The Belly of the Beast (Berlin)

“A man cannot be comfortable without his own approval.” - Mark Twain

Unquestionably, the most interesting city of the 20^th century was Berlin. Two world wars were waged in its' front-yard , and the threat of an earth shattering third created tension that manifested itself deep in the cities psyche. Fascism, Communism, and Capitalism have all made visits; some longer than others. The city has welcomed great thinkers like Albert Einstein; and radical ones like Adolf Hitler. Gustav Ludwig Hertz, Max Planck, the brothers Grimm, and Karl Marx all studied at its university - certainly, it is a city of ideas. It has been host to the Olympics, and the Holocaust - the Victory Column, and the Berlin Wall. It has been divided, united, divided, and united again. John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton, and Barack Obama have all given speeches within it's limits. Perhaps it is easy to imagine then that I arrived feeling a tad inconsequential.

Fortune has favored me on my trip thus far, and it was no different in Berlin. I met up with an old family friend who was kind enough to let me stay with him for the week; as I felt I needed a week to experience this fascinating city. The first thing I thought of, when walking down the streets with no destination in mind, rather hoping to get lost, was how much the city must have went through in repairing it's appearance after the second world war. It was relentlessly crushed with airstrikes, and most of the city was in rubble. How then do you proceed? Where do you start? Where do you end? These are questions I can't imagine trying to answer while looking at what must have seemed like Armageddon. It was repaired though, and then divided into four sections amongst the allied powers - for those of you whose history has gone absent since high school. Then shit got crazy. The Soviet Union pushed Communism while the West pushed Capitalism and this led to something called the Cold War. Joseph Stalin needed privacy, so he closed the borders with the West, and then Nikita Khrushchev was feeling constructive, so he decided to build a wall around it. This wall not only separated a city, but also a world, and became a symbol of the Cold War. It was where the East ended and the West began, or if you were a Soviet, where the West ended and the East began. I don't mean to bore with history, but this was the very wall I was standing next to, where only twenty three years ago, I could not go across. My impression of this monumental structure which separated the civilized world? - “ it is kind of small, I could easily get over this”. In fact, I probably could have gotten over it, but what is sometimes left out of the description, is the “death strip” between the wall I was at and a second wall of similar proportions. This was the challenge for those wishing to get to the other side, for Soviets with guns would be stationed at towers every so often, willing and ready to gun people down - lovely folks.

Checkpoint Charlie was the famous border crossing in this wall that was controlled by the United States during the Cold War. It is the epicenter of the confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union during that time period. Now a days, it is a major tourist attraction, where people from around the world come to be in the very place where two worlds met in stand off; the planets future depending on the outcome. Right next to this is a museum full to capacity with documents, video footage, treaties, letters, speeches, maps, etc., of Cold War related material. When one walks through the front door, he looks above at a display of all the famous individuals who had been there throughout history. He sees the names of presidents and diplomats from all over the world, famous celebrities who took political stands, poets, writers, musicians, directors, and Olympic athletes. Then, as he is turning away, one sign catches his eye at the last moment, and he looks closer, then he squints: “Does that say David Fucking Hasselhoff!?...........It does!”. In fact, it really does, and the absurdity doesn't end there – he is labeled “American Musician”; bear with me:

Who is David Hasselhoff?:

I know the answer to this question; it is plain, and my intentions are not to defy hopes and shatter dreams; rather to enlighten and shed wisdom. David Hasselhoff is a mediocre American ACTOR who starred in Baywatch and Knight Rider. Entertaining – yes. Funny – yes. Charismatic – why not? Absolutely, in no way, is he anything more. I apologize Germany for this blunt testimony; it is never pleasing to discover that Santa Claus is a broke man, who has been out of work since September, and is trying to keep the lights on in his third story apartment, or that professional wrestling may not be telling you the full truth, but you must know - so goes life. This farce ends now.

Indeed, Berlin has many great places to visit, and one could stay for years and never learn all the details, or experience all the history, but then you would miss out on the nightlife, which has become famous on it's own. The city parties and does not stop. In Spain, I said this figuratively, here, it is a literal sentence. Seemingly, nothing ever closes. The first wave of delinquents come early and end up leaving to “fall asleep”, passing by the second wave, who come a little later. Then, the second wave drinks until mid morning, and leaves to “fall asleep”, passing by the first wave who have taken what must have been a nap and are back at it again. I haven't even mentioned the wave that comes and doesn't leave; primarily because they are not a wave; more of a tide. Crazy - this city; I can only imagine what happens on the weekends!    

The Black Forest

"The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.  I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.  I shall use my time." - Jack London

In Southwest Germany lies an area small in comparison with most regions of Europe. It is a cozy place where myths and fairy-tales are plentiful; roaming freely around the mind, and taking residence in the imagination. It is a place where history has routes so deep, they have routes of their own; and where people come to breathe in comfort, and exhale stress. Rich in majesty is this place in Southwest Germany. It understands you as you try to understand it. It goes by a simple name, yet perfect – The Black Forest.

Many towns lie within it's realm, but I chose Freiburg as my locale for experience. It is a medieval town with Gothic cathedrals, cobbled streets, trolley systems, old defense towers, and a spectacular above ground drainage system. The houses have a style all their own; different from anywhere else in Europe I've seen. They manage a dark-age look while utilizing welcoming, bright colors – and they pull it off; mores the wonder. Gargoyles watch down on people from the most peculiar spots, and one gets the impression they are being accounted for at every moment. Sure, it has become a tourist destination, as is the inescapable truth with areas so unique, but if one is careful, the masses can be avoided by staying off the main shopping expressways. Outside the town is a whole different story. The forest raps around the fringe of the city like an encroaching army of crows; ready to devour anything that drops. At first, it is an intimidating monster, but once in it, it becomes a loveable acquaintance; a reliable companion - it is a worst enemy who turns best friend. I experienced this from my camping ground, where I began my 16 km hike through the Black Forest to the town of St. Peter.

The terrain is no different than Virginia, with it's rolling hills trying desperately to obtain mountain status, and it's farms that dot the landscape in between stands of forest. The difference is in the vegetation; trees in particular. The Black forest owns an encouraging diversity of them. Deciduous trees are abundant (Beech, Oak, Elm, Larch), but also are enormous conifer trees (Spruce, Pine, Douglas Fir). The mixture gives the Black Forest a look like no other; bright green and embracing with dark green and rejecting. With a lack of thick underbrush, this makes a scene perfect for the tall tales of fairy's, dwarfs, and gnomes that are so common to the area. Hiking through the forest, I felt like I was being watched by one of these mythic creatures; though I had my doubts of it! What I knew was the woods had an allure that I've rarely felt before, and would be surprised to feel again – outside of the Black Forest.

At the dusk of my hike, I went walking through old farmlands, where the farmers I came across; wearing a mix of modern and traditional clothing, greeted me with “Gutentag!”. I felt so ensconced in the culture; like I was a farmhand on the way back from a trek to the next village for supplies; and neighbors, going about their daily chores, were kind enough to wish me on my way. Only if they had treated me to a cold German beer, would I have been happier. Continuing through to my destination at St. Peter, I kept a steady pace, and when I reached the cathedral in St. Peter; I had been hiking for a mere 5 hours. It felt a lot longer; it felt like days, but when I reached the town, I was ready to get back to Freiburg. I found the road and began thumbing for a ride, until coming across a bus stop. Someone there told me, in a wonderful German accent, that hitch-hiking died in the area a long time ago and that I should get on the bus – so I took his advice and did, though I maintain I would have been picked up shortly; when hitching, one gets a good sense of these things. Upon reaching Freiburg, I had dinner with a couple from a small town outside Frankfurt. We talked a long time about the differences in their country versus mine, and I learned more about Germany than any one American has the right to know. Do yourself a favor and look up the history of the German Region (as it did not become a nation until after three wars waged in the late 19^th century) and you will be anything but disappointed.

By and by, preparing for my exit of Freiburg, I felt like leaving a friends house . The Black Forest has become one of the best places I've visited. There is nothing wrong with it! The people are lovely, the scenery is gorgeous, the stories are incredible, the history is fascinating, and the food is great. I feel that, had I looked for days to find something negative to say about this place, I would have failed absolutely. Even as I was departing the town, trying to catch an early train at 7:00am., I couldn't escape the glorious culture. Across the street I was walking on, and through sleepy eyes, I saw what can only be described as wonderful; people drinking outside bars as if it were still mid-night! They were laughing, talking loudly and chugging beers like true Germans. I looked at the sky, and then my watch, to confirm it was the morning, and low and behold, it was. Magnificent.

Rest in Avignon (France)

"The man who has begun to live more seriously within begins to live more simply without" - Ernest Hemingway

Avignon is in the south of France. The older part of the city, and where all the tourism exists, is contained within one continuous medieval wall. This wall looks like you might imagine. It was made of old stones, beaten by erosion and time, and every 50 to 100 meters, a watchtower arises. My campground is right outside this wall and over the wide and swiftly running Rhone River; a convenient location for exploring the area for a few days, but, not exactly “camping” in the way most Americans are used to - more like tailgating. The campers and tents are packed together as if they are the last open spaces on the face of the earth, and efficiency is the primary objective for survival. Moreover, campfires are as foreign to them as using English:

The French and the English Language:

France is the only country I have been through thus far that has shunned the English language. Most European countries, and even poor, corrupt North African countries like Morocco, cater to English speakers. In doing so, they also cater to the rest of the world, as English is the international language. I didn't make it that way, it's just the way it is, but France refuses to either believe this or accept it. They only use French: announcements, signage, general conversation, it doesn't matter, their stubbornness is all encompassing. Am I being hypocritical? - I don't know French, why should they know English? The answer is an intelligent no. Like I said before, French is not the international language and English is – a simple reality.

As I was saying, the campground is compact, which takes some getting used to, but, in their defense, is also in close proximity to the city center. This is perfect for me in Avignon. I am able to take a ten minute walk to the central part of town where everything necessary is located, and also walk around outside the city walls alongside the river. The town itself is wonderful. Cafes are located all over; on main streets and in narrow back alleys. The streets are mostly cobbled which, in my mind, is as European as it gets, and the people are great – besides choosing not to speak my language! Luckily, I came to Avignon, lest I may have pegged all the French as snobby and pretentious as Parisians. Honestly, these people are very different. For instance, they smile, and every once in a while, when they expect no one is watching, they even laugh! Go figure.

My quest for a full stomach in Europe advances into virgin territory. Portions go from “reasonable, but small” in Spain, to “where is the rest of my order?” in France: “but you don't understand sir, you pay for the quality and presentation as well as the amount” - In an ideal world, I would be fed more fries rather than that horseshit. In fact, throw some horseshit on there, at least it will satisfy my hunger, and fill the rest of my plate. I will concede though, the food here is well prepared and full of flavor, but that is not going to stop the growling in my belly. I am beginning to rely heavily on picnic style meals in order to get the job done. These include bread, cheese, some sort of sliced meat, a few vegetables, and of course, wine. One gets these items at the rare and elusive supermarket. When located, these can be life savers, as the prices are only a little too high. Despite all it's aggravations, Avignon has been a great place to visit. The country side is gorgeous with it's rolling hills speckled with ruined castles, and the city itself is great to walk around and explore. Feeling comfortable and relaxed during ones stay is a perfect sign for an appropriate place to visit. Very well, on to Germany.

Journey Back to France

"Where all think alike there is little danger of innovation" - Edward Abbey

The Sahara Desert is out of this world, but it is also out of the way. Traveling south to the Moroccon border with Algeria meant I then needed to travel back north to France, through Morocco and also Spain. I decided against flying because it would have been more expensive and also because I wanted to stop in a few places on the return trip. Very well, I began on a shuttle from the Sahara to some small city in Southern Morocco (forgive me for not remembering the name), and from there, took a bus to Fez – a ten hour bus to Fez. How it takes a bus ten hours to travel 400 km is a question for the Moroccon government, not me. Maybe it was the rotaries every 2 kilometers, or maybe the tight turns going over the Atlas Mountains, or maybe even the police checkpoints for seemingly no reason at all; but maybe it was something else!

Let me take this opportunity to provide an insider traveling tip: Africa is fucking hot! I could handle the time it took on the bus; traveling a lot has a way of dulling the pain of idleness, but the heat was almost unbearable. The bus had no air conditioning, and also windows that didn't open – great design Morocco, and to add on an extra layer of uncomfortable, there was a full house of sweating passengers. If it sounds real bad, imagine it twenty times worse and you may start to get the picture.

I feel I should say a little something about the Moroccon Police Force; the ones who carry around guns with duck-taped handles. On that never ending ride in the grill, we were stopped, as mentioned, many times by law enforcement, or at least that's what they call themselves - I'm not sure what law they enforce. One particular incident was revealing. They boarded the bus and walked directly to the back, where three men from Senegal and myself were sitting. Since we all looked different; three black guys and a white guy, our passports were checked. No big deal, but then the Senegalese men were taken off the bus for further questioning and with no cause at all, their bags were searched. I'm not sure the atrocities ended there either, as I was not outside with them at the time, but I can say they were all taken away in separate cars. My U.S. Passport saved me a lot of trouble and inconvenience; something I can't say about my travel neighbors, but I suppose that is the way of corrupt countries, like it or not.

By and by, I made it to Fez and spent the night. The next morning I went to Tangier and then over the water to Tarifa, Spain - Back in Europe! Tarifa is a small city on the intersection of the Atlantic ocean and the Mediterranean, and therefore is extremely windy. It is the kite-surfing capital of the world. In the ocean, there are hundreds participating in this activity, but on the beach, no one is sun bathing, or throwing frisbees, or building sand castles; it is just too windy - the strangest beach I've been to, that much I'm sure. Anyways, this is where I spent some time to break up my long trip to France. Nothing interesting happened during my stay there, which is a good thing for a place one wishes to rest, but my theory of Southern Spain having the most attractive women in the world was verified. This conclusion is the result of a lifetime of investigation and vigorous scientific methodology.

From Tarifa, I took a bus to Algeciras, - from Algeciras, I took a train to Madrid, - From Madrid, I missed the last train to Barcelona – From Madrid, I took the metro to the other train station in Madrid – from the other train station in Madrid, I caught an overnight train to Barcelona. In Barcelona, I spent a night with Matt (fourth time we've met on my trip). From Barcelona, I took a train to Cerbere – from Cerbere, I took a train to Avignon,..........FRANCE! I never imagined in my life I would be so happy to be in France. That happiness lasted until I heard the French language again. I wonder when the next flight to the Sahara Desert is? 

Sahara Desert

“Always do what you are afraid to do“ - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Morocco's southern border with Algeria is situated in the Sahara Desert. Here, the Berber reside; a nomadic people who live simply, utilizing the land for all their living needs. That's right, these people depend on the Sahara freakin' Desert for resources – if that is not rugged, then I don't know what rugged means. Relying mainly on livestock such as goat and chicken, these sand folk get by using methods that would amaze any Westerner, and shock a few others I'm sure. It was with the Berber that our party decided to journey with on a 3 day/ 2 night tour of the Sahara. Our method of transportation would be by Camel, and our trust would be put in our guide, Zaiyeed – a special man with certain knowledge of the desert only achievable by being raised in the searing heat and cracking dryness of that part of Africa.

It was day one, actually night one, as we hopped on our camels and began into the orange dunes. We had to leave in the evening because traveling the Sahara in the middle of the day is like asking for torture and the chance for worse. It was two hours until we stopped at camp 1. During that two hours, we had time to get acquainted with the seemingly metal saddles we would be sitting on for three days, and also the weather we might encounter , as we got caught in a minor dust storm about an hour in. Looking out into the environment, I imagined Lawrence of Arabia being filmed in that exact location, it must have been! The dunes were endless; they stretched as far as the eye could see, and then kept going for a distance that would have scared me to know at the time. It is a strange feeling being guided on a tour, where you have to put complete control in a person you just met, especially when that person is a Berber, who probably is a great guy, but has brown teeth and smells like stale olives. For safety measures, I took a compass reading of where our base camp was, but there was little faith in my mind I would find it in the event of our guide misplacing us. So, I accepted my lack of control, and my mind was free to space out and enjoy the experience, and the scenery.

Camp 1 consisted of a few Berber tents, which were made of a canvas material with hand made rugs scattered about the interior and exterior. They looked lovely, but trapped heat like an oven, so we spent most of our time sitting around a sandy courtyard, drinking mint tea of course. After we ate a traditional Moroccan tagine dish for supper, we sat around looking at the crystal clear stars, and listening to the Berber's play their drums in the dim lighting of the camp. As the night air got cooler, the rhythm began to lull us to sleep, and we fell to it one by one.

The Sahara Desert heats up so quickly in the morning that one can feel the temperature go up with the rising of the sun, and it doesn't take long before the cool morning gives way to the scorching heat which reflects off the sand and gets you again on the way up. It is a beach, plain and simple – a beach without an ocean. Shoes must be worn at all times or the skin on your feet will blister and melt away. It's always a good idea to wear pants as well, lest you find a scorpion crawling up your leg while you're going to the bathroom. I had my pants tucked into my socks the whole time; I looked like I was playing shortstop for the Yankees in 1923, but I felt safe, and that was the goal. I suppose a snake could have gotten through, but these things are nothing to ponder while in the Sahara!

Day two: we traveled for two hours before stopping for lunch and rest at a Berber camp located on the lee side of a great dune. As we approached, the family there were making an awning for us to catch some shade. For some ludicrous reason, these people were wearing long sleeve shirts and traditional robes that covered their entire body. Perhaps they had forgotten it was 100 degrees in the sun! Maybe they wanted to impress the foreigners with their ability to refuse heats existence, or maybe they were actually chilli? My Berber is not great, so I did not inquire. We took four hours in the shade, which was still suffocatingly hot, and then mounted our ugly camels and continued for camp 2. Out of the dunes and into the flats we went, trading sand for gravel, and heat for fire. By the time we reached our last camp, I was about to fall off of my camel like in one of those movies where the hero has been traveling for days through the desert and just collapses off the saddle. I would have felt like a hero too, if I had not laid down on a rug like a lazy bum while our guide prepared our beds and dinner with confusing amounts of energy. Once again we had an amazing meal; Berber chicken cous-cous, with the family of goat herders whose home we were staying at. It was interesting to see the dynamics of this family. The wife who had cooked the whole meal sat away from the table and just stared at the men while we ate. After we had finished, she was allowed to pick at what was left. I felt terrible, but that is just the way of the Berber.

The next day we rode for two hours in the early morning and got back to our base camp around 10:00am. There, we relaxed a bit, negotiated some prices with our guide (of course) and were on our way back north, away from the dunes of the Sahara.

Across to Africa (Morocco)

“Understanding is always a journey, never a destination“ - Richard Fortey

8 miles separate Spain from North Africa; a distance hardly noticeable when looking at a map of the Mediterranean. What that map wouldn't show you is the distance in culture. Morocco is an Islamic country which is 99 % Muslim – what a great place to visit for a white, Catholic - American traveling alone! The people are reserved and very traditional. They are not thrilled to see tourists meandering around the streets of their cities, but they do tolerate it, and let's face it, who would want to see tourists in their city? I first arrived in Tangier, a port city which has always been considered the gateway to Europe from Africa. This was culture shock number two so far on my trip; as soon as I got off the ferry I was approached by hordes of people wanting to take me to different places throughout the city and in exchange for their services as guides, I would be obliged to pay them. I was absolutely mystified with the chaos around me. One second I would be getting asked to go somewhere in basic and broken English, and the next, men were screaming at one another in Arabic (a completely foreign language) over their right to guide me. I simply pushed through these masses until I was at a map, and then pointed to where I needed to go. The first person who I made eye contact with was the winner, and next thing I knew I was driving through the streets of Tangier in the backseat of a Mercedes Taxi and being stared at by locals as the Muslim prayers were blasted through the streets by loud speakers. I could have sworn I saw this level in Call of Duty. Somehow, miraculously, I made it to a hostel. Sitting in the lobby, happy to be alive, I sipped on Morocco's famous mint tea while being treated like a king. I didn't know what had happened in the previous hour; it was a blur, but I was safe and in Africa – a realization I came to only after I had time to think.

After the night in Tangier, I decided to go deeper into Morocco ( because I must have not gotten my proper dose of insanity yet ). It was a 4.5 hour train ride down to Fez; a city known for it's “old world” feel. Here, I met with a host of other travelers. We explored the Medina, or “old part” of the city, in detail. This is where the market is – you may remember it from Aladdin. However, I don't remember Aladdin walking past butcher shops with camel heads hanging from hooks, or being asked for money by beggars with no teeth, or complaining about the stench of death all around, or stepping on dirty and sickly cats, or needing to keep his hands in his pockets for fear of them being picked, or being approached by con man after con man who blew columns of thick smoke up his ass, or............. well, I think you get the point.

Good exists in Fez as well, once you get past all the questionable odors. For instance, the walls in the Medina are, some of them, over 1,000 years old, and still function as barriers for street traffic. The buildings seem to be made of mud and straw, and have architecture similar to the kinds of pueblos you made in your 4^th grade diorama project. The streets are filled with culture, whether it be the unreadable characters of the Arabic alphabet, or the traditional dress of the men and women, you feel as if you are no where in the world but in Fez. I don't give great advice, but if I were to give someone some about Fez it would be to never get frustrated with the people, always haggle with anyone trying to sell you anything, appreciate the different world you are in, and lastly, don't stay for more than two or three days; any day after that and you are, as they say on Everest, in the “Death Zone”, deteriorating not from oxygen deprivation, but from population aggravation.

Tangier and Fez were many things: shocking, frustrating, simple, interesting, even beautiful in some very unique ways, but I will absolutely never forget these two cities. They made me aware of what I thought I knew; the world is a very strange place. Once you think you have figured it out, you walk into a blind man selling VCR remote controls in a puddle of mud – back to square one.

Friendly Spain

“I try all things; I achieve what I can“ - (Ishmael), Herman Melville

The Spanish language is easy on the ears. While the French seem to have a perpetual mucus issue, and the Germans an anger one; the Spanish use language differently. It almost sounds like you are listening to art. It flows better. I have never noticed it before, and I suppose it took me four days in Switzerland to really notice it now, but it certainly sounds better. Now, Obviously, I speak English; a superb language in its' own right: proper, complex, efficient, but I think had I been born in a bilingual household, I would prefer Spanish. I am almost at the point where I am jealous of those who speak it fluently; it frustrates me that it comes so easy to them and yet evades my grasp. I understand key phrases and simple interaction , but not at the level I would like to. I have even tried to have conversations in Spanish with unknowing locals, but as soon as I finish my first sentence in Spanish, they change to English! It is annoying, with a side of embarrassing that my Spanish sounds so American that they pity me, and of course, their English is way better than my Spanish, why wouldn't it be? Oh well, Europe has humbled me once again. I'm sort of getting used to it.

Traveling by train from Zermatt, my brother and I crossed the Pyreneese Mountains into Spain where the climate changed almost instantly to sunny skies and warm breezes. It was as if we were entering an entirely new world, which in many ways, we were. The snow covered peaks of the Alps gave way to hills of orange groves and tulip patches. I could not have imagined a more Mediterranean scene had I looked in a picture book. The train dropped us at Barcelona Sants train station. There we met who else but our friend Matt who teaches science in the city. He took us around and showed us things we would have had a hard time finding on our own, at least without wasting our time and looking like dumb tourists. I noticed first how young the city was. Older people were at a premium, and they only appeared in glimpses during the daylight hours. The plethora of youth gave the city hand fulls of energy; spent eating tapas and drinking until the break of dawn. If you enjoy access to alcohol, come to Barcelona. True, you can only buy beers until 11 PM but why would that stop the city from getting you your drink? Go to a bar and drink your night away with seemingly endless time, or on your walk home, just buy a beer from one of about a thousand sellers of Estrella beer; a local favorite I presume. These guys work tirelessly, putting in long hours and probably missing their kids soccer games so you can walk with beer in hand at all times of the day, oblivious to realities – God bless these heroes of the night! May they prosper in all their future endeavors.

I will not write about tourist attractions such as museums, cathedrals, monuments, statues, graves or the like during this trip; it would be a daunting task and take way too much time. On every street there is another relic where man X defeated men B and C with army T in the war W between countries F and D in the year **** BC or , if it's not as important, AD – country F is almost always Rome by the way. They are amazing (some of them) and deserve to be remembered, but what mind could remember them all? I challenge any European historian to walk around and tell you why each place has significance, and unless that historian is also a teller of tall tales, he would hesitate with inaccuracy.

So, …...... Sevilla. My Brother flew back home from Barcelona and Matt stayed there with his students so I took a train by myself to Sevilla, via Madrid. I instantly fell in love with the city upon walking to the Oasis Backpacker Hostel near Plaza de Encarnacion. The colors of the buildings, the joy of the people, the history of the architecture, the attractiveness of the women; everything and everyone seems right in Sevilla. Right about what? - I'm not sure, but I am positive they are correct. I did many things in Sevilla, but one thing that stood out was my tour of Plaza de Toro, or the bull fighting ring. Unfortunately, my timing was terrible, as I missed the Fiesta de Abril which produced a fight everyday in the month of April, and May 13^th which was the next fight, but the tour was great and I learned a lot. The funny thing with bullfighting is its' position in society. Some people are rigid against it and others for it. It is culture versus cruelty. I thought going to the ring would give me some perspective and help me make up my mind about it, but I am only more undecided now. However, one thing I am surely against:

The Bullfighting Hypocrisy:

The goal for the Bullfighter in a bullfight is clear; evade the bull and kill him at the end as clean as possible – I get that. The goal of the bull in the bull fight is to kill the bullfighter – I get that. A bull is successful when he puts on a good show for the people and proves he is worthy of receiving mercy so he may live on and produce other prize bulls. This is extremely rare and only happens a few times in decades by the way. Here is what I am against: the bull is only saved when the president of the fight says he is. This only happens when the bull puts on a great show of aggression but DOES NOT kill the bullfighter. If he does kill the bullfighter, he is executed, and not only that, but for good measure, the mother of said bull, presumably enjoying a day out to pasture, is gathered and executed as well, so she will not produce another killer bull. So, when the bullfighter achieves ultimate success, the bull dies – I get that. When the bull achieves ultimate success, the bull dies, and so does his mother – I don't get that.

Up in the Alps (Switzerland)

“Care cannot assail us here, we are out of its' jurisdiction“ - Mark Twain

Seldom have I seen such a remarkable country as Switzerland; in pictures or in reality, the mountains here are awesome - in the correct use of the word. The Alps have laid claim to the entirety of a nation, and it's people inhabit the strangest places. They build houses under vertical cliffs 800 ft. high, farms on mountain slopes steep enough to shed a careless hiker with one false step. They wander about, seemingly unaware of how close they are to the brink of death all hours of the day, yet you would be searching awhile to find one who looked anything but confident. They are quite disciplined and often times let you know it, they have their laws and they follow them, and I'm not sure the term “benefit of the doubt” has reached the valleys of Switzerland thus far. However, all that being true, they still came off as a nice population of folks, willing to enjoy life in their own unique Swiss way, and to their credit, are way more polite than Parisians.

Though the margin for error amongst Swiss people and Swiss terrain is thin, I felt very at ease in the country. The landscape has a calming effect, rare in the Europe I have seen so far., and comforting to eyes that have been pasted on cityscapes for a week. The vertical relief from base to peak is of heights I have not seen before, even in the American West. While the mountains of Europe are not as “wild” as the Rockies or Sierra Nevada, I would say they are more intimidating. If you want a warning before stepping of a 1,500 ft. cliff you had better give it to yourself because there are no signs to do it for you. Moreover, I would imagine avalanches and rock slides to frequent the area more so than other ranges, and probably not get nearly the press they would in the States.

Now - the cost. Switzerland is the most expensive country I have been to so far and it does a wonderful job carrying on the price-hiking lunacy of its' northern neighbors, charging the weary traveler three times what could be deemed reasonable for nearly all purchasable items. Even this would be fine if you could find some alternative for the crazy high priced items, but alas, you cannot. I visited a Mcdonalds in Interlaken, looking for a cheap bite to eat after days of spending way over budget, only to find no value menu and Big Macs worth 9 CHF, or about 11 dollars! What sane person could say with a straight face that that is reasonable? Common Switzerland, get with the program! It's almost like an infection spreading across the continent like the “art” of false advertising, which seems to be a staple, if not a requirement, so far in Europe. Never in my life have I seen so many signs offering deals and prices that simply do not exist. !Happy Hour! – BOTTLES FOR 3 EURO!, on a big sign outside a bar – ask the bartender about it and he looks at you like you have had one too many, which would nearly bankrupt you by the way! In Switzerland though, you don't mind having your wallet gutted as much as in other European countries because the scenery is worth the outrageous price you are paying for a cookie! Thankfully, money is only money, and nothing more.

To conclude this piece I will talk food, a subject very close to my heart, or at least I think it's my heart. Switzerland is a country that knows cased meats. I had a Pork sausage served with hash browns and fresh tomatoes in the mountain village of Murren. The meal instantly went into my top ten of all time due mostly to the taste, but I would be lying if I said the scenery had nothing to do with it, after all, eating is an experience with many aspects important to the grade, including environment, but I digress. The sausage was cased to a perfect capacity and then drenched in onion sauce and some form of vegetation, barley maybe, and it was served at just the right temperature. Now, I am not one who normally admires how my dishes look, as long as they are filling and tasty I'm happy; and I am shocked that I am saying this, but the way the food looked resting on the white plate was stunning. The colors of the tomato, the hash browns and the sausage contrasted so well I took a picture of it! But no more, I'm getting hungry, on to Spain.    

On the Move (Paris, Amsterdam, Brugges)

“I don't know Lloyd, the French are real assholes“ - Harry Dunn

Arriving in Paris gave me a bit of culture shock, no longer was I in an English speaking country and our walk from the train station to the hotel yielded some challenges. First; we were farther away from the hotel than we thought we would be so we had to get in a cab. Second; the cab driver we waived down spoke no English, so I proceeded to reach into the cab and show him on the map where we wanted to go. He looked at me and said something; so I said “yes”, and we got in the cab not knowing where we would end up. Driving in Paris is thunder-dome; anything goes! Around the Arc de Triumph there is a rotary about seven to eight lanes wide, none of which are marked in anyway but our driver barreled into it with no reservations. While I was clutching my seat and clenching my jaw, the driver had one hand on the wheel while talking on the phone to his friend. We got out alive and he actually brought us to where I had pointed on the map.

We met up with our friend Matt at the La Meridan hotel where we stayed for two nights. During our time in Paris we saw most of the tourist attractions; most impressive being the Notre Dame Cathedral. It was enormous on the outside and when you walk in, it seems even bigger because the whole cathedral is one room. With the dim lighting and the ever present statues, I felt like I had walked into the 17^th century.

Are Parisians Welcoming? - No. Are Parisians pretentious? - Yes. Did I enjoy the Parisians? - Not really, but that may have been because of our simple differences or because we were only there for two nights. I would be ignorant to think I could judge a population so briefly. One thing is for sure though; the handle sizes on their coffee cups are borderline absurd – either have a handle or don't!

After Paris, we caught a train to Amsterdam. What an interesting city; they have a canal system like Venice and use them for transportation and recreation. It was relieving to finally get away from the huge cities like London and Paris, and to be in one of Amsterdam's size. It's not big and it's not small; just cozy. The people reflect an attitude appropriate for the way the city looks. They are laid back and very friendly, not to mention they speak near flawless English – a welcoming aspect after Paris. That we only had one night did not stop us from enjoying the city's questionable behavior – let's leave it at that! From Amsterdam we took a train to Brugges, Belgium where we stayed at a backpacker hostel known as the Snuffle Hostel. We watched some more soccer; Barcelona v Chelsea, played some chess with a local and then went out to drink that famous Belgium beer. The guy we played chess with was a Belgium national champion when he was younger, suffice it to say he beat us, but then he decided to show us around ( maybe he felt he needed to after embarrassing us so much ). He took us to a cellar pub and we enjoyed some of the best beer I have ever had. Not only did it taste amazing, but it had almost 10% alcohol. We talked a bit about Belgium culture versus American culture, which was interesting if nothing else; then it was time for foos-ball! I have always considered my self a good chess player and a great foos-ball player, but man, that night was humbling. The two guys we played didn't let us even touch the ball, and I think through three games we scored maybe five goals.

Next we have a nine hour train ride to Interlaken, Switzerland via Belgium and Luxembourg. Nice it is to finally get some down time considering the trip's elevated rate of movement.  Pardon the expression, but our Blitzkrieg through Northern Europe is at an end.  Here come the Alps!

Arrival - London

“Too much safety seems to yield only danger in the long run“ - Aldo Leopold

So here we are at Trafalgar Square in London, England for two nights. So far, so great! We've spent most of our time walking around, getting acquainted with the city, the people; seeing all the tourist attractions (traps), etc.. Honestly speaking, London is everything I assumed it would be, good and bad. It's a civil city with charm and an enormous amount of history with fantastic architecture. The pubs are filled with character, and the tasty warm ales hurt nothing at all. However, the weather has done very little to change my preconceptions of gloom. Since we've arrived, I've seen the sun twice (briefly), and the rest of the time it's been overcast with that constant drizzle commonly associated with the city. No worries though! I find myself welcoming the cloudiness as a resident of London; accepting it for what it is.

Sweet Jesus is it expensive here! London makes New York look cheap. How do people working here come out in the green? Seems to me they would be constantly taking one step forward and two steps back, getting chewed up and spit out by the thousands, sent packing back to wherever they came from, but I suppose my ignorance on the subject is evidence enough as to why I don't have a full time job, yet alone work in London.

The People? Well, first off they speak English – that helps. A very direct and literal people - the English. It seems they are always willing to discuss and lend whatever knowledge they've acquired – I respect that. Moreover, they are friendly and helpful. Not one time yet have I gotten a bad vibe or a rude attitude. It's comforting to visit a place where that is the case. Now, I'm sure the English have a great sense of humor in their own right, but I've gotten the impression sarcasm is lost on them, or maybe it is just our kind of sarcasm; who knows, but there has already been multiple occasions where I've said something sarcastically and gotten a look as if they thought I was being serious: not sarcastic, just unintelligent. Maybe they knew I was being sarcastic and just thought the sarcasm was stupid, then the jokes on me right?

Lastly, my apologies go out to all before me who have been allowed to try black pudding. My good word it is terrible. I would love to sit here and say I enjoyed it for it's rich and different flavor, but that would be unfair to everyone who has never heard of it and could find themselves one day in a situation where they are presented with the chance to taste it. I would never forgive myself, and that inevitable “what the fuck is this?” face they get would be my fault. I don't know exactly what it is but from what I gathered it's pig entrails coated with salt, why it's called “pudding” is a question I don't want to know the answer to.

Overall, I think London is a wonderful city that is hurt only by it's food and it's sky high prices.

Departure

“Not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves” - Henry David Thoreau

My story begins with the first words in this passage. Surely, a man of 25 years has plenty to tell about previous experiences; previous travels, previous acquaintances and the like, but it's all in the past, and there it will remain. So, I reiterate, my story begins here, with my desire to see Western Europe. Why Western Europe? Primarily because I have never been there before, but also because of it's diverse culture and grand scenery. I hope to witness things so confusing, so foreign, I'll feel like I'm in a movie. I want to be clueless and bewildered; surprised by something around every cobbled corner. I suppose I have a sick desire to spend a shit-load of money as well.

I will be traveling for 2 months through 10 different countries, mostly by train, but occasionally by other means. My brother Jeff will be with me for the first few weeks and then I go it alone. Along the way I hope to meet a variety of different people, see a variety of wonderful sights and experience not a second of boredom. That I hope to “live life” is a bit cliché (what the hell else are you suppose to do with it?) but it's the best way to sum up my objective. Collectively, hotels, hostels and campgrounds will act as home away from home, where I add up the days expenses in Euro's, convert it to US dollars, and calmly say to myself, “Fuck”. Yes, I am not exactly looking forward to Europe's high prices (if you couldn't tell by now) but it's the nature of the beast, and it is a beast.

Mark Twain wrote while traveling in Europe; “there was everything to choose from, yet no choice” - I understand exactly how he felt. There are so many places to see, it's almost overwhelming. My plan is liquid, free to flow where it may, but as a rough outline I intend to visit: London, Paris, Amsterdam, Bruges, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Barcelona, Sevilla, Tangier, Provence, Berlin, and anywhere else that I find attractive. I intend to hike in: The Jungfrau Region, The Pyrenees Mountains, Southern France, The Black Forest and once again, anywhere I find attractive. Now, if I'm able to do all this I will be very surprised because plans change and things happen, but that's the plan anyway, for what it's worth.

Along the way, I will be blogging and posting pictures as frequent as time allows. So, I invite all to hop on the train with me through Western Europe.