Zimbabwe, Zambia, Zambezi...Niagara Is A Little Bitch and I'm an Idiot...

It felt like playing Edgebrook Saugenash in 9-year-old traveling baseball, driving with our cabbie from Victoria Falls airport to the border where Zimbabwe ended and Zambia began. The first taxi, in hindsight, was a godsend with likely 600,000 kilometers already in the can. Thinking back…at least it was a comfort to see that everyone in the customs line – Americans (us), Canadians, Aussies, South Africans – all had a stash of American dollars. It was the most accepted currency in this country of economic shambles (political too…if I were to speak or publish either one of the previous statements, I would be thrown in jail). Quickly, my mind shifted…there was nothing welcoming about seeing American dollars. More to the point, there was nothing welcoming about anything in Zimbabwe aside from the baboons, vervet monkeys and warthog families roaming the roads…which at that point was anything but a comfort. My Navigator and I buried cameras as we passed a “police checkpoint” (taking photos of any government activity is also reason to be jailed…only to be later freed after negotiating a sweet bribe). Countries of the world, hear this…Zimbabwe is an absolute pillar society. Did I mention getting hit with a 36-dollar check for 2 Fantas and fries at an airport restaurant? You could buy a car for 50 and I’m not even sure if that’s an exaggeration.

We negotiated a cab from the airport to the border of Zimbabwe for 30 (taken). From there, we crossed the border, hopped a cab through no man’s land for 5, passed over the Zambezi bridge -- home to the world’s 2nd highest bungee jump...



And began to work our way through Zambian immigration while 2 steaming cabbies fought over the fare to our final destination. When we came out, the bare footed and ultimately defeated of the two cabbies was screaming…

“Pirate! Pirate! Look at the car, he painted it blue. He’s a pirate! He’s robbing my fare!”

Though he had a point – it was obvious that our driver had thrown buckets of blue paint over his car and let gravity do its duty (blue is the color of the “official” taxis) – our bags were already in the “trunk.” We pulled away, chased by screams as the winning driver attempted to settle our minds…

“Your first time in Africa and this is what you see. This is your impression, the impressions you take back. He’s drunk, look at him. That man’s not even wearing any shoes!”

I assured him that first impressions really weren’t that important, that I already knew of Africa’s beauty when my Navigator began motioning to the empty bottle of Castle sitting on top of the parking break. I offered all I could…

“At least he’s wearing shoes.”

…

Zambia is a country of beautiful, kind people…all the way through. I also think it would be irresponsible to not defend the people of Zimbabwe – a land run by an “infantile guerilla” who fixes exchange rates and sinks the country into frequent tailspins. Maybe someday soon, he’ll be gone and a national identity will have the opportunity to reveal itself.

...

The Zambezi is mighty. Anyone that tells you different is either blind or special. It has this little generator behind it that goes by the name of Victoria Falls – a vision I took in with a setting sun, as the perpetual mist surrounding this wonder made for a rainbow so flawless I wanted to sob all over myself and nearly did.



But as mighty as the sight itself was, I couldn’t know what it was capable of until I rode it.



We took rafts out on the 3rd day – two days after my Navigator suffered from a flash illness, one day after I rode a horse named Wheaty through Zambian farming villages – and it was on the 3rd day that I have never felt closer to death in my life. We rode 10 rapids with a native, deadlocked guide named Simba. The first three were a wild trip. On the fourth, I remember paddling into a swell, already out of breath when I found myself under water – trapped in swirling black without any hope of a sense of direction.



Our raft had tipped and I was gulping water for air. The brain has a breaking point beyond calm where the body – in what felt like an involuntary reaction – thrashes for its own survival. I felt it for what felt like an eternity before I came up, tried to drink down every last drop of air in Africa. I remember gasping, satisfied for a partial second before gulping more of the Zambezi, going under again, getting trapped under the boat when suddenly, the water was calm and I was trying to figure if and when I had blacked out.

And the worst was yet to come...



They call it Gulliver’s Travels, rapid #7 (which would be closed the next day after an upgrade to 6 – impassable). The longest and roughest, our raft was turned by the halfway point. Any sooner and we would have been in serious, serious trouble. I had learned my lesson from the previous encounter, got it far worse than anyone else and kept my mouth shut aside from one line of advice to suck deep wind before hitting the nasty stuff. Though, it’s one of those things you can’t know until you know. This time, everyone tasted the same nightmare. When I finally came up for air, we were nowhere near calm waters. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw as the burly Scotsman that was paddling right middle hit and caromed off a boulder in the center of Gulliver’s most daunting stretch. The water spun me around as I spotted the emergence of my Navigator, trailing 20 meters and nearing a rocky coast that would ultimately prove scarring. I tried to swim, but the current pulled us apart and all I could do - hope for a universal smooth fate, heads above water.

Eventually, our vests brought us up. Eventually, the 7 of us were back into a raft void of trust…broken down, ailing, afraid. On that day, the Zambezi had drowned my body, my strength of mind. The final rapid could not have been more welcomed. My Navigator and I got back, kicked back in the sun and launched ourselves into a reflective and aggressive poolside mid-day drunk with Mosi and Red by our side…with a new appreciation for air and serenity.

…

I didn’t sleep much the last night. It had nothing to do with the heat or the mosquito nets on the bed – I had grown accustomed. It wasn’t even the Temple of Doom millipedes I had earlier seen, worried would be a feast for the Lariam still lurking in my head. At 9 that morning, I had an appointment to jump off the Zambezi Gorge Bridge, the 2nd highest bungee jump in the world---

Yeah, I know, same person haunted by vertigo. Same person sent a check for 10,000 to appear on a TV show (never aired) exploiting my fear of heights (arrogance, charm, beauty…among other things). If there’s something I am or have been trying to learn in the most recent stretches of my life – fears are gifted…and what a tragedy it would be, coasting through life never facing them.

That morning, I didn’t eat, forgot to drink any water. Actually, I felt sick and a little hungover – but this was to be expected. After all, nerves can be powerful little beings.

Strapped and prepped in a blur, I toed the platform drenched in a panic sweat, trembling uncontrollably, adrenaline driving every inch of my body. The numbers 01 had been scratched in large green marker on my right forearm. The spotter, Danny, must have read it in my eyes. He spoke fast…



“Okay, okay…eyes on the horizon. Eyes on the horizon. First jump of the day, okay, you got it. I need you to do something for me, for all of us, for these people behind you. I need you to wake up the Zambezi, show her your pride. Yell, let that shit out.”

I screamed beyond capacity, so fueled and outside myself, it damaged my throat.

“Again!”

I did. And if you were listening closely from any part of the world in that moment, I’m convinced you could have heard me. From there, I dove off, came around to face a jagged ground below that would otherwise been eager to deal end life. And it was in this strangest of places that I found silence and a snapshot of a moment in suspension – as peaceful as anything I’ve ever seen and as afraid as I’ve ever been. Beautiful.



I spent the last day in transit, suffering from what I was worried to be the initial stages of a Yellow Fever tempted from an earlier post. Though, I’m pretty sure it was just dehydration…maybe exhaustion…maybe one of the thousand Zambezi parasites I had inadvertently swallowed while fighting for life.

...

It’s 10 in the morning, my last morning in Camps Bay and I'm still feeling remnants of sickness in my body. Today, I leave for Heathrow...tomorrow, Chicago. After trying to replicate small percentages of the comforts of home in 15 countries and countless more cities over the past 4 months, I’m finally going back to the home that grew me up.

I can’t explain exactly what I was after when I left…maybe because I don’t want to or because understanding would be a gift too generous. All I can say…

May every day break me, every turn blind me, never a moment escape me.

…

Oh, and fuck the world…it’s mine.

Kruger...

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Cape Town 4...

Flight booked. December 22nd, it’s time to return to the States...for now. After flirting with expatriate-ism for what will be 105 days, I can speak for the first time with a real sense of authority that I'm coming home to Earth’s greatest and most enigmatic country. And I’m looking forward to it, at peace with where I am at…maybe because good times are still far from cease beating.

Today, finally, I started in with a hacked prescription of Lariam. It’s only 1 pill, actually…and I only get to take it once a week for the next 7 weeks, but dear friends my oh my, how delightful the prospect of those 7 weeks are going to be. For one, I won’t catch Malaria…at least the probability will decrease. In most parts of the world, that’s a good thing. I still have to get a shot to protect from Yellow Fever. Though, the chances of my follow through are slim. Part of me enjoys too much - real life Oregon Trail. It's just like I used to play on shanty computers in early grade school, watching helplessly as my family would perish away from these very ailments as I guided us towards a better life in the joyous splendor of the American frontier.

But let us get back to the Lariam and my enthusiasm. Kindly note the coming abundance of quotations…wouldn’t want anyone to overlook that this is DIRECTLY pulled…

“ “ “Lariam can rarely cause serious mental problems in some patients. The most frequently reported side effects with Lariam, such as nausea, difficulty sleeping and bad dreams are usually mild. People taking Lariam occasionally experience severe anxiety, feelings that people are against them, hallucinations (seeing or hearing things that are not there, for example), depression, unusual behavior, or feeling disoriented. It has been reported that sometimes, in some patients, these side effects continue after Lariam is stopped. Some patients taking Lariam think about killing themselves, and there have been rare reports of suicides. We do not know if Lariam was responsible for these suicides.” ” ”

Next Wednesday, I’m hopping a flight to Johannesburg, picking up a little bitch Ford Focus...probably white. Sorry, uncalled. I speak ill only because of my foresight…reeling from separation anxiety after parting with Jameson, my struggling ’77 stud VW. From Jo-Burg, it’s a 5 hour drive to Kruger - an African national park that’s the size of everything east of the Mississippi. Note: previous statement likely not factual…but it could be. Kruger is a monster full of beautiful monsters. That part is true.

“Don’t go to Zimbabwe.” “So seriously, my friends just got back from Zimbabwe, don’t go.” “Africa is sweet, dude. Dude, don’t go to Zimbabwe.” “Stay out of Zimbabwe. It's totally fucked.”

The following Saturday, I’m hopping a flight to Zimbabwe. This little thing that’s supposed to be a sight, Vic Falls, sits on the border of Zambia and the country of previous mention. I’ll split time between them, two places where meds of previous mention slip beyond the borders of optional. Things will ensue.

…

Snake bites!

Of course. And dealt from the sorts of snakes that stomp in deep Africa…certainly fatal AND in compliance with Oregon Trail treachery, especially if you fuck with their babies...which, I imagine, would be the cause that leads to my effect: lecture from a butch park ranger named Cleoa and more meds to combat the poison partying it up in my veins.

Perhaps I'll vaccinate after all. Perhaps.

Cape Town 3...

He was sitting along the side of the divide, droned by the ocean as I ran into the winding placidity of Victoria Road, 4 kilometers South of Camps Bay. This was a man I had earlier named Dewey…only to later fall back on the literally inspired Spitzengiggle. Recently though and likely forever, he’ll remain Jupiter.



Jupiter sits on a crate at the corner of Camps Bay Drive and Victoria, a hair to the left of Pick n' Pay’s front entrance. He carries a cane that conforms to his upper arm, walks with a limp on his right side. His clothes dangle over a hungry but distantly famished dark, dark skinned body. The first time we made eye contact, he stuck out his tongue and blew spit through rickety teeth and a warming, gapped smile. If I didn’t instantly think he was insane, the deal was sealed as I crossed the street…chased by his rabid howls.

Our following encounters were brief. At times I would pass, notice his distant stare into an ocean view too perfect to be uncalculated. To me, though, he gave nothing. No spit, wink, howl...not even a grin. He never looked up. What had I done? I thought back...maybe he had initially offered something that my coldness rejected. Or, perhaps Ockham deserved his due – my credit was escaping too freely.

Days later, I was picking up laundry when a racket caught my attention. It was Jupiter. He was standing and yelling, jabbing and thrusting his cane into the air. Something had agitated his cool. No, someone. Jupiter was in a justified hot boil. I realized, quickly…he was defending the only kingdom he knew – Camps Bay and Victoria. He and a remoresless Invader began their dance. Jupiter would chase off Invader, who would retreat and stop when Jupiter turned his back. Once privy, Jupiter would give chase up our steep hill. It went on for a few rounds, this mid-day disruption at the corner of paradise in Southern Africa. Eventually, Invader left the scene in a slow and mocking retreat. After witnessing first hand, a Camps Bay street corner political struggle, I couldn’t help but cross the street and lap the victor. He had already settled back into his crate as I was passing. When he didn’t initially look up, I stopped, motioned an unsympathetic hand in the direction of the man he had chased off. He raised his glare and was at first, taken back by my attention. His arms flew tirade as he began to spit and howl in a dialect that wasn’t Afrikaans or English. It was Jupiter, and I got it right away…

Now into his 70’s, Jupiter has been on the corner of Camps Bay and Victoria for a long, long time. It’s his post. Every now and then, as I had witnessed (apologetically by Jupiter), some young punk tries to waltz in on his rightful property. They wander into the beauty of Camps Bay; think they can strong arm a “crazy old man” out of his prime, prime beachfront stomps. He said it’s a generational thing. The kids have no respect for anything (one of his major concerns for our aging world, by the way). He confessed to doing it many times in the past, reluctantly foresaw having to do it many more times in the future…that is, until he no longer has one.

As he began to shift the crate, I knew he was moving away from the glory of his late adventure. He smiled, welcomed me to Camps Bay. I smiled, thought twice…stuck out my tongue, blew spit like a child. He slapped his knee, burst into laughter so violently careless, it melted my remaining guard. His face grew squinty before dishing a timid thumbs up (half tucked behind a coiled pointer finger). Crossing the street, I found myself graced again by his now comforting – homey neighborhood howls.

I go into Jupiter’s Pick n' Pay almost every day, come out with 5 Rand, sometimes 10. Though it’s not much, it’s always for him. He never asked, not even in Jupiter. After his acceptance, I get a thumbs up, a squinty smile, a howling accompaniment every time I cross the street. Every time I say goodbye, I stick out my tongue, blow spit in his vicinity. Often, he returns the favor. Yesterday, I came out with 5 Rand, handed it to him with tongue fully stretched. He pulled my hand with surprising strength, kissed it, held it to his head. It took me by surprise. Something had changed…something between us. Real or invented, it was a connection I’ll not soon forget.

Crossing the silent street, my mind drew a line to the moment I passed him on that coastline run. I don’t know what it was exactly, seeing him so far out of town…sitting out on the rocks, looking out onto the mighty ocean. He was alone, maybe. Or maybe, simply, he just looked so peaceful I wanted to stop and talk forever until the sun settled and he left to return to the star that calls him citizen.

Maybe he would tell me everything - a world in his words, in Jupiter. Maybe he would take me there, away…show me.

Cape Town 2...

My navigator and I tied knots in our seatbelts and left after dawn, compass reaching for southern lands. We were headed for Antarctica but settled mind, instead, on the Cape of Good Hope…likely the closest we were ever going to get to the frozen, black continent.



Strange lands are these…landscapes, sandscapes. The abundance of grandeur in this country is daunting. By nightfall, after all that’s been seen for the day, my eyelids gruesomely stretch head to chin. Inescapable winds blow everywhere, and like Hell. Yesterday, they dusted our ’77 VW Beetle across the 2 lanes of Chapman’s Peak Drive as the lawnmower engine in our car shudder and popped its very own roadie soundtrack, “Gruntstruggle.” The car – all white with a rough 16 dozen dents, scratches, and minor disappearances (left rear view mirror) – appropriately seems to me, recently named after a delicious brand of Irish whiskey. Though, don’t ask me to defend appropriateness.

Baboons are dangerous. Or, so they say. I say their asses are unsightly. If fed by humans, especially on a regular basis, they adopt unhealthy habits. In extreme cases, they have to be put down…something ballparking a forever injection of sleepy time to a blindsided skull strike with a rusted shovel. Apologies, but I find range of definition to be a fascinating and educationally progressive practice.

…

I was easing Jameson around a sharp bend where the traffic was stopped and confusion was breeding on the side of the road. I down shifted into 2nd, tried to ease Jam into passing with a mechanical grace that he had likely lost in the late 80’s. My navigator and I rumbled through the fray of ill-parked cars, caught stares of an extended baboon family re-union on the side of the road. We parked facing the wrong direction, grabbed cameras and got out for a closer look. Adults hung in the shade, ill-inspired by admiring visitors. Babies were jetting about with careless abandon - jumping rocks and eating plastic bags that would likely later get trapped in their baby esophagi. If concern filled my veins, it was soon silenced by Squadron WBC. My initial thought - how dare I ever judge babooning baboons, minding their business. It wasn’t until commotion found our African roadside scene that I began to think otherwise.

The largest of the group strolled casual across the street, likely beginning with Jameson…the first in the line of parked cars. Lucky for my navigator and I, our doors are old and difficult to open…and so he moved on. I didn’t see this, only imagined after later witnessing his methodical practice. I was focusing on a shot of two babies dangling over their parents when I heard the banging. An older man was slamming his fist on the trunk of his car, yelling. Though, I assure this was no scene of senility. Instead, there was an 80 pound baboon sitting…no, kickin' it in the back of his Ford. And he wasn’t going anywhere…



Later that day, I found myself taking sun in the under-run sands of Boulders Beach just outside Simon’s Town. Kids belted screams of chaos as they jumped from rocks into the icy ocean. Parents sat in the shade. Europeans wore Speedos. African penguins collected on the rocks, weaved through swimmers’ legs when the day called for a break in the monotony.



It was a second scene too bizarre to initially cope. Naturally, I opted for escape, couldn’t help but think back to the likely fate of the car invading baboon…

A tour bus came to a stop in the middle of the road. Through the tinted windows, I could see that everyone quickly stood, moved to the side owning optimum POV. Out of nowhere, a man darted across the road…likely the bus tour guide. He pulled the belt from his pants, rushed the car twirling it over his head like a cowboy madman. As a machine gun of flashes snapped through the windows of the bus, I knew in that moment that that moment was his…the reason he wakes, steps on that chariot far too often and says the same shit over and over and over again. I couldn’t deflect the rushing pity from invading my mind - never had I seen a “hero” willing to reach so far over the top…but why? I could only imagine the feeling of walking back onto the bus, met by a roaring wave of applause for “bravery” in the face of danger. I could only imagine what it felt like to be lusted after by a docile (though, willing to let it fly) pack of golden women. Upon reaching the car, Savior dragged the buckle of his belt against the paneling, launched into a tirade combo of territorial yelps. The baboon retreated…and quick. All was again right in the tourist kingdom.

In hindsight, I’m pretty sure the baboon was watching as Savior jumped back into his bus. He stood there, watching as we all did…the bus pull away. The moment Savior rounded the bend and vanished, the baboon opened the door, jumped back into the car. Now well advised, the Fordman quickly began rocking the car and yelling (unconvincing and quite amateur after the earlier display). It was obvious to me, he wasn’t going to accomplish much…not without much improved conviction. In the end, it was the rocking that did it. Nauseate the animal…FYI.

I don’t know when the moment struck, but it certainly did…realization, what the hell were we doing out of the car? A flash began to run across my periphery, another…another. 3 cars and a tour bus quickly became 7. One family of peace loving monkeys turned to a legion of crazed anarchists. They began jumping on cars, running across the road, pulling on car doors. When I came back around to face my navigator, the car loving baboon was now on top of the Ford…likely feeling sick, perhaps slightly emotionally ruptured. He was standing between us and Jameson and the only thing I knew for sure - I had no interest in crossing his step.

When he made for a shrub on the side of the road, we circled around a car of 4 crammed surfers. The scene had them giddy, beaming through their cheeks. We walked slowly…calculated and calm…

“Gents, be good…I swear, if you piss that thing off…”

We pulled Jameson’s doors and jumped inside, watched as the baboon filed down the row of parked cars. He stood on his feet at every one, pulled on a locked door, moved along. At the last car, he fell back on all 4’s, retreated into the bush.

Jameson purred like a leopard in stage 5 of throat cancer when I turned the ignition. As I drove the bending road, into 2nd gear, I saw the call go out on dispatch, “Renegade baboon, sector 4 outside Cape of Good Hope. Strike three, Norman again. We gotta put him down.” I threw it into 3rd, saw Norman on the run...aided in his fugitivity by the bat-eared foxes and rock dassies intent on keeping him alive in the African Wilderness. As I pulled Jam back into 4th, I saw it…Norman’s last stand, surrounded by men holding rusted shovels. They closed in as he pretended to cower, accept his payment of death. Though, what the men in uniform could not have known, what few men have ever known about the animal kingdom was that in those approaching critical moments, a great wild saving splendor was about to take place…

3 – The infinite, surrounding bush begins to crackle and shake.
2 – Masses of birds call out in unison, form stirring clouds that blanket the innocent blue sky.
1 – Silence grows deafening, a true calm before the storm. Just as a grin floats across Norman’s baboon lips…just as the executioners catch a fleeting glimpse of Norman’s blood stained teeth -

Beach…stretching and empty, miles of it. I looked down from the high and winding road and it was magnificent…so mysteriously abandoned. This continent, so overly untouched, still. Africa had me punch-drunk again. Again and again…

What were we even talking about?

Cape Town...

It's a state of confusion, I suppose. The first day I spent in Camps Bay found failure in placing the feeling...likely, because I'd never known it - the sight of clouds spilling over the side of Table Mountain. I walked out my front gate and looked right - liquid apocalypse - white mist bleeding over the Twelve Apostles. It felt like the end of the world of my imagination. One of serenity, forgiveness...of beauty sends us reeling, falling on heels. How tragic it is, a chap trapped with ideals that every day fall farther into the minority...


Again, I self daunt…usually for the sake of. Some claim it poor form – sharing a property line with nail biting or public masturbation. It’s a habit, yes…though I will to the day I die, dispute their judgment. It’s like a Slurpee of flavor life rejuvenation – self daunt…in case I lost you.

If I want sushi, jazz or movies that only work in South African DVD players, I step straight out the front gate, try my best to remember everyone in this country drives on the sinister side of the street. I cross, give it anywhere from 12-50 paces. Convenience, though lovely…hardly inspiring.

To my left sits (sorry, life knows little of fairness) the most beautiful beach I've ever set foot. And allow my reminder that these feet have found many, especially lately. The water is clear, blisteringly cold. Wind shoots across this land like a crazed criminal, dusts the cove before its prowess is absorbed...eaten alive by the ocean.

Between it all…Rikkis, Black Taxis, white clothed lawn bowling. There’s a charming gap toothed, tongue blowing, cane donning corner poster (who will certainly soon speak here in exclusivity) I’m going to call Dewey. The sun is sweet and the season is starting. Worries swirl seldom. At times, I forget who I am. But it didn’t take long, in this place so far away, this place that will have me for the next 6 weeks…this place became my home.

Welcome.

Athens 2...

To all my pre-marathon advice enthusiasts...

Nipple guards, crotch lube? For your lacking mentions, severe penalties are being paid. Thank you. Elaborate? Certainly. I lost half of each, magically frayed into the unknown.

Unofficially, I crossed tape - lost my 26.2 mile virginity in the 3:46 range. It's difficult to tell until they publish the results. People traffic didn't let me start for about 2 minutes. Though it didn't take long to realize winning was out of the question(Kenya), I did find solace...eventually, in the self developed claim that if runners were bracketed into weight classes, I would have definitely finished in the top 10 at 200 lbs. Sure as shit didn't see anyone else lugging two chariots like mine up and down the relentless fucking Greek hills.

There are endless things I could write. Endless. If you go to battle for 4 hours and come back without a tale, check pulse.

I could write about the moments I was struck...struck by the last two months of my life. They hit at kilos 8, 13, 26, 34...I recall exactly. You would, too. At 40, I pulled my I-pod, let it seep through a thick, thick skull that this first epiphanous leg of a whirlwind journey was about to find an epic form of closure.

How revolving it is, power in life that made these eyes shine. Over and over.

...

Currently, Europe is finding its way to the left side of the stage. Tomorrow, after 622 hours of flight, South Africa's intro begins - an apartment on the water in Camps Bay in Cape Town. Headed to live, work, find out about a girl...

Though, order of importance, however speculative...yet to be determined.

...

Oh, life.

Athens...

It's so cold I want to eat my face. Though, I wont.

They let Smith into the marathon. I took a 70 minute tram that stopped every block and a half, arrived at the Athens Fencing Complex - initially used to house competition for the staggeringly talented world swordsmen during the 2004 Olympics - wondering all along how someone could go through so much trouble and personal anguish to beg another someone to let them run 26.2 miles in the freezing cold.

But I did. And tomorrow, I will.

How does a climate drop 30 degrees the day I arrive and pick 30 back up the day I leave? Ladies and gents...I present to you the question of the afternoon.

...

Sticking the playlist under the comments section...for any eyes eager.

Santorini...

It was my first night in from Athens, fresh off a 7 hour ferry ride, that I found myself alone on the back side of this volcanic Greek island. From the port, they drove me to a quaint and quiet place called Villa Holiday Beach. I was given a private room, steppings from beaches of black sand and was told to pay upon check out - 15 Euros per day...distant cries from the 150 they fetch in swarms of peak season. I locked the door, dropped my stuff in the middle of the room and collapsed into the comfort of MY own bed in MY own room...luxuries I've long forgotten.

It wasn't until 7:30 that I woke from a 2 hour drift. Outside, night had come, and with it, the fury of an island storm. The streets were empty as Earth's ceiling strobed incessant warnings that lit surrounding mountains, the marshmallow and rushing sky. Nothing was open. No cars, few lights. The Perissa side of this island was a ghost town, I was convinced. Quickly, the streets became lonely and daunting, especially as the thunder began to tumble with such a power, I could feel it creeping through the pads in my feet. Drizzle quickly turned to a pour and I found myself wondering why I had drifted so far from the hotel when I knew - absolutely knew - this was going to happen.

My hair was soaked, my shoes, pants to my shins, torso. Drops of water formed on my brow, dripped as I would blink through gazings down the long, dark and empty road ahead. I was completely alone, a moment powerfully realized as the might of the storm showed no signs of letting up. It was growing, and with a continual balling fury. With nothing left on my body to salvage, I began to urge her on...sent my triple dog dare through the telepathic satellites of our universe. As she raged, my steps slowed to a crawl. I raised my hand high into the air, fist so clenched my knuckles ran past white to transparent...as if the whole of my hand no longer existed. And in the blackness of the streets and the blackness in moments of the soul, I begged for the storm to show me her might. I wanted to feel her charge through me. With every flash of momentary hope turned to denial, I shuddered deep - a shivering in the bones - with certainty that something, somewhere heard my every thought...an arrogant dare that wouldn't soon be forgotten. I lowered my outstretched hand, picked up a quicker step...jogged home to the first of three nights, shrouded in nightmare.

...

By every form and turn of the imagination, Greece is exquisite. And even on its most faulty days, Santorini is a postcard. This country is a perfect end to the beginning of a long journey. I left Athens after 2 days under the Acropolis to hop islands. In two hours, I leave port to return...mostly to tie up the one loose end I have left. News of note : I've decided to back out of the originally planned, "Run the Same Solitary 26.2 Miles We Now Call A Marathon Run By Some Ancient Greek That Died From the Very Mentioned Happening." Instead, being the Baron of Good Destiny / Dipshit Asshole that I am - there so happens to be an official Athens marathon this Sunday, the 5th. It's the day before I leave for Cape Town.

Though I've encountered some resistance in trying to register past said date, "Registration closed, no more applicants to be received," I can assure you that in one form or another, those 26.2 miles will be graced by these two feet on this particular Sunday. I'm going to run it officially, with a number on my chest. Life, I've found, doesn't enjoy being crude in cases where it need not be.

But if for some reason it...or the organizing members of the Athens Classic Marathon choose to be, then you better count on at least 1 renegade runner blazing a trail, ass on fire...riding off (running) into his last sunset (mid-day glow) of Europe.

Pompeii...

Soundtrack of the afternoon: Guero
Theme: "Missing"
Scene: Pompeii, the city leveled by Vesuvius back in...way back when. Why Beck? He's whimsical, playfully genius and musically profound...like square dancing to Mozart.

Walking the streets through resurrection, I envisioned storms of blinding ash drifting sans warning. I envisioned roaring waves of magma swallowing (quite unlikely and likely impossible, imagined nonetheless) every brick. And I could see the people. They weren't running or afraid. Quite the opposite, actually. They were soaked in laughter...as if playing a children's game. I dubbed it - Run From Magic Melt You to Your Bones, Orangewater - though in hindsight, a name that would likley fail in finding traction. Morbid, I realize...simply found the moment too sweet to let go. But I've seen it before, should have known then as I've witnessed forever. All happy and fun games must come to an end.

I was halfway through the appropriate "Farewell Ride," exploring salvaged pots that spoke loud and clear - clearly the Pompeiians (?) scored high marks in dept. Arts & Crafts. They were stacked shelves upon shelves. Pots...vases...sculpterous endeavors that resembled cowering, deathly afraid people - people ready and accepting of their coming death...encased in, lava ---



The needle jumped, the soundtrack stopped. I saw their faces...this was no game.

...

The bus dropped me off at the base of Vesuvius. As I began to climb, I could feel but chose to ignore a fear that was tracing my steps. After a brisk and steep 30 minutes, I turned to my left, looked down into the face of this once mighty and merciless, now dormant crater. It was so vast and I was so high up, the first thing my body came up with...vertigo.



It came hard, fast. I quickly knelt, dusted my right across the gravel and dirt path as a means for correction. When I stood, the world was steady. My mind, though - elsewhere. There must be things in existence certain people find impossible to grapple. Maybe I had found one of mine. This terror, once capable of a wrath and rage so violent...beautiful, stunning. Contradiction like I've never seen. And in its days of glory? The things I'd give to see it spit, just once...to see the faces of the ancient and God fearing Romans...

Dude, the fuck did we do?

Rome...

I walked to a call shop, internet cafe the first night in...my only intention for the night. Ambition dead, no desire to explore. But walking home, I found myself immediately lost. When I spun a corner, the Coliseum sat before me, lit in distant hues of blue and purple and green. I was scared, almost petrified as a honking car narrowly missed slamming me, breaking his car into pieces.

But it wasn't the car...

I wasn't ready for it, not immediately...a city I grew up to revere so precisely. It's daunting, the moment truth and imagination meet, are thrust upon compromise. These moments have struck frequently over the past 7 weeks, but never like that...and never that heavy.

It grew smaller as I approached. When I reached out and touched it's coarse and cold stone, I couldn't help but imagine the echoes it once housed. I couldn't help imagining a city in its golden era, on the frontier of civiliztion...completely unaware of what they would become to a world not to be born for distant ages.

...

After that first night, the rest of my time in this city was spent in an uninspired droll. I was hungover with mononucleosis and depression and had no idea where it was stirring from.

I wanted to bury this city, bury the past of all our worlds. Bury this world content to live in the sunlight of the dead and dying. I wanted to run away from everything I am, everything I wanted to be, find dark spots of thought and exploration, find minds without limits, minds that put mine to shame and could send me somewhere far, far away...some great and astounding secret...some city in the clouds that leaves all this behind...

And that was all...the great Rome.

Venice...

Prior to arrival, we spoke...Venice and I. I confessed that much had filled these ears - jovial praise, enchantment, worship. She was an illusionary city, borrowing days from the Adriatic. Quite alluring, I admitted. She quickly flapped a hand in my direction in a vacant attempt to discover modesty. Vacant because her glare told a different story. "Let your eyes judge for themselves, I lean on nothing."

And she remained true to those words...

The morning I rode in, the sky was only clouds. Rain fell on the tinted black windows of the bus, broke like a thousand sad diamonds as we rode from the mainland into the islands of her anatomy.

I walked the streetless city, across its bridges and through its squares. Wandering, forever it seemed...through a labyrinth the likes I had never seen or thought to imagine. All I could think - the gondolas, the birds in San Marco, San Marco, hideous and enchanting Carnivale masks, puppets born of nightmares only my brother could understand - from what dream was this place distantly drawn? I found myself in a state that could not have been pulled without the dreary spectacle of these skies...loafing now, half my senses robbed from the bottle of red I drank two hours prior.

It was after 3 walking hours when I turned a corner to face San Giorgio Maggiore, alone. It sat across the canal from San Marco...and it was in that moment she spoke silent...

The gray of the sky broke to a glow, but only directly over this grand chapel. And it couldn't have been seen, not the way I was seeing it, from any other vantage in Venice. Selective rays began to strobe down, separate the sky into a thousand layers and textures...as if an angel or equivalent reached down, peeled back the stubborn shroud for an audience of one.



I can't say how long it was before a boisterous tour group turned the corner, broke my trance. When I turned back, the drabness stood...as if it were all drawn by a hopeful mind.

No...that wasn't the case. I know.

...

Yesterday, waking to the same rains, I folded. 20 minutes from Venice, I posted up in my room. Read the back half of Runaway Jury, dove fairly deep into Lunar Park. Somewhere between, I slept for an hour. At another juncture, I picked a fight with a front desk attendant who claimed there was NOTHING to eat within any reasonable distance and that the next bus to Venice wasn't coming through until 630. Fuck everyone.

I started walking...the direction opposite of Venice, likely for spite and barely sustained by the single banana I had eaten at 8 that morning. By the time my shoes were soaked, I found a place. It was across from a makeshift yet wholly legit casino in the middle of what looked to be Tuscola, Illinois...farm country. Middle of nowhere. I was looking for something authentic...

When I stepped inside and didn't speak Italian, they looked at me like I had a dick growing from my forehead. Certainly, this was the place. I sat down with a bottle of red and blew it out with perfect spaghetti bolognese followed by a house special speck and pepper pizza they wrapped into a monster cigar and finished with shaved Parmesan and fine herbs. Hands down, the best meal I've had since hitting foreign road. Nothing comes distantly close.

I walked out, drunk. A constant state of self reflection does very little for tolerance, I've found. I walked into the casino and out, proud, before heading home with plans of a good sleep.

When my fragile Australian roommate came home at 1, I was still awake. The entire night, I laid in a half slumber, reciting free verse original novels in my sleep(he roused me twice to inform.) When I did sleep, I dreamed of being pulled into a murky lake by a re-occurring beady eyed corpse. This happened 3 times. I can remember, clearly...as I imagine my roommate did...because each time, I woke up kicking covers, rails, the top bunk, screaming like a lunatic in some distant Italian dialect before collecting myself in the middle of the cramped room with an attempted calming laugh that every time, came out sinister. Feet away, he lay like a rock...likely crying and soaked in his own urine. Clearly, he was reverting back to childhood tactics - don't move, not even a twitch...all the bad men will go away.

Oh, how I wish we were only having fun with fiction.

...

When daylight broke through our window, I got up, packed and left. Roomie didn't stir. He stung me, actually, failing to offer goodbye. And walking away from the cabin, I swore I heard the lock turn a third revolution...

For luck, perhaps.

Riomaggiore...

If I ran the board of tourism, better believe I'd hang a sign outside the train station...just before the cavernous tunnel leading into Riomaggiore's one and only main hill of a road...

"Riomaggiore - if our town bled charm, cut its collective throat over the Mediterranean, induce the tide roll high right before your eyes."

I wouldn't make a second term due to infrequent and blindsiding creative marketing choices...choices too graphic for the general public, but I assure my words would reign respected, not soon forgettable...

And for what more could I desire, in this life or the next?

...

Yesterday, I walked the stretches of Cinque Terre on the coast of the Italian Mediterranean. The guide books said it would take in the upwards of 5 hours to complete. Naturally, my plans were to endure serious bouts of self inflicted harm if the ribbon broke anywhere over 2:20. And the beauty...up until the point I wandered path and was chased off by a pack of ravenous, crazed little dogs...goodness. These stretches of land...of hanging olives and grapes, steep seasides and mighty, tumbling hills surrounding these 5 tiny, seemingly forgotten towns...as if this place had the power to make life so forgettable, its visitors regret coming...like a sweet song that can only be endured for a short while without suffering numbness of the ears, before the body succumbs.

I clocked in just over 3 hours after getting lost, braving a steep thousand step climb to the top peak of trail 7...I believe. After all, If I paid any mind in the first place, appropriate paths, I would have never found myself lost. Upon completion, a self-accord was cut...accept your time, move on. It was still swift. See, I have trouble breathing...at least stopping to breathe from time to time. And it builds a sad pride, see, to run circles around leisurely hikers looking to enjoy a leisurely stroll across the Italian countryside coast. I can silently feel them wish ill will through my blaring I-Pod...

"May you fall, hard on your face, require thousands of stitches. No pain pills, medicine, sympathy." That or likely, "Fucking American."

I enjoy both.

...

I made it home to the apartment last night around 6. The house was full: 2 Scotts, 1 New Zealander, 1 Canadian, 1 Aussie and a Newenglandeer. We cooked fresh pasta, drank 1.80 bottles of Italian wine and talked of living like Kings and Queens in Laos and of a world yet discovered...forgetting already as nearly all of us are moving on, this world, like so many before it, that will be etched into the arms under our sleeves...into the life pump shielded by our royal guards called ribs.

Monaco...

Ivana picked up my step as I walked the hill of the Casino. She couldn`t stop winking, trying to convince me, heavily, that it would be in my best interest to forego Nice completely...stay with her and her claimed, "Much better talk use English roomate" for the rest of the weekend. For a moment, I thought to test my bounty. Quote a price, fair market value to house said stallion en residence...

(My lady would have understood)

Instead, I went high, faked misunderstanding...escaped to blow 20 Euro on video poker and somehow, someway managed to silence my usual merciless urge to lay down cash I have no business laying on tables.

I walked the town, up...down. Monaco and the French Riviera are exactly like the hills in Los Angeles. Simply inject Mulholland Drive so full of Winstrol that she doubles height while maintaining a long, lean muscular stature without any serious or noticeable side effects. Once she reaches desired proportions, sink Beverly Hills, West Hollywood, Hollywood...everything stretching out to the Pacific. Last, fill newfound harbors with pricey oceanic vessels...

Let`s say Monaco Harbor is actually a playground...full of boats with which all the eager children love to play. Know that if you pull into the harbor toting anything with a price tag on the light side of 10 million, all the children are going to point, laugh, dish stabs that will manifest into lifelong psychological complexities...

And this is the off-season.

...

I saw Little Miss Sunshine for the second time tonight in Nice. Because...sometimes you need farmiliarity after being away for so long. Other times, you need something else...something like a fix. American smiles, American heart, American sadness, American triumph. Or, maybe simply, a touch of pure joy. And seeing it roll out tonight...with the company I was in...the foreign USA punch pulling company I`ve been in for the past 6 weeks, I felt like I got it...

That sadly, it`s something they`ll never quite get. And they`ll always be a little bit hateful...and a little bitter...and I`ll never quite care.

I miss dearly, my sweet land.

Nice...

The French Riviera is everything it's cracked up to be. Maybe the first place I've stopped where it hasn't been sufficient...being completely enamored with myself. At night, every night so far, I sit on the benches of the Angel's Promenade, develop methods by which to fool mind into believing the carrot dangling in front of my face is actually closer than the 20 odd days carved into its side.

Yesterday, I began running West along the Promenade towards Monaco, 25 winding kilos down the coastal road from Nice. And the road is jagged - branching out, folding in...spinning along the golden coastline. Beyond every bend lies a pearl of a small town. Harbors, boats, circular stairs leading to platforms made for diving into the Mediterranean...little ports spitting so much charm, they nearly circle back, seem vile...

Not really.

Halfway to Monaco, with exhausted eyes but a ready body, I circled around a lighthouse and headed back to Nice...saving one of the most absurd cities in the world for another day.

And turning back, happily doubling over everything I had already seen, I could envision myself buried in this corner of the world...living forever, baking bread in a nook of one of these perfect seaside towns...

If only my aspirations were docile and non-conquering...if only I knew how to fire a baguette.

Barcelona 2...

It was last night, walking up the Plaza Espana as the fountains shot endlessly across football fields...mists of color and sound spewing extravaganza across my face, through my ears, into my eyes. Though I was already swooned, it was in that moment I fell in love with a city that carries itself with a casual blend of arrogance and restraint...a moment where I can safely say - no matter where anyone else was walking in this world, no matter the shoes on their feet, the style of their strut...they would find no envy in me.

And in the brief time I´ve spent in Barcelona, these moments have occurred dangerously often. Why dangerous? Ask Gravity.



I came here to straighten bearings, hardly knowing where I´ve been or where I´m going. Someday, I´ll invent a life compass for people like me...it´s just that I don´t have time for the 8-9 days it would take to develop and perfect the concept, put it into production and walk away with the Nobel Prize. Yet. I came to find a beach, many beaches...spend many hours doing little and in one way or another, find self.

Pick a spot and drop anchor. It´s what you do at the beach, customary in many countries. It is not customary, however, to ride your bike onto the sand, stop mere feet from virgin Americans (yes, I am), peel shirt and spandex shorts to prep for a playful frolic and flop(junk swingin´) into the Mediterranean. Trust me...on THIS beach, I was speaking for the heavy majority.

When the man I named - Hey, These Are The 00´s...We Clean That Up - made it back up onto the beach, feet from MY anchor, he made a delightful personal election to air dry - standing...as if his survival relied on photosynthesis. I drifted off to sleep with dreams of waking to find that he had continued onward - his Tour De Offensive. Then, I woke-

"Masaje!?"

Well, if it isn´t a Spanish beach entrepeneur...who obviously loves New York as per her outrageously original T...

"What, que?"
"Masaje!?"
"Oh, masaje. No, gracias. Otro tiempo."

She hesitated, pulled her bag of ointments and contraptions before cowering into a slow retreat. I looked over to find that Cockman had also opted for retreat. This time, I drifted into a peaceful sleep...

"Masaje! Masaje, Senor!?"
"What, Que?"
"Masa-!"
"No, no. Dormiendo."
"Masaje!"

I dropped my head and fell asleep, lightly. It couldn´t have been more than a half hour. Startled and a little pissed, I closed my eyes, eventually sensing her approach in the curdling sand. It was like feeding stray cats in North Carolina...and this persistent little bitch who certainly must have been suffering from a bout of solar induced brain damage was clinging tight. I have patience...and courtesy. Both were spent.

"Masaje, Senor?...Masaje, Senor!...Senor! Masaje!!!"
"No!"
"Si, masaje."
"Hand job."
"Masaje."
"No, no. Hand Job o nada. Aqui...enfrente de todos. No tiene miedo."

Still lacking multilingual clarity, I turned to sign language...which she understood, splendidly, finally...and left me alone for the rest of the day.

And no, neither of these moments qualify as such I was previously speaking...

...

It was the first night I arrived...walking, wandering. The pink sky turned red to purple to gray to black, starless. The warm winds began to blow cool as I walked the harbor. Soon though, they grew angry...enough to blow settled fragments of trees onto the ground surrounding my steps. As if the rest of the city knew a secret that wasn´t to be told, I was quickly alone, standing naked foot on the sand...looking out onto the Mediterranean. When the first drops hit, they were cold and alarming. After the first hundred, they were welcome.

The sky began to light in silent flashes - lightning buried beneath the thick clouds. When the bolts came clear, I took a seat on the sand, imagined setting sail from the millions taking shelter in the city over my shoulders. I imagined drifting in the middle of the sea, fighting murderous waves until the fraction of a moment before it...and they claim life. In that moment, just as my eyes taste clarity for the last time, lighting falls from the sky, freezing the rolling sea into an endlessly stretching empire of black marble. Silence...

The sky would be scorched by an army of stars. The only remaining echo, my breath. I would climb into the boat, wrap my shirt into a pillow and fall back to rest a weary body and mind...drifting forever without ever moving or falling asleep, waiting out eternity for lighting to strike again, the same place...a second time.

Barcelona...

Her majesty is beautiful...this city of Spain. Queen Barcelona. She stretches high above any these eyes have yet seen in this month of travel. Trying to wrap it all up here, now, is utterly daunting. I´m not going to do that.

Yesterday, I was walking back from a day spent at the beach...through the main park, past the Barcelona Zoo. There was a child with his mother. I saw it in his eyes, the utter ecstasy only a child can produce. The great and rare animals of the world, all wrapped up in an afternoon, all in his backyard. Doubting the courier of good fate would even think to deliver anything else, he saw it...a spore ball on the ground. Suddenly, impossible spun possible...and his day was about to get even better. At least so he thought...

His mother told him to leave it be...which he refused. And turning himself around, he threw it up into the air just as the wind changed direction, unloading millions of lung clogging parasites into his fragile little body.

He maneuvered evasively but it was too late. He was already chagging...and violently. If a sneeze, choke and gague could meet and have furious sex...this boy was its father. His mother rolled her eyes in a, "You should have listened. Now, you will die because of your reckless insistence...just like your father."

Of course, she said this in Catalan.

When I laughed out loud she turned, caught me with a stare so dirty, I had to check and make sure I wasn´t made of stone. Then the guilt hit...laughing at this poor, helpless child and his lone moment of misforture on what would have otherwise been a perfect, shiny and happy day. Guilt...realization that I lack compassion, heart. Guilt...fear of the animal I´m becoming. Guilt...it wasn´t so long ago that I was considered in some circles to be a decent man...

Guilt...but really, only cause she caught me.

Hilarious.

Dublin...

I said it with tonal tragedy, trying to explain my initial impression of Dublin...of Ireland. If there's a foreign land that holds my ancestral claim more than any other, this is it...

And wrapping the first day, looking out from the top floor of the Guinness Factory, I felt I'd seen it all. Everything...and it was heartbreaking. I walked home across frigid streets, quickly recalled that time of year and geographic location make for ever-changing climates across the world...

That's when I saw it. Across the street, a small Irish pizzeria...a little wooden sign over the door...

"Steve's - Probably the Best Pizza in Dublin." Now, certainly, I had seen it all.

I took an Ad class or two in college...and though I likely attended something in the ballpark of 8% of the lectures, I fail to recall the comparable bullet point: There is nothing like the Siren Song of indecision and professional insecurity to lure the undecided into your business or establishment.

...

Yesterday, I took a train through the heart of the country and ended up in Galway, a city on the western coast...and it was swell. Swell, I suppose. I walked through town, bought a .35 Euro, "cheat without cheating" McDonald's vanilla ice cream cone(That's what happens on birthdays - you get quoted). Then, I bought a bag of mixed fruit and nuts from a whole foods shop and wandered as far as I could wander...which turned out to be nowhere. Just as my legs loosened, the town ended. There were no bikes to ride the endless coasts...no cliff tours free of hassle. The day faded into a consolation of satisfaction as if seeing both coasts cleared me of the ignorance of not giving this country a fair chance.

I boarded the train for Dublin at the always fateful 6:30, long after my impossible expectations had faded away. And it was immediate, pulling out of the station, the look of Galway Bay...exactly what I had been searching for. Sunset. That ceaselessly stunning paint of perfection stretching across the bogs and channels. The lush, stretching green surrounded by stone fences and rolling hills that I didn't quite catch the first time through. Every moment in that hour, until the sun went down, I found satisfaction, then disappointment...what else was out there? What else was I missing? Quickly though, I decided not to push luck. To salvage this mind is not an easy trick to turn.

...

On my way home, with a thirst to intoxicate freshly inspired, I ventured into the land of Temple Bar. After discovering an inability at the first stop(Madigan's...maybe) to decipher even a syllable of the English genuine Paddy's speak, I moved onto The Temple Bar...in Temple Bar.

When I walked in, it was full. When I walked out, drunks were spilling out its ears. I give attribution to the two man band. The lead singer was immediately named Ricky Gervais. His side wizard of a string-plucker took a lap of thought before I settled in on Soafl Sodef - Strung out and fossilized lead singer of Def Leppard...

Obviously.

And they were most-licious...with an advanced and impressive understanding of how to assault a multi-generational crowd with a near perfect playlist. Sandwich a 4-song Police medley between Mrs. Robinson and Losing My Religion...while whipping out the baby gii-tar...and watch the asses of a nowhere near sober or docile crowd light on fire.

I stood in the back, eyes peering over the heads of the less genetically blessed and became caught in the moment. With a likely gallon of Guinness down and destructing, finally...I got it.

Dublin, Ireland.

Brussels...

I must have fallen asleep without knowing it, knowing better than to fall asleep in the corridor of a 24 hour parking garage at 2:45 in the morning...but I did, nonetheless.

He was about a body's length away, swishing his shoes against the ground as he walked...a man I instantly and subconsciously named, Holy Shit. I leapt to my feet, drowsy, trying to figure from which side the shank strike would come. It didn't. Instead, he pulled a cigarette, lit it with shaking hands.

"Fucking cold out there, man."

Yeah, it certainly was. And not just cold, but angry. Every room save the 500 Euro suites at the Meridian were full. In most cities, the major train stations are open all night. I've found, as I did in Munich, that though they have some glaring holes in terms of accommodative quality, they more than suffice as a means to burn off hours waiting to jump ship to a new city.

Well, in Brussels...they close. And in Brussels, I found myself wandering, trying to find remotely safe places to read or write through the early hours of a new day...

Which delivers us to the point from which we began. I quickly discovered the impossibility of reading through an entire night on determination alone. It takes fear...and a compilation of such I would soon meet. I pulled a dip on Holy Shit, still reeling, and emerged from the parking garage into the face of a fight. Usually, I would stay and watch...pick the underdog and secretly root. But this was too much. After all, I had had no time for collection. It was delirium...then a flurry of blows, one after another.

My eyes shot through the scene, tried to settle mind on the next move when I noticed lights on top of their cars. Cabbies, crazed cabbies. They weren't drunk or drugged...at least that much credit I'll partially give. Finally, a moment of ease. Their confrontation faded after a punchless tussle over the cons of interplanetary warfare(likely, do I speak like I speak Belkriesch?). Soon after, Holy Shit emerged from my nest. I watched as he walked into a nearby park, took a piss and continued his pilgrimage(again, likely). I walked back into the tunnel, took a cold seat on the tiled ground and read and spilled ink for the next four hours.

...

The next day...or later that day, depending on your consideration, I found hell on Earth. Charleroi Airport. They call it Brussels south, which would be like calling yourself 100 pounds when you actually tip scale at 145...as if you could somehow justify that as a round down.

Thinking I could get an earlier flight out of town, I showed up 12 hours early...and would end up sitting there for 12 hours as the cattle calls of cheap flight fliers stormed through the terminal. Sometimes, for half hours at a time, I would drop head on my backpack and fall asleep. When I would wake up with knowing and glaring impressions across my face, I would stare at stare-ers with eyes, "What? I was born with this you inconside...find a mirror, YOU made THAT." I was steamed. It didn't matter that the airport music was pulled from the John Hughes' greatest hits soundtrack...however the fuck that came to be. I'd had enough of Belgium, this sweet country and experience I knowingly elected to turn on its head...again. Yes, the re-appearing themes here are glaring.

When the ticket agent stepped to the podium, the masses erupted. If ever you want to create lawlessness, simply don't assign seats to passengers. It was a perfect portrait of this place...Hell on Earth, yet on this day, it didn't even begin to scratch surface.

I gave in, stepped up. And in that unexpected moment where I joined the ranks of anarchy, I was saved. Saved by Sinead O'Connor...

"It's been so lonely without you here. Since you took your love away. Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah..."

I closed my eyes and imagined, against the dark backdrop of her video...singing with Sinead. Nothing compares to me, Sinead? I know this. She would sing to me and I her. We would share notes and she would, at first, think it adorable...my insistence to play with her bald head. Midway through the second verse, she would grow angry and storm off the set. I would be left there with no Sinead...the lights shining down...the cameras still rolling...the-

I opened my eyes. Window seat. One of the last ones on the plane. Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff...

Time to move me the fuck on.

Brugge...

Rented a bike the other day, rode it from the city to the North Sea. Took a left when I hit Zebrugge and headed along the coast until I found an empty beach. More specifically, until I found vast emptiness where past armies landed, scattered feet through sand with dreams of home and victory, hope and love...fears of battle and death, which day would be their last.

The beach was endless. I stood on the boardwalk, far from the sea and decided it would be a decision of poor standing and ill fate to not walk out, soak my content and dry feet. 600 long paces from the boardwalk, I reached the water, accomplished my symbolic gesture...stood and admired...and went on my way.

Rolled back into Brugge after riding through the Belgian country all day...anywhere from 40-60 miles, I imagine. I stepped off, noticed for the first time that the pedals were tilted down at an angle...very not straight. Following the next logical step in preserving the anatomical balance of the rider, I checked out my problematic left knee. It was perfectly fine...all save the mysterious bone to the left of my kneecap that was gallantly trying to push its way through skin. Ill protrusion, it's the only way I could describe it. I thought back to my childhood, there was only one way to fix this...and it would have to come under the tutelage of Suzanne Sommers. I hobbled back to my room, salty over my subconscious insistence to ignore any and all pain as a form of warning sign. I sat on the ground, lined my ankles up with the posts of the iron bunks and squeezed that motherfucker until the muscles on the insides of my legs began to cramp. The next day, I ran painlessly (Automatic for the People) along the parks surrounding the city, thinking the entire time...how can one man be so instinctively perfect?

...

Brugge is a not so secret gem tucked in the Northwest region of Belgium. The beer is good enough to make you shudder, the chocolate is good enough to...well, dirty, messy things.

Every corner I turn, I wait to find Gene Wilder or the original, moppy haired Charlie Bucket. I don't know where Wonka's factory is, but I've been asking geese the ENTIRE time I've been here. That much I assure.

Sometimes, I try to judge a city's hold by asking if I'll ever come back. My reply last night was that I would return in my golden-er years. The kind of place I'll come to sit back, think of the man I used to be...dream of a life beginning with the woman who accepted my ring some 30 years prior.

Amsterdam...

Slept off another sleepless night upon arrival, eventually staggering out of my room around 5. I walked the streets, smoke, smoke pouring from every window, from every car, off every passing bike. And though I paint it as such, the one thing that initially swooned me about this city is that although everyone gets high...and almost all the time, not EVERYONE does.

Uninspired and groggy, I stopped the first day at a skate park on Marnixstraat. It was about 10 blocks from the room I was staying. Around 5 when I first sat down, the scene was fairly unimpressive. Each skater took their unspoken turn dropping into the hollow pool. Some would take screeching dives, others would emerge unscathed. A bike would pass, stop. Tourists would stop, take pictures...watch a few rounds and move on. The initial skater who stole my stare was a youngin...probably in the vicinity of 11 or 12. It's not that he stood out or had any especially blinding talents. Actually, he did the same fucking thing every time he dropped in. Not to mention, he was the only one there toting a full suit of armor. It was probably part of the deal his parents gave in on...to hang out with the "burn-outs" and "drifters," a compromise would have to be met. So, he skated with the big boys on Saturday afternoons...and fearlessly. Or, ignorantly. Though his actions likely fall to the latter side of the fence, you could certainly argue that each is bliss. Since I watched him for a good while, I am. You should.

I sat on the steps for a little over an hour, looked up, noticed that the sun was beginning to grow weak. That beautiful painting, catching my stare for an uncertain amount of time. When I looked back down to the pool, the dynamics had spun face. As a glow set over the city, this city of vampires came to life...and the big boys rolled onto the scene. With them, hundreds lined the pool, filled its emptiness with their adrenaline. They had speed, skills and style that buried earlier comrades. The grinds slid farther, the jumps soared higher, the crowd cracked louder.

I put "Moonlight Sonata" on repeat in my head, got up...stood beside the pool. It was right about the time a miniature Shawn White arrived. When I say miniature, I'm speaking for all 5'1 of him. He was the cream. And as skaters dropped into the pool, as some flew off the perches from which this stage was set, he would shadow their moves...this beautiful and poetic dance. They would flash around the base of the pool, like watching a bull fighter with minority hope he'll get mauled. And as they emerged, to the roar of the crowd, I cut my music and path...walked away.

...

The place I found to lay my head was a last resort. Because again, it was impossible coming in on a Saturday...finding a room. But this mistake, "My Home Hotel" will undoubtedly go down as the most memorable. The lobby was outstretched on the second floor with a window and balcony looking down on the streets below. There was a TV that usually ran Dutch gameshows or K1 fights...but one night, a Rolling Stones concert...

How is it possible they are in their prime, now?

The stereo played through a constant attack of classic American rock pulled from a towering stack of CD's. How retro? Every morning, Mark, the owner would cook breakfast and announce my entrance, "Ryan, savior of the free world."

I corrected him on neither...

Prague 2...

Standing at the base of the astounding architectural wonder that marks the entrance to my section of town, Prague 3, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd had 3-7 drinks too many. It was a monster of a tower, stretching high into the air...lit blue and red along an off-chute that looked to be a pricey dining establishment. I'm guessing it was the final phase of construction, the cherry on top, that spun my mind. Giant babies...at least a half dozen of them, all with vagina faces, scaling the tower with what I could only presume to be a fearless tenacity?

And where were their mothers?

...

I began running this morning in considerable pain. My left knee...the one I spun off 10 to 20 thousand times too many in a previous life, wasn't having any of this marathon training "bull shit." Every lift felt as if inseparable joints were coming apart. I tried side stepping, back peddling, high knee-ing, ass kicking...no avail. The music was all I had to lean on. A delicate batch made for and named after a girl called Lindsey who I burned the CD for back in the real world. 16 songs of perfection to smuggle into the afterlife...else find doom at the hands of an eternal purgatory of let down.

Yes, that good.

But my knee ceases to become forgetful and all I can tell myself is that this is the moment the rest of the world breaks down, turns back.

Ahead, just before the first tear fell, my road veered left. And to the right...a nothing road straight into the forest. I ran through the dense bushes, stumbled on a thick tree root before re-gaining balance. From this point, I had a 9 inch wide dirt path with which to operate my footing. Between careful steps, I remember thinking that it was in these very woods that Hansel was sodomized by the wolf...or that just beyond the clearing, I'll certainly find the house where Little Red Riding Hood had her first taste of girl on girl action with the snub nosed witch.

I pushed through the pain - as the thick forest buried me...as the sun fought trees to reach spots of my desperate face...as the darkening leaves fell around my suddenly gliding footsteps...as the drop on Cat Stevens' "Father and Son" kicked in...

The pain escaped. And in that moment, I left a different breed of tear behind.

...

In 11 hours, I leave town...aware again, my propensity for self destruction.

But I was sitting in the lobby today, reading in a serene corner - American Psycho. Patrick Bateman had just cut open a Sharpei and proceeded to "randomly stab" the owner in "the face and head" before "running down Broadway, then up Broadway, then down again, screaming like a banshee, coat open, flying out like some sort of cape."

I looked up and laughed, found eyes with the only other girl in the room as if, "Did you just read that?"

No. Her literary choice, the King James Bible, made me certain that one of us was potentially seriously being misled...

And I'll certainly pray for her. If I can remember, that is.

Prague...

Hopped the wrong train due for the Czech Rep early two mornings passed. I had spent the night in the Munich Train station sleeping against the concrete, hiding under my sleeping bag and murdering time with discreet mercy before the 6:45 train came. It was cold and miserable, stirred exponentially every 3 minutes by a drunken wanderer hailing from Oktoberfest.

At 5:20, I walked to the far platform, 24. It was leaving for Prague at 6:45 and would certainly be an ample and warm place to shut eyes. And it was until 5:45...right up until the moment it undoubtedly departed for destination code name: Secret American Death Camp. I ran to a Corky looking fellow responsible for punching tickets. He told me the name of a station I couldn't understand along with a vague time. Then, he punched my ticket with a suspicious "Good Luck."

Know...I would have left marks on Fuckbag's face had the same tonal choices been made in the red white and blue.

I jumped trains at station Bieksblargistenburg, 20 minutes ahead of the train due for Prague...the one I should have been on. It happened to be stopping one track from where I stood. Oh, R Smith...

...

Woke up today around 11, feeling no ill affects from a night of Urquell and Absinthe...which a waiter free-based for us at dinner. I realized the only remaining scar tissue came in the form of Czechs trying to karaoke Sinatra...but I powered through it with help from a bowl of Czech Cocoa Puffs, compliments of the Maribou Hostel.

After dinner, I went for a 2 album run...Muse's Black Holes and Revelations and Sigur Ros' Takk. It took me through the city...across its castles, parks, cathedrals, bridges. About 7 miles in, I was backpedaling away from the great Prague Castle wondering if it would be appropriate to stop and take a closer look. And though it probably was...I didn't, opting instead to press on.

The run cleared me. It cleared all the shit that came pouring in...standing on a bridge in Munich, my body taking the rain, waiting to leave town. The sweetness of constantly finding a pearl of comfort before abandoning it...and then the vicious cycle of doing it all over again for the next 6 weeks.

Europe has been cold, dark and heavy in the eternity that has been the last three days. As I stepped out of the hostel and began to walk into town, the fixing glow that had been hiding...the beauty of a fading day resided high above this city of stolen wind. I picked up a pack of Haribo Kinder Schnuller and walked...and walked...and walked. And inside, somewhere...I knew that smile and laugh had returned...settled again in a new and distant city, with that evading pearl residing somewhere on my being for no less than three days.

Munich...

I stepped off the overnight train from Paris like a shot and ailing bandit, sharing steps with my new friend, Spanish Kitchen. Since pronunciation here is hopeless for Americans...and I mean hopeless, lean on alternatives. Her name was Cocina, which was the origin for Spanish Kitchen, but when she wrote it out, Kristina. Don't ask. She was a German living in Paris, coming home for the one weekend (or month) that returns all of Munich's sons and daughters.

We shared a cabin and she happened to be wonderfully talkative in the only language I understand. Most Germans seem to be...at least those schooled post crumble of the Third Reich. And it was comforting, going into a new city with something of a foot up. Compared to Paris, Munich is a walk in the park...

Though, since I'll be rarely sober and likely spitting drunk most of the time, let's preemptively dub it...too close to Call.

...

Before even making it out of the train station, I wandered into a Nationalistic Drunken Halloween. Remember the over the top scenes from Lampoon's European Vacation...Clark Griswold and company? Yeah...not over the top. Not one penny, drop or feather. Dead on.

I maneuvered my way through the frenzied streets to a hostel I had heard about and felt obligated to grace with my being. The two women behind the counter were already at least a liter or two deep, so when I stepped up to ask for a room without a reservation, only 50% of them could manage to keep a straight face. Ms. Composure made some phone calls while I waited. Denied...denied...denied...

As I grew unsettled, they bantered back and fourth with German words of problem solving before the heckler-ish one turned to me, stopping on a dime to pull out perfect English...

"You have some pretty big balls, showing up on the first day of Oktoberfest without a reservation."

She said it with a glow in her eye, as if waiting for me to show her. I didn't. Her glow faded just as the constructive of the two, my phone baron, hung up...and with partial success.

"One bed left. Probably the last in Munich. They said they would hold it for a half hour. 12 blocks, can you do that?"

"For the last bed in this town, and on these fleet fucking feet? Circle it and with love, I'm gone."

She did, I was. 4 blocks in, my head was down as flirting perfection rolled through my ears...OK Computer. Around me, the crowd stiffened. I looked up and they were stopped dead...cut off by the Oktoberfest parade. There was nowhere to move. No. Where. I backtracked from the dierection I came, began to head East, checking every street, every sidestreet I passed. Blocked. Blocked. Blocked. Apparently, nobody...and I mean nobody fucks with the flow of Munich's Oktoberfest parade. I stomped 3 blocks, 5 blocks, 7 blocks and finally found a break in one of the two directions. 20 minutes burned and I had doubled the distance while yet finding a way to cut over. 3 blocks down, 5 blocks. It was in this moment that I simultaneously realized:

1)There was daylight up ahead...an opening.
2)I could have initially waited it out, enjoyed the drunken festivities and would have already been sitting in my room.

I cut over and began to triple time it, worried that for the first time in my life, everything might not work out.

20 minutes late, I showed up to the hostel. "401. I hope you know we only gave you the room because they said you were cute...and foolish."

Last bed in Munich.

...

One of these days, Life is going to speak down and offer me her kind wisdom. "Only dipshits and assholes live with that kind of irresponsibility. One of these days, mark my words, it's going to catch up with you."

But not today...and not now. I have to foot it to the Hofbrauhaus...they're serving shenanigans in the form of liter size beers.

Welcome to Germany.