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.