The Final Leg, the Last Hurrah, the Corvette of Passion Rides to Hezbollah

20/6/11

New Lebanon, NY



Jose can you see, by the dawn's early light...


Well, America, I'm back. Back in the US-something-something. Back with a vengeance. And twitching muscles.

Wait a minute there, returning to the US is fine, feeling vengeful is completely natural, but what is all this talk of twitching muscles? And, just one minute, you are back in America? Please, if you would give me but a single minute of your time, I am trying to sell this amazing new vacuuming device that cleans both ragged claws and scuttled floors, silently!

Did you not get the memo? That's right. I flew from CDG (Paris Charles de Gaulle) to BOS (Boston Logan International) June 14, where I was met by the most kindly of faces, namely those of David D. Aguilar (of dribblepenetration.net fame) and his mother. The next three days I rested and relaxed, wined and dined, and chatted the days and nights away with the best of pals that money can buy.


Why is Dave accosting that clearly blind girl with a mystery bottle of cologne?


Certainly, it was nice getting back to my old haunts, but I realized that Cambridge is just another nice place in the world that I have been and that I have no special ties to it other than having lived there for four years. Perhaps I have developed a kind of permanent restlessness in all places away from my true "home," but once I arrive I will have a better feeling for the veracity of that hypothesis.

Speaking of arriving home, I, naturally, decided to extend the bicycle trip from Europe into America and cycle from Cambridge back to Lockport, which I have done now twice. After a few mechanical problems delayed my departure a full day, I set off west on Route 20 on June 18 in the late morning. That day was hotter than I had experienced in Europe, hovering at 80 F and dripping with humidity. With my former -- and, from this account, forever applicable -- nickname "Sweatshop" in mind, I certainly should have been drinking water by the gallon instead of sipping it like I would a fine eggnog. My first 30 miles progressed smoothly, with the sweat dripping and with me cruising along at a respectable 17 mph, stopping as regularly as I would in Europe to rehydrate and refuel. Suddenly, going up a hill I realized that my heart was racing at an incredible 180 bpm, and I felt


You've been chosen as an extra in the movie adaptation of the sequel to your life


both tired and drained, being completely out of breath. I had to stop and take five, which turned into 30, as I made efforts to cool down and take in as much water as I could handle. A second problem was my lack of appetite, which prevented me from wanting to drink or to help replenish my salts.

It was within the next ten miles that the cramping took hold. At first, I noticed my hands tightening on the handlebars and my lower back spasming if I were ever to turn suddenly. Certainly, I became concerned, but at that point I was brashly continuing ahead at full throttle, determined to ride the 80 miles to my destination and constantly writing things off as less than they obviously were. I was of the mindset that I had been cycling ever since September, and so my body was clearly able to handle these minor stresses and setbacks without so much as a hiccup. Well, I was ignoring the hiccups but could not turn a blind eye to the throw-ups, as it were.

While I did not actually vomit, the situation worsened considerably. The cramping suddenly became more pronounced and spread from the small muscles in my hands and feet and into my calves and quads, which, may I remind you, are the primary movers of the pedals (and the goal of cycling is to move those pedals). There was a point where I was racked by a particularly violent bout of cramps that prevented me from riding even in the lowest granny gear. I took shelter under a tree to try to cool off while I devoured the only thing with salt that I had: a can of salmon. 30 minutes later, I was ready to give it a go again and made it another 5 miles before I stopped to refill my water bottle. I chose a place I have been to twice now as the watering hole, so to speak.


No matter how many times I pass this sign, it never gets old



It is a pizza/subs/sandwiches place in the town of West Brookfield that is owned by a Greek man and was being run that day by his son, whom I had spoken with a year ago. He said he was training for a triathlon and so would happily fill my water. We got to talking, and my story seemed to spark some remembrance in him of our previous encounter. At any rate, as I was leaving, he assured me that I would reach my destination -- a mere 15 miles away -- in 40 minutes. This was at 18:00.

Following an arduous struggle over the ensuing terrain including numerous failed attempts to hitchhike when I could no longer pedal, I reached the house where I was staying at 20:10. It was amazing just how slowly I was moving in spite of my best efforts to finish before evening. I couldn't help but laugh at myself -- through the constant tears, of course -- when I was twisted my foot trying to keep the bike from falling into a crack in the road, which of course resulted in a particularly nasty cramp that lasted for ten minutes. But at least I was finally safe and sound, with the worst of it behind me! On one hand, I no longer had to worry about making it anywhere and could just relax, but on the other hand, I could not sit down or move in any way without the various muscles in my body completely seizing up and contorting my features. I must have been quite the interesting looking visitor, entering the house drenched in sweat with eyes bloodshot from the windy downhills and unable to sit still due to uncontrollable muscle spasms. But I swear: This is the best way to make friends.

The following day, the cramps had subsided but the twitching calves still remained. I took it as slow as I possibly could and drank as much water as my body would let me.


Day man, fighter of the night man, champion of the sun; he's a master of karate and friendship for everyone


However, the entire day I was afflicted with a severely diminished appetite and a general lethargy despite having forced enough food and water into me to take care of nutrition. In addition, I saw some major climbs that day, some lasting 2 miles in length and all steady and unrelenting. Even as I neared my destination, it was all I could do to continue pedaling, which I remember telling a reporter four years ago was the key to traveling 1000 miles on your own power. Keep going. Just keep going.

This time around, I have decided to stop going. The strangest sensation overcame me after I had showered and sat down last night with my two hosts. After ten minutes in the chair, I could not make my muscles move to bring me to my feet. The feeling of nausea was still rather strong, but the scarier thing was an inability to move. Along with my lower back, my feet, my hands, and my legs, my jaw got in on the cramping action.


The last surviving photo of the man, the myth, the ledgebomb



At my lowest, there was a glass of water on the table in front of me that I just could not bring my body upright enough and my arm out enough to grab. My rule has always been that if and when I become too incapacitated to drink of my own glass of water, I need to rest and recover. The only thing that would trump this is if I still retain my appetite, for then all is well. I tell you, seeing a delicious pasta with meat sauce dinner and a glass of homemade beer in front of me and knowing it should be magically delicious but not wanting to actually put it in my mouth, even when I hadn't eaten anything substantial all day, is one of the worst possible feelings in the world, other than maybe seeing your only existing copy of your memoirs fall into an inconveniently placed paper shredder knowing all the while that they were written before the amnesia-inducing accident.

At any rate, I have a train tonight at 7pm. I feel like a real pro with trains, having taken quite a few in Germany with Andorf. I am curious as to the similarities and differences between the European and American systems. I am also glad to be recovering from whatever ailment afflicts me at such an inconvenient time in my travels. But most of all, I am overjoyed and tremendously excited to be reunited with my family following ten months of separation. The final chapter of the travels is coming to a finish, but it is not yet over.

Cruising with Science on Our Side

31.5.11

Neumunster, Germany

This sign scared us something fierce

As has become the norm, it has been a while since the last post. Needless to say, much has happened in the interim. For instance, I now have Osgood-Klienfelters syndrome, which one other person in this world has (Dave Aguilar). But the more exciting things are as follows:
1) I made it through the Eastern European countries en route to Germany
2) On May 22 at 07:45, I reunited with Matty Andorf at Frankfurt's airport following 5 weeks of solo travel
3) The following week, the two of us met his older cousin Harold; his great-aunt Hanna (bless her soul, she gave us each some Euros for essen!); his half-uncle Fritz; and a long lost friend of mine from the “days of yore,” even pre-highschool, Maggie Cavanaugh.
Now, I know you all clamor for more than just bullet points, so allow me to expound on the most interesting/appropriate stories, especially considering the volume of prostitutes encountered. Remember, it is my principal goal both to enlighten and entertain. Let us begin... now.

On Being Alone
Since 14 April, I have been on a mission to reach Germany and no longer had the superb company of Laura. While it takes some getting used to when switching from riding with a partner to being on your lonesome, the transition was eased by the multitude of help I received from various friends out here. In Romania, I rode nearly 200 km with a couple who was about to embark on a journey around Europe by bicycle. They kept me well fed and “hydrated” (it was Easter: Cristos anviat!) and showed me the wonderful sights of the Romanian mountains. A few days later, I stayed with a younger couple in Transylvania that was organizing some bicycle events in their community. I had a great deal of fun with their group of friends riding in a nice Critical Mass and taking 2nd place in a mountain biking 30km race. I was equally well-fed. From there, I met two of their friends in two separate cities and was given a place to stay each night, as well as some traditional food and drink. In the first apartment, I talked about engineered bicycles while I munched on polenta and homemade blood sausage. The second encounter found us cooking some potatoes and stir fry while watching a football match (it was the playoffs for the Champions League, which Barcelona just won, by the way).
In Hungary, I was given all sorts of advice and encouragement along the way and even met an American expat living in Budapest, who gave me a nice dinner and a chance to relax as I was just entering the city. The following day, after enjoying some time under clear skies in the city park, a restaurant let me camp in their garden for free, and the following day a family did the same, only with warm English-Hungarian-hand gestures conversation, a home-cooked meal, and coffee in the morning. Crossing into Slovakia gave me some more good weather, which has lasted until this very day three weeks later (with a day here and there of clouds, sprinkles, or a nighttime shower). Though I was in Slovakia for a single day and Austria for mere hours, I was helped by a cyclist like myself who had traveled along the southern part of the US last year and loved every minute of it (except the wind, which was largely in his face as he cycled to L.A.). Though the Czech Republic saw me camping and staying in hotels more often, I still found kindness at every turn, from a couple of older women giving me 10 Krona (~50 cents) for coffee, a man back from a business trip to Tunisia paying for my hotel room on account that I was a student, and, of course, my friend from high school Jan generously allowing me to stay in an empty house of his family. The two of us even saw a play, in spite of his need to prepare for his upcoming finals.
Even in Germany, which I was afraid might be on the less friendly side, I have found nothing but kindness and support (from both the people and the country's massive cycling infrastructure) for what I am doing.

Gotta love the Bavarian style

At every turn, there are cycling paths that beg me to be safe from the cars, and at every stop, there is someone willing and eager to help. Warmshowers here has been the best experience so far, with people extremely generous and understanding of what it means to go on cycle tours.

A Fistful of Gyros
Andorf and I reunited on May 22 following some sort of customs and baggage fiasco in the airport. Due to his creeping jet lag and my severe lack of sleep following a ride of 160 km, the two of us were almost like two walking zombies as we found a way back to the house and on a train to Koln. However, we were two zombies who had many laughs to let loose, stored up after months apart. Though laughing zombies are hardly what you would want to let into your house, Andorf's cousin Harold not only met us at the train station, waving a miniature German flag, but he even slowed down his German – often resorting to gestures and gross oversimplifications of questions – and gave us shelter for two nights. Those two dinners were what I pictured to be quintessential German cuisine (minus a pretzel, sauerkraut, or compulsory liederhosen at the dinner table). The first night was boiled potatoes, cooked German white asparagus, and schnitzel, all with generous amounts of melted butter poured on top. Dessert consisted of ice cream with erdbeeren (strawberries) on top. To follow up, we enjoyed some bratwurst and homemade potato salad. Of course, this was all washed down with some weissbier and Kulig, the specialty of the Koln/Cologne region. Stuffed full of energy-dense German food and with a bit of rest in the legs, we set out the third day for our bike tour.
Note: No gyros were consumed during this trip.

The Sun Sets Ever Norther
Our first day of actual cycling brought us up as high as 800m near the town of Winterberg. Apparently, this part of Germany has some ski runs for those who either can not travel all the way to the Alps or are not ready for real skiing, as the slopes are quite tame and not very long. Still, it was very scenic in the late spring and perfect for bicycling, what with the ubiquitous bicycle paths and quaint villages bordered by pine forests. I now realize that a good pine forest is all that I need in life. That and mountains. And the open road. And a fistful of anything punny.
Leaving Winterberg, we followed a river from its source westward a full 200 km. The best part about all of this was the ease of travel when following a river. Had we not been in Germany, we might have had to stray from the bicycle paths and onto true roads, but we never would have been lost just by keeping the river in sight or at least to our side.

Lovely bike path in the lovely forests of Germany

Plus, of course, the journey was all downhill from the source – well, not exactly, as the paths took on a number of climbs to keep things interesting or to avoid road traffic. With some beautiful pine-wood scenery under our belts and a couple of delicious traditional German meals along the way, we reached a warmshowers place in Essen, where we recovered for a night before taking a few trains up north to Hamburg, Germany's second largest city.
In Hamburg, true to form, we instantly found ourselves passing sex shops and other unnameable joints while searching for dinner. Eventually, we landed in a Turkish restaurant, though it was not some generic place like an "Italian restaurant" back home that might serve pasta but none of it is al dente and they pronounce "brusKetta" with the -ch sound. Nay, this was a full-fledged mini-Turkey in the middle of Hamburg. We have noticed an enormous Turkish presence all over Germany, but in this restaurant it was just like being back in Turkey – except that the waiters were quite curt and nothing was relaxed as it was in Turkey. The bread, the pizza, the tavuk sis kebab, and the tea (oh the tea!) was all nearly identical to what I had loved about Turkey, but that certain traditional carefree slowness was rudely replaced by the zipping to and fro of modern Western city life. The waiter seemed hardly to notice my few Turkish phrases I threw out there, but he did smile when I said "tesekkur ederim" aka thank you very much.
Following this delicious stop on the night train, we took the night train to meet an old friend for a party.

There's me and Maggie, all grown up! Then Andorf, looking cool as ever. The girl on the right opens beers with her teeth.

It was absolutely bone-crushingly great to see her again, and one of her American friends kept us amused throughout the night with her amazing ability to open up beer bottles with her teeth. With her teeth! Going against my best instincts, Andorf and I tried to encourage this practice as much as possible.
Leaving the party, we discovered the true heart of the city, which, coincidentally (or perhaps quite purposefully), is also the heart of the heartless. Indeed, we had entered the stronghold of the prostitutes. Everywhere we would look, there would be mildly unattractive girls standing on the sidewalks leading up to the main party street, all with vests on and each one sporting a fanny pack. Occasionally, they would mob a guy walking by himself but for some reason steered clear of me. Maybe it was the bloody knife in my hand. Maybe it was the other in my left thigh. Either way, I escaped with my life that night, but only after having a simple and good time with Andorf and Maggie. We even managed to grab a Guinness, though it tasted off; maybe you must enjoy everything in its right place.

Warmshowers Maketh Warmencounters
Just a note about warmshowers: The hosts have typically completed bicycle trips of their own of various lengths. As such, the conversation generally turns to traveling experiences, and I have come across some simple and some ambitious (3 years!) journeys. But the rule on warmshowers is that there is no “typical” experience, with one encounter being a quiet, one-on-one evening and the next involving a whole family with energetic children and plenty of trampolines.
The food, too, can vary quite a bit. Some visits produce traditional, home-cooked fare (such as what Sean and I encountered in Moustey, France – a pot of stewed beans and a succulent hunk of pork –; in Elizondo, Spain – Serrano ham, a cheese and potato omelet, some dry cider, and a local liqueur made from berries and anise –; and in Napoli – pasta lunches every day and a delicious pasta and fish dinner with local olive oil and fennel). Others simply have delicious meals ready when you arrive (like in Frankfurt, with barbecued lamb and various international delights on the dinner table; or in Targu Mures, Romania, where Gyopi made some wonderful chicken stir fry complete with quinoa upon my arrival). Sometimes the host will recommend a place to eat, especially when we are both in the mood for a quick and easy pizza (pizza in Wurzberg and Agrigento, good Greek food in Kalamata with Laura and our hosts). Very seldom is there nothing to eat, since all cyclists know the pleasure and necessity of eating on a tour (save when fasting, as one of my hosts is doing). Even in Istanbul, where Laura and I took the couple by surprise somehow, they were able to whip something up for all of us to enjoy. The bottom line is that all warmshowers people (and most others I have met!) kmow that a little kindness and generosity (the equivalent of a $7 meal) goes a long way in making a cyclist happy and healthy.

Uh Flu? Uh nu!
In the past 12 hours, starting in the middle of the night, Andorf came down with some sort of stomach ache that resulted in his being sick. Luckily for us, today is a rest day of no riding, so he can give his body the break that it needs to recover from this mystery sickness. What could be the cause?

What the picture cannot convey is the climb undertaken to achieve this view -- and the golden silence that awaited us

We suspect that the smoked salmon we ate yesterday was not agreeing with him this morning, though I ate a bit more than he did and I feel fine. Admittedly, my stomach was unsettled at night. Food poisoning is one of the worst things that can happen on a tour, for not only could it be a significant setback to total ground covered and traveling, but it also might taint your view of food for a while. I would hate to lose my ever-growing fascination of local, traditional, and bizarre foods.
At any rate, we are taking our time having just finished visiting his half-uncle Fritz, who had prepared a lovely barbecue for us, coincidentally, on Memorial Day. I am always somewhat surprised at the ease with which people take care of visiting relatives whom they have never met – and their strange, tanlined, spandex-wearing friends, too! One of my favorite stories from this journey has been the “Fake Cousins” in Ireland, where Sean and I made contact with the wrong Bridie Kenny. If you have not heard this juicy tale yet, you have not lived, nor have you died, nor have you died a liver a deep hue of blue (it is physically impossible).
We met them during a wild September storm, complete with raging winds and driving rain. After a refreshing shower and while preparing a delicious Irish dinner (so many potatoes and fried onions), we discovered that they were not my actual cousins and that my true cousin lived 4 miles away. Well, you might expect that to have changed the situation, making the family treat us less warmly or giving us nothing more than a wave goodbye; instead, they redoubled their efforts to make us feel welcomed as guests and friends, always smiling and laughing while they showed us the town, took us out for a Guinness, and made a hardy breakfast for us in the morning. In return, we had to dig some spuds out of the ground and pick up a few freshly-laid eggs from their hens.
Granted, our with Matty's German cousins have been a bit more legitimate, for his 88 year-old grandmother who emigrated from Germany still keeps in contact with these family members.

How peaceful the scenery; how dangerous the pine cones

The bottom line from these encounters, as has been the theme all along, is that kindness is universal, and that opening yourself up to these situations produces all kinds of wonderful, almost magical connections that can cross any sort of language or cultural barrier.
Tomorrow, we take a train to the southernmost part of Germany, where we will kick around with some Austrian friends I had met in Sicily while we enjoy the sight of the Alps looming above the Lake of Konstanz. Our journey together is almost to an end already, but we still have miles to go before we sleep (Andorf is sleeping off his sickness at the moment, but in the metaphorical sense, he is still wide awake during an afternoon in the brightest month of the year).

Prague-ably will return

20/5/11

Nurnberg, Germany


Just checking out Prague with my good friend apple, who recently disappeared


I spent 5 days in the memorable city of Prague, or just outside of it. Because the house was 20 km north, I had the exciting and wholly pleasant experience of taking public transportation in the form of buses and trains to reach the Old Town. Unlike its American counterpart, which should not even be called "transportation" but rather "headache-inducing impossibility," public transportation here runs constantly and is always bustling with traffic. People still drive cars in the cities, but the bulk of travel occurs via public transportation here. This may be because of high gasoline prices and the relatively expensive nature of cars for Czech people that cause them to not even own one but to use buses for all their long-distance travel. In addition, most Czech people that I saw on the bus were either commuting, which is a great use for this form of transportation, or were running their daily errands and could be seen lugging bags full of groceries or the like.

The National Museum at night, shortly after an opera at the nearby Opera House


These latter people were mostly women who seem to have a routine down for how to get around the city. What I saw on the bus and metro system was local people living out their daily lives without using cars. What a concept.

The main reason I went to Prague was because I had a friend there whom I had met in high school. He was one of those foreign exchange kids, and I took him under my wing and showed him how the cool American guys did things (they usually hung out on the weekends near the 7-11, so it was no problem to spy on them from a distance). Jan let me stay in the house of his grandparents, who have been dead for 15 years now. I wouldn't have thought the house were haunted if it weren't for all the dirty ghost magazines scattered about. At least they didn't bother me and probably even enjoyed what I cooked up. Unfortunately, my friend had very little spare time because I had caught him smack in the middle of exams period for the Charles University math program. Thus, I found myself quite alone for much of that time, so I tried my hardest to come up with ways to get me out of that lonely, silent house.

Stone soup. Actually, beef, mushroom, onion, potato, carrot, leek, garlic, asparagus, and, later, cream soup.


Getting to Prague each day was quite fun, for I got to peek inside an average Czech life. Indeed, it was the equivalent of stepping into 100 different cars and riding with Americans as they commuted to work or ran errands. Alright, so the best part actually wasn't bouncing to and fro on the bumpy Czech roads in a large bus, hearing a language being spoken that I couldn't hope to understand. No, the city itself was far better (hard to believe, I know). I checked out some of the main sights, including two cool churches (St. Nicolas Church, a pristine example of the Baroque style, and St. Vitus Cathedral, an imposing Gothic structure located in the grounds of the castle). There were a number of small museums, such as one of Franz Kafka; another of a rich Czech family that boasted a collection of, well, everything, from


A view from the top of (perhaps) the tallest tower in Prague, situated in the heart of the Old Town's enormous square



famous autographs to a bunch of weapons to rare manuscripts to a dead cockroach in the corner (might have been oriental or something); and a third was a Salvador Dali gallery, with rare photos of photos. I went to none of these but would have if the timing had been right, or if I had someone else with me.
As I left Prague, I brought with me an appreciation for Czech food, friendliness, and increasing standard of living. Before the Czechs adopt the Euro, their currency will continue to increase in value as the country gains prosperity. It's a fine place, occupying a wonderful and tranquil countryside. But for now, I must look ahead to Germany and the treasures that await there!

Mama Mia!

Oh, and I almost forgot. Well, I did forget, or at least I chose not to mention it. The kids were yelling at me to go play catch with them. You know how it goes.

Short and sweet: Happy Mother(')s Day! I hope all you mother-lovers out there have a blast today! Now, to go sleep outside next to the Danube.

Mush! Hah! Steel yourself! Onward, to Germanytown!

8/5/11

Budapest, Hungary

My trip turned 10,000 km last week. Happy 10k-k to you...

It was a bright and sunny day, in the year of Our Lorde Two-aught-ought-to-eleven. I found myself alone in the great city of Budapest, staring up at a blue sky through the green leaves of a large tree. For an instant, I closed my eyes, and I let my mind wander, resting for a moment wherever it desired to be in the world. I was not in Budapest; I was in Sicily. I was not in a green, springtime park, half-asleep and typing away on my computer; I was playing football in the fallen autumn leaves, wearing a Chicago Bears sweatshirt and looking forward to some chicken soup or meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

You gotta climb to get these views, but your shadow gets it for free; western edge of Transylvania

It was not undecipherable Hungarian that was drifting across the grasses, lifting in the air and descending on my passive ears like elevator muzac or what you hear while shopping at a supermarket; it was the frenzied tales of close friends, rife with humor and vivid description and irony at every turn. God knows I love irony, especially on the turns. Needless to say, there are times out here when my isolation is palpable. Funny how loneliness could ever reach a maximum in the middle of an enormous, bustling city park on a perfect Saturday spring afternoon. But that's just the way things go (if you're black you might as well not shooow up on the street, 'less you wanna draw the heat... etc. etc. etc.).

Something they love to eat in Romania and Hungary: bread with pig or duck lard, salt, paprika, and (optional) onions; delicious!

All loneliness aside, I am enjoying different parts of this trip now. Because it is extremely difficult to learn more than a few key phrases of a given language without having much time to practice, I find myself keeping silent more often in a day, riding for longer stretches and finding the easiest spot to sleep. Indeed, in the last two days to reach Budapest, I rode 153 km each day and cut across the flat plains of Hungary like a jackknife slicing through some soft cheese, preferably the Edam I just picked up. This distance is a record in terms of solo travel on this trip and might just beat the 2-day record that Sean and I set getting through Wales and safely to Paul & Deb's in Weston. It still cannot compare with the amount of cycling I was doing in my trip home from school (average 160 km per day over 10 days), but here my load is far heavier (probably a solid and/or liquid 25 pounds more). Still, it left me feeling quite wrecked and ready to enjoy a rest in Budapest. Last night, that rest was shattered when I discovered my rear rim was cracked in two separate spots. A quick internet search, which was preceded by an instinct-check and followed by a hole-test (this is where I see if the hole is actually a hole or just an optical illusion; yup, it's a legit hole, alright), made me seek out a bicycle shop as quickly as possible.

What you got there is a hole where a hole does not belong

Today, being Sunday, will not have many places be open; however, I was lucky enough to come across one with the help of a cyclist here in Budapest. I am typing this while waiting for the shop to open and the rain to clear up enough to cycle without becoming soaked. After the purchase of a new rim, I should be on my way to clear skies in the north. Right, they're out of those, I forgot. On my way to gray and cloudy and wet and heavy skies to the north!

But before I do go, allow me to say that I have switched ever so slightly from stop-and-smell-the-roses mode to burn-a-path-through-Eastern-Europe mode in order to reach Frankfurt by the 21^st of May.

What a pleasant welcome to Hungarian national roads! Too bad they are the only ones in decent shape...

According to this map, I am only a couple of finger-lengths away! It doesn't say how many hours of cycling a finger-length is, but I would guess it's only two or three. That means... I'll be there by lunchtime! Oh, but I don't want wiener schnitzel for dinner tonight. I'll figure something out.

Funny, as I sit here in the small seating area of the hostel in central Budapest, I am hit with a blast of cool, damp air as someone walks outside into the rain. Instantly, I am reminded of the times Sean and I spent sheltering ourselves from the wet weather in Ireland. Even the smells are familiar, though here, with everyone being a smoker and smoking still being allowed indoors in some places, there is a different aroma that brings me back to childhood.

Budapest: Home to what is purportedly the world's largest artificial ice skating rink, now just another ugly concrete bed for four-headed cars

I am about ready to get back on the road, in spite of the weather and partly because of it. After all, not many will be out there experiencing what it is actually like to be moving through the rain! Is there a reason for that? No good one I can see.

My kingdom for a bigger kingdom!

29/4/11

Targu Mures, Transylvania, Romania

This update is nothing special. It will not change your world. Do not expect it to buy you a nice steak and lobster dinner with that apple cobbler for dessert (lobster is just too much work for something unsubstantial and mostly butter and lemon, anyway).

It is just an update to let you know I am still alive.

And kicking.

Facebook says: Heading out? Stay connected!

Today, if all goes as planned, I will be a millionaire in lottery receipts. I mean I will be leaving Bulgaria and entering Romania. I know not how difficult it will be to cross the border, but if the Turkey-Bulgaria border is standard for borders in this neck of the woods, then I'm in for a long haul. Especially considering how this particular crossing is perhaps the only functioning border crossing between the two nations. You would think all former Soviet Bloc countries would get along splendidly following its collapse, considering they all wear t-shirts saying “I Survived the Soviet Bloc.” I suppose this is not the case.

Sorry about the lack of pix, but my camera is on strike. Damn unions. Actually, the connection is so slow that I fear even attempting to upload a picture will crash the connection and leave us all postless. I will instead try to paint picture in your head. Crap, all I have is red mental paint. OK, don't panic, we can still make some apples! But we all hate red delicious apples. I know! How about a nice sun. But is it rising or setting? Ah, forget all visuals. Let's move on.

The other day, just as I had decided to leave the last sizable city before the border, I spied a fellow touring cyclist stopped at an information booth just ahead. This was an entirely chance encounter because I had passed up the turning point for the road I wanted, which I shrugged off as I decided to see more of the city. The cyclist's name is Veronica, and she, too, had stopped because of fortune, though whether it is good or bad is up in the air. Her knee was giving her major problems, so she had to cut her tour short and thus was taking a train back to her home country of Romania that night. Instead of pressing on like I am wont to do, I thought it would be interesting and valuable to stay and talk with Veronica that day before her train. After all, she was the first touring cyclist I had the time to meet thus far on the trip. Needless to say, I had plenty of questions for her, and she for me.

Perhaps the best part of the encounter, outside of being able to speak fluent English with someone finally, was that we shared the same ideas about travel and living. We both appreciate and seek out freedom in life. Though she is a teacher of French and English living in the capital city of Romania, Bucharest, her dream is to move to the mountains of Transylvania, where she said she admires the simple life they live. Their favorite motto, roughly translated, is, “Wait, and things will solve. Have patience.”

A major reason why I take my bicycle is that it offermore freedom in traveling than through a plane, a train, a bus, or even a car. For instance, yesterday I spent a few minutes every now and then photographing the wildflowers on a deserted country road. This is an activity only possible through travel by your own power, and even in a car you speed along too quickly to notice any individual flower. At least I hope you would keep your eyes on the road in these hilly, curvy, dangerous road conditions. Also, all the people I interact with on this trip, I do so because I am on a bicycle, whether it be through the warmshowers website, the old men outside of cafes that I ask for directions and help, or the kids running after me shouting, “Hello! What is your name?” People give you respect (and a certain amount of distance; I am not sure if that is the smell or the fact they think I am crazy). People give you food and water. People give me more than mountains or rivers ever could. And all you have to do is pedal a few thousand miles to get it. Who would have thought paradise would be so easily attainable?

Gule Gule Turkey!

17/4/11

Edirne, Turkey

25 miles from Istanbul and the buildings spring up like weeds

Hello folks and folkettes! This is your neighborhood Bobby checking in following nearly a month's hiatus (thank you government of Turkey for blocking the blog website; and thank you Tor for your magical hiding of internet access locations). What has happened in that month, you ask? Why, nothing more than L.I.F.E. Somehow, Laura was able to secure and transport a travel-sized game of Life. That game's amazing, except that there is no bicycle piece – only cars. Then again, they don't really make tandems for babies, and there is very little respect for cops who ride around on bicycles (especially recumbent bikes (CORBS anyone?)). I digress. Oh how I do digress. I also ungress. Haha, jokey joke. It really shows that I haven't written in a while, eh?

Where am I at the moment? Where have I been? What the hell has been going on? I am in Turkey and am sitting within 5 km of both Greece and Bulgaria (wait, you're sitting?).

Ah, the joys of tavuk and kuzu "şiş" aka chicken and lamb shish kebab.

The lady I had scheduled to stay with (via warmshowers) is moving to Canada in a week and so has left me alone in a cluttered house while she spends the night in a more cluttered one in the city. I'm fine with this, except that the washing machine makes weird noises occasionally that make me jump.

Up until the 14^th, Laura and I had been touring Peloponnese, the Greek islands of Rhodes and Kos, and select parts of Turkey. I should stress “select” because all we really discovered was that we absolutely had to return in order to witness all the amazing things you can find here.

Mmm, that's some good vantage point

From the many breathtaking landscapes (huge coastlines, rocky hills with endless olive groves, desolate mountains of the east, wildflowers in bloom along the Black Sea, swaths of forest and farmland near Greece and Bulgaria, many pretty mountain-rimmed lakes, and impressive cities galore) to the insane number of historical sites (I'm talking “Dawn of Civilization” type stuff) and topped with genuine people who can't wait to ask me “What is your name?”, Turkey is the number one place I'd return to out of all the countries I've seen. I must admit that to do it on a bicycle, to tour the entirety of Turkey, could occupy the greater part of a year, but that is the best way to appreciate fully the richness of the land and the warmth of the people. Truly, there is no greater hospitality than that gifted to a young touring cyclist in need of shelter.

Laura and I went about things differently on our tour than I did with Sean. For one, we were happy to take our time, knowing full well that we'd need to take some extra form of transportation as Laura's flight approached. So we had days where we only rode 20 km, stopping to pick wildflowers all the while.

Such a kind Turkish village family that took me in; the full story is worth a post in itself!

But we also took fewer chances while camping; well, I should say that we took different chances, either climbing well out of sight or getting lucky with no one around. Indeed, the disparate landscapes of Greece/Turkey and the whole of Western Europe made the two trips quite different. There were many spots in Peloponnese that were absolutely free of people, especially during this off season. On the other hand, I'd say that only in Spain did we find regions completely devoid of people (at least living, breathing ones); everywhere else we had to either camp in forests just outside of cities where you could hear the motorway all night, or in the backyards of hotels perched on a dark hill and closed for the winter, or smack dab in the middle of a town but surrounded on all sides by a natural fortress of hedges.

Laura's departure was hard to face following the wonderful time we had together, but it was necessary for the both of us; she is now tending to her lovely pup Spartacus and working at her hospital while I am hightailing it to Frankfurt to meet up with Andorf in mid May. Tomorrow, I shall say goodbye to this fertile land of plenty and say hello to the next step in the journey: beautiful, bustling, beastly, bullish, bartending, bra-stealing, bear-chested, bubblicious, bbbbbb, average Bulgaria!

Oh, speaking of “bullish” there, let's all support our local basketball team, the Reed Rockets, who just took 5^th place in this weekend's tournament at Troy Junior High School. Go get 'em, Reed Rockets! Stone them! I mean rock!

Er, what I really meant to say was to be vocal and boisterous in supporting the Bulls, who just emerged victorious over the Pacers in Game 1 of their first series. For reference, they posted the same exact record this year as did our last championship team. Coincidence? You be the judge. Or fate. But don't we make our own fate? Exactly. And the Bulls have made themselves into fated champions of the world.

First glimpses of Greece

19/3/11

Kalamata, Greece


Snowcapped views, sun, 70F, and biking; what more could a lad want?



We have spent the last four days in the southernmost part of the Greek mainland: Peloponnesus. What we have found is nothing but the most amazing scenery with the smallest of towns and a smattering of different landscapes. The only constant in all of the region is the olive tree, which has a stranglehold on the flora, both farmed and wild.




Valleys that feel as ancient as the Earth, covered with olive trees; Jurassic Park!



I am keeping this short because of the need for sleep. Expect more pictures and actual stories the next time we wed. Until that moment comes, stay strong and eat some feta cheese!

Venice: Worth the Wait

9/3/11 (finished 14/3/11)

Metz, France (finished on the Mediterranean)


The view out our Venetian hotel's window; the pretty girl was a nice bonus


Phase 3 (three) has begun in earnest, with the reunion of Bob and Laura at Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris. Ever since then, it has felt as though I were on a vacation within a vacation within a vacation. That's right, three levels, which seems appropriate considering the number of the current phase. What I mean is that I am already on a Break From Life™ by being out in Europe. I then decided not to cycle to Paris but rather to spend more time in Sicilia and then take a train (like a vacation from the cycling). And finally, now I have been enjoying just being with Laura again, staying two days in Paris before training to Metz and relaxing with Mark, her uncle, once more. A previous post, way back in the days of Paul and Deb, detailed the changes that occur when switching from 90 km a day in bad weather over hill and dale to relaxing with friends, drinking beer, and stuffing your face full without that same biking-induced hunger. The conclusion I came to was that even though that was an opportunity to rest and recover, the stay only made me more tired. Perhaps this is due to staying up late talking with new people and getting to know their way of life; perhaps it is from an inability to sleep in, still waking up at the crack of dawn even with the license to rest longer; and perhaps it is from my body's metabolism severely shutting down once I step off the bike. Whatever the case, these breaks from cycling seem to leave me only craving the open road once more.

This does not mean that I am not enjoying the chance to catch my breath and enjoy some quality time with Laura. After all, we had been apart for seven months, emailing occasionally and talking even less regularly. Being on my own since January 7, I had been quietly having my own adventures out in Italia and Sicilia but with an eye perpetually turned toward March 3, the day Laura would fly into Paris. So enough of this wishy washy mushy gushy stuff; what have we been up to, out here in Paris, in Venice, on the Mediterranean?


Sweet masks for the Venetian Carnivale


For starters, Laura has been getting into more trouble with the law than I ever have in my six months out here. In the future, we know not to bring giant knives to the Eiffel Tower. Also, the one time your cousin scans you into the Metro using her free pass is the one time that they will check for tickets at your stop. And did you know kidnapping was illegal out here, too? I am sorry for dashing so many of your dreams, but it is true.

Aside from attempts at stabbing to death metal national symbols, we have been fully enjoying the French and Italian ways of life. What does this translate to? Why, cheese, wine, and prosciutto, all in massive heaps. One of Laura's uncle's friends invited us to his lovely house for lunch one day and thrilled us with the most delicious wine, a perfectly crafted local sausage, and a righteous collection of the best French cheeses.

Us at the Eiffel Tower. What a sight!


His family and the surrounding countryside were delightful to boot. We spent a great deal of time with her uncle Mark, who has been living in France teaching English in various posts for the majority of his life. Not only does he have a great sense of humor, wonderful taste in music and movies, and a knack for conversation, but he also can cook something fierce. Unfortunately, we did not have as much pasta this time around as Sean and I did the previous time, but the chicken that he prepared us was succulent and gone all too quickly. When not eating, we fooled around with his CDs and tapes, finding such gems as Strawberry Alarm Clock and Beck's entire discography. Among other movies, the three of us watched Bonnie and Clyde, which certainly gave me some inspiration for Greece. Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed relaxing once again in Metz and was especially happy to be in Mark and Laura's company again.

While I certainly skimmed over Paris and have not yet mentioned Venice, suffice it to say that those two places are nothing short of magical, magnetic cities that draw you in and do not let go.



Lost in Venice at night



Indeed, if we had the time (and the money: those places are deathtraps for budgets!), we would have stayed for a full week in each, exploring the architectural and cultural beauty of Paris and being perpetually lost in the human maze that is Venice. These two places I would not hesitate to recommend to any traveler, and I can only marvel at the indelible mark they have each left on my heart.

Wherefore now? Oh where next in the great adventure? I am overjoyed to be getting back on the bike tomorrow and riding in a completely new country. We plan to spend 2-3 weeks together in Greece before taking a ferry to Turkey and finishing the ride to Istanbul (Laura is somewhat limited on time away from her job and dog). What we will find I can only dream of today, and I had better do it quickly, for tomorrow it will be a reality!

Again, to Genova

27/2/11

On a big jet plane (and by “jet plane” I mean “traghett” – compliments to Raimondo for that little jewel – aka “ferry”), somewhere between Palermo and Genova

Still kicking myself for not getting four of these

Allow me to start by saying I do not know when I will be able to post this. I am about to embark on a very different type of journey that will leave little time for searching for the internet. If I find it, yahoo!; if not, yaboo. But I have an hour still until the ferry arrives, and there are many things on my mind, having no one here with whom to talk, so I thought I would capture this moment in time by creating a blog post. (Now allow me to thank the heavens for the relative ease of internet access in the north of Italia! Such a fine library, too.)

Today's lesson, boys and f'males, concerns the differences between travel under one's own power and travel with the aid of trains, planes, and traghetti. I find myself in a particular situation at the moment. No, I am not referring to having thrown overboard dozens of schoolchildren and thus being wanted by the international police force known as the French Foreign Legion.

The delicious, nutritious, and ubiquitous pesce spada (swordfish)


Rather, floating here on the Mediterranean with nothing to do but think has forced me to think about the next few days. Essentially, I am heading to Paris to begin the next leg of the journey.

Let me step back a moment. As you probably recall, the first leg of the journey had four legs: two from me, and two from Sean, though we would occasionally pick up some more at the open-air body-part markets found only in Luxembourg Ave., Luxembourg City, Luxembourg (don't ever ask me to speak of this again). Come Christmas, I began the slow but inevitable transition to the second leg of the trip, where I first joined my loving cousins and various beurs in Navan, Co. Meath, Ireland, before returning to life on a bike on my lonesome in Italia.

Cathedral of Monreale; the entire length of the walls and the beams of the ceiling are covered in golden mosaics depicting scenes from the Bible

I had a marvelous time seeing the Italian countryside, sampling its many foods, learning a bit of the language (poco poco, pero posso parlare!), and – of course – reveling in the hospitality and friendliness of Southern Italia. And then came Sicilia, where everything was magnified and I made friends that I know I will see again, both later on the bicycle and afterward in America. But nothing gold can stay, or all good things must end, or entropy is always increasing, and so the second portion ends as the third one begins. On Thursday, in Paris, I will again be fortunate enough to have a partner in crime join me for what should turn out to be a grand tour of Greece.

It is a strange sensation, to say the least, being on my own and trying to enjoy the solitary life, with its unavoidable hardships, while at the same time anxiously awaiting a reunion with Laura, my girlfriend, in Paris.

I am already sad to be leaving these friends; on the right is Roberto, who housed me for three days in Palermo, while in the left corner stands Sabrina, who put up with me and my antics and poor pronunciation of o's for just as long

There were times when I felt more there than here, when my mind was elsewhere as I slept alone in my tent in a campsite that was technically closed for the winter, listening to dogs bark not far enough away and staring at the moonlight spilling onto my sleeping bag. There were times when I lost focus and motivation as the weather turned sour and I desperately wished for some of those Wayne's World do-do-do powers of time warping and/or teleportation. But then I would snap back to the present, pull myself together, and have the time of my life.

Posing with the stigoli man, who is cooking the intestines of pig in a most delicious way; as Roberto said, I will never forget that aroma.

But the third stage is not yet here, and the second has not drawn its last breath. Indeed, the next few days will present an unfamiliar and thus ugly sort of challenge that will not test my physical strength or endurance but rather my mental fortitude and patience. When I disembark in Genova, I will have three days to get to Paris. How exactly that will happen, I do not know, but the fact that it will happen, I have no doubt. Because of the extreme difficulty and relatively high cost of traveling with my bicycle but not by means of my bicycle -- ie by bus, train, or plane -- I am not looking forward to the process of reaching Paris, which runs counter to my preference of the journey over the destination.


Ciao Ciao Sicilia, mia amore x sempre


When the next update will come, I know not; but expect news then from the other side of the boundary.

The Last (Sicilian) Supper

23/2/11 (finished 26/2/11)

Palermo, Sicilia

One last look at Etna, from the West; volcanic rock in the foreground

The last few days have seen me cut through the center of Sicilia, from the towering, snowy heights of Mt. Etna to the gritty and thriving quarters of the port city of Palermo. I have traveled 270 km over the last 3 days and reached altitudes of 1150m before descending to sea level on the second evening. While it was certainly a challenge to navigate the seemingly endless hills and valleys of this fertile island, the experience of achieving a zen-like state on my lonesome is an overpowering reward. Besides, I am now here in the company of some great friends, whom I will be sad to leave later tonight.

Again, as I look back on the previous webbed log communication, I berate myself for not updating with more frequency. I mean, there are so many awesome things that have happened since the last post that it is unfortunate that I will not be sharing it with you.

First of all, internet availability here is sparse at best, with people clearly living oblivious to the world wide web. For instance, a woman at a bed and breakfast told me there was internet in her home, so with my computer I could surely connect. When I asked for the password, she looked baffled (perhaps because I don't know the Italian word for “password,” and even if I did, the woman would not have understood that the darn newfangled contraption with all them blinking lights would ever need a password) and had to get her son. He showed up and explained to me that their internet was being provided courtesy of a local wifi hotspot that costs money to use and that his code would not work for my computer. They welcomed me in to use their computer, and so I sat in their smoky parlor while they watched the father go on the local news for being the head chef in a cooking demonstration.

Secondly, and more interestingly, I have been very busy here, in spite of being alone in a foreign country. When I am not biking (or eating, resting, or taking phot's), I shop for food, find a place to stay, and talk to as many people as I can. Especially over the last 20 days – in Agrigento, Mascali, and now Palermo – I have been taken such great care of by various friends I have met here in Sicilia.

These are friends that I certainly want to keep throughout my life, for they are all of “buon hombre” material. I don't mean to count out the women; they are just as warm, just as loving, just as wonderful of people. Last week in Mascali, with my friend Andreas, his family, and some of his friends (big shout out to Charley, Sabene, Lena, and Egon), I felt as though I were part of their clan not just for a week but for life. Instead of constantly updating this blog and sitting by myself, reading riting and rithmaticking, I stayed in their company, where they would readily translate their German stories to English so that I could be a part of the conversation. Here in Palermo, though I am trying to learn Italian and can follow what is being said, I have difficulty expressing my own thoughts. But no matter: these cats are very patient and enjoy learning English as much as I do Italian. Sometimes I just want to scream out Cazzo! when I can't communicate what I mean, but we take our time and eventually understand each other.

I can't get everything out that I have seen and done here, vero, but I can comment on how supremely Sicilia has surpassed my expectations. I am very fortunate to have met the people I did, but as Andreas has said, you have to be in the game to have a shot at winning. If I were not able and willing to take the chance out here, eager to take the risk, ready to take on the challenge, then I would not have met any of these great people.

So far, people from every part of Europe have been marvelously welcoming and friendly. But I am especially glad to have met some people my age, and very interesting ones, at that. For instance, at the moment, I am sitting in Raimondo's room listening to Alice Cooper, Bruce Springsteen, and John Prine. Last night, we tossed around a football (an AMERICAN football) but cut it short because the ball was flat as a dead pancake's EKG. And the best part is that I feel as though it were absolutely normal to be hanging out here, many thousands of miles from home. (By the way, Google Maps is the best (true that double true) for showing people the stark differences between Sicilia and America; Chicago is pretty impressive and having a pool in the backyard is close to a dream).

Now I must prepare myself for a traghetto (ferry) to Genova, where I will somehow make my way up to Paris.

Guh? The decoration of a B&B. Feng Shui?

I find myself already looking forward to the next time I will see these great people, whether it be here again in August, in Austria in the summer for a festival or two, or back in Chicago five years down the road. Any day, I will be ready to make them feel at home in my home.

Sicilian Rain (to the tune of "Four Fat Trumpettes")

12/2/11 (completed 16/2/11)


Agrigento, Sicilia (completed in Mascali, Sicilia)


Look at that sun... sinkin´ like a ship...


Last night, I had my first experience with CouchSurfing, and I have to say that it was perhaps the perfect match. I could not have hoped for a better situation and probably could not have had more fun than I did with people I had just met. Then again, that seems to be the case for much of Sicilia at the moment. For reference, posterity, and so that the truth may be known (it's out there!), I'll recount the close friends I've made in my two weeks here.

First, there was the Gang of Four back in Catania, which consisted of myself, a fellow Chicagoan girl, an Austrian man with immense knowledge of European and worldwide festivals, and a Frenchman living in Munich who appeared ten years younger than he was.


I got lost here, but I was happy


We united for the night of my birthday and enjoyed the spectacular fireworks in honor of Sant Agata, later sharing a beer and some dessert. Just before that, I had met a very kind and warm Sicilian guy who formed a special bond with me and my Austrian friend and even invited us to his friend's place for pasta and wine that night. Though I may not see these people again, at least not in the near future, the time we few days we had together were wonderful and meaningful.

Next, I was welcomed into a new city by some very kind strangers who seemed to have nothing to do but love life.


For me? This almond blossom is the reason for the Mandorla in Fiore festival in Agrigento, which brought dancers from all over the world


What I mean is that each of these people appeared to have a very simple recipe for having fun and using their time. Allow me to explain: I first met the man on the bike while I was riding to Ragusa. He showed me all the smaller and less trafficked roads to take and was very patient to let me stop and take as many pictures as I wanted to. We just rode together and had a bit of pizza for lunch. Enzo took his time and was in no rush. We met two British girls with whom we then spent the remainder of the afternoon, walking around this beautiful city and again taking our time, for this was life. We each had no where else to be and no other obligations other than enjoying ourselves and the view in that moment. I am very much unfamiliar with this notion, for back home and at school, there was always something I had to do, always something ahead to think about and worry about and no I can't go out, no I have to go, no I have to study or run . Never has my adult life been as free from worry and concern as it is now, but there is still much to learn to approach the level of carefree living that these friends show; for them, they seem to always be in the moment and do not concern themselves with the past or present.

In Modica, I met a teacher and her students, one of which invited me to be part of her family for a day. The teacher herself was being extremely hospitable , helping me because she herself had traveled when she was my age and knew the trouble of finding a place just to sleep. Even though her house was not exactly in order at the moment, she welcomed me to sleep on an extra foldable mattress in the small living room dominated by the toys of her two small children. When I say her life is not “in order,” I mean that, at age 50, she is raising her two children alone. The little boy and girl are 3-year-old twins that were born prematurely and so have developmental issues, making them even more difficult to rear. Furthermore, her apartment was a mess from having recently to move from one place to this one, which was old and probably not “safe” for living. Her cat had to live in the bathroom, for she was afraid it would run out the door or just tear up the furniture otherwise. This made the already small bathroom even more cramped and impossible. It also rendered the shower essentially useless. But the kicker is that Kitty, the profesoresa, has to take care of her sick mother, who is immobile and nonresponsive. In spite of all this, she let me stay over for a night and even fed me some pasta for dinner. And while one might expect such a load of troubles to tear a person apart, Kitty was the picture of a happy and loving woman. Sure, she mentioned a few times that she would like some help and that she did not sleep the previous night, but she was always smiling in a cheerful way and had a very positive outlook on life.

Rosanna and her family were extremely kind and also ready to love and enjoy life. Staying with them reminded me of my childhood, when we would go to my grandparents' house some Sundays and have dinner, usually a delicious barbecue or some Vito and Nick's Pizza, generally with some sort of pie for dessert, and I was free of cares. With the family, I visited the grandparents and had a lovely chat before walking to a nearby house in which lived the cousins.


Ancient Greek ruins in Agrigento, pretty much the coolest thing ever; also the second biggest site of these outside of Athens



They knew some English, so we ended up speaking in half English and half Sicilian. The whole night, no one spoke of having to get back to do work, or of another obligation they had to anything; instead, everyone was genuinely overjoyed to be visiting with their family and this new visitor. They treated me better than I could have hoped and fed me some Sicilian pizza, which I am finding is just as common and comfort-food-esque out here as it is back home, being bought for get-togethers with friends.

The final group puts the icing on the cake of this wonderful observation about the joys of being able to sit back and enjoy life; or of staying free of appointments, petty worries, and stress; or at least of knowing how to separate work and pleasure and working only to allow for the pleasure of food, travel, and family. Three of the four guys with whom I was staying in Agrigento were students at the archeological school, meaning they had zero monies in their pockets and not too great of prospects post-graduation. And yet, these guys treated me as though I were a guest of honor, buying me food and drinks and generally making sure I was having a great time. These guys and the girls we met later and the rest of their many pals were the warmest group of friends I have ever met, for certain. It was something extraordinary to me for all these students to be able to spend an entire weekend away from the books and have fun with a strange visitor. They had tests coming up but seemed to realize that they had an opportunity to have fun in a new way, which was far more important.

If I sound like a broken record, it is because every second Wednesday I've been taking lessons on imitations of malfunctioning hardware. But probably more relevant is that the common theme for these travels, I am finding, is the great kindness, overwhelming warmth, and abundant love of the people I meet, which I am constantly seeing is in fact universal.