

we left the Picasso exhibit feeling somewhat satisfied and wandered around the rest of the museum, exploring the ins and outs of spanish surrealism. After a half hour or so we to the conclusion that spanish artists (I'll save you the psychological and over-pretentious babble) are friekin' crazy. (A sentence any literature teacher would be proud of, I'm sure (but we were a bit tired and our minds were full of everything else so this was the best we could do))

We left the museum and after a decently priced lunch (Dave, that's for you) we headed (Dave and I, for Scott was feeling, O let's say, a bit ill from a certain Metro ride and went back to the hostel to sleep) to the nearby park, whose name escapes me for the moment. As afore stated it was a beautiful day, so Dave and I strolled easily and let the sun shine upon our smiling faces. We said little, but nothing needed saying, the grass was green, the sky was blue, all was right in the world. The afternoon drifted away into a happy memory as the sun began to fall. We got back, exhausted, to the hostle to find a wide awake Scott who was antsy for an evening of delight. We relented only for a moment and soon, again, we were in the frsh air of the night. We strolled along the Boulevards as the sun eased behind the horizon. It was a pleasant evening and one that will keep in my mind for a long time to come.

(Okay that is not completely true as a t the time of writing I pretty much forgot what we did that night, well maybe not what we did but more so the names of the places we saw (though Scott I'm sure (in fact I know) remembers). But I like the sincerity of the sentence, even if it is faux sincerity (but at least it is some form of sincerity) and so I will keep it as is.)

We slept well that night. Ready for Our next stop on the journey of life (wow!). Barcelona.

Photos for Madrid

I don't have time to upload many photos to the blog, but you can view them here. Or click on the photos to the side and click on My Public Gallery. That should do it.

¡Ole!

The morning treated us kind enough and we were out the door at the crack of dawn (quarter past eleven). We were unnourished but feeling good. Our feet gently struck the pavement as we ambled toward the Sol Metro station. The sun felt good against our pale white skin. We breathed the air in deep and let the not unclean air fill our lungs. It was refreshing. Our first stop this "morning" was El Museo Del Prado.

The Atocha metro station is located near the center of everything of importance in Madrid--Train Station, Scores of Museums, Botanical Gardens, One of the most impressive parks in Europe, and some of the best shopping around--and it was the first stop of the day for us. We ascended the stairs of the station into the bright sunshine and smiled at the hussle of the city goers and the roar of the cars going by. We are made our way to the Prado and, as people are wont to do in every city world wide since the beginning of paid entry into museums, formed an orderly queue. After waiting only 35 minutes we had tickets in hand and we were ready to experience one of the most impressive collections of classical art, mainly Spanish, in the world. After waiting another 10 minutes for entry we were in...and I was unimpressed. Though beautiful, to me, classical art lacks a certain je ne se quois that certain other contempary artists possess in spades. It seems lifeless in detail and unimportant in scope. I yawned my way through frame after frame of some unattractive Royal smirking back at me, content at being an object of affection. I was discontent...until I saw Goya. Although his earlier work is very similar in form to the classical style, his later work is insanely progressive. I speak, of course (since my readership is mainly made up of art history majors), of his "Pinturas Negras." Truly the birth of Modern art and a reference point for any budding surrealist, these portraits are breathtakingly, stupendously, hauntingly beautiful. They are poignant and incomparable. To describe them using my weak words and unimpressive language would do them a disservice. Just see them...ahora!

From the Prado we made our slowly and anxiously to la Plaza del Toros.

We arrived relatively early to the stadium and, like any sporting event, paid too much for nuts. We were nervous about getting in, but upon seeing the "security" and the fact that others had tickets similar to ours, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We made it through the first gate with heavy smiles. We walked slowly to our seating area and when the ring was revealed to us we let out a slow in sigh in awe of its beauty. The sun was shaded from us but it shone nicely on the seats on our opposite end. It was a beautiful stadium and fulfilled nearly all of my expectation. The crowd was not too bg and the excitement was palpable. There was a steady buzz throughout the stadium when the clock struck 5.oo and the horns began to blare.

Out first came the Matadors to a steady ovation, then a procession followed, showing all those that would be involved in the bullfight. Soon the procession cleared and a hush fell over the crowd. A number reading 615 was put up in the center of the ring and the bull doors were opened. He came out confused, and immediately I felt sorry for him. He was to die soon and he had no idea why. The matadors began with a few oles and the crowd was relatively unimpressed. After a few swipes of those pink capes, there came two men on heavily padded horse back holding spears of serious weight. They aligned themselves at opposite ends of the stadium and one ready himself for what was to come. He pointed the spear at the hard breathing bull, and it charged. With the force of a car wreck and a sickening muffled collision sound, the bull drove itself head first into the side of the padding on the horse and the horseman drove the spear into the back of the charging bull. The first sight of blood shocked me intensely and I felt unsure of this sport. The bull was pried from the horse and it was again sullied into position by the matadors. The horseman again steadied himself for the onslaught, and again the bull rammed itself into the horse, knocking the horse forcefully sideway and pushing its front feet into the air. But the horse stayed hard and the spear was driven deep into the bull's back. The bull was led away and the horsemen exited to applause. Next more blood.

After more, let's call it, oleing, it was time for more spears to be shoved in the back of the bull. The bull is led near the center of the ring where a matador with two frilly spears faces him. The bull charges, the matador prances and they meet in a dance of equal parts anger, equal parts precision, and equal parts grace. At this point the matador leaps into the air and forces the two spears deeply into the bull's back, from where they hang as frilly brightly colored mementos of impending death. This is repeated two more times to (near) perfection. The bull at this point is breathing heavily and saliva draws loosely from his lips, his mouth is sadly agape and his tongue is asking for forgiveness. It is time for the Matador.

The Matador shows his respect to the crowd with a polite bow and briefly basks in the affection shown to him. He carries a bright red cape and a silver sword. He parries the exhausted bull for show. It is merely to become the better of the beast that he shows him the cape and the bull follows without hesitation. Soon, though, it is time for a finale. The bull is lulled into the security of the cape and the Matador points his sword at the back of his foe's head, preparing and steadying himself for the coup de grace. With force and precision the Matador shoots himself at the bull, the bull, surprised, moves forward, the two movements collide and after a split second the Matador stands at one end, triumphant, and the bull stands at the other, defeated, with a sword driven deep into his body. The bull moves around unsteadily and the Matador basks--he has succeeded and glory is his. The Matador once again faces the Bull each for the last time. The bull breathes heavily and uneasily, standing in a steady gaze with his batter. The Matador assumes his position and stares into the bull's eyes, forcing him to succumb, and after thirty seconds of tense silence, the bull falls to his knees and lays to his side. The Matador smiles in his triumph. The crowd erupts. It is over. It has just begun. It is to happen 5 more times.

After the final bull is killed and dragged from the stadium by horse, we stand up in our own triumph. We made it through a Bull Fight with valor and courage, and our intial shock and distaste had dissapeared. We felt one with the remaining crowd and worried when the bull got too close to the matador, and were always hoping for a good show, and a clean kill (aspects not guaranteed and indeed not to be expected with every bull). We had lost sympathy with the bull, and instead viewed it as an object, a sport. We had been desensitized. But soon these thoughts were free from our mind and instead we turned to what to do next.

What are we going to do next?

A Slight Error

It seems, for some unknown reason, I have been saying we are in Barcelona when in fact we are In Madrid. I can only attribute said malfunction to stupidity or, perhaps, to the fact that I saw the ç symbol and felt I had to use it. Please accept my sincere apologies Madrileños y Barcelonians y other people who actually read this.

So just to clarify; we are in Madrid, we were in Madrid yesterday, we go to Barcelona Tomorrow. I hope this clears up some confusion and, you can be sure, I will get back to writing (and making god-awful and insanely embarassing mistakes) presently.

P.S. It's two days in and I'm already exhausted. This does not bode well.

Madrid

I thought I would get this one off before today's string of events.

It was morning earlier. It was dark. It was time to leave. It was 5.45. With a somewhat steady head the Three Amigos (literally just thought of that (Brilliant!)) hopped in a Taxi headed for the Train Station. It was to be a relatively easy day of travel. The train to Gatwick was smooth and on time, a nice start to any trip, the queues at Gatwick were non-existent, another refreshing start, and we had 2 hours to kill in the terminal before our gate was announced. Hey is that Bailey's? Yes, my Two amigos thought it was a good idea to start the day off witha nice refreshing, ice cold, cup of Bailey's. They purchased the Bailey's and I stood in a McDonald's line for three hours (slight exaggeration) and got three cups with ice. We had a pleasant sit down discussing, as always, politics, religion, and puppies, you know, guy stuff. Our gate was announced and the first bottle of Bailey's was finished (yes I said first (if you were to look at me right this instant, well not this instant but the instant when I wrote "the first bottle of Bailey's was finished," you would probably see me sighing, smiling, and shaking my head.)) and it was time to board.

Have you ever been in a sardines can? It was kind of like that. EasyJet, was. Scott suggested the emergency exit rows for suitable seats, and I being in the lead heeded his advice and went straight for them. But when the time came to sit in said seats, and I noticed that oneo or two people already occupied some of the seats, I panicked and just kept walking, my mind blank. Finally, I turned into the tightest row I could possibly find and we took our seats. Luckily there was a touch of an effect from the Bailey's and I drifted off into a sweet and insanely uncomfortable sleep. The plane ride was smooth, as far as I know, and soon our feet were touching the Tarmac in sunny Spain.

The weather was beautiful, not a cloud in the sky. So, this being the case, we took the first two hours of our time in España in the airport terminal and the underground. After said duration we arrived at the metro station at which our hostel was near and stepped out into the sunshine, and into a horde/throng of people. People People everywhere, so much People so much fear ( I know that doesn't really fit, and indeed is a bit of a downer, but I sort of like the sound of it). We walked through said horde/throng to our hostel.

We dropped our bags off and went, almost, immediately to the Plaza del Toros for, O let's call it an adventure.

Scott's main reason for coming to Spain, or so he said, was to see a Bull Fight. So he was particularly excited when he found out there would be one on Sunday in Madrid (today/yesterday). We got off the metro in the Plaza and went slowly and unsurely toward the ticket counters. Looking as much like tourists as we possibly could, we stood about three feet away from the windows and looked at the big board of ticket prices, trying to decipher their meaning. While we were standing looking, obviously, thouroughly confused, an old Spanish man in a smart corduroy blazer came up to us. My spanish is a bit rusty (I've been out in the rain for nearly two and a half years) so I was pretty much unable to understand what he said. But through a few gestures and points and the words "lo mismo" I got the idea he wanted to help us buy more expensive tickets. We walked with him, slowly and cautiously, toward his yellow stand about 330 feet away. In it a woman sat with a smile and showed us the tickets. All throughout their explanation came the words "es oficial" which put me at ease and made me nervous at the same time. Finally after some of the best bargaining ever seen on my part while trying to talk to someone who did not understand us nor we them, we wound up with three tickets in the 10th row in the Sol y Sombre (Sun and Shade) section for 30 euros. It was not a bad deal and if the tickets were real it could be a very good deal. We left feeling uncertain and agreed that if we had been swindled, we certainly had been by a nice guy. We went towards the stadium again to take a few pictures, when our friend came along again to help us. After a quick photo, some unpronounceable banter, and a fistful of smiles, he asked us, quickly, where are we from. Americanos, came the answer, and with it a smile. "Hillary o Obama," was the reply from our amigo, who goes by Miguel (or so he said). "Obama?" I said, merely repeating the last word I heard, and with that he put a finger into my chest and with a smile full of rugged teeth responded, "Yo? Hillary." We smiled and said goodbye, he seemed happy with his swindle, and we departed ways.

We walked around the stadium a little, thinking about the days to come. It was going to be a good trip.

Will the three amigos make it into the stadium? Will the amicable Miguel, turn out to be a great guy or an evil genius? Will they make it to Barcelona? Will the adventures ever end? and Whatever will they do next? Find out next time on (pause) Nate's Blog.

A New Dawn

I regret to inform those adament readers that I will not be able to finish Edinburgh at this time as I amcurrently on an adventure of note. Thus I will postpone the shocking conclusion to Edinburgh in lieu of the fact that as I type I am in the España of Spains: Spain. This lovely country is Merely the hub of an ever-on-going journey throughout Europe. I will try my best, O Wonderful, Wonderful Reader, to keep you up to date as much as I can with my goings on about towns. However, my friends (and enemies, I suppose ( for somebody must be reading this)) I must warn you that many times I will write these after a long day of, let´s call it, adventuring and I will have what is known in the adventuring world as tiredness, thus my writing will inevitably suffer (look to previous parenthetical aside (and previous sentence for that matter) for reference). So please be kind (indeed, feedback is welcome!).

I travel now with Dave Bergerson, whom many of you, I am sure, have some recollection of and a fellow by the name of Scott Walkington, whom, perhaps, some have an inkling of. I shall mention them in intimacy from here on out so it would be good to get to know them. They are dudes. I am dude. We are dudes. Enough said. To the cities....

The cities I think will be much more interesting. we will be spending time in: Madrid, Barcelona, Brussels, Brugges, Amsterdam, Croningen, Hamburg, Berlin, Prague, Mannheim, Paris, Stockholm, Turku, and Helsinki. So look forward to glowing portraits of some of Europe´s finest cities, or to, the more likely of the two, a glowing mans incoherent and stumbling attempt at a rough stained picture that probably fell out of the back of a truck somewhere and then the author stumbled upon it, dusted it off a bit and then said, "Hey I bet I could sell this," and then took it to a dealer and said, "Hey I bet I could sell this," and the dealer said, "Looks a bit rough around the edges, but Hey I bet you could sell this," and then they both nodded, shook hands, and the author left with a smile on his face and the dealer was left standing nodding his head in content. Something more like that, I think.

Well, it´s late. I´m tired. And I will stop. Tomorrow, you will, hopefully, discover the reason for my acute tiredness at time of publication, and, thus, the cause of the incoherent rambling. For today it was Madrid tomorrow Europe!

(Actually tomorrow we will be in Madrid again.)

Edinburgh: An Introduction

Some of you more literary types (for I am sure there are many!) may recognize this title as a bit of a play on Seymour: An Introduction by the catcher himself J.D. Salinger. Furthermore, I am sure that those types are also wondering why I would make an allusion to Salinger when, really, he had nothing to do with Scotland. Well, my loyal, beloved readers, I think I may skirt the issue and not necessarily answer your queries directly, but, I think, with more of an explanation. Not but a few days ago I was reading the aforementioned story and was completely infatuated with the prose and, more importantly, the idea of Seymour, the narrator's brother. The narrator showed an affection hardly seen on the printed page for his subject. In the beginning he felt that perhaps an introduction would be the first step at unveiling the person he loved so dear, that would, in turn, be followed by more intimate portraits entitled like such as (anyone?), Seymour 2 and Seymour 3. Thus an epiphany bestruck (Not a word? Whatevs.) me, in an attempted homage to two of the most lovely things I have experienced in my life, Edinburgh and Salinger, I will name this blog entry as such and put forth my ode to Edinburgh.

The first thing necessary in a story such as this is a intuitive quote, I believe.

"All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. "

This one is particularly pertinent, I think. If it were not for you, O Glorious Reader!, what would these words be? They would exist, sure, but as Robert Louis said (By the w, the quote can be attributed to RL Stevenson, which I thought was more befitting seeing as the man was from the, Glory Be!, land of Scots), they would only be a lifeless collection of letters. So, as a show of gratitude to the, O let's say, 5 of you, I offer this bouquet of parenthesis: ((((())))).
Now, if you've made it this far (you probably have because, let's face it, the majority, neigh! the whole, of my readership is family(still...)) without letting out a shaking-head-sigh and leaving the website, I will reward you by beginning my tale.

I remember it clearly. There were three of us that night, sitting in a Kitchen, chatting. I believe I may have had my foot upon my knee in a rather relaxed position. I remember mentioning, in a somewhat casual yet cavalier manner, that a bus trip to Edinburgh (say, sometime in November, for it was September back then) and back, if booked far enough in advance, could go for the low-low price of 10 pounds round trip. It was Tuesday Night, I believe. Annicka, one of the two to whom I was talking, nodded her head appreciatively, 'Mm-Hmm,' she said. 'What about next weekend?' 'What, you mean like 10 days from now?!' I asked in a supercilious manner (finally, a chance to use supercilious!), the kind of incredulous and condescending voice one uses to say things like, 'You mean you've never heard of Flaubert?!' or 'Are you saying Pollock is your favorite abstract expressionist? Gaah, how remarkably predictable!' She responded calmly, assumedly unaware of my pretension, 'No, I mean like the day after tomorrow.' I looked at the other man at the table, Henrik, with that famous smirk and eye-roll (Women.) and expected to be greeted with a similar expression, but instead I was surprised to find him slowly nodding. 'Well,' I said, looking back to Annicka now, 'I guess we could take a look at prices.'

I remember it clearly. There were four of us in the room, a small room, a room not necessarily fit for four people to fit comfortably. The fourth now was a girl named Teija, she sat quietly. I was sitting at Annicka's computer, looking at bus prices, looking at hostel prices. It was doable. We looked it over and discussed it. It took about ten minutes until we were all four nodding in unison. We would leave Friday night from London, stay two nights, return Monday morning. It was something like 30 pounds for the bus ticket and 26 pounds for 2 nights in a hostel. We decided to book an eight bedded room after we called four more people to confirm their interest. A one later decided to join our gang after we had booked the rooms and bus tickets bringing our total to a happy nine (you better believe there is going to be a Fellowship of the Ring reference in the near future). After the four of us aforementioned, there were three girls: Regina, Virva, and Maria, and two boys: Scott, and Georgios. We would leave Friday afternoon.

I remember it clearly. It was Friday. Afternoon. We were aboard the train headed to Waterloo. The bus would leave from Victoria Coach station. We were anxious. The tension was precipitously palpable (c'mon!) aboard the train. Perhaps I felt it more than others--portrayed, I think, most clearly by my incessant foot-tapping and my non-stop non-talking--because I'm pretty sure they were counting on me to get them to Victoria Station and I didn't really know where it was. And I didn't really have a map. We deboarded (Not a Word? Whatevs.) the train and to my surprise my apprehension did not Disapparate (Potter fans?), instead I felt more nervous with every step. What's worse, as my oblivion was more than obvious, I assumed someone would step-up and suggest something like, 'Nate, be calm, for I will take the lead of this fellowship (see?). I will show you the way to Morder (or Victoria Coach Station),' but no one stepped forward, and although worried, they seemed almost as oblivious as I! Perhaps not, because as I now recall I remember several instances when I would say something like, 'Okay, I think it is literally right around this corner,' or 'I think I see it right up ahead, is that it?' It usually wasn't. But at about the exact time of when the last threads of our hope string were set to fully unravel, we almost literally stumbled upon it. We looked upon the blue bus as a gift sent down from the heavens--it was our saviour, it would take us to the holy lands (maybe it would even turn some water into wine for us). We set about getting ready to board, anxious at the prospect of exploring Edinburgh for two whole days. Edinburgh Here We Come!

Oh, did I mention it was a nine hour bus ride?

(As I look back on that previous paragraph I realize that the tension felt by the, handsome, strapping, intelligent, incomparable protagonist must not be felt by the reader for the main reason that there was no real time frame mentioned. Well, to be totally truthful I don't really remember how much time we had left upon arrival at the Coach Station. It was close, that's all. If it helps, think of it as we arrived just as the bus was departing, banging incessantly upon the doors of our dreams, screaming for them to recognize us. Take a minute, read through it as such, and let me know if it helps. Or you can just keep reading.)

I remember it clearly. I have never in my life wanted to punt a child so much as I have on this bus ride. It started off innocent enough. The bus was not too full and I was fortunate to be sitting in a window seat next to a heater. A perfect spot, I thought. I will be warm and I get to lay my head against something that is not the back of the chair--which, in it's evil turn, affords you the wholly attractive chance to reach the edge of sleep and then have your head violently fall forward, snapping you out of your one or two winks. My seat mate, Henrik, was attempting to break the world record of head bobs as I put my head against the freezing cold window and moved my pants as far away from the heater as I possibly could as they were seconds away from catching on fire. And then the coughing began. A small child, innocent I presume, began toying with the idea of how long he could continually cough without covering his mouth and then abruptly stop just long enough to feel like you may actually get a chance to close your eyes long enough to slip to sleep and then start coughing again. He was incredibly successful at this. What was worse was it was not just an excuse-me cough or an a-hem like cough, it was as full of phlegm as a thermos full of phlegm (Calvin and Hobbes fans?). It was as if a 75 year old man had not coughed in all his years and then feeling he could not hold it in any longer let out the most prolific cough in the history of coughing (by the w, History of Coughing? Probably an awesome major--all those readers who are still unsure of what to do with their studies take a look). It was like this over and over until finally he was put to sleep (I know what I said). But by this time, light was beginning to enter my tightly shut eyes and I could feel we were nearing our destination. Was I upset? Hardly. And as we began navigating the streets of Edinburgh on the way to the coach station, all thoughts of chucking the child out the window flew from my head. And slowly a smile spread across my face. And slowly we pulled into the coach station. And slowly we descended those steps.

We had made it.

Insert Sequential and Possibly Alliterative Brighton Pun Here

From the Hotel we headed straight toward the Royal Pavilion, a building that is vaguely reminiscent of the Taj Mahal. What it is doing in the center of Brighton, one will never know (scholars maintain that it was built long before the conquering of the British empire by the anglo-saxons in1135, further suggesting it was built around the turn of a millennium, which one? one will never know (scholars suggest the year 1000 is as good an estimate as anyone is going to make))(note: for those of you unfamiliar with British History, I literally just made all that up).

As mentioned before, it was a beautifully sunny day. The air was of the perfect temperature and there was general good cheer all around. We looked around the Pavilion for a time, saw that there was an entrance fee of 32 pounds (slight exaggeration, but pshaw! nevertheless), and decided to sit on the grass and just enjoy the afternoon. We were surprisingly tired after the 3 minute walk from the Hotel D' Awesome and the grass felt cool and reassuring beneath us. It was a welcome treat. Nearby there was an outdoor cafe serving frothy cups of enlightenment, but these lazy legs could not be pulled from the spot where they were stuck. So, instead, we just sat around, in a bit of a circle, and watched the people go by.

I remember one moment quite clearly (indeed, I believe as it was transpiring I thought about how to word it in my blog (have I, then, lost all sense of reality? am I so lost in my own head that I have become detached from the normal world? is it I that is that pretentious egotist staring off into space concerning himself only with himself? is there any way I can add another meaningless rhetorical question to this already unimportant and, more than likely, sleep inducing digression? (that's enough))) Well, if you are still with me, let me relate. I was lying, quite angelically if I do say so myself, on my back with my hands placed behind my head staring into the trees that were just a few yards in front of me. The others, too, I think were lying silently around me as if a sleeping drug had been inserted into the deep fried shrimp (or maybe it was just a drowsy drug, because none of us were sleepy). The sun was slowly moving down toward the trees that my eyes had just become accustomed to. I remember watching the sun sink lower and lower and just thinking how quickly time moves. It was inescapable. Soon this moment would be gone. Soon these people would go. Soon nothing would be left but our memories (phew, I am getting awfully cornrifically reminiscent in these last few entries). I remember looking at the image now created as the sun sparkled behind the top leaves of those tall trees. It was such a beautiful image with such a depressing connotation. It signified the beginning of the end. It was soon that sun would fall. It was soon we would go home. It was startling then when I came out of my trance to see the rays of sun dancing on my colleagues smiling faces. Had they not just experienced a deeply profound realization? Had they not just become nihilist in the twenty minutes we were lying on the grass in silence? I suppose not. Thank God. My thoughts now diverted, I looked around to see them each enjoying this moment simply for it's simplicity. Satisfied, I put my head back against the grass and let the sun do it's dance across my smiling face. (I should note that as I wrote that last paragraph I was listening to Iron & Wine (for those who do not know, Iron & Wine is as soft as indie folk can get, and that is saying something), which may contribute to my introspective laziness. Also, perhaps for my pretentious tone. And most definitely for it's evocative sappiness. Maybe I'll listen to some funk.)

I was feeling particularly groovy when we removed ourselves from our hippy circle and decided to head to the Marina. It was a pretty significant walk from the Pavilion to the Marina, but we were up for it after sitting for about an hour, so we undertook it. We walked down to a path that leads to the Marina, and found it, as per usual, to be more than lovely. It was afternoon now, and the sun was just beginning to orange ever so slightly. It played beautifully with the waves of the sea, sparkling so spectacularly. It was no wonder our conversations were often hindered by our long longing looks out to sea. Sometimes I would walk along side another one of my fellow travelers, discussing this and that, often, though, I would fall back behind the group and just admire the beauty of the situation.

We made it to the Marina, which to me seemed more like it's own entity than a part of Brighton. It held a giant ASDA (Wal-Mart basically), a gas station, lovely looking flats, numerous pubs and restaurants, and the cheapest looking most expensive car wash I've ever seen (It was literally a guy with a hose and a bucket of soap charging something like 10 pounds (no exaggeration) for a 'DELUXE' wash). We procured a pint at a local pub and sat in the sunshine excited to enjoy the rest of the day.

The pint was put back hastily and we decided, though lovely, the marina was a bit too noisy and it was time to head back to the train station. We took our time heading back, nearly criss-crossing (Jump! Jump! (anyone?)) through the city. It was pleasant enough, as the sun was fulling fading now, it caused beautiful shadows from east facing walls to engulf us in their outward stretching. In time, we reached the top of a particular hill that overlooked the city centre and the train station. It was here we jumped onto a little wall and bit greedily into our store bought sandwiches and watched the sun fall behind the buildings that were situated across a little valley and atop another hill in front of us. We sat in relative silence. In a more than perfect symbol, the sun was slowly setting on our journey. It had been a more than congenial companion. And now, with its last grasp of light still reaching just above those buildings across the way, we wiped the crumbs from our hands and walked down the incline before us toward the station. I looked up during the descent and saw the sun, without pomp, slip behind the building, out of sight, but it's presence still known. I thought, without pomp, what a perfect way to end the day*.



*and a blog entry (I really wanted to put that in there but I thought a poetic pause (what?!) was called for)

Insert Quasi-Comical Brighton Pun Here

Simply put, Brighton was a simple trip--simply perfect in its subtle simplicity (c'mon!).

We boarded the train that morning with gusto, with excitement, with aplomb, if you will (I will.). Our sights were set to the south and a little sea-side town by the name of Brighton.

The Kooks once asked, 'Do you want to go to the Seaside?' and even though they were not quite sure that everybody wants to go, we answered their query with a resounding Yes! (That's a tough inside joke to start with because if I am doing my math right here, out of the 3 people who read this blog I would wager only 1 person has heard of The Kooks and possibly even less have heard the song. But, I suppose they don't call me Noble Nate.)

Six of us boarded the Train that morning and by some miracle six of us arrived contented and complacent (yeah I know) at the Brighton station. We made our way out of the station and quickly chose the best possible spot for getting in people's way, which in this instance was a taxi queue. Our little circle attracting curious and somewhat menacing glances from taxi drivers and passers-by alike, we took our time figuring out which way was the sea. After venturing down an underpass and discovering that no, the sea is not located under the train station, we decided to head down hill as it was the most logical.

Now, a brief interlude is at hand, I believe, to explain some of my views on traveling in foreign soil. What hinders me most in my travels is the fact that I am a man. This being the case, I have the unfortunate habit of not wanting to look like a tourist where ever I go. So after I have spent some time in a city or town I will consider it a cardinal sin to be around someone looking at a map in public, or, much worse, asking for directions. With each city comes a different leeway on time. For instance I gave myself a one day leeway in London, where I would act to my best ability the role of an obvious tourist--walking unevenly with my head straight into my map/guidebook, a camera around my wrist or snapping obvious photos of groups of people in front of obvious landmarks, waiting for the light to change before crossing the street, paying for completely unnecessary and altogether wasteful tourist attractions, wearing completely inappropriate clothes for the weather (I'm looking at you Germans), etc. In Brighton, the leeway I gave myself to lose the tourist complex was 2 minutes, essentially, after we put away the map. I promised myself I would not look at it again and would rather get completely lost than ask for directions. My mentality became: blend.

So I walked alongside my colleagues with an indifferent look on my face. My steady gait displayed my easy confidence. I dismissed stares as nothing more than either a tourist trying to get a good look at a local or a local finding a like soul. I nodded frequently. My fellow travelers would sometimes read signs aloud, as was our game, but I had to hold my tongue with difficulty to maintain the appearance of an uninterested local out for a leisurely stroll with some of his friends from out of town. (Maybe he'll take them down to the Beach, show 'em a good time. I hear the pier is especially nice this time of year.) Finally, some of the pressure was relieved as my strolling led us onto the glory of the beach.

It was a very uncommon beach. With rocks and devastatingly cold water (To be honest I did not test the water, but just from looking at it I imagine it was frigid), it had a curious appeal to it. And with the sun shining quite brightly it was easy to lounge there for an hour or two. And that is exactly what we did. Occasionally, we would pick up stones and hurl them into the sea. Other times, because half of us were men, we would turn the stone throwing into competitions--ones that I would embarrassingly win every time. But mostly we just sat there and enjoyed the views, the fresh air, and the company around us.

After a while we got up and strolled along the beach toward the pier. I couldn't help but admire the quaintness of it all, and how much it reminded me of an oil painting of the seaside around the turn of the century. Save the noisy cars and now rather large buildings above, it was eerily reminiscent of a bygone era, where hot dogs cost a nickel and a ride upon the great ferris wheel on the pier was not but a dime. Women, white clad, would stroll alongside impeccably suited men, all the while twirling their lace umbrellas and adjusting their over sized hats making the sun dance amid the pavement beneath them. Nowadays, hot dog stands are replaced by pubs and the mysteriously situated and delicious smelling donut vendors (Brighton up your day with a donut was a particularly hard one not to read aloud, and I daresay I could not resist), and things do not come cheap--a sandwich was around 5 pounds, fish and chips were closer to seven. Yep, things certainly are not like they used to be. Nevertheless we were happy to be where we were, and after inspecting the pier with all of it's touristy goodness, we headed smilingly to a big sign that said THREE COURSE LUNCH BUFFET FIVE POUNDS.

We ventured timidly into the hotel that had this sign above it's doors and were immediately struck by the grandness of the place. We were sure the sign was a misprint, or perhaps a landmark of that by-gone era that could not be removed, or, more likely, five pounds was the weight of the food, not the price. The lobby led into a sitting room with plush carpeting and high ceilings. Chandeliers hung from above and sparkled from the sunshine that burst through the 6 foot windows that lined the wall facing the sea. A sharply dressed group to our left sipped on some alcoholic drink and lounged in wonderfully colored chairs. They stared at us like an upper-class group of people who had just had their luncheon interrupted by a group of ragged unwashed youths. We held our breaths in anticipation of Jeeves coming along to usher us out, as clearly we were in the wrong part of Dodge. But as we looked right, into the dining room, it was fairly empty and we moved slowly toward it, our stomachs growling.

I felt a bit like a mouse who sits in the shadows of the wall of a house and sees to his surprise a great and grand piece of the finest cheese imaginable sitting all alone in the middle of the living room. Surely there must be something waiting to snatch him up on the other side of the wall, or perhaps hunger has driven him to see mirages, or maybe, just maybe, if he approaches slow enough and disturbs nothing he can get in, grab the cheese and get out.

I approached the maitre d' as slow as I could.

I cleared my throat, 'How much is lunch, here?' 'Five pounds,' he replied, 'how many?' 'Uh, six.'

We sat at an unassuming table looking out over the sea, each of us stunned into silence, the only words we could find that could break it consisted of, 'Are you sure?' and 'I can't believe it is really...' and 'We'll probably end up....' Suffice to say, my first course was a lovely tomato soup with croûtons and perhaps a hint of oregano. I sipped my soup and admired the dining hall. It also held a few chandeliers that sparkled with the sun's rays, the walls were painted a pleasing pink and were at intervals fashionably lined with white. Mahogany doors and neatly designed carpet completed the room's antique feel. It again suggested a desperate grasp of a by-gone era. The second course was the buffet and it was peppered with semi-decent looking portions of vegetables, meat and potatoes, chicken, and seafood. I ate it hastily, I should say. By the dessert course we were all sufficiently satisfied, but could not help but shake the fact that we may owe more than we have for this meal. As a group we approached the waiter and asked about our bill. 'You each had the buffet?' he looked at us a bit lazily. 'Yes,' was all we could muster, as that feeling in our stomachs churned uneasily with the food we had just ate. 'Right, that's 5 pound each,' he smiled. We handed it over and practically ran out the door.

The sunshine greeted our smiling faces kindly. We looked at each other, it was just past one o'clock. What should we do now?

Dubliners (IV)

So we strolled. Our pace was not unlike that at Hyde Park, (avid readers will hopefully know of the pace in which I speak, newcomers will need only to scroll on down (question: is it lame to reference oneself in one's own blog? answer (after much deliberation): yes, yes it is.))(A triple parenthetical followed by a single parenthetical? some say it couldn't, and, I daresay, shouldn't be done, well...yeah they're right, it's a bit awkward.) easy, refreshing, and remarkably pretentious. Before our pace could become steady however, there stood over us an obelisk of unfathomable dimensions. As if punishing the grass by withholding Apollo's stare, it cast a great shadow which we could not help but step within and attempt to take arty photos (I thought mine turned out quite nice, to be honest.). After our attempts at po-mo had come to a satisfying conclusion we sauntered further into the unknown. As we really had no map of the park and our only real reference point was this behemoth that surely could be seen from miles around (in actuality after walking oh about 250 meters through the trees the obelisk became nothing more than a memory and a picture to show off), it seemed a good idea to head west into the waning afternoon sun and then attempt to circle back to our starting point thus bringing us back into the Dublin city at around 5 or 6. Well, to save you the suspense (you're welcome Grandma) and to ruin the narrative, that is basically exactly what we did.

The sheer pleasantness of the journey, however, made any inhibitions and worries over suspenseful intrigue, drift angrily away (To clarify, inhibition and worries were angry that pleasantness was overtaking them so thats why they drifted away. Basically it's hints of personification mixed in with metaphysical metaphors. No big deal.).

We walked down and up onto hills littered with football pitches and cricket grounds. The greenery of the fields completely infatuated us. At times we were completely, utterly, surprisingly, terrifyingly, and happily alone. As far as the eye could see over these fields of delight was unfiltered greenery, nothing stood in our view except the beauty of the landscape. Often the sun would slip behind the clouds and let only spots of rays reach down onto the trees and fields below. It was warm and cool, windy and still, haunting and beautiful. It was a forest in a park, a park in a forest. We walked without care, we walked through groves of trees, we walked easily through the long endless fields, sometimes kicking unabashedly at the dandelions that littered the grass, we walked without a thought, we walked, at times, without a word, breathless and speechless with the sheer delight and happiness of the present, we just walked. We felt so alone, so free inside this park, inside this city. It, however, like all things began to wane, and our feet began taking us closer and closer to the city. We walked by the city zoo, which we briefly considered entering and enjoying the funny things animals do, but when we saw it cost 13 euros we decided it was time to head back to the hostel. After a restroom break, our feet moved us through the final bits of the park and back into the roaring business of the city. We did not look back, however, and enjoyed the experience for what was, for soon the park would be but an afterthought of that one afternoon we were alone in the biggest city in Ireland.

We came to the river near that synonym of awesomeness and followed it back to our hostel. It was nearly six o'clock and our thoughts shifted to (let's not dramatize it here) food. We were thinking of food; how we would procure it, in what shape it would be, how much it might cost, and if it needed to be digestible (we were rather picky in that sense). We decided to head to the local supermarket and grab some meat and pasta and sauce. A few agonizing minutes later--where the sights and smells of the kitchen tempted us into almost stealing those chimichangas that were left on the counter, despite their burned exterior and surely frozen interior--and we were silent in our contented eating. After shoveling the pasta into our mouths in most attractive manners we sat back, took a few casual sips from our beer, and enjoyed a Rugby match on TV. This was living. The match reached halftime and the food had settled enough in our stomachs so that we could stand erect without tipping over, we thus decided this was as good a time as any to head out and experience the Dublin nightlife.

We met a man named Scott on the Millennium Bridge, one of many picturesque bridges that line the river, and went mouth first (what I mean to portray by this vagary is that our mouths were thirsting for that tapped mine that flows only in Dublin(I don't believe it is sold anywhere else in the world, to be honest):Guinness) into the Temple Bar district. We found a particularly popular bar and ventured in. It being nearly 6 or 7 hours since our last taste of the black gold we fought tooth and nail to the front of the queue to put our orders in. We sipped gingerly on our sweet success and enjoyed the second half of the Rugby match. This particular pub being rather raucous we decided to move on. We found, on the outskirts of Temple Bar, a charming bistro with patrons enjoying new wave music and lifting cappuccino cups up to their goateed faces all the while pontificating on the erroneous views of unnamed politicians (Ha! Just kidding. It was another pub. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.) With each pub came new faces, new lighting, new smells and sounds, and each one that night had a character that is indefinable. Each was unique, yet they all offered the same friendliness, the same jovial atmosphere, and the same wonderful tasting beer.

The next morning found a few of us alert while others had a bit of a tougher time removing themselves form their bunks. You see, the night before, when four of us called it a night and went back to the hostel, three stayed on to go to something like 6 or 7 more pubs and came back early in the morning. Thus, it was a bit of a slow morning.

I will be brief in discussing our last day in Dublin. Of course there were wonderful and life-altering moments that will go unmentioned, but I have found myself dragging and droning on and on. So for that I apologize and will quickly summarize our last thirty-six hours.

We walked to the beautiful and awe-inspiring Trinity College. Where the old buildings glowed from the sunshine. We strolled the grounds like uncaring school children, naive to the crowds of tourists and skipping from each new sight to the next. Next we found a few parks that livened our senses and brought smile upon our faces. We sat on benches and, thoroughly exhausted, laughed as those do when it is really late at night. Finally, our day coming to a close, we went to the supermarket and again bought a nice meal for us to enjoy over the Rugby Final. The pubs that night glowed red and orange from the lights of the city street. Our exhaustion was evident in the slow means in which we took sips from our pints. We each looked around hopefully, as if to catch that moment that will last forever. Our eyes searched and searched, until we found that once again time had overtaken us and it was that and that alone that would bring an end to our trip.

The next morning we walked placidly to the bus station and, after a bit of confusion boarded a bus to the airport. We were relatively silent that bus ride, lost, I think, in our thoughts....



Again, sorry for the abrupt conclusion to Dubliners, but I realized that I have taken way too long to write this so I am, in a sense, cutting and running. There were certainly moments that were worth whole-hearted comment but, I think in a way it is wise to be withholding.

'Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. '

(Yeah, it's from The Wonder Years)