Honeymooners in Africaland

I’m back! Thanks for waiting oh so patiently, undoubtedly with bated breath, while I gathered my thoughts and put my affairs in order for my next big trip. Sure, it’s been over 2 years, but I’m sure you’ll agree that your chronic blue face and massive neuronal necrosis was worth it, for I have news of a trip of epic proportions. This puppy registers a 9 on the Richter Scale of Journeys, or, for our Irish readers, the Awesome Sauce O’Meter (ASOM). It was evaluated AAAA++ for creditworthiness by Standard & Poors, and it was rated a 98 by the International Wine Association, particularly praised for its acacia notes, hints of banana, and lack of Ebola.

What sort of trip could receive such accolades? Why, a trip to Africaland, of course! The Nations of Notions; the Continent of Continence; South America’s Former Siamese Twin.

That’s right: Laura and I had a voucher at the Honeymoon Store, and we splurged on a 3-week extravaganza 7000 miles away from home. While we certainly considered many far-flung and exotic destinations (like Fiji, Madagascar, and the Younger Land of Zea), Ethiopia and Tanzania eventually won our hearts.

What exactly drew us thither? First, Africa was a place that always intrigued us for its bounty in both culture and flora/fauna. You can’t deny that some of the most traditional cultures in the world live among its 53 nations, some of which still live in hunter-gatherer societies largely untouched by the West. Similarly, our favorite animals that we’ve seen in National Geographic, on the Discovery Channel, and in the Lion King (I’ll be honest, this was reason #1 that we went to the Serengeti in Tanzania) beckoned to us so strongly that they made the Sirens sound more hoarse than an old hag who eats tomacco by the bushel. And Africa has three amazing geographical features that we have heard so much about: the Sahara Desert, the jungles of Congo (with the great apes), and the Great Rift Valley. Ethiopia and Tanzania are two prime examples of the last formation, which results in an amazing landscape of an ever-rising highlands (we’re talking easily 7,000-12,000 feet) with a spreading lowlands of dramatically low proportions (2,000-4,000 feet). To boot, this was the site where Homo sapiens first evolved!

Not only that, but, as a runner, I have always been enamored with the people of Ethiopia and Kenya (not so much Tanzania, but they are growing in prominence) for their extreme prowess in distance and middle-distance running. Laura, too, did some research and discovered that Ethiopia was one of the cheapest, friendliest, and safest places on Earth. So with these points in mind, Laura and I set out to plan the Trip of a Lifetime: Honeymoon Edition.

Now that we are halfway through Phase 2 of the journey, in the next post, scheduled for release tomorrow, we will recap Phase 1, titled “Ethiopia: The Original ‘No Land for the Timid’ (Sorry, Alaska).”

Enjoy this picture as a teaser: It was taken on the final day of our cycling trip in Ethiopia, and if you look closely, you can see a little yellow dot on the road, which would of course be Laura!

Out of the Frying Pan, on to Durango: Colorado Trail Epic

10/9/12

Denver, CO

As this is a blog on cycling and questing, I thought it would be more than just appropriate to discuss cyclings and questings outside of the European realm: It would be the next logical step. After all, when will be the next time I set foot on the Emerald Isle? When will I again have the opportunity to take a chilly dip in the Mediterranean? WHEN WILL I TASTE THE SWEET SUCCULENCE OF SICILIAN BLOOD ORANGES??? Well, with the advent of global food distribution, the answer might be sooner than I think.

But we all know I'm a sucker for things so local, they're internal. And we all know my internals aren't what they should be (did someone say enema? because I swear if you come near my children again I'll...).

So it is that I turn to nearer 'ventures, learning to appreciate my front doorstep in the hopes of one day setting out into the rising sun and seeing a new land. I'm talking about a place where the beer flows like wine, where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I'm talking, of course, about Durango.

Guh?

That's right, folks. Durango, or, as Lloyd Christmas would understand it, SW of Aspen, in fact in the very southwestern-most part of CO. There is a trail that runs from Denver to Durango, some 480-520 miles, depending on if you travel on foot or by bike. And along this trail, I was met with every hardship imaginable. OK, I know what you're thinking: Laser-piranhas? High unemployment? The USS Monitor? Nay, nay, and touche!

I embarked not alone, but with a trusty companion who is as good in the mechanical department as I am in the eating/thinking about eating/wanting to be eating/playing cards department. His name is Ko, and I shall be introducing him in full next entry.

On the morning of July 6, 2012, we embarked for greener pastures and steeper mountains, and on July 6, 2012, we had to turn back to the car because of a terrible mechanical issue.

But the next morning, July 7, 2012, Ko and I set forth on a journey that would claim the lives of 7 marmots and 20 noodle packets; would conjure up at least a dozen storms; would separate us three times; and would see us run out of food not once, not twice, but thrice times.

Are you prepared for the trials, tribulations, and triskaidekaphobia of...

 THE COLORADO TRAIL (ooooohhh, aaaaaaahhh, gollum, gollum)...

there was some beauty, I guess

A Return to Benevolence

Denver, CO 80212

Tuesday, April 4, 2012 – Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Fourscore and seven halfweeks ago, I was just wrapping up my travels to and fro Europe. Apparently, and I’m sure much to your chagrin, this meant I was folding up my web blogging tent and heading for the Land Down Under, which here in Denver is a restaurant that outlaws greybeards and web blogging of all shapes and sizes.

Without your semi-daily fix of travelogue goodness, which undoubtedly you had been devouring along with a single poached egg at brunch, as per the instructions on the box (which box? why?), I bet there was a sense of forlornness. Of depression. Of momentary euphoria when you realized the shackles had finally fallen off and that you were free to eat brunch however you wished, which quickly slid into a much deeper depression when you remembered that one night a week ago in Vegas.

But please, cry no more! Plug up them eyes! For goodness sake, hold your tears! For, in the words of Rafiki, the King has returned, and the King is actually one of those aliens from Signs that took its chances on the planet whose surface is 76% water in spite of having an anaphylactic allergy to the stuff. In fact, could you move all wet wipes and discarded oyster shells from the vicinity of your computer? It’s really a terrible affliction.

Soon to be deceased extraterrestrial rulers notwithstanding, what better way to celebrate a renowned web blogger’s return than to offer you all a million dollars of my hard earned cashmonies? (Elated gasp!) Well, duh, I’ll post another story from my travels! (Disappointed sigh…) The only question is which story, and the only answer is the one about the Fake Cousins: A Day in Oopsland.

It was just your average, ordinary day in war-ravaged Ireland. Scratch that. It was a superordinary day. At any rate, the wind was howling and the rain was blowing us eastward, away from the coast and far from the lunar landscape of Connemara and the bouncy, lively, international city of Galway and its Girl.

The previous night, I had gotten in contact with a (distant) cousin of mine that lived within a day’s ride of Galway. Her name was Bridie Kenny, and my cousins back home raved about how kind and sweet she had been some ten years prior, when they had visited the Motherland. Unfortunately, my cousins did not have her contact information and so were doubtful that I could find her. But living in this Age of Information (AoI) is a wonderful thing, which can allow you to find almost anyone almost anywhere and located for me one Bridie Kenny living just inland of Galway in the very town where my Great Grandfather grew up, or at least one town over. My hopes were high as I dialed her number, my breath was held in anticipation as it rang, and my mind was utterly befuddled when a younger man answered the phone. To my knowledge, my cousin was a much older woman that lived alone. Joe, the man on the phone, calmed my fears by telling me he was her son taking care of her house while she was out, but he raised some new ones when he told me they weren’t aware of any relations in Chicago. Are you sure you’re not from New York? Or Texas? No, Chicago. Oh, well, no problem, we’ll figure it out tomorrow, after 7pm when Bridie returns from a trip to the doctor’s! The die had been cast, the wheel spun, and the spuds lightly fried with some salt and pepper. More on the spuds in a bit.

Knowing that we had all day to dilly and/or dally, Sean and I took our and probably everyone else’s sweet time. I got myself a snazzy Irish haircut in a town with a massive castle sitting smack dab in the middle. The barber was an older woman and was very kindly. But there was a catch: She had absolutely no sense of what hairstyles actually look good. She actually might have been blind. I’m not sure. But the fact remains that she was about to let me go with a veritable rattail when Sean spoke up on my behalf.

Not so bad after all, eh? Now that I look at it, I should probably clean behind the ears more thoroughly...

Leaving the barbershop with a sharp haircut, I was nearly to the point where I could declare the day a success. However, I was missing one key ingredient: food, and lots of it! So Sean and I stopped by a local deli and picked out our favorite Irish meat treat, which is of course corned beef. The only thing was that this deli product resembled bologna more than the corned beef I cherished so dearly. We wrote it off as just being the real stuff, not the American knock off version, and ordered half a kilo. I recall wondering why such a treasured and delicious food was so cheap out here, but again concluded that there must be such an abundance of it being that this is where it originated. We made our way to the castle’s playground to enjoy our feast.

Not two bites into our sample of corned beef, we realized our folly. In fact, opening up the package and catching a whiff of… whatever it was that was inside was enough to make us question what we were about to do. But too late! We had already started munching, then halting mid-chew, then looking around in a forlorn and confused manner, then nodding to each other in agreement before spitting out the horridness in our mouths and depositing the .499 kg that remained on the ground, hoping that it would be edible for the birds. Having learned our lesson, that we just weren’t in Kansas anymore and that Irish “corned beef” is the equivalent of cat food not fit for feline consumption, we packed up our lunchables and continued on toward the stormy skies in the East.

After taking another break to warm up, nap, and write a few letters at a tea shop, we were once more on our way to Bridie’s. Not 30 minutes after we had set off for the final leg of our journey through the windy, wet, and twisty hedge-lined passages of Western Ireland, we were met by wild honking. My first reaction was the natural one coming from years of experience as an athlete who has shared many a road with many a disturbed driver, which was to instantly tense up and ready myself for a projectile of some sort. Who knows – maybe it would be money this time (it’s never money).

But lo! And behold! It was Bridie herself, along with her daughter Patricia, who were just on their way back from the good doctor’s in Galway and were stopping in a petrol station on the way back. Once more, they greeted us warmly but expressed their confusion over having a living, breathing cousin in front of them who hailed from Chicago, of all places! They took our bags and gave us encouragement to meet half an hour later at their farmhouse two towns over.

By the way, this is the wonderful thing about Irish roads, or most European roads in general. They go from town to town as opposed to East/West or North/South, and there is typically only one road – and a motorway – to get where you want to go. So if you know someone is going from Galway to Kilconnell, there is but one way to get there once you get off the motorway. Coming from the southwest suburbs of Chicago, with a gaggle of parallel country roads to choose from, all going directionally and not according to living centers, this is a huge change. Highway robbers must have made a killing on these roads!

In spite of the downpour and chilly conditions, as well as the drastically reduced braking power that made us miss several turns thanks to speeding from a stiff tailwind, Sean and I were in high spirits. The only thing was that I couldn’t help but notice that not once but twice did they doubt the existence of cousins in Chicago. I started to voice these concerns to Sean, but by then we were already at their driveway and being gestured at frantically to get inside.

Another thing I learned in Europe was that Europeans have a far, far greater appreciation for the elements than do we here in America. Not only do they stay away from getting wet when they can avoid it, but they always wear slippers inside their houses, have fires going for the need to stay warm, are actually severely impacted by things like snow and ice (there is absolutely no infrastructure whatsoever in Ireland to battle snow, meaning that a mere 3 inches shuts the country down for days), and have some of the warmest beds that I have seen. In fact, I fell in love with the “hot water bottle” that my Irish cousins would fill with boiling water from a kettle and place under the covers just before bedtime to make their beds cozy as can be. I’ve since used this while camping to great effect.

Once inside, we learned that they had sent out Joe, the man who had answered the phone, to rescue us in his pickup truck. These people were so kind as to spend expensive diesel fuel and risk getting wet just to save us from a little storm. Again, the conversation turned to our origins, showing their curiosity in the matter. But, again, their kindness showed through, as they urged us to shower and eat before we would examine the family trees.

Get yer spuds! Never mind the mud...

And what a shower it was, to get out of the sopping wet and bitterly cold clothes! And what a dinner it was, to fill our bellies with chips aka fries (made from freshly picked spuds), sausages, baked beans, tea galore, and wonderful butter and scones with homemade blackberry jam. ‘Twas truly a feast for kings.

Dry, warm, and stuffed, we set out to connect the past with the present and Ireland with America. Much to our chagrin, we couldn't seem to quite make the pieces fit. It seemed that every cousin of theirs was accounted for, minus one man, but he was sure to have died back in the ‘40s. Patricia and Joe, the progeny of Bridie, were hard at work solving the puzzle. Michael, another son, was also on the way over to help hash things out. Just before he arrived, Patricia had a sudden realization, which I had gotten after the rendezvous in the petrol station – namely, that I was at the wrong house. Surely enough, it turned out that way after all, and we even found the real Bridie Kenny in the phone book.

I was somewhat worried about what would happen once they figured out the truth. But, instead of any ill-will, they laughed heartily and thoroughly, and kept laughing each time they reconsidered the situation. I was even awoken by laughter in the middle of the night, though that might have been a result of the demons I had awoken earlier in the trip (but that’s another story altogether).

Indeed, rather than casting us out into the unknown, they took us in as though we were family. They treated us better than I had expected to be treated, perhaps as a result of the gaffe. We got the royal tour of the town, including an ancient abbey and the local pub, where we sampled some of the finest Guinness around and played some pool with their young boys. They gave us a warm bed to rest in and had breakfast waiting for us the next day. We even were invited to dig up some potatoes and pick some fresh eggs for the dinner they were feeding us before sending us on our way to meet with the real Bridie Kenny. I think the way they felt about us can best be summed up by how they left us: with tears in their eyes. Though Sean and I were merely looking for a place to get out of the cold and meet up with distant relatives, we instead bonded with a loving family that welcomed us as one of their own, in spite of the clear evidence to the contrary. I can still remember the sheepishness I felt upon hearing that we were not in the right place, but even more I will surely never forget the warmth, hospitality, and love I felt emanating from the entire family.

A joyous farewell, until they come to visit their family in Chicago...

The Fake Cousins, as they have become known, taught me of course to welcome family and strangers alike into your life and treat them with utmost care. If you ever have the opportunity to welcome a stranger into your life, to save two poor lads from a raging storm and feed ‘em potatoes and Guinness, do so in honor of the Fake Cousins.

But what about the real Bridie? What was her fate? After saying goodbye to Bridie, Patricia, and Joe, we set out for my real cousin. Well, let’s just say she wasn’t in the best of health, had had a rough life, couldn’t use her legs, needed us to open up a can of tuna as dinner for us, and was too tired and fed up with life to do much of anything, except to waste away. It was a shock, like going from day into night, to have had this visit not an hour following our stay with the Fake Cousins. And it made me all the more appreciative of the role chance has in our lives, which can take a turn for the better just as soon as it can for the worse.

Now that I’m done pontificating, I ought to end this post. I’ve written a bunch and said not much of anything. But this is a step in the right direction, and so I hope you’ll follow me eagerly to the precipice of the gaping abyss gleaned by the adventures of traveling. After all, we’re all cousins in the vast scheme of things.

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.