Czech Out What I Did In Prague!

Prague

Why do I like Prague so much? Well, Prague is a place of storytelling of legends, folktales, and some serious history; I love my stories.

The Astronomical Clock.
Truly one-of-a-kind.

A brief history: Prague was actually attacked and taken by the Nazi’s in 1938 (which is a year earlier than Wikipedia would tell you WW2 started). When the Nazi’s came in they were under strict orders by Hitler to not damage the city as it was his favorite. In fact, they were even under strict orders not to destroy the Jewish quarter of Prague, although for a completely different reason; Hitler intended to turn the Jewish quarter into a “museum of the extinct race.” After the war when the Nazis finally left, Prague only had a brief period before Communists took over the city until 1989. Now 22 years later, the city has formed itself into a tourist dream and one of the most popular destinations in Europe.

The interior garden of Prague Castle.

Prague has a fist-full of legends about its history. I’ll only tell a few, but I’ll recite them chronologically. The first: Before mankind existed God’s closest advisor was Lucifer. Lucifer tried to make himself a throne similar to God’s and was cast out, and so he fell from heaven to Earth. That spot where Lucifer fell is Prague, and the locals believe that because of this, Prague is the closest point to hell and heavily crowded by ghosts and demons which are often seen by locals and tourists alike. Second, the astronomical clock which is in the middle of town is one-of-a-kind. When it was built by either Master Hanus or Mikulas of Kadan (depending which local tells you the story) the town council began to fear that he would make more for other cities. To keep the astronomical clock their own and unique, they broke into his house and burned out his eyes with a hot poker. The next day, he went to the top of the clock tower and felt the gears until he found the one he was looking for, then he threw himself into the gears and his death stopped the clock for 100 years. The third is about the Old-New Church. In the Jewish Quarter lies the church where an old Jewish man named Pernath created a large rock statue, the Golem, to protect the Jewish quarter of Prague from anyone who meant it harm.

My time here has been spent travelling through the city seeing the astronomical clock, the churches (which were the design for Walt Disney’s castle), Prague Castle, and the old opera…which has another good story: When the Nazi’s took Prague, Hitler ordered a famous Jewish composer’s statue to be removed from the roof and destroyed. The soldiers who went to the top of the roof did not know what the composer looked like so they decided to destroy the statue with the biggest nose (I know…right?). Here is the twist, the statue with the biggest nose on the roof belonged to Wagner. They had knocked down a statue of a famous GERMAN composer, and even more hilarious, who was Hitler’s favorite composer. 

A statue of a man riding a suit. One
of Kafka's short stories.

When you think of the Czech people you think hard times, ghost stories, great beer, and Franz Kafka. The Kafka museum is fantastic. The nature and mood of his writing is perfectly reflected in the museum. It is almost as if you are walking through his head. Open filing cabinets, sounds of floorboards creaking, footsteps, a phone that rings but no one is there when you pick it up, long twisted staircases and dark hallways. The word “Kafkaesque” is constantly used for books and films, but I could never really understand what it meant until I visited the museum. My decision was this: Kafkaesque is a surrealistic relatable nightmare. My favorite line I saw in the museum came from one of his personal notebooks, it read: “One day, a cage went looking for a bird.”

Hmm…One day a cage went looking for a bird… 

The Food of Emilia-Romagna, Under the Tuscan Sun, and When in Rome

Bologna

The arcades of Bologna

As many of you know one of my main missions on this trip was to eat my way through Italy. So once I left Mallorca in Spain it was clear that the start of my journey had to be in the Emilia-Romagna region. More specifically, I started in Bologna. Bologna is the largest city in the Emilia-Romagna region and it, much like the rest of the Italy, is a very old and beautiful city. I stayed at a small hotel called the Astoria, where the hotel owner himself picked me up from the train station and drove me to the hotel; Italian hospitality seems to be pretty amazing as well.  After Sarah arrived we began to tour the city. The city has scattered parks where many of the locals go to jog, read, or even sunbathe. In the evening, we went to a restaurant and had some of the typical Bolognese dishes. To be honest, I don’t really remember what I ate that night. It is about 10 days later as I write this, so that meal must have been eclipsed by all of the meals that followed it. I know, so far I have really just spouted off small things about Bologna and have been factual. So, what was my favorite part of Bologna? The architecture of course! As you can see in the picture, the streets are all lined with large arcades that stretch through each of the city, up every main street and alleyway. The smooth pillars cast shadows on the sidewalk during the later evening of the day; very beautiful.

Parma

A dream house in Parma

On the second day of the trip I headed to Parma, which was a place that I knew would be a winner for my foodie-quest. When I got to Parma I was instantly in love. The train station lets you off at a river walk with a park on the other side. Following the beautiful riverside brings you to a courtyard where an old outdoor theater used to be. I took some pictures of the churches and the towers, but my favorite was the picture above: a picture of an old house right next to the church. It looks almost like there is a garden with an aviary up at the top. I don’t know why this house spoke to both Sarah and I so much, but it really is a beautiful one. Then came the best part of the day: Prosciutto. I will try to be brief, but I could honestly write four full pages on just the Prosciutto alone. We sat at a small restaurant on the side of one of the main streets and ordered a plate of Prosciutto (JUST Prosciutto). Prosciutto is what Parma is most famous for and they mean business. The cuts are extremely thinly sliced and you barely have to even chew, the meat just melts in your mouth as you eat. I wanted to cry as I ate; it was by far the best thing I had ever eaten. I had finally achieved it: Prosciutto Nirvana. As the plate emptied and there was only one piece left. Sarah and I stared each other down…there was almost a battle. She, however, is a much better person than me, and she gave me the last piece. Parma was fantastic, I wish that we could have stayed there for a week, just sitting at that small restaurant eating Prosciutto, but we had much more to do; Modena was still on the list for the day’s activities.

Modena

A church outside Modena station

Modena was a city that I had expected to be extremely fruitful as well, as it is well regarded for its specialty: balsamic oil. However, it did not really end up panning out. The city is very small and the main church was under construction so there wasn’t much to see. Fortunately, Sarah’s friends met up with us in the evening and took us bar hopping. The first bar we went to hosted an aperitivo offer. Aperitivo is when a bar lays out a buffet of food and, as long as you order a drink, you can eat as much as you want. We drank like fish and ate until they had to replace the buffet trays. Once we had our fill of food, we decided to head to an Irish pub. I know what you are thinking, why would you go to an Irish pub in Italy? Well, the answer is quite simple: Italian beer sucks, REALLY sucks. I would rather drink Nati Ice than most Italian beers. So, thank God for Irish pubs with real beer being scattered around the Italy. I’m glad Sarah’s friends were there to show us the bars, because Modena really was a let-down. Oh wait, as we were leaving I found out that Modena is one of the main places in Italy (or THE main place) where Maseratis are made; Pretty cool. Alright, next stop, Firenze!

Firenze

The Arno River in Firenze

Firenze (Florence) is in the heart of Tuscany. As I write this I’m not really sure where to start. Firenze is my favorite city…ever. I’m not sure how to put this wonderful multi-faceted city into words, but I’ll try: When we got to Firenze we quickly checked in and then went out into the city. When I first came around the corner and saw the Duomo in the center of town I almost fell to my knees and started crying. It’s not just me either, from talking many of the other tourists I met and talked to they had similar reactions. The Duomo is overpowering on all senses. You can’t even take it all in standing in front of it for a full day. It is a huge goliath sized church and tower that is about 6-8 blocks in size. I could rattle on about how the Duomo looks, how it made me feel, but in the end it is one of those things in life (actually, Firenze as a whole is one of those things) that must be experienced rather than told about. The rest of Firenze is equally as amazing. 

Statue of a hero killing
a centaur (Hercules?)

During WW2, Firenze was one of the only cities that wasn’t destroyed by bombs and flames. The history of Firenze and the pride of that history by the Florentine people are easy to see.  The statues of Greek and Roman history are found in one of the plazas (including those of the Florentine sculptor, Donatello) and the Academy houses the statue of David. I was also able to witness some of the drawings of Leonardo DaVinci while I was going through one of the palace’s there. Then came some more of my favorite parts: The house of Dante Aligheri is close to the center of town and VERY well preserved. It was amazing to see the birthplace of one of the most famous authors of all time. In the house you can see all three of the books on the wall in Latin. What’s most interesting to me is that when Italy was trying to decide on which dialect to choose as its main dialect (Nero’s Italian or Florentine Italian) it was decided that it would be the Italian of Dante, Florentine Italian. Outside of the city is the house of Amerigo Vespucci. Sound familiar? Ya, he was the map maker who noticed Columbus mistake in thinking that he had discovered a new route to India. It was his findings and his name that is the reason we are now called “America.” That’s right, we owe the name of our entire country to this Florentine man; just one more reason Firenze is my favorite. Now here is where we become a little more dark. I am currently reading a book on Firenze called Il Monstro di Firenze (The Monster of Florence). Basically, Italy had its own version of “Jack the Ripper.” This insane criminal (still never caught) killed 7 couples (maybe more) between the 70s and all the 90s. This guy was WAY more sick than Jack the Ripper and the reason we never heard about it in the States was because the article, which was suppose to be a front page article in New York news, was unfortunately pushed aside because it was suppose to be posted in September of 2001. As you can imagine, bigger news came up. I guess to wrap-up, I should say that Firenze flared up a passion in me. It is ancient, mysterious, beautiful, haunting, and alluring. I plan to come back here some day and spend more time, possibly move here if I can. I feel like I only scratched the surface of Firenze. Onto the rest of Tuscany!

Lucca

Entrance to Lucca

Outside of Firenze, out in the countryside of Tuscany, is the city of Lucca. The start of this one was REALLY confusing. When we arrived we asked a police officer if he could point us in the direction of our hotel: A bed and breakfast. The police officer had no idea where the place was, but then suddenly he realized that it was the next train-stop back the direction we came. When we got off the train we were honestly in the middle of NOWHERE. The train tracks were overrun with long grass as if our train was the first to have come there in years and the streets were empty. I mean, it was so dead that I kept expecting a tumble-weed to blow by. We walked up a long street until a man sitting outside a bar in a rocking chair (which felt like a scene from the start of Texas Chainsaw Massacre) told us in a low coughing voice that we had to walk back the other way, WAY down the other way. When we finally arrived at the bed and breakfast it really was just a house: no sign, no indicator, and no one home. “Great!” I thought, “Now we are stuck in the middle of nowhere, stuck in a horror movie, and we are standing in front of an empty house that may or may not be a hotel.” 

A church of Lucca

Finally a guy came out, who had been sleeping, showed us to our room, gave us keys, and went back to sleep on his couch. Fine, whatever, we were in a house now, locked the room, and then went back to Lucca. After all that trouble I was glad to finally get to Lucca. The city is beautiful and the walls of the hill are extremely high and are covered on the tops with grass. The entrance to the city is a small little corridor and is only accessible by foot (although I’m sure the cars can gain access another way). The city has small modern art statues around and equally large squares for musicians, artists, and grabbing a quick bite and a beer. Much like most Italian cities, Lucca has churches and towers scattered through the town. Before we left the city we took a moment to take a nap on top of the grass walls which overlooked both inside and outside of the city. When we did get back to the bed and breakfast, Jessica the owner and sister of the sleeping receptionist, let us in. She was extremely nice, cooked us dinner, and asked what we would like for breakfast. As soon as she had shown up the black cloud of uncertainty and fear faded. The next morning we were up early and on our way to Pisa and Siena.

Pisa

The leaning Tower
of Pisa

What should I say about Pisa? Well, it is one of those towns that doesn’t have much to offer, but it does have an extremely large and famous tower…a leaning one at that. Sarah and I ran through the city to Pisa, took quick stereotypical pictures of the leaning tower of Pisa (Asian tourism style) and then left from the city onto Siena. Like I said, the city is kind of a one-trick, and very crowded, wonder.

Siena

A beautiful. elegant
church of Siena.

Siena is once again (to re-use a completely exhausted adjective) a beautiful city. Similar to Lucca, a large wall surrounds the city and what lies inside those walls is intriguing. The side streets are those mysteriously curvy and twisted streets that make for perfect detective novels and Sepia photographs. Each one of those crooked streets leads you to an ancient church or bricked houses. In the center of the city is the large plaza which looks like a seashell and a theater; slowly sloping down towards the tower at the base. Twice a year, the people of Siena lay dirt down all along this large plaza and a famous horse race takes place. The city of Siena is split up into different sections, and each one of the sections is given its own rider. Then the race takes place right in the plaza, right in the middle of the small city. It would really be such an amazing event to see; on another trip I suppose. Siena again was a city I wish I had had more time in. 

Roma

One of the hallways in
the Vatican Museum.

Finally we made it to Rome, the final stop on our Italian trip. We relaxed for the most of the first day because day two was going to be a big one. On the second day we woke up early and took off on a mission to see EVERYTHING. We got up really early and headed to the Vatican City. The Museum of the Vatican is the largest museum in the world with over 1400 rooms. Statues line every hall and the works of Raphael can be seen as you walk the halls. The highlight is, of course, Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. Once through the Vatican we hurried to St. Peter’s church. The huge courtyard outside was filled with people and the line to get in was four hours long. A four hour line wasn’t on my to-do list for the day so we left and headed towards the Spanish steps. The Spanish steps are one of the influences of the Spanish in Italy and the crooked stairs lead up to the twin steeples of the church at the top of the hill. Next was a quick trip to another of my favorites for the day: the Trevi Fountain.

Me in front of the Trevi Fountain. 

The fountain is one of the most famous pieces of Rome. The statues of mermaids, beasts, and gods (of course Neptune…Poseidon for us Greek specialists) surround the fountain and bless those who come to it: legend has it that if you throw a coin over your shoulder than you are destined to come back to Rome someday. I, of course, threw a coin (I’m hoping Neptune will pay for my flight). “See you in awhile, Rome.” The next stop of the trip was to the Venetian Palace which was a quick stop; a huge white palace with statues shooting up high into the sky on pillars. The next big stop in the city was the Pantheon. The Pantheon is the OLDEST building in Rome. It was built in 119 AD and houses the tomb of the first king of Italy and the artist Raphael. It’s amazing to see cities like Rome and Firenze, it really puts into perspective how young of a country we are in America. We finished our day at a Mozzarella bar next to the Venetian palace. As you can imagine, I ate way too much cheese. The next day I was still working off my cheese coma and then we headed to the Coliseum. I know the Vatican and the Sistine should be my favorites, but let’s be real, I’m a guy, a movie lover, and an adrenaline junkie. Clearly, the Coliseum was my favorite. I could imagine being down in the sand and fighting with any weapon I was lucky enough to have. 

The underneath of the Coliseum. Where
all the "fun surprises" came from.

The Coliseum only has a piece of the sanded platform where the bouts took place. The rest of what is visible is the ruins of the rooms below the main floor that housed the beasts (wolves, lions, etc), the chariots and horses, and surprise warriors that would pop-up from the floorboards below to the uproar of applause from the bloodthirsty Roman audience sitting high above. Blood and Sand, gets my adrenaline tingling; it would have been fascinating to have been here in the days of the gladiator. The rest of the day was spent going through the old ruins of Rome: Augustus’ house, statues from the reign of Nero, and the baths of Rome. And then…it was time to leave. Sarah left on the 6^th of August and I was to leave on the 7^th, so I decided to spend a night at the airport. I won’t go into much detail of my boring reprisal of Tom Hanks’ role in Terminal, I’ll just say “Thank God for airport bookstores.” Now, time for Prague.

Oh, and by the way, if you weren’t taking notice while you read, I did in fact see all four of them (Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, and Michelangelo):

The Great Italian artists

From the Mediterranean to Gaudi

Sailing the Sea to Barcelona

Friends and Family,

I am now in the Tuscan city of Firenze (Florence) and have found a suitable coffee shop that not only fascinates me through the Andy Warhol art covering the walls but also has one of the best cups of coffee I’ve had in Europe thus far. So, what has happened between my bitter defeat at Pamplona and the gorgeous city I am now staying?

I just wanna be like Leo...
except not drown

Will and I had a brief interlude in Barcelona that was filled with city exploration, Doner kebab, and pub crawls. My excitement welled at the thought of exploring more of the Gaudi architecture in Barcelona, but first we needed to meet my family members in Mallorca. We flew one hour across the water to the larger of the three off-shore islands that make up the Balearan islands (Ibiza, Mallorca, and Menorca).  We were picked up by my mom and uncle and then we headed to Santa Ponca harbor where my uncle, Friedel’s, sailboat was currently docked. With the six of us on board the Amel 54 sailboat (mom, grandma, aunt, uncle, Will, and myself), we set out onto the Mediterranean Sea in direction of Barcelona. It was Mediterranean morning was beautiful as we left the Santa Ponca harbor. The craggy cliffs were pocked with small caves and crevices that created shadows, causing the early sunlight to only illuminate small pieces of the vertical landscape. After we were on the sea for a couple hours the winds picked up and the boat began to sway. No one was really affected by the boat’s violent swaying at first, but the repetition of the inconstant lurching of the sailboat can get to you quickly, and by the time we were halfway through the journey half of the crew had become sick. Grandma, Uncle Friedel, and I were unaffected. I actually slept most of the time (my one very special talent being that I can sleep at anyplace in any condition). By nightfall, we were pulling into the Barcelona harbor called Port Vell. Over the course of the next few days we travelled throughout Barcelona to see the different sights of Gaudi. My days generally followed a wake up, swim at the local beach, grab a cup of coffee and use the internet at a café called “Foc You” Café, and then head out sightseeing.

This is the longest bench
in the world...but is is
the thickest?

The rocky tunnel of Gaudi

The first of these sights was Park Guell. Gaudi designed this entire park which looks like something out of Alice in Wonderland. As you walk up the windy staircase you find a mosaic dragon fountain which guards the entrance to the pillared courtyard. On top of these pillars lies the dirt park and picnic area of the park. However, it’s not just chairs that are set up in the picnic area. Gaudi designed the world’s longest park bench that twists and turns as it winds its way around the border of the park. The park is fascinating; each piece shows just what a creative and unique mind that Gaudi had. My favorite of these was a tunnel that has long stone arch ways that resemble to Roman arcades. As I walked through it I could imagine myself as a character from an epic fantasy novel, walking through the stone archways with a message for a mighty wizard (but that is just my strange mind).

The Bassilica of Montserrat

The next day, Will decided to leave for Aux-Aun Provance (sp?) in Spain. We wished him farewell and he left. It seemed so strange, having travelled with Will for two months and finally splitting paths in Spain. After Will had gone, we rented a car and headed to Montserrat, a monastery high in the mountains outside of Barcelona. Montserrat is incredible. It is a small grouping of Catholic buildings that seem to split the mountains in two. The cathedral is extremely old and equally as beautiful. The landscape begged for photography and I tried to satiate that demand as much as possible. I decided to hike the mountain paths behind the monastery to retrace the same steps that Catholic pilgrims have taken in the past. As I climbed through the steep path I passed by rock climbers who were carrying gear to the rounded peaks that scattered the skyline. Someday I will have to come back and ascend the mountain as it should be rather than just hike the paths just below.

High up in the cliffs of
Montserrat

The day had finally come and it was time to depart from Barcelona. I felt anxious; I really was hoping to stay in Barcelona as long as possible. Barcelona had quickly become my favorite city in Europe (now giving way to Firenze, but that’s for another post). On the trip back we replaced our 6^th crewmember space with Olivierre, the French boat enthusiast that works on my uncle’s boat. Olivierre is a riot, he is constantly telling jokes and made a long journey seem simple and fun. The trip back was fantastic, we stopped in various harbors and anchorages (my favorite being Cote D’or) until finally we had returned to Mallorca. My last day in Mallorca was spent driving around the countryside to see what was impossible to sea from sailing around the island. The country is speckled with olive trees that seen from above, I would imagine, would appear like freckles across the landscape. I learned as we drove that olive trees become thicker as they age.

Finally it was time for me to leave Spain. I said my goodbyes to the whole family and then mom took me to the airport. Spain has been a wonderful trip, but it was finally time to move on to Italy. Finally time for me to journey to my food Mecca: Emilia-Romagna.

Still Wandering,
JC

The Road Traveled Thus Far...

As you may have noticed, I'm having a good amount of trouble finding free Wi-Fi in Europe. Computers with internet are easy to come by, but all my photos are on this computer so it took me some time to post. I apologize once again. It seems each time I find myself with a free moment I am given the choice of updating the blog and passing on my experience to friends and family or to write in my small travel journal, greedily keeping all my secrets in the treasure vault that is my moleskin-bound pages. As you can tell, I have continuously chosen the latter. To remedy this, I have chosen to post those thoughts I have placed in that book, a more intimate look at my travels, yet hopefully still entertaining:

The Road Thus Far – Journal Entry 7/11/11

Paulskirche

“This trip has been an extremely interesting adventure. I knew starting out this trip that I was hoping to find a certain “somethingness.” If I was asked what that “somethingness” was I would be completely remiss in an explanation, but I could feel it and for some strange reason whatever IT was, IT was in Europe. What I do know of this trip is that, ascension to Nirvana aside, I have been entertained, I have seen new places, met wonderful people, and spent WAY too much money. Let’s focus for a moment on that last one. Before I set in motion to travel the world, I gave away and sold every last possession I had in hopes of becoming someone less connected to things; a person unhinged from the practice of monetary exchange for commodity. However, the necessity of money doesn’t fade so easily, it merely shifted from commodity to services: planes, buses, hostels, repairs, and food. I have taken a small step away from advertised dependency, but the phantom of money’s necessity lurks in my shadow as I try to outrun its grasp. Too metaphorical…probably (I do make these notes in my entries)…

…(other stuff about a person’s own timeline-possibility that I will work into a short story at some point)…

And what of the trip itself?

Alte Oper

Frankfurt was a hotbed of hospitality. The city itself is incredible. Paulskirche (Paul’s Church) stands in the middle of the city and guards the history of the entire German royalty. Each monarch was coroneted at this church. So much history and importance packed into such a small church, it is quite breathtaking. Only a few blocks away stands the Alte Oper (The Opera). During WWII the opera was bombed and burned down, it was then rebuilt after the war, burned down again some years later, and then again rebuilt. Its large statues and columns serve as a reminder that the building refuses to be burned from histories pages. As we walked through the city, we stopped at many different bars and restaurants to try the various Apple Wines, the cities specialty, which can easily knock an unseasoned drinking off their feet; best to come to Frankfurt with a proper drinking routine in place beforehand.

Battle Re-enactment

Down to Bretten we traveled. Bretten is a small town that lies just a short distance from Karlsruhe. The town was the home of my uncle, Fred, for many years before he began moving around the world, ending up in California. The small town of Bretten remains quiet for the larger part of the year until the beginning of July: Peter and Paul Day. The story goes (whether one chooses to believe it or not) is that invaders lay just outside of the cities walls. The invaders’ plans were to minimize casualties by circling the town and stopping any supplies from getting in; they would starve the villagers. This tactic went on for some time, but during the nights the villagers would sneak out of town, steal cannons, kill drunk soldiers, and take whatever food they could find. One day after this exchange had gone on for quite a while, one of the villagers led his dog through the town up to the town walls. With a friend, they lifted this portly schnauzer up high so that the soldiers could see. The message was clear: ‘If we feed our dogs this well, imagine how well we are still doing.’ Frustrated and impatient, the invaders packed up their camps and gave up their assault on Bretten. Now, a blue-and-white checkered flag with a fat dog on a pedestal is the flag of Bretten. Everyone of the tens-of-thousands that attend this festival must where the traditional outfit of the early-1500s, called a “gavant.” 

My Uncle and I in
our "Gavants"

Fire Dancers at the festival

The city transforms itself, throwing all of the now-modern buildings back in time 500 years. For four days there is drinking, singing, dancing, battles, plays, fire-dancers, and more; Oktoberfest meets Renaissance Fair. I was quickly adopted by the locals (wow, re-reading that line it’s very late-1800’s travelogue) and was adopted into make-shift camps. One in particular, Sarah, I felt a very special kinship with and we spent the four days together as much as possible; we danced, we sang, we drank, I slaughtered the German language…I look forward to next year. 

A Bruchenball Match in Motion

One of the most interesting traditions I saw during the festival was a game called ‘Bruchenball,’ which I hope to participate in on my next visit here. Bruchenball is a mix of Rugby and Sumo that was created by the German knights’ squires to help them train in pulling their knights off the battlefield. The game is played as follows: A 70kg ball is placed in the center of a circular ring, each team is given three players who must push the ball into the opposing side’s goal. However, it is also possible to push a player outside of the ring. If a player falls outside of the ring he cannot return. Therefore, the strategy is one of either ball movement or of player extrication; no other rules exist as far as I can determine. Injuries are extremely common so locals attempt to dissuade visitors from playing. Next year I will NOT be dissuaded. Leaving Bretten was disheartening, the town stole my heart in a matter of a few days; perhaps I was just "festival-high."

Trains. Planes. Buses. Taxis. Logrono. Our hotel was here in the city of Logrono that we finally found a place to unburden our shoulders and shoes. I did not see much of the city, but I gathered that Logrono is a city of industry, and more importantly, a city of wine. We spent a day recovering here and then departed to our larger goal: Pamplona.

San Fermin: Running of the Bulls. I have mixed feelings and a bitter bias towards this festival as I shall explain (please don’t let my disdain dissuade you going to this festival). There were good things: dancing, music, fireworks, and a beautiful city. On other circumstances I am sure I would have fallen in love with the city and made it my home, but that was unfortunately not the case. During the festival of San Fermin, the city becomes an equal of Sodom and Gomorrah (Biblical reference high-five!). The fecund streets are sticky with alcohol, piss, vomit, and much worse. Your shoes stick to the ground unless you happen to be walking on one of the many piles of discarded plastics, papers, and glass that festival-goers discard without a second thought. Turn down a street that isn’t on the main strip and you will find people vomiting, doing lines of coke, shooting heroin, and having sex. For four days, Pamplona becomes a city without law. It was as if I was seeing the ‘yang’ of Bretten’s festival’s ‘yin.’ The ONLY law that exists during this festival is that at the end of the street, where the bulls rest before their run, there is only silence; the bulls are respected, even in hazed stupors. The festival’s night began with a beautiful firework show. I watched the sky explode for hours on end, it awakened again the reason I had come: the bulls. As rum, beer, and sangria exchanged hands all around me I knew I had to remain sober throughout the night, I had to respect the bulls. So we danced, we danced like crazy for 8 hours.  After an eternal night, we joined our courageous colleagues on the street that the bulls would soon charge down. I steeled my nerve, I focused my fear, I prepared for death. 45 minutes left, we planned our run. 30 minutes left, we laughed and told jokes in an attempt to mask our anxiousness. 15 minutes left, the police stormed into the street with batons held high, herding us and 300 others out into an alley away from the run; there had been too many wanting to run. Our pride bruised we scrambled for another entrance into the run, but the crowds were too tight and the security remained stone-faced to our pleas. We were outcasts of San Fermin. We had travelled across the entire planet, stayed sober during one of the world’s greatest (and worst) parties, prepared ourselves for death, and here we stood: outside the gates, unable to even see the event we were supposed to participate in, forced to shamefully walk through the city, stripped of our conquest. I came to accomplish something that only Pamplona could offer; the city spat me from its mouth. My bitterness in the air is palpable, everyone around breathes it into their lungs and asks if I am “okay.” I am not “okay,” I am wounded. The run now becomes a spiteful reason for a return to Pamplona, juxtaposed to my excitement to return to Bretten for Bruchenball. I will return to Europe, I am focused, I have my desire, I have my need for revenge. On I tread to Mallorca.”

I’ve cooled off a bit since then, still feels like I missed out, and I hate missing out, but I’ll focus on the good parts of this trip and conquer the bulls another time. I miss you all and hope you are well.

Still full of Wander-lust,

JC

On our way again

The festival in Bretten, Germany was amazing! We have now arrived in Spain and are heading to Logrono. I was having trouble with the blog, but it seems good now. When we get to the hotel tonight I will do a real post instead of clicking buttons on an iPhone.

-J


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Barcelona

German Hospitality

My body is currently locked in the time-distortion sickness of jet lag. It was an extremely long flight but I am glad to have arrived in Frankfurt, Germany. On the plane ride I flirted with my young, attractive hostess (as one often does when given the opportunity) and she in-turn returned my flirtations with gratuitous amounts of bottled airline wine. By the time I arrived in Germany I was feeling pretty good. I grabbed my bag which seemed strange. As I looked at my bag I realized that the waist straps and pads of the bag were missing. Now, I HOPE what happened is that they were torn off/damaged during the flight. It would be absurd if someone actually stole JUST the straps of my bag, especially while juxtaposed with the camera on the inside of the bag. Whatever, I'll run and cry to REI in August when I get back, for now I'll just work on getting really buff shoulders.

After I had "collected myself" (which is a term I find visually delightful), I made my way to the Hooters restaurant in the Frankfurt airport to meet up with my friend Mani who is the owner. Mani is a 27-year-old, good-looking, well-traveled German guy who used to live with my uncle and aunt in California. I ate and drank a couple beers while I waited for Mani to finish his work at the restaurant. He took care of my meal and offered me a ride to where I am staying now. We pulled up to a house in a nice suburb on the outside of Frankfurt and the neighbor Stefan gave me the key (I felt bad that I had woken him up at 11:30pm). I could tell Stefan was tired so I said a quick thank you and shuffled off into the night. The house here is great. It is owned by a friend of my father's named Kai. On the table of Kai's house was blankets, a pillow, and a note that basically read (and I'm paraphrasing): "Welcome to Germany, choose whichever bed you like, raid the fridge to your pleasure, and here is also some drinking beer money so you can really enjoy your time in Frankfurt." Honestly, I'm blessed to have these people in my life and to be lucky enough to be constantly meeting new people with equally kind-hearts. However, I feel like Goldilocks right now (which of course is a German folktale); eating, drinking, sleeping in another's house. Although, I suppose the bears at least invited me.

I woke up at 1pm today to the doorbell. I had a small panic-attack of "Should I open somebody else's door? Who would be looking for me?" My better judgement said that I should answer the door and if it was someone who only spoke German I had decided to just play my part as the ignorant non-German speaking American who shakes his head in confusion until the situation resolves itself. It was Stefan, my current neighbor, who had come to see how I was getting on. Stefan is a 50-year-old man (who looks late-30s, early 40s) and has two kids. He is a fascinating character. As we spoke he shook his head in open disdain for any adrenaline-prone adventure I brought up. "Skydiving? It is not for me, I don't see the point," he said as he took a drag from his cigarette. We went across the street to a small cafe and had coffee as we talked more. Stefan told me about his youth: He had grown up in many places around the world. He had actually been living in Egypt during the 6-days War. He remembers planes flying extremely low over the school as he studied Egyptian. I hope to have many more conversations with Stefan while I am here. We both agreed to meet up on Sunday and go into the city and then parted ways; Stefan refused to let me pay for the coffee.

The hospitality is amazing, I didn't know an entire group of people could be so kind to a foreigner. Especially someone with my profile: an American (not generally enjoyed by the world), young, scruffy, and ignorant of the language. Yet here I am: my first meal free, beers bought by a friend, a free ride to an open house of a person I've never met (who left me food AND beer money), and a coffee bought for me by the neighbor of a man who I've never met before. As you can tell I am in awe, and I've made a promise to myself that I will emulate this open-armed hospitality whenever I have the chance; my own German hospitality.

Tonight I am doing a Frankfurt pub-crawl. I will take pictures and post what I can tomorrow. I would have posted some pics in this post, but it felt extremely invasive to take pictures of someone's house without their permission. So, imagine a three-story German house in the countryside with green ferns and large coniferous trees in the backyard.

JC

Travel Theory

I leave the country again tomorrow. My one thought is about "home" as I take my next step as a world traveler. "Home" is something we think about as the place we grew up in, but as we refine ourselves in our march towards maturation we find that "home" is a term that means so much more. As I sit here and think about "home" I realize that it means my family: My dad who works tirelessly for my family, basking in the few moments he gets to spend with his daughter and sons; hoping that we take to heart any of the wisdom he is able to pass onto us. My mother, who excessively worries about her children in far away places, missing their humor as she bravely endeavors with her own mission to make the world a better place. I think of my brothers and sister who have their own lives, full of the own hopes and difficulties; a family detached by geography but attached by a synchronized heartbeat. I think of my friends struggling through the difficult jobs they've endured in hopes of a better life someday. I think of their faltered and fortified romances that I both abhor and cherish from afar. A friend says tepidly. "You have to have a great time, I'm living vicariously through you." I think of their hopes and dreams and I want desperately to make them come true; the sandy beaches, the clouded mountains, the statues of cultures long ago. I think of their children, young and beautiful faces still allowed the naivety of youth. I see her face, but I know my feet still have more miles.

Why does my mind focus this way?

Most people don't understand when I tell them this, but I'll try once more now: Traveling is the greatest thing in the world. It's absurd to NOT go anywhere when so many beautiful things exist on this planet; our mission as humans should be to observe and try to understand it all. However, as I travel there are three things I have learned: 1) "Wanderlust" (a term I use to speak of travel addiction) is a compounding process; the more you travel, the more you will desire/need to travel. 2) Many times we focus on what is to gain during travel, completely forgetting what is given up. We think, "I will be away from work," "I will see the world," but thoughts such as "I'll miss you" and "I love sleeping in real beds" get forgotten (perhaps this is just me). 3) Our hearts, as humans, are like a piece of paper. When we dedicate ourselves to travel we go around the globe in search of new people, places, and experiences; writing their names all across our hearts. What we don't realize is that when we leave those people and places we tear a piece of ourselves away. As travelers our hearts are a single piece of paper, spread across the globe like confetti.

As you can tell, I embark on this next journey, not with a heart of caution and regret, but a heart which understands that I'm leaving a piece of myself behind; a curious heart spread across the world in search of something not yet found. Tomorrow I head to Europe with a travelers heart, a heart in search of ANYTHING.

-JC