There's nothing like going out into the world to make you realize how small the community you live in really is. Now that I've been back for a few weeks so many things are constantly reminding me of this fact. Every time I mention my amazement at how small Portland really is people nod their heads knowingly and invariably say the one adage that has become like a mantra echoing in my brain:
"Portland. Big city: small town".
From the moment I returned, I saw customers who I recognize from New Comic Book Wednesdays. I run into people I've known from various jobs that I've held over the years. People who I never thought I'd see or hear from again are popping up everywhere I go or, stranger than that, end up being friends of people I've known for years. The other day, the wife and I went to Deschutes Brewing for lunch and my old manager from Pizzacato in Vancouver was our waitress. She tells me that she and this guy I used to work with a million years ago still kick it on the weekends. I haven't spoke or thought of either of them in over a decade-and-a-half. Bizarre.
Ok. Some of you out there might be thinking, "Well, yeah. That's how communities work, Dan. People get to know people and then they know people and so on and so on and so on. It's called 'society', dumbass! What's your point?"
The point is this. As silly as it may sounds, I moved to this city looking for a sense of anonymity. Way back when, over a thousand eons ago, I came like a pilgrim to a new land of possibilities far from the burnt ashes of my past. I built myself a neat, tidy little empire where I could escape from the diabolical clutches of Suburbia for ever and ever. Oh sure, I made friends. Heck, I even kept some of the ones I knew from those long ago days, though time and circumstance may have somewhat altered the dynamic of those relationships as we all have grown through the years. But still... I carved out a niche and called it my own. I maintained and supported Fort Tabayoyon for always and forever, Amen. I walked these city streets for years without ever being recognized once.
It was glorious.
But the years pass by. And more and more I realize now how small my little kingdom really is. This is disconcerting, in many ways. But it's also an eye-opening reminder that no matter how far you run, the past never goes away. It's juvenile to think that outrunning it is even possible. But, then again, my wife can attest to how much of a juvenile I am... just ask her :)
I dunno. I guess if I am going to live here, I guess I should just grow up and get used to it.
Sigh.
...
Oh, by the way: we got a place to live. Yep, we found an apartment that we love and go in and sign the papers on Monday. No more living out of a backpack for me, thankyouverymuch!
Still...
A part of me wishes I could hop back on a plane to nowhere right now. Traveling and the freedom it brings has infected my soul and it's changed me in a way that's hard to describe. I know that sounds all pretentious and stuff and I'm sort of looking at that last sentence I just typed with my finger hovering tenuously over the DELETE button right now... but damn: it's true. A part of me misses the smell of freshly bleach sanitized hotel room towels and breathing recycled airplane air. A part of me wants to be sitting on the beach in Phuket or standing under thousand-year-old buildings made of marble and glass. A part of me wishes I didn't understand the language. A part of me still has wonders to see and kingdoms to conquer.
Normalcy is hard to adjust to once you've seen the spectacular.
... I guess it's time to start saving my pennies for next time.
-d@n
30 April 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Resurrection of the Blog
I have been toying with the idea of continuing this blog even though my travels have finally come to a close. My wife thinks it's a good idea and, after these many years together, one thing has remained constant and true above all other things: she is much smarter than I am.
Sooo yeah... Here I am again. With more to tell, apparently. Newer and improved. B.L.O.G. v 2.0-and-a-half. Let's see where we are now, yes?
We are... unhomed. I know that's not really a word. The red dotted line that sits underneath that word while I type this- silently mocking me like the Big Brother of the editing world, haunting me so that I might never stray towards the Carrollesque- tells me so. But, unfortunately, that's the most appropriate word I can think of to describe my current situation.
We're staying with some friends while we hunt the elusive prey known as (pause for dramatic effect) ... the Perfect Apartment. The Perfect Apartment is a wily beast. It sits just over the horizon from the last domicile you looked at. Its haunting melody tugs at you while you are at an apartment and taking that moment to decide whether or not you could a) stand to live there and/or b) fit all your stuff into it. It's a mean bitch. And it doesn't take dogs.
Meanwhile, Lupe and I have had a wondrous reception from everyone. Last week was Lupe's [edited due to content] birthday! Wow, I can't believe she's [edited due to content] now. Time sure does fly. Why, just 8 years ago, she was only [edited due to content. Has this joke been stretched far enough yet?]. Needless to say, we had a great time. Some of you were there, so you know. Others weren't and that's okay, too. We'll just remember that when your birthday comes around. Mayyyyybe we'll be washing our hair that night. Just sayin'.
No, but seriously folks. We've been trying to re-acclimate ourselves to normal life. Lupe's gone back to work. We've been shopping for new clothes as we have already burned most of our travel threads in effigy. I went and visited the Stumptown Comics Fest today and saw some familiar faces which is always nice... and a reminder of just how small Portland really is.
I love this city though. It's gained a few warts since I last saw her but some things stay familiar and the same. Breakfast at Jam on Hawthorne or Genie's on Division is still orgasm inducing. Cyclists still can't drive for a damn. Hippies still smell like patchouli. The West Hillers still can't parallel park their over-sized Lexus SUVs on any given side street in southeast (no matter how hard they try). Hipsters still dress like idiots and think they're being ironic. These things are as common as ever. But there was this moment today where I marveled at my little burg while I sipped an ice cold beverage on the corner of Hawthorne and 37th, across the street from the Bagdad Theatre. While the wife was scouring Buffalo Exchange for a new dress, I read "The Agony and the Ecstasy": a great book I picked up at Powell's Books for 5 bucks, used. Over the top edge of the book's yellowing paper, I watched my neighborhood. I watched tattooed punk kids trying to score change for beer. I watched pretentious newcomers from California pose in front of Starbucks, irritated at the homeless guy playing bad saxophone further down the street from their reverie. I watched teens from the local high school interviewing the gay fashionistas outside Red Light for a paper they were doing in English. Skaters sat around on their boards, smoking cigarettes and checking out tattooed girls in tattered jean shorts. Some earthy granola girl was singing under her breath as she passed me, raising her voice only once, briefly, as she spun around in her hemp dress, iPod headphones disappearing beneath a mass of blond dreadlocks and hemp jewelry. A former G.I. dressed himself in an American Flag and yelled at passers-by to end the War. The sun was shining even though it had rained earlier. It feels good to know that the weird is still alive and well and living in Portland.
Who knows... Maybe I'm not so unhomed after all.
-d@n
25 April 2010
Sooo yeah... Here I am again. With more to tell, apparently. Newer and improved. B.L.O.G. v 2.0-and-a-half. Let's see where we are now, yes?
We are... unhomed. I know that's not really a word. The red dotted line that sits underneath that word while I type this- silently mocking me like the Big Brother of the editing world, haunting me so that I might never stray towards the Carrollesque- tells me so. But, unfortunately, that's the most appropriate word I can think of to describe my current situation.
We're staying with some friends while we hunt the elusive prey known as (pause for dramatic effect) ... the Perfect Apartment. The Perfect Apartment is a wily beast. It sits just over the horizon from the last domicile you looked at. Its haunting melody tugs at you while you are at an apartment and taking that moment to decide whether or not you could a) stand to live there and/or b) fit all your stuff into it. It's a mean bitch. And it doesn't take dogs.
Meanwhile, Lupe and I have had a wondrous reception from everyone. Last week was Lupe's [edited due to content] birthday! Wow, I can't believe she's [edited due to content] now. Time sure does fly. Why, just 8 years ago, she was only [edited due to content. Has this joke been stretched far enough yet?]. Needless to say, we had a great time. Some of you were there, so you know. Others weren't and that's okay, too. We'll just remember that when your birthday comes around. Mayyyyybe we'll be washing our hair that night. Just sayin'.
No, but seriously folks. We've been trying to re-acclimate ourselves to normal life. Lupe's gone back to work. We've been shopping for new clothes as we have already burned most of our travel threads in effigy. I went and visited the Stumptown Comics Fest today and saw some familiar faces which is always nice... and a reminder of just how small Portland really is.
I love this city though. It's gained a few warts since I last saw her but some things stay familiar and the same. Breakfast at Jam on Hawthorne or Genie's on Division is still orgasm inducing. Cyclists still can't drive for a damn. Hippies still smell like patchouli. The West Hillers still can't parallel park their over-sized Lexus SUVs on any given side street in southeast (no matter how hard they try). Hipsters still dress like idiots and think they're being ironic. These things are as common as ever. But there was this moment today where I marveled at my little burg while I sipped an ice cold beverage on the corner of Hawthorne and 37th, across the street from the Bagdad Theatre. While the wife was scouring Buffalo Exchange for a new dress, I read "The Agony and the Ecstasy": a great book I picked up at Powell's Books for 5 bucks, used. Over the top edge of the book's yellowing paper, I watched my neighborhood. I watched tattooed punk kids trying to score change for beer. I watched pretentious newcomers from California pose in front of Starbucks, irritated at the homeless guy playing bad saxophone further down the street from their reverie. I watched teens from the local high school interviewing the gay fashionistas outside Red Light for a paper they were doing in English. Skaters sat around on their boards, smoking cigarettes and checking out tattooed girls in tattered jean shorts. Some earthy granola girl was singing under her breath as she passed me, raising her voice only once, briefly, as she spun around in her hemp dress, iPod headphones disappearing beneath a mass of blond dreadlocks and hemp jewelry. A former G.I. dressed himself in an American Flag and yelled at passers-by to end the War. The sun was shining even though it had rained earlier. It feels good to know that the weird is still alive and well and living in Portland.
Who knows... Maybe I'm not so unhomed after all.
-d@n
25 April 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Home, Home Again...
It has been a week since I left the life I knew on the road. The life lived out of a backpack shoved in the corner on the floor. The life whose time was kept by a train schedule. The life slept in airport terminals and hotels, eating whatever picture on the menu looked edible. One week has passed... and it seems like I never left at all.
Coming home was an act that I willed into existence because of all the things I missed about normalcy. Walking my dog. Watching movies with my wife. Cooking dinner for friends. But now that I'm home, I've yet to do any of those things. Because we gave up our apartment while we were traveling, I'm still living out of a backpack in the corner of the room on the floor. My schedule is based on meetings to see apartments instead of train schedules. My sleeping is due to the kindness of the very best of friends. Everyone is very happy we're back and we've received a homecoming unlike anything I've ever experienced before. There have also been those few who want to know every nuance of every sense explored while we were out traveling. Those people make me smile the most. They make me relive every moment and re-see every event with the kind of clarity that comes with the intoxicating aroma of nostalgia.
I thought I would have some grand epiphany here, writing this, what could be considered my "final blog entry". I imagined some new-found wisdom that I could process and assimilate into my being and then pass onto you, Dear Reader, like a grasshopper snatched deftly from an open palm. But, alas, no. Wisdom seems to escape me. All I know is that I'm not done with the world yet. And that my query posited at the very start of this blog has, in fact, been answered.
Before I left, I had such anxiety over the current state of America and its prevailing ideologies. I felt that this experience was purely limited due to the fact that the only sphere of understanding I had was from the perspective of someone in America looking at it from within. I wondered if the rest of the world was like this; that it shared my hostility and anxiousness and trepidation and mistrust. I felt that if I could just get over there, my perspective could realign itself with the Truth. I've come to find the solution of travel to be the cure I was seeking. I know now a wider perspective than I've ever knew prior to my travels. A sense of ease that comes with knowing better... or, at the very least, knowing more. I have seen wonders of the world that have humbled me. I have only had a taste of what every place has to offer.
I used to worry about traveling in simple terms: What about the language barrier? Where would I stay? How expensive it must be to go someplace. Can I eat the food? What should I bring? What can't I live without? I realize now that travel holds with it a lot of stigmas if you've never done it before. And there is a tendency to want to bring everything with you that you think you might need, cramming your suitcase full with all the modern conveniences you can't live without. Heck, it would just be easier not to leave at all, right?
Wrong. You can get everything you need while you're out there. Toiletries, clothes, shoes, food, warmth, shelter, vices, etc. Hell, if I had known then what I knew now, I would've taken a really small backpack for the computer and a change of shoes and gone with the clothes on my back and swapped them out when I had gotten tired of wearing the same things or when the climate altered drastically from one place to the other (like I ended up doing in Athens). There are pharmacies everywhere. There are shops everywhere. All it takes is money.
Now many of you are thinking: "Well, yeah! Money! No duh! Travel is expensive!" This is true. No bones about it. But think about how much you spend a month. Go ahead and get a calculator if you need to. I'll wait. Now, imagine that instead of paying for certain things every month, you paid for the cost of living overseas instead. Money spent the same way for the same thing, just over there. Getting there can be expensive too. But imagine saving $50 from every bi-monthly paycheck for a year. Half of that will get you a round trip plane ticket to London from Portland right now (less than that for a one-way). The other half will feed you and house you for the duration of your stay if you plan it right. Imagine you're really frugal that year and save $200 a month. Now your talking train tickets to anywhere in Europe for the duration of your stay. Now you're talking the really nice hotel rather than the box in the building. Go on the off-season and you can see the all the touristy sites for a bargain with that kind of money. Rent a car and get a Heritage Pass for 20 pounds and drown yourself in all the castles and churches and ancient sites in the UK for a month. There are tons of couch surfing websites and house swapping websites and travel-made-cheap websites to accommodate you. There are Bed & Breakfasts for as low as 20-50 pounds a night in the smaller cities. Or, save a few extra pennies and call a travel agent to plan it all out for you (Hi, Charles!). A good travel agent will only charge a small fee (if at all) since they make commission off the booking rather than off the customer. That way, you can get the very best deals and stay in the very best in affordability. The trick is to plan to travel, NOT vacation. And yes, there is a difference. If you want to vacation, your standards will tend to much higher and thus more susceptible to disappointment. If you plan to travel, you're a lot more prepared to roll with the punches and, hey! Who knows? Maybe even have an adventure whose memories will last forever and make you the envy and target of resentment from all of your peers. Hooray!
If, after 4 months of traveling, I have gained any real insight on the nature of travel, it is this:
The hardest part of travel is deciding to do it.
That's it. That's the secret. It's the same secret as the one for success or the one about doing anything well, really. Once you decide that travel is what you want to do... that's all it takes. Everything else is just logistics and math. I know many of you have kids or mortgages or jobs you feel you can't get away from and I get that, I really do. But while I was traveling, I saw families with babies (plural) out there. I saw parents with small kids, backpacks all geared up, wandering the streets of Venice at one in the morning. I saw people from all ages and all classes and all lifestyles out there seeing stuff that was knocking their socks off. It's easy to feel like you'll never have the time or the money or the break from life you feel you need to truly enjoy such an undertaking. But these thoughts are simply untrue. When someone tells me that they don't think they'll ever get to go anywhere, all I think is, "You're simply not trying hard enough". I understand that it's hard to believe that getting out is a possibility for everyone, especially for You, Dear Reader. I had it that feeling too. Then I got on that first plane to Australia and, lo and behold! I was traveling.
There is no such thing as "the right time". Money is just something you spend on other things rather than doing what you want to. There is no "big break"... just living. It goes on and on until you die, so make the very fucking most of it while you can before you are physically incapable of doing anything you want to.
Go travel.
If you want to amazed, if you want to experience life beyond what you know, and you aren't afraid to get some on you... close the tab on your computer that you have pulled up to read this blog and open a new tab and start looking at travel websites and destinations and how much money it'll cost to get there. Put the date in mind on your calendar. Count your pennies. Leave your trepidations at the door. And go.
That's it.
This has been a real fun thing, this blog. I've gotten so many responses from people who said they really liked it and I am truly glad. It's a weird feeling to be typing in a room somewhere away from everyone and everything you know and not knowing if anybody is even out there in cyber-land reading it. It's good to know that some of it got through :) Thanks so much for letting me ramble on and on at you for these last four months. My wife tells me I should keep doing this but it seems a little misleading to blog about travel when I'm sitting right next door to you. So, until I figure out what I'm doing next, I'll simply say "ciao!, ta!, cheers!, adios!, adio!, adieu!, au revoir! arrivederci! sawatdi! buh-bye now!"
See you out there.
-d@n
20 April 2010
Coming home was an act that I willed into existence because of all the things I missed about normalcy. Walking my dog. Watching movies with my wife. Cooking dinner for friends. But now that I'm home, I've yet to do any of those things. Because we gave up our apartment while we were traveling, I'm still living out of a backpack in the corner of the room on the floor. My schedule is based on meetings to see apartments instead of train schedules. My sleeping is due to the kindness of the very best of friends. Everyone is very happy we're back and we've received a homecoming unlike anything I've ever experienced before. There have also been those few who want to know every nuance of every sense explored while we were out traveling. Those people make me smile the most. They make me relive every moment and re-see every event with the kind of clarity that comes with the intoxicating aroma of nostalgia.
I thought I would have some grand epiphany here, writing this, what could be considered my "final blog entry". I imagined some new-found wisdom that I could process and assimilate into my being and then pass onto you, Dear Reader, like a grasshopper snatched deftly from an open palm. But, alas, no. Wisdom seems to escape me. All I know is that I'm not done with the world yet. And that my query posited at the very start of this blog has, in fact, been answered.
Before I left, I had such anxiety over the current state of America and its prevailing ideologies. I felt that this experience was purely limited due to the fact that the only sphere of understanding I had was from the perspective of someone in America looking at it from within. I wondered if the rest of the world was like this; that it shared my hostility and anxiousness and trepidation and mistrust. I felt that if I could just get over there, my perspective could realign itself with the Truth. I've come to find the solution of travel to be the cure I was seeking. I know now a wider perspective than I've ever knew prior to my travels. A sense of ease that comes with knowing better... or, at the very least, knowing more. I have seen wonders of the world that have humbled me. I have only had a taste of what every place has to offer.
I used to worry about traveling in simple terms: What about the language barrier? Where would I stay? How expensive it must be to go someplace. Can I eat the food? What should I bring? What can't I live without? I realize now that travel holds with it a lot of stigmas if you've never done it before. And there is a tendency to want to bring everything with you that you think you might need, cramming your suitcase full with all the modern conveniences you can't live without. Heck, it would just be easier not to leave at all, right?
Wrong. You can get everything you need while you're out there. Toiletries, clothes, shoes, food, warmth, shelter, vices, etc. Hell, if I had known then what I knew now, I would've taken a really small backpack for the computer and a change of shoes and gone with the clothes on my back and swapped them out when I had gotten tired of wearing the same things or when the climate altered drastically from one place to the other (like I ended up doing in Athens). There are pharmacies everywhere. There are shops everywhere. All it takes is money.
Now many of you are thinking: "Well, yeah! Money! No duh! Travel is expensive!" This is true. No bones about it. But think about how much you spend a month. Go ahead and get a calculator if you need to. I'll wait. Now, imagine that instead of paying for certain things every month, you paid for the cost of living overseas instead. Money spent the same way for the same thing, just over there. Getting there can be expensive too. But imagine saving $50 from every bi-monthly paycheck for a year. Half of that will get you a round trip plane ticket to London from Portland right now (less than that for a one-way). The other half will feed you and house you for the duration of your stay if you plan it right. Imagine you're really frugal that year and save $200 a month. Now your talking train tickets to anywhere in Europe for the duration of your stay. Now you're talking the really nice hotel rather than the box in the building. Go on the off-season and you can see the all the touristy sites for a bargain with that kind of money. Rent a car and get a Heritage Pass for 20 pounds and drown yourself in all the castles and churches and ancient sites in the UK for a month. There are tons of couch surfing websites and house swapping websites and travel-made-cheap websites to accommodate you. There are Bed & Breakfasts for as low as 20-50 pounds a night in the smaller cities. Or, save a few extra pennies and call a travel agent to plan it all out for you (Hi, Charles!). A good travel agent will only charge a small fee (if at all) since they make commission off the booking rather than off the customer. That way, you can get the very best deals and stay in the very best in affordability. The trick is to plan to travel, NOT vacation. And yes, there is a difference. If you want to vacation, your standards will tend to much higher and thus more susceptible to disappointment. If you plan to travel, you're a lot more prepared to roll with the punches and, hey! Who knows? Maybe even have an adventure whose memories will last forever and make you the envy and target of resentment from all of your peers. Hooray!
If, after 4 months of traveling, I have gained any real insight on the nature of travel, it is this:
The hardest part of travel is deciding to do it.
That's it. That's the secret. It's the same secret as the one for success or the one about doing anything well, really. Once you decide that travel is what you want to do... that's all it takes. Everything else is just logistics and math. I know many of you have kids or mortgages or jobs you feel you can't get away from and I get that, I really do. But while I was traveling, I saw families with babies (plural) out there. I saw parents with small kids, backpacks all geared up, wandering the streets of Venice at one in the morning. I saw people from all ages and all classes and all lifestyles out there seeing stuff that was knocking their socks off. It's easy to feel like you'll never have the time or the money or the break from life you feel you need to truly enjoy such an undertaking. But these thoughts are simply untrue. When someone tells me that they don't think they'll ever get to go anywhere, all I think is, "You're simply not trying hard enough". I understand that it's hard to believe that getting out is a possibility for everyone, especially for You, Dear Reader. I had it that feeling too. Then I got on that first plane to Australia and, lo and behold! I was traveling.
There is no such thing as "the right time". Money is just something you spend on other things rather than doing what you want to. There is no "big break"... just living. It goes on and on until you die, so make the very fucking most of it while you can before you are physically incapable of doing anything you want to.
Go travel.
If you want to amazed, if you want to experience life beyond what you know, and you aren't afraid to get some on you... close the tab on your computer that you have pulled up to read this blog and open a new tab and start looking at travel websites and destinations and how much money it'll cost to get there. Put the date in mind on your calendar. Count your pennies. Leave your trepidations at the door. And go.
That's it.
This has been a real fun thing, this blog. I've gotten so many responses from people who said they really liked it and I am truly glad. It's a weird feeling to be typing in a room somewhere away from everyone and everything you know and not knowing if anybody is even out there in cyber-land reading it. It's good to know that some of it got through :) Thanks so much for letting me ramble on and on at you for these last four months. My wife tells me I should keep doing this but it seems a little misleading to blog about travel when I'm sitting right next door to you. So, until I figure out what I'm doing next, I'll simply say "ciao!, ta!, cheers!, adios!, adio!, adieu!, au revoir! arrivederci! sawatdi! buh-bye now!"
See you out there.
-d@n
20 April 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Scotland
Scotland is NOT merely part of the UK. If you accidentally make the mistake of lumping the Scots in with the United Kingdom, they will very politely insist that you are wrong. The Scots have a tradition and a history that is all their own. And, if you give them a pint and an inch, they will tell you all about it.
Last night, at the Hotel Calendonian, we stood in queue to get a couple of pints behind some rowdy revelers who were celebrating the local Ross County team's victory over the bigger, more experienced Celtic team. It was, as I said last post, a major deal. One of the drunken revelers saw us standing there looking sheepishly out of place and struck up a conversation about where we were from and why we were there. When he found out we were Americans, he bought us a couple of glasses of Scottish whiskey. After I downed mine like a shot, he looked at me and said, "What kind of animal are you?! It's not a god damn cheeseburger, man... bartender, pour 'im another!" which the bartender kindly did. He took my arm, and, like a marionette, proceeded to position me properly and said, "Now, lift yer arm like so. Bring the glass to your lips. Take a wee sip. Now say, 'ahh, that's a mighty foine taste now, 'int it? Lovely". Which I did. And it was. Then he bought us some crisps: Haggis and Pepper for me, Cheddar and Onion for Lupe. Then he proceeded to sit next to us and ask us where we were from again. We had a laugh. The locals had us on for a bit but, being as we are not folks to take ourselves too seriously, we laughed along and it endeared us to them. He then told us he was going to give us a proper piping... lifting a wooden chair upside down over his shoulder like a pair of bagpipes and pretending to tune the contraption. He asked for requests. Then he said, "I cannae do anything new though. So, no Beyonce, ken? O! But I can do a foine Lady Gaga, if ya like!" We laughed. He was hilarious. What a welcome.
After he and his bunch left us alone to wander the streets of Fort Augustus, a kinder, gentler man came over and sat next to us asking us what we were doing in their fine village. We chatted him up over pints and, after an hour or so, we shared introductions. His name was Duncan. He is 50 years old, with 5 kids, working as an electrician. He was very curious about our perceptions of life in America having never been there himself. He was baffled as we talked racism, politics, education, poverty, and all things in between. Later on, he and the bartender, Mike, regaled us with a history lesson of the Jacobites, Bonnie Prince Charles, the war with England, and all the rest. They were very interested in what we had to say about London. They were surprised how much we liked London. Duncan said, "The problem with London is that it's full of English!" Laughter ensued.
This is what it's like to travel to Scotland. The most openly and sincerely friendly people in the world. No joke. Everywhere I have been in my travels in these past four months has been full of people of all ken and kind and here, at the very last leg of my journeys, I come to find the Scots: a people of history and pride and identity who welcomed us with an ease unlike any I have experienced before.
The Highlands are rich in scenery, akin to the Canadian Yukon in scale and scope. The hills are heathered, spotted with big, fluffy sheep and burly cows and horses of pure strength and muscle. The people are sardonic, sly, and speak so fast it's hard to keep up. They also know their shit when it comes to their shit. They can name members of the clans and their spouses, share news from neighboring areas, and can trace their heritage back generations and generations. The Lochs are sheets of cobalt sitting stoically between mountains of golden rock. They sit completely still: glassy and cold. One of them has a monster in it, apparently. The pubs are lively. Filled with local music that is in no way a put on for the tourists. These people are real. As real as it gets. And they are so very fucking awesome.
Scotland is unlike any other place. And I've seen some places, believe you me. Next time we come here, we're renting a car and a tent and wandering the countryside like the locals. Absolutely lovely.
So that's Scotland. Gorgeous. And worth visiting more than just a stop-and-see. I'll be back, no question.
Now I am in the hotel across the street from the airport. I fly out of Glasgow in a mere number of hours now. Back to home. Now that I've met people who live in their home so well, it makes me look forward to getting back to my own home place even more than before.
I think that I have one more blog in me when it comes to the whole Travel Around the World thing. Call it a recap. Or a review. I've done enough "Holy Wow!"-ing and hotel description, I think. I need time to reflect on what the hell has just happened in this far-too-quick/far-too-long four months of jaunting around the world. When I get back to Portland, I will need a day or two to soak it all in, all the while looking for a new domicile to inhabit so... bear with me one more time, Dear Friends. I will tell you what I think if you give me time to think it.
Once more then no more... til next time I travel again.
Thanks for your patience.
-d@n
Last night, at the Hotel Calendonian, we stood in queue to get a couple of pints behind some rowdy revelers who were celebrating the local Ross County team's victory over the bigger, more experienced Celtic team. It was, as I said last post, a major deal. One of the drunken revelers saw us standing there looking sheepishly out of place and struck up a conversation about where we were from and why we were there. When he found out we were Americans, he bought us a couple of glasses of Scottish whiskey. After I downed mine like a shot, he looked at me and said, "What kind of animal are you?! It's not a god damn cheeseburger, man... bartender, pour 'im another!" which the bartender kindly did. He took my arm, and, like a marionette, proceeded to position me properly and said, "Now, lift yer arm like so. Bring the glass to your lips. Take a wee sip. Now say, 'ahh, that's a mighty foine taste now, 'int it? Lovely". Which I did. And it was. Then he bought us some crisps: Haggis and Pepper for me, Cheddar and Onion for Lupe. Then he proceeded to sit next to us and ask us where we were from again. We had a laugh. The locals had us on for a bit but, being as we are not folks to take ourselves too seriously, we laughed along and it endeared us to them. He then told us he was going to give us a proper piping... lifting a wooden chair upside down over his shoulder like a pair of bagpipes and pretending to tune the contraption. He asked for requests. Then he said, "I cannae do anything new though. So, no Beyonce, ken? O! But I can do a foine Lady Gaga, if ya like!" We laughed. He was hilarious. What a welcome.
After he and his bunch left us alone to wander the streets of Fort Augustus, a kinder, gentler man came over and sat next to us asking us what we were doing in their fine village. We chatted him up over pints and, after an hour or so, we shared introductions. His name was Duncan. He is 50 years old, with 5 kids, working as an electrician. He was very curious about our perceptions of life in America having never been there himself. He was baffled as we talked racism, politics, education, poverty, and all things in between. Later on, he and the bartender, Mike, regaled us with a history lesson of the Jacobites, Bonnie Prince Charles, the war with England, and all the rest. They were very interested in what we had to say about London. They were surprised how much we liked London. Duncan said, "The problem with London is that it's full of English!" Laughter ensued.
This is what it's like to travel to Scotland. The most openly and sincerely friendly people in the world. No joke. Everywhere I have been in my travels in these past four months has been full of people of all ken and kind and here, at the very last leg of my journeys, I come to find the Scots: a people of history and pride and identity who welcomed us with an ease unlike any I have experienced before.
The Highlands are rich in scenery, akin to the Canadian Yukon in scale and scope. The hills are heathered, spotted with big, fluffy sheep and burly cows and horses of pure strength and muscle. The people are sardonic, sly, and speak so fast it's hard to keep up. They also know their shit when it comes to their shit. They can name members of the clans and their spouses, share news from neighboring areas, and can trace their heritage back generations and generations. The Lochs are sheets of cobalt sitting stoically between mountains of golden rock. They sit completely still: glassy and cold. One of them has a monster in it, apparently. The pubs are lively. Filled with local music that is in no way a put on for the tourists. These people are real. As real as it gets. And they are so very fucking awesome.
Scotland is unlike any other place. And I've seen some places, believe you me. Next time we come here, we're renting a car and a tent and wandering the countryside like the locals. Absolutely lovely.
So that's Scotland. Gorgeous. And worth visiting more than just a stop-and-see. I'll be back, no question.
Now I am in the hotel across the street from the airport. I fly out of Glasgow in a mere number of hours now. Back to home. Now that I've met people who live in their home so well, it makes me look forward to getting back to my own home place even more than before.
I think that I have one more blog in me when it comes to the whole Travel Around the World thing. Call it a recap. Or a review. I've done enough "Holy Wow!"-ing and hotel description, I think. I need time to reflect on what the hell has just happened in this far-too-quick/far-too-long four months of jaunting around the world. When I get back to Portland, I will need a day or two to soak it all in, all the while looking for a new domicile to inhabit so... bear with me one more time, Dear Friends. I will tell you what I think if you give me time to think it.
Once more then no more... til next time I travel again.
Thanks for your patience.
-d@n
Roadtripping
After London, we rented a car and drove through the UK. Here's what we did.
Our first stop was Brighton, south of London, at one of the most famous beaches in the world. It was cold. The beach is comprised of rocks, not sand. The pier was filled with a gambling arcade. The food was great. From Brighton, we drove east to Dover.
In Dover, we got in late and caught a room at Blake's of Dover: a bed and breakfast named Best Ale House in 2006. The cider was a nice refreshing nightcap to a heavy day of driving and the hospitality was fantastic. The room was clean, cozy, and cheap at 50 pounds. Great place. Totally comfy. While in Dover, we went and visited Dover Castle atop the white cliffs, beneath the blue skies, just as the song says. I geeked out at the Chapel of St. Mary's in Castro: a military chapel for the fighting forces of the British Army and at the winding staircases through the castle towers to the roof. Dover is also the place where they received the Miracle of Dunkirk, where British forces transported thousands of soldiers over the channel from the northern part of France under siege by Hitler's army. In the secret underground tunnels of Dover is where the planning for D-Day occurred. After studying a surviving copy of Hitler's Last Appeal to Reason, we toured the tunnels at great length, fascinated at the cramped spaces where hundreds of British soldiers lived as bomb planes fought overhead during World War II. Amazing.
That night, we drove to Salisbury and stayed in a wonderful inn called the White Horse where more cider and some football welcomed us. The room above was 60 pounds, clean, warm, and very relaxing after another long day driving. The next day, we visited the Salisbury Cathedral where one of the four copies of the Magna Carta is housed. The church is under some repair but stands as a community center for all residents, hosting crafting fairs for the children of Salisbury and also holds a ton of history in its walls. The Magna Carta was pretty neat to see.
Then it was off to Stonehenge.
Stonehenge is a hendge. It's also made of stone, which makes its name pretty self-explanatory.
Who am I kidding? Stonehenge is... well, words can't describe it. You can't help but wander around it, studying its architecture, and remarking, "There's no fucking way!" every five minutes or so. Lupe and I still say.... aliens. Aliens must've put those stones there. There is no other logical, reasonable explanation. Thus: Aliens. Must be.
From the henge, we drove to Manchester and stayed at a roadside Travel Lodge just south of the main city.
A quick word about the highways and byways of the United Kingdoms:
The UK has driving down. There are no highway patrols. There are CCTV cameras that no one pays any attention to. Instead, they drive smoothly and steadily and with purpose, averaging speeds of 90-100 mph or so. They leave lots of space between them, so maneuverability is greatly improved. Everyone also takes their time. No one rushes the guy in front of them. When merges and on-ramps come along, people have already moved to the far lane to let in new cars in so there's no stress. When two lanes merge, people have already queued miles ahead of time in one-after-another fashion so everyone gets a go. There's no cutting people off or honking or crowding. It is amazing to see people drive with that much courtesy and ease. Everybody gives a wave. When people pass, they do so quickly, without verve, and return to the outside slow lane to let others going faster than them to get by. It's fantastic. The rest stops are many and well designed. There are shopping centres, McDonald's, KFC's, and plenty of room for everyone. Several stops have Travel Lodges and Little Chefs (think Denny's but with good food and young, pretty people working them). The food centres are clean, well-employed by friendly staff, and full of families eating picnic lunches on park benches. Muslims pray, facing east towards Mecca on the grass and no one bats an eye. There is none of the stigma associated with the American Rest Stop with its urban legend of shady vagabonds and serial killers waiting in the bushes. The toilets are clean and cleaned regularly and equipped with all the necessities demanded by the road. The BP gas stations are mini grocery stores, complete with frozen food for camper vans and packaged foods for the casual roadster. Unbelievable.
From Manchester, we drove far to the north to Glasgow and decided to pass right on through. Instead of staying in Glasgow, we headed north to the Highlands of Scotland and, of course, Loch Ness. The night we arrived, we found a great hotel called the Hotel Caledonian. Apparently, we arrived on the right night. The local football team of Ross County had beaten the Celtics which, according to the locals who were reveling in the bar and buying us glasses of whiskey and chips to welcome us, is akin to some minor league AAA baseball team going to New York and whupping the Yankees.
The room at the Hotel Caledonian was 40 pounds per person, and was... well, it was right up there with any Westin we've ever stayed at. It was warm, rustic, friendly, with a huuuge room and amazing bed. This is a must stay place, as far as I am concerned. If you are ever going to the North of Scotland, stay here. There is none of the kitchiness of the tourist trap of Loch Ness involved here. Just friendly staff and stories and locals abound. The bartender, Mike, who also ran the front desk, told us of how a local firefighter in the neighborhood decided shortly after 9/11 to host the families and friends of firefighters who had lost their lives when the Twin Towers fell. He got the whole town involved and they raised the money to bring every single one of those people all the way to Fort Augustus, all expenses paid, all services rendered. They didn't pay a dime the entire time they were there. They stayed in the hotel we stayed in. Amazing. The bar downstairs was lively but small and we met several locals, including a man named Duncan from farther north who sat with us through the night, drinking pints, and getting to know us. The next day, we rounded Loch Ness and headed back south to Glasgow.
Tomorrow, I fly home.
I realize now that I have talked a lot in this particular blog about what we did and haven't really said much about the experience. I think I will have to take a moment and think about what i want to say before posting again so... bear with me. I'll be back soon with another post very very soon.
Thanks for listening. I promise more in a little bit.
Cheers!
-d@n
Our first stop was Brighton, south of London, at one of the most famous beaches in the world. It was cold. The beach is comprised of rocks, not sand. The pier was filled with a gambling arcade. The food was great. From Brighton, we drove east to Dover.
In Dover, we got in late and caught a room at Blake's of Dover: a bed and breakfast named Best Ale House in 2006. The cider was a nice refreshing nightcap to a heavy day of driving and the hospitality was fantastic. The room was clean, cozy, and cheap at 50 pounds. Great place. Totally comfy. While in Dover, we went and visited Dover Castle atop the white cliffs, beneath the blue skies, just as the song says. I geeked out at the Chapel of St. Mary's in Castro: a military chapel for the fighting forces of the British Army and at the winding staircases through the castle towers to the roof. Dover is also the place where they received the Miracle of Dunkirk, where British forces transported thousands of soldiers over the channel from the northern part of France under siege by Hitler's army. In the secret underground tunnels of Dover is where the planning for D-Day occurred. After studying a surviving copy of Hitler's Last Appeal to Reason, we toured the tunnels at great length, fascinated at the cramped spaces where hundreds of British soldiers lived as bomb planes fought overhead during World War II. Amazing.
That night, we drove to Salisbury and stayed in a wonderful inn called the White Horse where more cider and some football welcomed us. The room above was 60 pounds, clean, warm, and very relaxing after another long day driving. The next day, we visited the Salisbury Cathedral where one of the four copies of the Magna Carta is housed. The church is under some repair but stands as a community center for all residents, hosting crafting fairs for the children of Salisbury and also holds a ton of history in its walls. The Magna Carta was pretty neat to see.
Then it was off to Stonehenge.
Stonehenge is a hendge. It's also made of stone, which makes its name pretty self-explanatory.
Who am I kidding? Stonehenge is... well, words can't describe it. You can't help but wander around it, studying its architecture, and remarking, "There's no fucking way!" every five minutes or so. Lupe and I still say.... aliens. Aliens must've put those stones there. There is no other logical, reasonable explanation. Thus: Aliens. Must be.
From the henge, we drove to Manchester and stayed at a roadside Travel Lodge just south of the main city.
A quick word about the highways and byways of the United Kingdoms:
The UK has driving down. There are no highway patrols. There are CCTV cameras that no one pays any attention to. Instead, they drive smoothly and steadily and with purpose, averaging speeds of 90-100 mph or so. They leave lots of space between them, so maneuverability is greatly improved. Everyone also takes their time. No one rushes the guy in front of them. When merges and on-ramps come along, people have already moved to the far lane to let in new cars in so there's no stress. When two lanes merge, people have already queued miles ahead of time in one-after-another fashion so everyone gets a go. There's no cutting people off or honking or crowding. It is amazing to see people drive with that much courtesy and ease. Everybody gives a wave. When people pass, they do so quickly, without verve, and return to the outside slow lane to let others going faster than them to get by. It's fantastic. The rest stops are many and well designed. There are shopping centres, McDonald's, KFC's, and plenty of room for everyone. Several stops have Travel Lodges and Little Chefs (think Denny's but with good food and young, pretty people working them). The food centres are clean, well-employed by friendly staff, and full of families eating picnic lunches on park benches. Muslims pray, facing east towards Mecca on the grass and no one bats an eye. There is none of the stigma associated with the American Rest Stop with its urban legend of shady vagabonds and serial killers waiting in the bushes. The toilets are clean and cleaned regularly and equipped with all the necessities demanded by the road. The BP gas stations are mini grocery stores, complete with frozen food for camper vans and packaged foods for the casual roadster. Unbelievable.
From Manchester, we drove far to the north to Glasgow and decided to pass right on through. Instead of staying in Glasgow, we headed north to the Highlands of Scotland and, of course, Loch Ness. The night we arrived, we found a great hotel called the Hotel Caledonian. Apparently, we arrived on the right night. The local football team of Ross County had beaten the Celtics which, according to the locals who were reveling in the bar and buying us glasses of whiskey and chips to welcome us, is akin to some minor league AAA baseball team going to New York and whupping the Yankees.
The room at the Hotel Caledonian was 40 pounds per person, and was... well, it was right up there with any Westin we've ever stayed at. It was warm, rustic, friendly, with a huuuge room and amazing bed. This is a must stay place, as far as I am concerned. If you are ever going to the North of Scotland, stay here. There is none of the kitchiness of the tourist trap of Loch Ness involved here. Just friendly staff and stories and locals abound. The bartender, Mike, who also ran the front desk, told us of how a local firefighter in the neighborhood decided shortly after 9/11 to host the families and friends of firefighters who had lost their lives when the Twin Towers fell. He got the whole town involved and they raised the money to bring every single one of those people all the way to Fort Augustus, all expenses paid, all services rendered. They didn't pay a dime the entire time they were there. They stayed in the hotel we stayed in. Amazing. The bar downstairs was lively but small and we met several locals, including a man named Duncan from farther north who sat with us through the night, drinking pints, and getting to know us. The next day, we rounded Loch Ness and headed back south to Glasgow.
Tomorrow, I fly home.
I realize now that I have talked a lot in this particular blog about what we did and haven't really said much about the experience. I think I will have to take a moment and think about what i want to say before posting again so... bear with me. I'll be back soon with another post very very soon.
Thanks for listening. I promise more in a little bit.
Cheers!
-d@n
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
London Calling
I wrote a blog earlier when we got into London which never made it to post because the internets here are so poor on the third floor of the George Hotel on Cartwright Gardens, just minutes away from St. Pancras Station. The room on the third floor was tiny; uneven floor, dipped ceiling, furniture that slid when you touched it. There is no lift to make your way up the steep, narrow, harrowingly uneven stairs. The shower is shared. The loo is as well. The room is also 56 pounds a day which makes it a total win in my book. So much so we decided to stay here another night.
They moved us downstairs to the first floor and even moved our bags for us while we took the double decker tour bus around the cool sights today. The internets have greatly improved (hence the blog tonight). And we get our own shower! (the size of a small closet, but still...)
London is kinda awesome. I kinda want to live here. I kinda want to get a work visa and stay here for four months during the summer instead of the states. Scratch that... I kinda want to stay here forever and not come back. I am glad we decided to come here last. The food is so fatty mcfatty good. I even ate some black pudding today. It tastes like sausage. I kinda thought it was really good.
Last night we spent the night walking around the East End on a Jack the Ripper tour which was really really cool. Today we hit the sights. The day before, we shopped. A lot.
Sorry I'm being a little short right now. I'm a tad bit ill and it's hard to formulate thoughts as coherently as I'm sure you're used to from me. All-in-all, there are no words to explain how much I love it here. The weather is as fickle as it is in Portland: sunny and warm one second, rain and gray the very next. The pubs are quiet, quaint, full of good food and families sharing time together (yes, kids too). The shopping is shamefully good. The scene is very cool. There are so many people from everywhere here. The area we're in has everything I could ever want in life: pubs, grocery stores, convenience stores, a noir-only cinema, three bookstores, and a shopping strip for clothes and stuff. Russel Square station is a whopping 5 minutes away. The city opens up with the London Underground and no corner is too far away.
In 6 days, at this time, I will be in Portland again. That's a little hard to bear. To think: it's already been three months and change of living out of a backpack. I've seen enough of the inside of airplanes and train coaches and buses and metro rail stations to last me a while. I'm ready to go home. There is no doubt about that. But this trip has been one of a lifetime. I will have these stories to share forever and ever.
I'm sure I could have blogged more specifically or been more expressive in my experiences. But the truth is it's very hard to describe what passes for the mundane when you're out here. We begin our drive through the rural parts of the UK tomorrow, on our way to the destination of Glasgow where we fly out to the States. I am assuming that the internets may be few and far between here and there and that I will be spending most of my free time in the car. I promise I will blog again to wrap it all up once I get a chance, even if that means it'll be from the comfort of my own borrowed bed (yes, it's true... we won't have a place to live when we get back. The hunt for a home starts the day after we get in).
This is how the story of travel ends.... not with a bang but with a very tired, slightly ill, spaced out rant on a blog that could've been longer but probably couldn't be better. I hope you have enjoyed reading along. I will have a lot to say when I get home. I have memories of things that have happened to me that cannot ever be forgotten. I hope you'll still be interested to listen.
For now, I'm going to watch "Mock the Week", take some Sudafed, and hope I can think again tomorrow.
Cheers!
-d@n
They moved us downstairs to the first floor and even moved our bags for us while we took the double decker tour bus around the cool sights today. The internets have greatly improved (hence the blog tonight). And we get our own shower! (the size of a small closet, but still...)
London is kinda awesome. I kinda want to live here. I kinda want to get a work visa and stay here for four months during the summer instead of the states. Scratch that... I kinda want to stay here forever and not come back. I am glad we decided to come here last. The food is so fatty mcfatty good. I even ate some black pudding today. It tastes like sausage. I kinda thought it was really good.
Last night we spent the night walking around the East End on a Jack the Ripper tour which was really really cool. Today we hit the sights. The day before, we shopped. A lot.
Sorry I'm being a little short right now. I'm a tad bit ill and it's hard to formulate thoughts as coherently as I'm sure you're used to from me. All-in-all, there are no words to explain how much I love it here. The weather is as fickle as it is in Portland: sunny and warm one second, rain and gray the very next. The pubs are quiet, quaint, full of good food and families sharing time together (yes, kids too). The shopping is shamefully good. The scene is very cool. There are so many people from everywhere here. The area we're in has everything I could ever want in life: pubs, grocery stores, convenience stores, a noir-only cinema, three bookstores, and a shopping strip for clothes and stuff. Russel Square station is a whopping 5 minutes away. The city opens up with the London Underground and no corner is too far away.
In 6 days, at this time, I will be in Portland again. That's a little hard to bear. To think: it's already been three months and change of living out of a backpack. I've seen enough of the inside of airplanes and train coaches and buses and metro rail stations to last me a while. I'm ready to go home. There is no doubt about that. But this trip has been one of a lifetime. I will have these stories to share forever and ever.
I'm sure I could have blogged more specifically or been more expressive in my experiences. But the truth is it's very hard to describe what passes for the mundane when you're out here. We begin our drive through the rural parts of the UK tomorrow, on our way to the destination of Glasgow where we fly out to the States. I am assuming that the internets may be few and far between here and there and that I will be spending most of my free time in the car. I promise I will blog again to wrap it all up once I get a chance, even if that means it'll be from the comfort of my own borrowed bed (yes, it's true... we won't have a place to live when we get back. The hunt for a home starts the day after we get in).
This is how the story of travel ends.... not with a bang but with a very tired, slightly ill, spaced out rant on a blog that could've been longer but probably couldn't be better. I hope you have enjoyed reading along. I will have a lot to say when I get home. I have memories of things that have happened to me that cannot ever be forgotten. I hope you'll still be interested to listen.
For now, I'm going to watch "Mock the Week", take some Sudafed, and hope I can think again tomorrow.
Cheers!
-d@n
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