A Mzungu in the Midst: Day 92

I am in Africa. This is a place I fear describing inaccurately, so I'm sure to include every miniscule moment that step by step adds to the magnitude of my awe and wonder of its certain and sometimes masked beauty. I will begin with the flight, the trip from Rome to Doha...a gorgeously luxurious flight to a new world region, which is evidently the Eastern hemisphere's crossroads. I'll skip the fact that hot BO replaced AC for the first hour taxing. I fought off sleep in an effort to binge-watch movies in the English language. No dubbing? You must think I jest. However, after half of Ironman, my lack of sleep two nights running got the best of me, and I joined the Indian boy beside me in a "too close for strangers" airplane-style spooning session.

I couldn't see a thing out the window until the tires touched down to a world I've only seen in American Arab-fearing movies. Dust...and sand...and lots of it...a flatness that defies the earth's busty curves. I got cotton mouth just looking outside. At 5:30am in Doha, Qatar, it was over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Ben calls that a typical steamy day.

I was rarely conscious until I got to Nairobi, when I found out my bags didn't follow me on the trip. I can't say I was shocked, and so...after thirty minutes of being in the "dark continent," I had my first TIA moment.

The first time I flew into NYC at night, the infinite stretch of lights had a deep impact on me...seeing the development and magnitude of the world from a pilot's-eye view. A like, yet opposite, moment occurred with the descent into Entebbe, Uganda. There were minutes of time I saw not one single light in the darkness. What was below me was simply nature, no embellishments.

My Host

After immigration, I doddled around the exit, hoping my first couch surfing host would recognize me from my profile picture, since unfortunately my previously given description of "brunette girl with all the bags" was not valid at the time. Paul found me and took me away from the probing taxi drivers and towards the capital city of Kampala.

I knew I made a fantastic decision to couch surf when my drive from the airport got me closer to the real Uganda than I ever could have gotten otherwise. As our chatting and cultural exchange passed the hour-long drive, I realized the scene outside was unfolding something so eerie and intens

The dust of the streets created a fog through which car headlights revealed hundreds of wandering silhouettes. Things didn't feel so familiar anymore, as I realized the streets were littered and webbed with people, even out here in the dark of night...somewhere on a stretch of highway.

Finally came the realization, the zing I sought for months, "Wow, I'm traveling."

The Homestay

Paul lived in a village right on the edge of Kampala, one called Masajja, which was connected by dirt roads, all veined and rutted by the wet season's downpours. The first few bouncy minutes brought to mind Ace Ventura on his jungle rides through Africa, singing Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang with head bouncing from the passenger's seat across and out his driver's side window. I needed a helmet there in the back seat.

The Ssenoga family, Paul and siblings, live in a home attached to a few rooms, which they rent out for their income. My travel goal of never using a squat toilet went out the window when I got a look at the compound latrine. I was in no way discouraged though, as I knew my immersion was deeper than I could have anticipated (and that doesn't mean I fell i

Though I hadn't slept in about three days, I stayed up to chat with my host about his family, his village, and life in Uganda. Outside his window, the sun was far set, but the neighborhood was still throbbing. On the corner, a man made a stand to sell chapatis (essentially flour tortillas) for cast flow. Boda-boda drivers (guys with motorbikes) surfed the dirty waves while trying to find passengers to transport and charge. In this community, everyone was a family man and everyone an entrepreneur.

Noise was a constant, but at 2am, when I awoke to roll over, I could have heard a rooster toot in the next village over.

Old MacDonald lost control of his livestock as they all crowded around my window to oddly awaken me in the morning. Roosters were crowing every thirty seconds, goats were screaming like little children, motorbikes streaking across my sightline...and every human being on the block took to the streets to get it done, whatever "it" was, as they had been since 4am.

I drew my first breath at 8:30am and sought some relief at the long drop. One cannot wander in there half asleep without losing a leg to the earth's dirty mouth and cracking your pelvis on the ...wet cement surrounding the hole. I sure do have a delightfully poetic mind.

The Day in Kampala

The first mission of the day was to make it to the city, as the locals do, wandering up weaving lanes and jumping garbage heaps until Entebbe road appeared, in all its smoggy splendor.

On the way, I began to re-experience the wonder of being a walking spectacle, the extreme and never-before-seen minority, an Average Jean celebrity. Children ran around in circles, announcing to their kin the presence of the Mzungu in their midst. If I responded to their screams, waves, or salutations, huge smiles formed on their faces before they darted home to giggle behind their working mothers.

The taxis. You don't hail taxis...they hail you. One driver, one screamer, and a 14 passenger bus that almost always breaches the legal limit of riders. They get you from A to B, though you may be sitting on someone's lap. These services are offered at a wonderfully reasonable price. 20 minutes of bouncing around Kampala for 30 cents.

Kampala is the result of a tribal collision and explosion, a city smashed with basic homes and millions of people...breathing in a nicely concentrated formula of oxygen and diesel exhaust. Not many people own cars, so it's a bit of a mystery as to why the air is opaque. It's deceiving, but everyone is always on the move, which is why the population calls for the organized chaos of the taxi parks.

Taxis all crowd and congregate like hungry coy fish, drivers jumping for passengers and squeezing through openings not big enough for their cars. You could find a ride to anywhere and meanwhile purchase peanuts, beer, scrunchies, and hair extensions while waiting in your seat by an open window.

Of course, where there are people, there are people selling crap...the biggest taxi park bumping butts with the biggest mad house market. Massive bags of rice and spices, washing soaps and appliances, second hand clothes and dried sardine heaps, and about forty men with wedding proposals for my very eligible hand. I grasped my bag, half hidden under my shirt, and skillfully maneuvered away from the forceful arms trying to grab my attention. Weaving through the roughly covered maze of stalls, I just laughed at the exclamations people would shout at me: "Hey Mzungu!", "Marry me?", "Come come you buy something!", "Lips!". Paul loved the show as well.

It was all a pulsating whirlwind erupting around me. I had to step back and get a hold on where I was. We climbed a closed up shopping center to view the sudden wash of rain that swept the littered streets and nearby music festival in sight. The city was impressive, in a shocking way, as I couldn't believe such a tattered place existed. The essence of "shambles"...but it was mysteriously hypnotizing nonetheless.

From a cathedral on a nearby hill, the improved view gave me a sight more removed and peaceful, where I could finally see the urban rain forest at arm's length. It was a smoggy mess, a sore on the terrestrial crust, but viewing the palms and rolling lushness with raw sugar cane sweetness tossing in my mouth made me find a twang of admiration for the basic nature of Kampala's exhausted inhabitants.

I had a strong desire to stop time and paint the most complex picture of each tiny moment that were cultural time-bomb slaps in the face. This is Africa. TIA.

Meals of plantains by candlelight and chapatis by rooster crows hugged my stomach with simple fulfilling pleasures only possibly by my mental smiles, thankful I was seeing such a real experience. Authenticity, my friends; there's no substitute.

A Day at the Farm

My last day in Kampala was all about family. We strolled to Paul's aunt's home on a nearby hill where I got my first real chicken coop experience. Given it wasn't in the back of a truck after hitchhiking in the countryside, but it still satiated an odd desire to see feathers fly.

I fed little piggies palm leaves and stepped over coffee beans drying on the ground. Baby goats chased each other and dove under the full utters of the mother, only until Paul wrangled one for a quick pet of its soft cowlicked coat.

Just then, the niece of my host came running down the red dirt road from school and joined us for the jaunt back to his abode. We all ate a quick bite of potatoes and avocado before I had to skidaddle. I introduced the young eyes of Latisha to the world of photography and let her Annie Lebovitz it around the family compound. She was so quiet before, but after sharing a smashed airplane Mars bar and clicking the camera shutter, she was glittering.

As I left Masajja for Jinja town, a shower smoothed the rough appearance of Kampala and left the bright red dirt and clean green lushness vibrating in my enamored eyes. Uganda was already a glowing memory and in Kampala nonetheless.

Join Me for a Beer, Won't You? Day 89

To my exit from this country, I have to say it's a sad moment I am welcoming and thanking for its capacity and assurance to shock my system. I love being knowledgeable enough to say "Excuse me, could I have a beer, please?" From here on out, there's no hope. I can't even use my limited Tamil. From here on out, I'm an ignorant traveler. I won't know a lick of the insults and bad mouthing aimed at my turned back, and I think I'll have to recreate the Italian streets wherever I go.

I never could decide on one universal thing to do/see/buy during SAS, a nice material or photographic common denominator. I think it all sounded too showy and untrue to me. What a chore to find something similar in each country, continent, ugh. HOWEVER, my long-term goal of opening a neighborhood watering hole (chocked full of character, of course) has given me a mission to feel no shame in spending incredible amounts of time in bars. One needn't worry about any sort of "addiction" forming or possible vulnerable situations presenting themselves...I'm here to subtly participate and observe. During the day, these establishments seem like dark holes where dirty deeds go down. At night, we flock and hop to all within 10 blocks like moths to the neon Red Bull signs. Things are a little different in each country, and it gets more specific as you chop it up into cities. Florence is for imbibing...at all hours of the day. Romans enjoy a cold beer with their afternoon read, though if I apply my own reasoning on them, they're just utilizing some free AC in this 100•F+ weather. Croatians need no excuse; they will enjoy a beer at a bar any old time they please. And I mean that. 6 AM. Beers at a cafe. Unreal. Prague was all about the casual drink with friends...only a little, one or two maybe. What an ambiance, though. Maybe we were spoiled by a one Miss Huny Buny. Munich...if you weren't clinking liters, you weren't a part of the crowd. It's always beer o'clock in Germany, but I think I realized why everything is so clean and new there...price per pint. The Ukraine...ai yai yai. As soon as the bartenders talk to you, you're aware of the countries priorities. Drinking, smoking, and not smiling...which urges on more drinking. I could deal with the anti-hospitality thanks to the non-existent beer prices, though. Europe may be the last of my authentic bar experiences as Africa may not offer such accessible alcohol [HA!]. However, the Dragoman adventure includes an almost daily visit to the camp site bar. This is all research, pleasurable research for my future business ventures. How many places can be considered both a hell hole and an oasis? And since I just decided I find great happiness and thrill in doing what I shouldn't, what better way to solidify my existence by creating a place where even the most conscientious person can make an uncharacteristic decision, hopefully not to the detriment of their integrity. Of course not.

And so goes my opinion on bars. That's all I have to say a out that.

Goodbye, Europe.

The Anchor Doesn't Hold: Day 70

Two years ago, I met Evan Handler in this same piazza on the last night of my program. In that year of 2006, I held these locals so close to my appreciation of the city, with their bongos, drunken singing and lovable (by-night) resident homeless men. Yes, that year I watched the first World Cup matches with the Florentine public, sitting on the same dirty stones I am sitting on now. And today I was drawn here by familiarity and love; it's an unfortunate certainty that no one here will talk to me. I have no fear of making conversation with anyone besides the occasional drug dealer or Albanian posing as an Italian stallion. I see through all their games.

Much of this experience was aimed at stripping me bare of what comforts me: proximity to those I know, companions of any kind, plans, money, and expectations. The test was whether I could build something from nothing that was all my own doing, the active efforts and lucky chances accumulating into what makes a human being happy. How much of your life do you lean on nepotism, other people's earnings, easy but unfit relationships, and things you don't even like? And when you deprive yourself of everything you're used to, don't those overlooked facts of your life become surprisingly questioned. I've been confused and torn for life, unknowingly, and only aware of this fun, barely tolerable predicament for a few years now. I just saw the dog from a photograph I took in 2006. Time, you are one bag of tricks.

Via Blackberry, I know that afternoon is in full swing in the Western hemisphere, and my family is working and walking and selling cars. My dark blue sky showcases looming clouds the color of dry blood. Home, to me, seems tailored and young. Florence has deep wrinkles where plagues, prostitutes, wars, families, fanatics, and geniuses have and still leave their marks. The majority of the bulk in my little borrowed purse makes up the 750 pages of Michelangelo's biography, in which I read that his knowledgeable concept of the human form came from his illegal night dissections in the monastery dead room of Santo Spirito, the building that now lies to my left. He washed his body of the stale and caked bodily fluids and wretched innumerable times in this fountain to my right, where the previously mentioned dog is now bathing...and a Rasta is now washing his hands. Again...time...quit playing games with my mind, here!

I doubt I will ever feel more than a weathered stranger here, just as I do in my childhood town. I have abundant reserves of memories sprouting to the surface from each of the four optical images per second. But I'm still in the air, and I need blood, sweat, and tears to build a basement in this town.

Within a sniff and a face-off, two dogs unknown to each other can sense the extent of their compatibility. It would be helpful to meet a city in such fashion. One would know whether they were kidding themselves with fruitless efforts to make something in such a location or that all discomforts, mistakes, unwelcome sensations, dilemmas, and confused cries were making it possible to someday have the "cha-ching" of success. It's far more "journey-like" the way it is. Those who conquer such experiences are those who truly (and I can't help myself...) don't stop believin'.

My written monologues probably fail to have a unifying thought, start with a witty and interesting anecdote, relate to my true state of consciousness and so on, but I think, no matter what I write, I will feel so good holding onto this already tattered notebook, scribbled on and warped by my treasured reflections.

[Afterthought: After finishing this passage, I was approached by a kind local who found my journalling session charming. A half English, half Italian conversation ensued, followed by a reunion of an old friend in the panini business. It was a monumental step and a very pleasant evening.]

A Staccato-ed Mind in Full Effect: Day 69

From all the years I spent in Wabash and all the encounters I had with a one Mrs. Diane Miller, there are three lessons she taught me that stuck. The first was the Basic Aid Training (or BAT) class she conducted to empower us to save the day if a minor cut or choking incident occurred. The second was the special math class she guest-taught in elementary school where she embedded in my mind the concept of recipricals by throwing her head between her legs, peering at the class upside-down and saying "reCIPricalsssss" in a delightful, high-pitched manner. The third was an observation by her wise mind of the wind, the leaves, and the chance of an approaching storm. When the wind blows the trees and allows you to see both sides of the leaf, exposing simultaneously the light and dark shades in a flutter, a storm's a-brewin'. It's odd what comes up after ten years of leaving, living, moving, observing. I lay on a dirty patio in the shade of the Tuscan sun, staring at two twin trees leaning to the blows of the warm wind, and I'm thinking...I guess we're not getting any rain.

I like this exercise. I think I'll roll with it.

All the wooden doors and overhangs here at Poggio al Pipi remind me of the historic shops in Lijang, China with their dark wood and jutting pillars, making me think a little dragon-like dog may scurry by.

The small, old rose, dried and alone on the patio reminds me of the elaborate collections kept in Laura Miller's closet: tissues covered in colored chalk from an art demonstration YEARS before, buttons ordered from the American Girl cash-draining catalogue, and bunches of dried roses from post-dance recital congratulatory wishes. Speaking of Laura, this woman with whom I've shared decades of friendship has been playing a reoccurring role in the ensemble of my dreams for the past two months. At such a turning point, it seems I am only an idle witness to my own transformation, since I have no idea what confusions about life my mind has. In its attempt to sort out the changes (Wabash, Indy, Travel), the paths (Italy, SAS, IU, Firenze Firenze Firenze), etc., my dreams combine all my past circles, traumas, friendships, dilemmas, worries, unfinished or unresolved disturbances and leave me utterly spellbound by morning. Renata now applauds me when I can rise before the early hour of 11, but my desires to stay in bed come from my unwavering need to finish the movies I start; I just have to see how this string of dreams unfolds.

May, I was attentive, appreciative, and waiting for the passion to take hold with each glimpse of Italy. June, I was passive, busy, in motion, entertained, and feeling a prolonged sense of impatience to return for the magic of Florence. July, I have been oversensitive, backlogged, exhausted, unaware, at times desperately sad, and self-restricted, unknowingly, from sensing and being a part of my own life dream. As I learned from Auschwitz, it's not even enough to plan your move and anticipate your emotions, but it's also mighty wise to mentally prepare and chew, via ink and paper, on the realities to come.

I am in the process of learning many massive lessons, and all must and will be realized by the end of this lifetime. Finality no longer comes with semester's end.

You wouldn't believe the view I have right now; sundrenched Tuscan hills producing the Frescobaldi wine on your dinner table. And how have I shown myself that this ambiance I long for is truly satiating the forces that seek it?

The trees around me supply the olive oil of our daily diets, pressed yearly by the Florentine family that adopted me.

In what state do I appreciate life the most? When I have time to commit to wandering, wondering and forgetting about other duties? Or maybe when I am pressed for time to fulfill my other necessities and find a short, sweet release in the comforts of longing. Maybe when it is my mission to concentrate on finding the beauty around and translating such force into visual terms, aka art. Through my diet and amount of physical exertion? The absence of maturation to the staling of my imagination? WHEN I'M ON VITAMINS?? I have dug far too deep into my own head to see at the moment.

A walk down the gravel road nearby, a 180• panorama of mountains, and the world has never been this calm. I don't know if I'm beginning to cry because this is what I want, longed for for years, or because I see how the world is supposed to be, knowing the planet's majority will never feel the peace of this moment. It's a green ocean frozen in time, bearing the fundamental diet for thousands of years of civilization.

I'm not sure if I'm a fan of time or not. Like death and taxes, it is a fact that's inevitably certain. They failed to write that in the script for Meet Joe Black.

Florentines are here because they love their city. Florence is here because it was born by man and his love for what I am seeing. And Florence gained a soul from the earth that pulses below it.

The view out my bedroom window needs to make me cry in my final abode and resting place. Cry for the weight such a vista holds willingly of my memories, relationships, and the unspoken, unspeakable forces inside that make the whole experience forever challenging.

When you lead your life by feelings, often your mind, body and spirit don't hold hands. One may skip forward a further distance from the beauty which it uses to water its growth. I could be in the process of reuniting these three parts. If so, it sounds as though I'm becoming a yogi.

We take from the most beautiful things in life in hopes our human spirits are happy at the end of the day. We've also made the ugliest realities come true because we don't trust another human to treasure the happiness we've cultivated and convinced ourselves we need.

The south wind in the Tuscan hillside smells of the dry love of crimson potpourri. Earlier, while reading my recent page-turner, Michelangelo revisited his home of Florence, after some years of internal and foreign warfare, and felt at home just by the scent of the breeze. His acute senses detected the millions of flowers that breeze had kissed, and maybe I am smelling the left-overs of such ever-blossoming sentiment.

One-Eared Redheads Know All: Day 54

Delft...darn darling. We were in culture shock upon arrival to Holland, with the memory of the Ukraine still stuck behind our eyelids. Bikes took their owners onto the train platforms and then folded up to fit into a briefcase. The public was fit, well-dressed and without the chimney ways of their fellow Europeans. Thankfully, Alexis had a connection to someone in this countriette, enabling us to visit an Amsterdam atmosphere without all the red lights and herbal clouds. Delft was a web of canals, a modge podge of architectural styles, and all the more charming with the company of Malou, our host, Caro and her friends from the area. It was one of those days with a strong taste of finality. We were all quite aware that Caro and Alexis were days away from the United States. And I was only hours away from being alone on this journey. We had top notch beverages in the crisp air of the town square and shocked two Dutch boys by our blunt and unrestricted American girl talk. What? You guys didn't think girls enjoyed bathroom humor?

Amsterdam involved a lot of quiet walking. It's interesting when people who spend so much time together near their end and find little to say in the last hours. It seems a waste of time to bring up ridiculous anecdotes for giggles, and minds are finally drained of new reflective thoughts. In the midst of our quiet thoughts, we decided to see the Van Gogh museum and spend time in the nearby park. Some people arrive at this museum and become aware that they don't even like the painter. I arrived in need of some paint-coated meditation.

One thing that has aggravated me throughout my life is that I've been all too aware of the inadequacy of language. When I speak, I need to launch my arms around. When I write, I mix lines around and combine odd word pairings in search of a distinct expression of my mind. Most people follow the textbook examples of message-relaying in order to bridge the inner mind with the world outside the skin. In the process of using already uttered phrases, already choreographed moves, already mixed colors, and already composed music, the pure words of the internal landscape hit mirrors and accumulate filth on their gleaming surfaces. We are not all made of the same vibes, so our languages need to be blended to fit the input. The confused complexity of that previous sentence is evidence of this problem. For this reason, I like Van Gogh. He found a way to make his mind and latent thoughts things that he could see and others could learn from. Standing in front of his canvases, I could imagine the real world image he was painting from and reading his internal landscape through the contrasts. No wonder he went crazy...he sought to fight a battle that cannot be won with pre-existing methods of communication. It was food for my mind to be in the time-vanished presence of such purity. I honestly sensed my mind chomping on the strong colors and visual images. I'm not just saying that. Get it?

The next morning, the door of my room at Durty Nelly's Inn shut behind the lumberjack, and I was instantly alone. Tears spouted as I contemplated the last two months and the reality in front of me. Alexis left for her trans-Atlantic flight, and I no longer had a set of feet next to mine. It was a weird sadness, one mixed with thrilling speckles and open air. I took a shower to reemerge an independent woman. From now on, I wasn't able to be a floater as I had previously been with my travel companions. When decisions had to be made, I stood back knowing those less indifferent than I should be the ones making the final yeah and nay. Now it was all me, and I could feel a massive shift in awareness. I suddenly always knew what time it was and who was walking behind me. I actually heard music in my head while I strolled down the street to the train station. Like Peter Griffin's personal theme music, I had the daily soundtrack of a cartoon. The mental orchestra accompanied me onto the train and off on my first lone voyage of the journey.

The next week, I traveled to Rheine to see Victoria, to Kiel to see the Hillmanns, and to Copenhagen to see Mikkel and his girlfriend. If you read that and think, "Great, I don't know any of those people," don't worry. If you read it and click your heels thinking, "I know some/all of those people!" excuse me for disappointing you with my following statement. I had a WONDERFUL time visiting old friends at their residences, following them on their local errands and enjoying their daily vices alongside them; however, I feel it is better for me to refrain from charting each day and path as I do with the rest of my trip. Those nine days were a recovery period, therapeutic to my exhausted frame and feeble heart, and I experience great contentment when I think of the public viewing of the Germany/Portugal game, Kiel Week, and night walks in Denmark. The memories are more felt than written, and only Van Gogh could hit close to home at conveying how nice those moments were in the grand mix of this journey. It was so different to feel at peace with the destinations and worry little about seeking the heart of the city when it came right to me. I appreciated the hospitality beyond my own anticipation and regretted not a moment of those side trips. Thank you, friends. People sure are cool.

It's not enough to say that every day of the last two years I thought about Italy, namely Florence. What some people feel for their hometowns, significant others, or prized possessions, I experience for this dot on the globe. I boarded a train in Copenhagen at 7.00pm for a seemingly endless string of connections to Florence. I was never bored in those 26 hours of travel. Hardly talked to others, somewhat looked out the window, stood up only to switch trains, but I rolled, wallowed, and waded in the warm thoughts of my soul's homecoming. The train proved inadequate for such an internal symphonic celebration. I needed my MV Explorer and the transformation of Florence into a coastal city. That is truly the best/only way to approach your destination with pizzazz. The little regional trains that pulled me into Santa Maria Novella station were holding me in from my desires to feel the nearly 90°, sweet, orange air of this Tuscan valley. Were there no rules, conductors, or electrical wires, I would have asked the nearest young fellow to strap me on top of the train engine like a hood ornament. These are the times when I long for a trampoline and pompoms.

The Hidden Nightlife of a Lumberjack: Day 43

So where am I supposed to be now? On my way to Prague. This backtracking is exhausting, and, frankly, it feels like the sort of anti-introspective writing that is not the mission of this adventure. I guess at some point I will want to remember what I did in Prague and honor my time spent there. Isn't that why most people write about their travels? Or maybe I feel I just need to document where I place my feet for those not walking alongside me. Maybe it's because all of these destinations are blurring together, not just in hindsight, and the most intriguing afterthought of the Eurotrip is finding out how I don't like to experience the world. With that said, why don't I just stick to the highlights. Sorry to anyone who was really looking forward to an elaborate account of this very old, and actually very cool, city.

1. Meeting our own personal local resource. On our twelve hour bus ride, a fellow American/EU resident sought out our company, and we instantly found a guide for the city's best local bar, the cheapest local transportation, and a place to stay upon our late arrival time. Matt was recovering from an emotionally rough week, and we offered him some company/drinking buddies in this city of prime beer quality. 2. Hany Bany, aka Hunny Bunny: our local bar of choice and the setting for two multi-hour sessions of relaxation and observation of the Prague youth. 3. The architecture...it wasn't half bad. One might say thrilling. 4. Nights of cheap groceries, home cooking, cheap beers and soccer viewing at our neighborhood pub. You could say we were a little shocked at the server uniforms for the ladies and their lack of...modesty. This was no raunchy bar, but I guess the frequent clientele like a little spice at their regular watering hole. We averted our eyes often.

Now follow me along to Berlin. Feel the breeze inside the, once-again, well-kept and modern train cars. Wander along with us as we find the metro stop "Senefelderplatz" (hey, that's like Seinfeld...yes, that's what we thought!) and find a super cool hostel in an old brewery. Oh, what fun weare having altogether in the beer garden, watching the Spain and Sweden Euro Cup game. Darn that Euro and its massive inflation of beer prices. Can't you feel your wallet emptying?

Alright, enough of that. Here's what I remember from Berlin. It's 4:30am, and I wake up to two Kiwis in my room, telling me it was time to go to the zoo. I fall back in bed, confused, and arise once more a few minutes later. I was fully dressed to go out and experience the Berliner nightlife, make-up smeared on the pillow...and a roommate not in sight. I pulled a Ricky Ricardo and stomped out of the room to hear some much needed " 'splaining." As I step out, a guy staying across the hall emerges from his room and says, "Are you looking for Alexis?" "What on earth is going on." "You fell asleep."

iiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIII FELL ASLEEP?!?!?! Ooooooh boy, the anger pot is a-boiling now.

Four hours earlier, Alexis and I were chit-chatting like school girls and playing cards on the floor, but after I returned from a restroom break, I found her asleep on the floor, unmotivated (after gentle questioning) to go out on the town. We have yet to go out on this trip, and I was anticipating a nice change of pace that night. However, we mutually agreed to go to bed.

AH! But alas! My trusty partner-in-crime ventured off during my subconscious adventures to befriend three guys across the hall and join them at the bars. There she was...sitting outside in the courtyard with her new friends. I gave her an ear and a fist full. APPARENTLY, the story goes that she got up to use the restroom and forgot her key. I was unresponsive to her door pounding, but the guys across the hall sure were. Socializing ensued...for her. What a friend. Lumberjacks, you can't trust 'em. Regardless of my dramatic interpretation, we ended up having a fun morning with these new friends and the rising sun.

Touring Berlin the next day had its perks, but the highlight of the day was the wild celebration we witnessed and joined at the public viewing of Turkey's last minute dramatic victory over Czech Republic. The beer garden was bleeding with Turkish flags, faces and apparel sporting the moon and star emblem. Those brave few with a Czech flag were given a hard time in that crowd. Our three new friends laughed, cheered and photographed while I hopped on Alexis' back to stream through the mosh pit of screaming Turks. We fled the scene with the mob, hoping to land on a lively after party, but amazingly hundreds of Turkey fans vanished in front of our eyes and reappeared streaming across the night sky, all squeezed into one overground metro car. We missed the party, but, man, what a night.

A Dark Day: Day 38

One train. L'viv to Krakow. Perfect. No crazy town of Chop in which to disembark with fear. No hidden fees or problems foreseen. Or so we believed until the conductors and engineers started a pick-up game of bumper trains. I awoke and momentarily thought I was in a suspended metal ball, hanging at the end of one of those Issac Newton action/reaction demonstrators. This continued for about two hours at the border, as the train workers lifted and suspended train cars for examination and repairs. I'm glad they waited until there were people on the train to do this essential task. With the beautiful day outside and all the winking engineers, I could have enjoyed this time to relax, except for the fact that they locked the bathrooms to avoid workers getting a dirty shower below.

At this point in our travels, it doesn't even matter to me where we are. All I need is to feel safe, clean, settled and well-nourished. There's only so much bread and corn nuts a person can eat before they start loathing the stuff. As we stepped off the train, a hostel ad magically appeared in front of us, soliciting all the essentials we need and all the free additions we salivate for. It was called Hocus Pocus (the pun was intended). It was here that we nested in bliss for two days with bellies full of perogis and bigosz, minds enriched by local scenery and life, eyes entertained by nightly Euro Cup matches from the comforts of our personal living room.

Garrett's departure date from the continent was veering closer, and unfortunately our last shared day together was on that of our most intense and depressing experience. Let me begin this excerpt by saying how much I find Hitler repulsive. It's difficult to grasp your own dislike of a past figure, such as Saddam or Mussolini, until you are in the presence of their work.

I'd rather not describe in too much detail how I felt touring Auschwitz, because I am beginning to re-experience the depression and sickness I felt that day. With our tour guide narrating the dreaded details at each turn, my skin began feeling foreign to me, like it could do nothing and I was completely helpless and feeble. I realized my view on the human condition was limited to all but utter evil, and I suddenly lost all hope of the human race. It was a gorgeous day outside, which molded the thought of the hell hole these people knew into a hard glob I was trying to swallow. I will never return to this or any other concentration camp, because I have fully received the message and learned from the history of others.

Fun fact: Did you know Hitler was a vegetarian out of disgust for the cruel ways they cage and slaughter animals? What a fatally confused man.

We walked slowly and thoughtfully the rest of the day. It was like we attended a mass funeral we were still paying our thoughts and respects to, and, in a way, it was true. Once again, we sought the gastro-delights of Poland to nurse our souls before Garrett loaded his back with gear and left us, for good this time. Later on, we made a toast to the cyanide, bullet, and syphillis that were Hitler's demise. It's grotesque, yes, but some people unravel beyond repair. Cheers.

I Crain? No, Ukraine! Day 36

We arrive, and we still can't read a darn thing. Our tiny street map is written in Roman characters, so every street sign we see must be translated.

Alright, what does B - Pi symbol - H - R - Airplane beverage cart - V - backwards N spell?

But, hark! Aimless wandering led us to a woman with a visor, a fanny pack and a camera...an American!

Do you know where we are?

I haven't a clue, but our driver will...though he only speaks Polish...let's give him a try.

The following scene would have fit really well in an Audrey Hepburn movie. The tour group surrounded us on all sides, asking how they could help, where we were trying to go, where we had already traveled, if we spoke Polish, the works. When they realized how aimless we actually were, Roger, the self-proclaimed group leader, invited us to come along with them to see the sights, have some lunch, and represent our generation among his posse of WWII Polish refuges. This wasn't just some Contiki bus tour.

Each one of those 70+ year old tourists were displaced from their homes in Poland during WWII, their houses bombed or seized by the Nazis during their invasion, some even in L'viv. They were shipped away either to Siberia or eventually to London, where they all met. No one had a local friend or contact nor a £1 in their pockets, but they attended school and university in England, building their life foundations from there.

When all had finished schooling, the English government offered them to choose a new home of either the USA, Canada, Australia or Europe, since the UK was off the table. After they parted ways across the globe, they had no contact between each other until fifty years later when an effort was made to have a reunion back in their home country.

For the last couple years, they join together for moral support and socializing as they reexperience the mixed feelings of their childhood. Some of these trips prove to be intensely emotional as they are reminded of the travesties they experienced. The man who asked me, having seen the patch on my backpack, if I had been to Malaysia, was a young messenger boy during the Warsaw Uprising. When they toured Warsaw a few days prior to our meeting, he set his eyes for the first time on a sculpture of a young boy wearing an oversized German uniform. It was the monument for the Warsaw Uprising. He cried on the spot, seeing himself 70 years earlier in the statue.

Our conversations with each person were soaked in history and drama. They were eager to teach us from their personal experience, and we felt quite honored to be on the receiving end. They left us with full bellies at the town center where we found a hostel for less than $15 a night. Our luck left us astounded as the day ended. We surely could have hated our day in L'viv - the hot, complicated city of L'viv - but instead we witnessed such heartfelt hospitality from people who were busy reliving their mixed and painful memories of the past. We left first thing the following morning, knowing we already experienced the highlight and magic of that destination.

Shakin' it up: Day 35

Game plan review: we want to go to Krakow. We've got gobs of time. It's hard to go direct from Eger. Where should we go en route? More mountains? Ukraine? ...wait...the Ukraine?!? Where did this choice come from? We first move closer to both options in Kosice, Slovakia, where we stop to make some Slovakian memories. We were not expecting such a darling town with an impressive church at its heart and a musical fountain nearby with "local color." Little boys dared each other to stand in the middle of shooting water jets, fully clothed and toting their backpacks-o-fun. Music blared through surrounding boulders or from a bell sculpture, all synced to the visual orchestra of gravity-defying H2O. A flutter of white out of the corner of my eye and there goes a wedding party, taking pictures of the new couple in front of city monuments. And another bride...and, yup, one more. I was a witness to multiple nuptials except the one I should have been at in Terre Haute, Indiana. The universe kept rubbing it in my face. It sort of made the 7th of June a hard day to enjoy with the constant reminder of my two polar lives. It's amazing how much of a stronghold time and money have on my present condition. Ah, semi-deep thoughts flow in and out...

Flip a coin. Heads is L'viv, Ukraine. Tails is the Tatra mountains because these here on the back of the €1 look like hills. ¤clink clink cla-clink¤ the Ukraine it is! Oh boy. We better bring some vodka.

Normally our limited knowledge of local public transportation gets us by as we traverse the globe, but there are the few instances when we fail to ask little questions that later are pivotal OR we rely far too much on the sometimes faulty word of our friends at Lonely Planet. Our 'sleeper bus' across China is an example. These moments when we expect one thing and experience something quite different often present more difficulties and ALWAYS produce fantastic stories. In this instance, we thought we were taking a night train to the Ukraine. Let's see how this goes...

We board train #1...it's not too shabby, standard for Eastern Europe. Two people can sleep on the benches and one on a mat across the floor. Perfect! Now we can let loose. Ah, but no...our new conductor friend informs us to pack it up because this isn't our only train this evening. Oh crap.

Already becoming sleepy, we left our 'sleeper train' around 11pm only to wait in the rain for the next one. All conductors left for the night, and our stop didn't have a sign or a nearby city. Our only instructions were to follow three other people waiting at the stop. We followed without question, even after we watched them load at least twenty bicycles onto the train, this most pitiful excuse of a train. And I'm not kidding, this train could have killed us Final Destination style. If someone sat down on the holed leather seat, the entire bench would fall to the floor, causing the cabin walls to shake down the asbestos in the broken ceiling. Exposed insulation would rain down from above and cover said unsuspecting victim with bits of itchy fiber, which they would immediately attempt to avoid by jumping up and grabbing the non-existent table, then the rusty trash bin, and finally the exposed electrical wiring, shocking them senseless and sending their wrecked body out the crooked window to the unknown world outside. At least it made a fun setting for a few documentary videos. And to top off all this fun, I sat in gum.

Accepting our fate, Garrett took to the restrooms only to return smellier than when he left, while Alexis and I tried to sleep on the tottering benches. Forty-five minutes later, we arrived in Chop, Ukraine for immigration. The power blondes were out this midnight hour, and they meant some business. Half-awake and draped with our sleep bags, we attempted to face the bereted blondes with purpose and wobbled into the main station area, where we suddenly stepped into an old propaganda film. The large open room was made of imposing stone, blocky and plain as can be, except for a massive mural depicting hard working civilians under the hammer and sickle regime. We had definitely crossed over.

This is where we could have panicked. We couldn't read the time table, which was written in Russian alphabet. Our tickets could no longer take us to L'viv, and the unhappy ticket clerk didn't appreciate my attempts to speak in Russian. Ukrainians are quite proud and not so much hospitable. A night chocked full of dilemmas; we could have lost our lids. Instead, we got excited...OUR FIRST ADVENTURE!!! Garrett and I ventured downstairs, past the old bomb shelter/raccoon den and bonded with the baggage holder, who was surprisingly nice for living in a room with no windows that hadn't been dusted since the birth of Communism. As he stuffed our bags in the corner of an empty room big enough for a thousand bags, my favorite song came on the radio, and this recognition and subsequent sing-a-long was a bonding moment between all of us. Our new friend, What's-his-whatever, held our bags for three hours as we went into Chop for the cheapest beers to date. How does $2 a liter sound to you. Sounds like great success to me. After we had to peel Alexis away from a homeless, blind puppy wandering around town, we booked it to our 3:30am train to L'viv, at last!

Don't sigh yet; more from the Ukrainian urban jungle to come.

My Traveltude is Pickling: Day 34

There are very few places on this Earth more beautiful Croatia's islands, particularly that of Brac. Thanks to Stjepan's suggestions, we knew exactly how to maximize our time in this wonderland: with scooters! Driving along the coast, we felt waves of heat in the sun and refreshing cool under the trees. Bugs slapped our arms, helmets, chests, and faces with thuds probably audible meters away. We felt like singing along to the hum of the little motor, but the thought of a June bug explosion in the mouth stopped us from acting on those thoughts. None of the many white craggy beaches on our way seemed good enough for this island excursion, so we booked it across the island, 30km away to the city of Bol. The last 9km were magnificent; streets winding down the coast with steep, craggy hills off the road's shoulder. A wrong turn could have sent me on a fun, but fatal, fall to the sea. I loved it.

The beach in Bol had an ambiance worthy of bottling, and I felt I was finally detached from my familiar world. Alexis and I relaxed in peace on the smooth pebbled beach, swam in the crystal clear water, and sat with smiles feeling like we truly got somewhere we will forever remember. After that, the rest of the night was just a happy blur of beautiful scenery, ice cream and ferry beers, Cankles and Saddlebags, and a flavorful homemade stew in the garden. Stjepan, Mr. Lino, Brac, Split and Croatia treated us very well, to say the leastest.

Eleven hours in a train from Split to Budapest; we got serious cabin fever. We walked it out soon after the train pulled into the station when we made the thirty minute jaunt to a very hidden hostel. The street ambiance was a little worrisome, but all the women walking around at midnight displayed the safety of the city - either that or showed there was a nice 'after hours street walking' biz around these parts. Either way, I had a twelve kilo pack and a 7'13" companion for protection.

At this point, it seems like the time to reflect on our day in Budapest, starting from our reunion with Garrett, continuing with our handball games by the Danube, and concluding with a thermal bath scene; however, because I am so backlogged on all this writing, it is only the matters of the day that come to mind and not the mess of thoughts that pulse through my head with each giggle, step, and turn of the corner. I know I'm not completely amused with this sort of documentation and find the act of reading it more of a chore than a pleasure. So it may be now that I cut to my lasting impressions of Hungary.

A city is a city. There's so much to see that is uniquely local and telling of its residents, but when you hop from country to country in search of wide-ranging joys and unique memories, each place turns into the next location to take a shower, rest your legs, and find a way to do your laundry with a little sight-seeing on the side. All this jumping caught up with me.

I tried to order a pickle and received two chicken sandwiches instead. I tried purchasing a ticket for a cheap little train, but thanks to a woman in front of me in need of every train time table that week, I had to use a valuable day on my rail pass. Hungary got to me. And it wasn't for the mere fact that I was in this country - it was my 17th destination (at least) on the trip - in one month! It was another Malaysia; I couldn't quite appreciate it while there. My frazzled brain caused incidents only to be blamed by my ignorance. My legs hurt, my journal was blank, and I just left the mystical, therapeutic ocean. Good thing Eger was all about wine tasting. Eger was laying in a camper in the rain, tasting wine and the occasional thermal bath, but my gratitude to the country was missing. One of the greatest travel travesties...

Yeah, I know. Suck it up. Look where you are. I needed a jolt. I had slowly fallen asleep. And a jolt we received a few borders away.

Come Come: Day 30

Ahh, Croatia. The country holds so many memories for me and by far constitutes as the highlight destination for this Euro adventure. The first smile inducer? Zagreb - big park, another park, bigger park, traditional festival and concert on the promenade! City square, church, street filled with cafes! While we were in Innsbruck at an internet cafe, someone warned us against going to Croatia's capital city at all, claiming nothing was there. What was this guy thinking? All travel advice is definitely not good...even if this stranger meant well. Alexis and I spent three or four hours wandering the city and people watching over beers, astounded by all the people sporting neon orange and yellow color coordinated outfits. I think American fashion trends thankfully missed the band wagon there.

One tiny and smoke-filled train five hours later brought us to something we've been desperately missing: the ocean. Split's coast jutted out into the Adriatic, creating a harbor for all its beautiful ferries to neighboring islands of paradise. The beauty was somewhat lost on us though as we descended into the city. We had been e-mailing a travel agent for private accommodations throughout the day. Stjepan's English made us giggle, but his non-stop questions began to worry us. He wanted to meet us for 'café time' to discuss our trip in detail. This, along with his descriptions of our apartment landlord who would pick us up from the train, sent our imaginations racing with hilarious scenarios of creepy old men never leaving us alone.

Mr. Lino was standing outside our train car, among all the relentless women with other budget apartments, holding a printed sign with our names on it. His vocabulary was limited to a few phrases that cracked us up with each circumstantial usage. "Hello!" He was a loud, happy talker. "Come come," when he would stop en route to his place, look around with wide eyes, and usher us forward once again. "Plajia!" Plaza? Park? Ohh, beach! Wow, that's really close to our place. But is this neighborhood safe? "Oooohhh, very safe! Sicuro sicuro sicuro!" Well, then I guess it's safe. Everything this man said to us made us smile big and laugh from the gut. When he left us to our new apartment, we found a cute little kitchen, a gorgeous garden, free laundry, and satellite TV to satiate our VH1 retro music video deficiencies.

The next morning was our 'café time' with the agent, Stjepan, who turned out to be much older than even crazy old Mr. Lino. We had no idea who we were expecting based on his frequent and inquisitive e-mails. Stjepan walked us to the beach to participate in the morning, and almost hourly, ritual of drinking coffee and watching life go by. We discussed what we planned on doing during this trip to Croatia, and he offered valuable information to us about ferries, island trips, cultural insight, and some language lessons in Croatian.

The rest of the day was a fantastic time at the beach. Off the shore for nearly 150m, the water was thigh deep and the perfect court for Croatian beach handball, a game of hitting a little ball around to a few friends standing in a circle, involving lots of body dives into the sandy ocean floor. Alexis tried to creep into a game or two, but her attempts to blend in were not successful.

We unfortunately had no handball to start our own game, so I spotted the three young boys next to us with a ball they weren't using. I started off by trying to convince one via hand gestures to push Alexis off the boardwalk and into the water. He laughed and told me to do it. Then they threw their ball into the water, which I attacked like it was my juicy prey and kept it from three crazy ten year-old boys. Their English vocabulary was limited to two phrases: "I kill you" and another more inappropriate one, which was accompanied by middle fingers. It was all in good fun, needn't you worry, as they laughed together, concocting schemes to retrieve their ball from the foreigner taunting them. Ah, good times at the beach. Don't worry; I gave the ball back, eventually.

Two emaciated cats started joining our garden side dinners, made from the produce at a nearby stand, and our party soon doubled. Fondly named Cankles and Saddlebags, our new little friends ate hot dog bits like they were going out of style, but they never trusted us enough to pet them, sadly (I think those rabies shots gave me a false sense of confidence when trying to pet wild animals).

We were tempted to try out the nightlife at a beach club, but instead we watched a TV special on Tupac's death, nursed our new kitties to health, and got plenty of rest for our subsequent island adventure: experiencing the essence of Croatia's perfection.

The Beginnings of My'o'trip, Not Eurotrip. Well That, Too: Day 27

Interlaken seemed as though it was constructed by a toy maker, by Giapetto maybe; tiny little buildings neatly placed in between two teal lakes and amongst colossal mountains. Every man or woman over forty was walking around town with ultra-thick socks, large, weathered hiking boots, with two walking sticks swinging, even if they were on flat, paved ground. The sight was amusing every time. Caro met up with the three of us after her day trip to Rome and became the fourth in our hostel room. Good times ensued. I think it was a perfect coincidence that all of us had our own ideas of outdoor fun the next day. The other three rented bikes and charted different alpine routes, while I slowly rose in the morning and took to the mountains. I went for a two and a half hike up a very steep trail. As soon as I entered the mouth of the trail and became submerged in the wooded cool, I started thinking metaphorically, talking to myself, stopping at every turn to take pictures of a steadily improving view. It seemed I was intellectually uninspired when all I could think about was that this hike was all about the big picture, but the present conscious has only the individual steps and footing in focus. With every bend in the path, I stopped to observe the ever-improving view and take pictures of my accomplishments. As I went higher, things in the distance appeared minuscule, and I became more and more...smelly...just like life. What an effortless interpretation and a surface level introspection into my own life from day to day. Maybe just like those dreams I had that chew on my entire education, so I have to experience the most common thought in order to reach something more. Regardless of whatever plain-Jane hiking metaphors I developed, I certainly was reminded of my odd mind purely by the songs I began to sing to myself while running down the mountain. The wedding march? The theme to Pee Wee's Big Adventure? There's that insanity I'm used to.

We parted ways with Caro in Zurich, while we headed to Innsbruck, Austria. The train ride revealed an even more majestic landscape, one of more piled mountains set in between rolling green plains. I've always put Switzerland and Austria in the same category; they seemed synonymous. Once we hit Innsbruck, the ambiance and culture seemed vastly different. It appeared that we enjoyed our lunch of cheap kebabs in "Junkie Park." The usual aimless wandering, which always brings us to a sparkling part of town, just led us to a fast flowing river. We decided to sit on the boardwalk grass and enjoy water music and mountain air. Suddenly we saw a human in the river, bobbing around in his wet suit and flying by at a steady clip. Three more floated by. It made sense when a motor boat came zooming by to save all four from a freezing, bumpy ride. The local rescue team was training new recruits. After a half hour among the wildflowers and singing Sound of Music tunes, we googled "Innsbruck" in search of its gem, which is apparently the old town across the bridge. No matter where we were in this city, though, crossing a bridge, smashed in between old buildings, strolling in a garden, the mountains followed us and peered through tree branches from a distance. The Alps don't lose their grandeur over time nor after much exposure...I said "WOW" in a forced whisper every time I saw Europe's tallest mountain in Interlaken, and these mountains here that have sponsored innumerable sporting events over the years inspired similar awe.

One realization from SAS that continues to stick with me is the common denominator between my favorite port moments. Every time I, often along with my lumberjack roommate, parted from the norm to see the outdoors, the seldom discussed regions, NATURE...I always had the time of my life; driving across Mauritius with coral-like, bright-green mountains approaching, waking up among the grottos in Ha Long Bay, Vietnam. Nature's salient presence electrifies even the most frustrating, sleep-deprived, culturally-shocking moment. When traveling to the next city or across the globe, the metaphysical reality of the Earth and its most magnificent properties are floating along the surface of consciousness. How we inhabitants transform and connect to its terrain is astounding. Just goes to show there's more than one way to do something...there's your own way. And the existential traveler in me has finally reared its confused head on the Big Journey.

Jump on another train to the third country of the day, equipped with a warm local beer and a Toblerone, and we are off to Munich! Thanks to Caro's list of suggestions, we had a mission to find the most traditional, classic beer hall in the land, the Hofbrauhaus. Liter beers and soft pretzels swayed side to side with live Bavarian music...it was all so hilarious. And with probably hundreds upon hundreds of hungry and thirsty patrons requesting their preferred form of bread, we expected service to be equivalent to a Saturday night at the local Greek-hounded university town bar. Ah, but alas, the nearly 55 servers buzzing around the hall with fists full of six or seven steins worked at the speed of drunken light. The American southern boys were a dime a dozen, spotted from afar by their brightly-colored polos and Vineyard Vines sunglass bands. Two New Yorkers next to us realized we spoke the same mother tongue, and, a few hilarious observations later, we were acquainted and became travel friends. And so the night blurred on.

Daytime in Munich was charming, but the air was full of something unpleasant while we searched around for authentic culture...English. The aimless wandering this time took us to the English Gardens where, again, liter beers and pretzels were consumed in the second largest beer garden in the world. I think at this point I have yet to ingest a single vitamin or mineral in this country. After such strenuous exercise of lifting that heavy glass stein, a nap under a tree was required. Alexis and I rewrote the lyrics to "My Favorite Things" to correlate with our personal vices and interests, while Garrett read hid three inch thick soap opera novel. Delightful moments amongst nature yet again. We ran out of sights and things to do...so we went to happy hour...and again to the Hofbrauhaus, this time ordering scrumptuous meals and accidentally befriending a German student too sloppy to realize his pants weren't serving their purpose of covering his hairy buttocks. A chance encounter with Indy friends brought some smiles before we caught the train to Ljubljana...a city we will never know how to correctly pronounce.

"I see Bled!" We jump off around 6am and follow our noses to the Bledec Hostel, which sits just behind the iconic Bled Castle from every tourism brochure. A 4 hour nap, a jaunt to the cheapest supermarket yet, and we are off around the lake. The entire parameter spans 6 km, which gave us plenty of spots to stop for a shady picnic and a dip on a sand bar. Out from the shore, stretching towards the church on the island, was a stretch of clear, light blue that led us to believe we were in the vicinity of prime water fun. The nearby sign that forbade swimming only egged us on. A few other Slovene tourists with matching shirts and farmer's tans followed our lead, and we watched as massive fish swam away from their water commotion. We were a little fearful at first when the "moving boulders" came towards my feet in the water. They turned out to be scaredy fish, and we got in deep, as happy as can be. We did flips and launches, sunned again amongst the wildflowers, ate oranges, and pelted the peels at each other like Olympic beach volleyballers. Just as Cosmo Kramer wishes he could bottle his smell after a day at the beach, so I wish I could preserve or easily recreate the feeling of walking home from a day of sun and water. Lake or beach activities provide so much joy to those who partake in them, and that walk home with half-wet clothes, ratted hair, blanched and bronzed skin, squeaking flip flops and quiet smiles makes me happy to be alive. I'm not sure if Ralph Lauren would or could bottle that essence.

Another cheap market meal, chatting, music, and beers, and we are in bed by 10pm, exhausted. Hike to the castle and on to the swimming dock by noon. The water is cobalt blue, like the high seas on a cloudless day, but covering the reflection from the sun, I could see down to the bottom. The runoff from the Julian Alps is a crisp 74 degrees or so and perfect for jumping in to cool our burning backs. We heard a few English speakers, but largely everyone around us was either local or a speaker of some Slavic language. Why this spot is seldom traveled by Westerners is hard to tell. This fact only increases its value in our eyes; Bled is a gem.

Alexis and I were saddened to hear Garrett's plan of parting ways with us, even after our diamond-in-the-rough discovery in Slovenia. Swimming, tanning, storm watching, cheap prices, local pubs, free breakfasts, and a six person room to ourselves in one of Europes finest hostels. Nevertheless, Croatia pulled us south, while Vienna magnetized him north.

Arrivederci, Pipi: Day 21

Four hours after a late, post-clubbing bedtime, poor Garrett and Alexis were summoned to rise for Cinque Terre with my parents. A gorgeous four more hours later, Caro and I awoke, sparkling, to a room filled with golden light and wandered down to the pool. A hectic day of sunning and lounging was to begin. We floated, read, enjoyed Italian coffee, lunched for hours on the patio, and slept on our pool chairs, covered in towels, feeling the occasional trickle of rain on an exposed toe. Every activity was blanched with the warmth of satisfaction. The Burgassi family came during the afternoon to prepare the exterior of the villa for the next tenants. I took this opportunity to accept their offer for housing in July. I made an effort to delay my affirmation prior to this, thinking I was being responsible to think of all sides of the spectrum. They must have thought I was crazy not to consider this option as divine intervention. Caro and I spent the rest of our lazy afternoon inside, drinking wine and playing gin until the entire Burgassi family (Otto included) stuck their heads in the door "Brady Bunch-style" to say they were so excited I was coming to live with them. It was a moment for the scrapbook.

Around 9pm, I heard the four Cinque Terre goers approaching from outside, and immediately we became cooking machines for dinner. Oven on, pop in the rolls, chop every vegetable and meat product sitting around, open loads of beans and, well, what do we make with beans and chicken and cheese and veggies? Chicken surprise and garlic fritattas! And be sure to drink up the wine, so it all tastes somewhat edible! Genius ideas went hand in hand with dancing around the kitchen to Earth, Wind and Fire, loud enough to hear from the next hilltop town. It was a memorable last supper.

The next morning we squeezed five large pieces of luggage and five travelers into the car, all bound for Milano; the end resulting feeling being a universal one of stress and sleeping keisters. The city of Milan didn't meet my expectations coming in, as its ugly webbing of streets seemed to lack history, tradition, or that Italian charm. However, with only a few hours to spend in the fashion industry capital, our time was spent wonderfully with Alexis' childhood friend, Katie, who had been studying there for the past semester. She showed us a good time with cheap pizza, castles and parks, the Milan metro, the majestic Duomo and Galleria, our last gelatos, and revealed to us the perspective of an American in Milano. We returned to a hotel room with two sleeping parents and camped on the floor.

The next morning was quiet. Showers, packing, sitting, reading...we waited for time to arrive at 10:40am, when we left to board our train to Interlaken. The moment of embarkation was reminiscent of February 4th, 2007, the departure date for SAS S'07 - blubbering. 178 days until I reconnect with my family in Hawai'i. Until then, I think the Dead would agree: it's gonna be a long, strange trip.

Rome on Two Wheels: Day 15

Every once in a while, parents forget how old their children truly are and all the times they’ve proven themselves responsible. After being denied the chance to experience a dance club in Florence or even a small pub in a Tuscan hill town, my brother, his wife and I (ages 27, 28 and 22 respectively) decided to embark on a side trip to the Eternal City for the weekend. It’s not to say my parents are hard to travel with. There’s just an unexplainable thrill in doing what would make your mother sweat a little. Ian, Allison and I walked only a few blocks down Via Cavour from the train station before deciding Vespas were essential. Scooting past the Coliseum, it was clear that this is the way to experience Rome. With one day in a city as tremendous as Rome, the only thing that beats the luxury of time with these buildings is flying past them, seeing them all within minutes, and knowing you’re joining the likes of Audrey Hepburn by partaking in this hair-rustling, tire-squealing activity.

We came all the way to Rome without hotel accommodations [on a Saturday night], so we parked, ordered beers at an alley eatery, and skimmed the guidebook for suggestions. Ian volunteered to scoot to the Colors Hotel by the Vatican in order to book our room, but when he didn’t return in an hour, we began twiddling our thumbs anxiously. I sat staring into the darkness of the summer dusk, realizing only after some time that Ian’s silhouette stood in front of me, his massive Marvin the Martian helmet sitting askew on his head.

When it began raining an hour earlier, the cobblestone streets became slick as ice, making it impossible for Ian to maneuver the scooter safely. Squeezing the brakes to avoid getting smacked by a bus, he flew over the handle bars and sprawled in the middle of a busy road flanking the Tiber River. The Lonely Planet Italy book he had between his feet, propped open by his alien toes, caught some incredible air and landed some yards away. The broken brake sliced a life line across his dirty palm. Buses and cars honking for Ian to fix his predicament, he scrambled to gather the guidebook and his unstrapped helmet (which flew off the other direction) only to forget that scooters don’t work like wave runners. He grabbed the throttle and twisted before his body sat atop the vehicle. Ian flew over the handle bars a second time, his bruises now certain to turn the color of the cobblestones.

At that moment when Ian appeared out of the midnight blue evening, I began laughing. His drenched clothing, the “I did something bad” childlike look on his face, his inability to sit normally on his now sensitive derriere, the entire retelling of his scooter incident, it all caused me some very happy crocodile tears. Not that I’m malicious towards my family members. For decades, I’ve loved finding the humor in my brother’s slapstick moments. Once dinner concluded and we successfully relocated to our hotel room without injury, we dedicated the night to numbing Ian’s travel wounds with Irish lager.

The next morning, Via del Corso, the Pantheon, the Piazza della Venezia...all at a speed of about 5 mph in the misty patches of rain. And then the Piazza Navona, where we witnessed in real life and time the 17th century rivalry between Bramante and Bernini. We returned the scooters, after I schmoozed with the local police to let us down a closed street, to find a nearby pub broadcasting the Roma-Catania final playoff game for the Schudetto. Unfortunately, a tie left the Roman fans unenthusiastic, and the bar cleaned out, that is except for three Americans, three Brits, and an odd Ukranian. Ian began the bonding over soccer, an experience he doesn't often get in America, and Allison was intrigued by the Ukranian's perception of America, his own life, and gypsies, of course.

Mom found out 16 months later our seemingly pleasant scooter experience in Rome was actually riddled with moments that would have made her gasp and squeal. Had we told her upon returning to our vacation rental outside of Florence, it would have been proof her worries were legitimate and we weren’t as responsible as we posed. Luckily, after 16 months time, she’d completely forgotten all the warnings she gave us for riding scooters, the “I told you so” reprimand completely avoided. Even in your twenties, it still feels rewarding to get away with a dangerously good time without getting your nose rubbed in it by your mother.

My Life in a Blender: Day 11

It's 8:00am, and I just got 12 hours of sleep. I flopped into bed around 6 or 7 in the afternoon, thinking a short nap was in order, but 10pm was the time of my first waking breath. We picked up Ian and Allison at the train station, after which we returned to the Poggio and sent them off to bed. The day was so short, hardly anything from which to need relaxation. However, there must be some reason why I continue to sleep so intently. My dreams are grand, memorable, and completely transparent here. Every night, I relive a blending of all my different educational backgrounds. I receive awards that I'm too unprepared to accept. I'm somewhat left out of the celebratory activities after the year is done. Those whom I feel I've escaped from return to my subconscious to make me sort out the feelings I would rather repress. It all just makes me think this is a truly monumental transition that I have yet to actualize.

I am no longer in competition with grade school comrades, nor do I have to deal with those who manipulate me. There are so many places now where I feel out of place even though I tried my very best to be an honest and upstanding member of each circle. Am I an escape artist? I ran out of Wabash without a thought, left college the moment I got my diploma. That lingering feeling feels like a waste to me, but obviously a part of me understands it's essential to my mental stability. I dealt with all my recent "ailments" with the understanding that in a few months/days/hours I wouldn't have to deal with it. When your brain shuts down like that, it's difficult to decide whether some things are worth attempting to salvage.

Now is the time I've allotted myself to spend digging into my own desires and potential. I'm encouraged also by others to utilized this time of discovery and not factor in the pull home. I'm told to be a little selfish, but others are sure to let me feel the guilt. Am I overly sensitive or undecisive? And at the end of this phase, will I be enlightened by what I see and who I meet, or will I be struck by my own privilege of having the ability to wander?

What is my life supposed to be all about? Smaller and simpler, familiar and pre-existing is one compelling choice supported by so many. But I hear a voice that leads me to experience a scary world and become something I may not be strong enough to be. I must think my entire development should be accurately preserved in order to publish and broadcast when I self-actualize, but is this the thought of a self-centered ego or a prediction of unforeseeable things to come? As my idol, Jerri Blank, would say..."Guess we'll never know."

The big decisions keep on coming. Do I take up the Burgassis on their offer of a home for my childcare services? Do I promise them my 2009 in exchange for a beautiful arena for careers and a fulfilled life? I guess I assumed going into this I would have time after the journey to sort it all out and choose then from a bottomless list of life options. Now, even before I leave Europe, I am to decide if Florence is my choice.

I see 7am in rural Tuscany as a great ambiance for these sort of questions, a fog putting to rest all its workers and casting da Vinci's perfect atmospheric perspective. Maybe tomorrow, I will arise after only 8 hours of rest to the painted abyss and feel a real air with solid answers.

Sloppy Giovanni: Day 09

My lunch of a slurp-worthy tomato, aged parmigiana, and foccacia bread caused me to make the most unattractive and satisfied noises. With each bite of the magical combo, I licked six fingers clean. An occasional sip of frizzante water washed it down with excitement. Lying in the sun, my book on Tuscany makes me think less about my present location and more about my age and what I aim to milk from this experience. What is my idea of the sweet life? Mine is passion: for friendships, the air, the food, the wine, the sweets, the meals made by hand, the time spent thinking, walking without destinations or time tables, the language, writing, and more. My sweet life also brings me to a yogic-like state of self-awareness in the present: by the wind, moving water, the flicker of light, a taste, a smell, an internal understanding of my own being.

At a moment of rest, I feel my body shake as though I am seconds before going on stage. So much to be actualized and all the magic I envision, I beg to come true, if only to set my mind free and establish this city and country as my Mecca.

Old Stompin' Grounds: Day 08

What thrills me today? The cool, green smell of rain blowing through every Tuscan vineyard and smokehouse, past our patio. Florence summoned us this morning to relive my past and satiate Dad's architectural curiosities. Everything was exactly as it had been, give or take a few minor changes to my favorite panini joint. Today was not about the points of interest and getting our fill of each but creating a wish list: picnic and drawing in the Boboli gardens, catch an early bus into town to hike up the Duomo's cupola, sunset at the Piazzale Michelangelo, spots of interest Allison would enjoy, and discotecas for the occasional late night. The sky was a little dreary for my reimmersion into Florence, but the clouds, questionable smells and ballsy Florentine men enveloped me with a feeling most New Yorkers must experience with the subways, car exhaust, and public urination of their beloved city.

Today we bought every type of wine in Tuscany from a sweet old man that has run my old wine stop for the last 50 years. He had a darling smile, sour breath, and a true desire to treet us sweetly. He doesn't live to work, but if he has to, he makes it an opportunity to make dear acquaintances.

The rain now coats every visible hillside with a thin slick that just barely gives the dry but hearty soil a satisfying gulp. Just enough wind to turn a page of an idle book or brush the hair back. Enough to send the parents inside and leaving me with the slow and natural arrival of spring. A one hundred year old olive tree that sits next to me has a single twig fluttering under the light stream of the rain gutter, and since this house and that tree haven't moved for a century, it appears I am watching a tiny moment of perpetual history in this little Tuscan town.

It seems quite evident that the Italian mind is primally connected to the nature that surrounds it, and this union makes me long for the understanding to feel what I sense, the highest regard for passion and the present - two words I hope will characterize this journey of mine.

A 'Cha-ching' Opportunity: Day 07

After a morning of reading the lyrical prose of the Tuscan countryside by Frances Mayes, I felt like my magic would come from cooking the best and freshest Italian meals of the season. But I experienced a moment of pure divine magic later on that made this expectation of good home cooking so miniscule in comparison. I feel somewhat compelled to explain the whole day in perfect detail, but I doubt I will really care in the long run about these pure moments that now fall completely into the background - like saving drowning moths during my first chilly swim or our big lunch of garlic frittatas and basil tortellini, surrounded by thunderstorms in the distance. No, I would rather focus my written attention to the wonderful coincidence of the day: the new job opportunity.

The patron's baby gets bored. I pick him up to bounce on my knee and prepare him for his midday meal. I get a job offer to be a live-in nanny for nine months. Sounds like a dream, no? The couple, that not only would house and feed me in exchange for child care but also encourage the start of my art career in Florence, also understands the need for travel and experience as a young adult. Is there a downside in sight? Millions of miles away among the dimmest stars? Even those distant gas balls are cheering for my Florentine nanny idea. Such a rare possibility in my mind before and now my most promising post-travel plan. The benefits of free room and board, possible local travel, beautiful surroundings in the best part of Florence, my favorite city on Earth, an awesome baby and equally great parents, free time for tutoring, learning, or just living - all amazing perks.

And to make it even more appealing for both sides, I can use July as a trial period to live this life with them and see if it works for all of us. How to make this decision...what a tough dilem--done!

Death by Stick Shift: Day 06

For the last two years, I've had a reoccuring dream. I have just arrived in Florence, Italy with my parents in tow, and I can't recognize a single landmark. Highways in the sky suspended over modern buildings and massive tomato sculptures - sort of a 'paved paradise' situation which makes me cringe. Today's early morning bus boat through the Grand Canal next to a Grecian cruise ship was no big deal. Speaking with the train ticket seller in perfect Italian was cause for a mini 'cha-ching' motion. But to return to that city of concentrated culture and passion, one my heart would gladly withstand the greatest amount of hardship to be in, had a moment of a sweet release for me yet also one of over-waited deja-vu. My memory hardly lost a street corner over the past two longing years. The perfection of the moment also came with the realization that we had a perfect Tuscan villa to get to. It's cliche for a reason. But first we had to reach the driveway.

Stall...a little movement...stop sign...and stall...confusing street...hit a few pylons...a hideous/hilarious curse word or twelve...drive in circles...drive the wrong way on a one way...stall...wrong turn...and finally, smoke billowing from under the hood of our 2009 Alfa Romeo. Dad's face grew as red as the Chianti of his dreams and his mouth became that of a sailor's. And when comedy or therapy couldn't help his 30 year rusty stick shift skills, he threw up his hands and flipped on the hazard lights.

Since Mom was busy burying her head in the backseat luggage, I very reluctantly got behind the wheel for the first time in a new country. Zooming past me were the weathered Florentine racers who enjoy testing your next move and leaving you to quiver in their dust. I was scared to the point of pre-scheduled vomitting and moments of terror that produced songs and humming from the depths of my most primal being.

When you can only expect failure from yourself but seem to slip by unharmed, it feels like pure joy while running through an active and unpredictable minefield. Once I escaped the pee-in-your-pants phase of Florentine traffic, I reached the organically lain backroads of Tuscany. Steadily crawling to each small town in second gear, I waited for the imminent, drunken fool to fly into my lane and send my Italian car flying into tree after olive tree. Foliage-covered death cliffs taunted me on one side throughout the country weave. But once I was no longer blocked in on all sides by Ferrari-red hot-blooded Kenevals, I began to enjoy my drive on the wild side. In fact, awe-inspiring views spread around us in 360•. I threatened the parents to encourage their enjoyment of the sights a-plenty because this drive, which was giving me crow's feet, needed to have some worthwhile benefit.

And with driving instructions only dictated from irrelevant starting points for us, the game plan was to use street signs and just smell our way there. After all that time searching on mapquest and identifying our little street on my phone map, it seemed like a do-able task, especially with the help of our palpable anticipation. Giorgio and Lizzi at a nearby bar had to ultimately steer us in the right direction after lending us a WC and our first Birra Morrettis.

Pure luck of our aimless wander and I stalled in front of Poggio al Pipi. It felt like the end of a relentless pilgrimmage, even though it included flying across the ocean, training and ferrying around Lake Como, and a €200 per night Venetian hotel from a National Lampoon movie. I'll skip over the obvious part about our patrons being gems with a darling bambino and a loveable little Dachshund. I'll also skip how perfect and authentic our villa turned out to be - surpassing the most lofty expectations with the charm of burning wood barbeques and 110 organically grown olive trees. I don't know how else to say, without using regurgitated and expected vocabulary, that whatever sense of Italy this place recalls, those moments are presently ours. I can only hope that the price we pay to live like a Tuscan allows us complete rights of every basil infused moment of this experience. I sauteed some vegetables as my parents chugged Italian beers and sopped up juicy olive oil with their crispy bread. I think the air of rural Tuscany brings out the full aromatic colors of garlic and basil.

Pages and pages scribed without a moment to rest my tired hand while others read up on their most recent Italian inquiries. And as I relish in the retrieval of my first (of many) obligatory foot massage, I can only believe we have interpreted the meanings of our own dolce vitas and lived them fully within these first few hours. Tuscany waits untainted and unaware we are here, and my laughable aspirations to run the gravel roads or imbibe the sweet, sun-ripened air of the morning still have an inch of possibility...mi scusi...a centimeter. Where's my Bella Tuscany book?

Venezia? ...Beh: Day 05

I'm so glad to say that the fog has lifted. I found a way to release the anger stewing inside me yesterday. And the only reason its icy core lifted from my soul was because my parents affirmed even the most obvious concern of mine.

This city is a little much.

Did I not warn you adequately? There are prominent, salient differences between the exploitation of Venezia and the effervescent culture of Firenze. It's as if each business has sold its soul to the tourism devil and their jaded and weathered employees can't even muster up civility towards those to whom they must cater. Everyone must have tried to speak to them in their broken Italian and expect the luxuries they receive in their home countries, regardless of whether they are normally present here. This place, if not worn to the tip, could be an honest treasure left from the development of medieval Italy.

I loved the relentless bashing of Venetian culture that occurred last night on the shore of the Grand Canal. Ma with her quarter-liter and Dad and I with our liter nightcaps had just settled on a lie to get us out of Venice, stat! And our frantic run around this rat maze of a city should have made me burst with laughter, Mom in desparate need of two gelati and Dad needing two bottles of vino and a little boy's room. We were three middle school children, thrilled with the freedom of our own hotel room, our own Euros, and the ability to eat and drink as much junk as possible.

€200 a night to stay on the Grand Canal in a room reminiscent of a Griswald family Euro-vacation, but after a day of anxiousness and mistakes, it was a night I truly appreciated.

Why does everyone feel the urge to travel to Venice? Is their city slogan "Venice...come feel the love." With expectations so high, this city tries too hard to deliver and in turn forfeits their own culture and tradition. If they want such an ambiance, they should haul in Disney's management team to swoop in and create the dream effect.Tomorrow will hopefully be an early morning. A 6:43am train ride that delivers me to my soul's homecoming, like my very own parade.

Gosh, this writing style had better quickly improve before these inspirational moments seap through my fingers into just a pile of poorly dictated thoughts.

[Piu' tarde...]

At three in the morning, the city of Venice is a city for the purse vendors and gypsies. Windows wide bring in no sounds of laughter, footsteps, or blaring TVs. The only clunks in the night come from the tightly packed boats in the Grand Canal. Crossing the threshold into a completely silent Venice is a haunting idea. So peaceful and completely ominous, a surreal environment pulling me in like a dangerous country or a seedy bar. That's the only Venice I care to believe in.