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
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| 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?
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| 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.
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| 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.”
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My Uncle and I in
our "Gavants" |
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| 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.
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| 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
