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.