Genoa, The Gateway to the Mediterranean

July 28, 2007, 10:26am

Vernazza, Cinque Terre, Italy

 

I am in paradise right now. I am sitting in an outdoor café in Cinque Terre, Italy, writing on Kim’s laptop. This is the life for me; cruising about Europe (or the world for that matter of fact) writing in its outdoor cafés, meeting its people, learning the different cultures and observing its many customs. In this moment, I am fulfilling a dream I have always imagined.

 

Time to rewind….

 

On the second morning in Genoa, I tried to negotiate a reduced price at the hotel. I thought I would be able to get them to drop the price but Jospehine was not at the desk and the old man, although incredibly kind, would have nothing to do with it. They were full, so they said, and the best they could do was the same price I paid the evening before. No matter. The people at the hotel were so great and accommodating I decided it was worth spending the 65 Euro for another night of peace of mind and air conditioning.

 

The first thing I noticed when I arrived in Italy was how expressive people were with their body language, especially their hands when speaking. The simplest things somehow have a dramatic effect. The next thing I noticed, walking up the main shopping street of XX Septiembre where my hotel was, was the amount of beggars and homeless people on the street. This also struck me in Paris as well. I am not sure why this stood out so much in my mind as any city has its homeless population. For some reason, however, these people seemed more destitute and extreme than the homeless people in the States, as if there was a sliding scale of homelessness. I guess I assumed in these European cities where they seemed to have the perfect mix of antiquity and progressive thinking that they would have somehow solved this problem. That is naivety at its finest. Perhaps because I am just a tourist and visitor, I was more aware and sensitive to these people and my surroundings.

 

Here is a question for you; how do you tell the difference between a Genoese and a tourist? We the tourists are unmistakably recognizable by how soaked our clothes are with perspiration. The Genoese will walk about their city in vests and long pants and you will see not even one bead of sweat dripping off their forehead. It was the same deal in Africa. You would have these Africans walking around the city streets in jackets and fleeces in more than 100 degree weather and not a one recognizable sign that they were uncomfortable in the heat. Meanwhile, a walk from my hotel to the corner store to grab a bottle of water would appear to be a Herculean task according to the sweat stains lining my back and under arms. In addition to the perspiration pouring off my body, had I committed a crime in Genoa, they would easily be able to pick me out of a police line up because I so obviously stand out in my unstylish, unsophisticated, breathable trail-wear.

 

When I left the hotel that morning, I noticed a flyer that offered a free walking tour of Genoa at 4:30pm so I organized my day around it. I began the morning walking down by the harbor and at one point I was so soaked in perspiration that I decided to just sit on a bench and take off my shirt to let it dry. I listened to my iPod on random and organized my notes, more for the fact that it gave me the appearance of looking busy and having purpose rather than sitting there in my white, tan-less, cheap Irish skin looking like a Polar Bear in the Sahara. Since I was right next to the Maritime Museum, I figured I should probably learn something about the history of Genoa and the oldest port in Italy.

 

After a two hour jaunt in the museum, I slowly meandered back to my hotel, taking in all of Genoa in its beauty and ugliness. I took a different route home and saw a bit of the underbelly of Genoa, which is I suppose is where the real population lives. It must have been a neighborhood where Italy converged with Africa. It reminded me of the streets of Dar es Salam, with people hustling and bustling to make a living and get by, selling Gucchi and Ray Ban knock-offs or whatever they could get their hands on.

 

When I moved beyond this neighborhood and back into the touristy and more affluent areas, I noticed something in the street-wear of the people; preppy is back. I noticed this in Amsterdam as well – people wearing yellow, pink, and green pants. Perhaps the preppy look never actually left and instead only made in the 80’s a great exodus from the states to Europe. Perhaps preppy has been hiding out in these two countries for all these years, or maybe the rebirth of the Izod brand has brought with it a whole new generation of patrons bound to purchase The Preppy Handbook.

 

After my first somewhat traumatic day in Genoa, I was ready to bail and just move on to Cinque Terre where I could just relax and be. The same thing happened to me in Arusha, Tanzania, but that place actually was a shit-hole and not worthy of spending any prolonged amount of time; but Genoa is a whole different story. I knew it was worth exploring and emails from Kim and Eva urged me to just spend the day relaxing, catching up on writing, and exploring the city. It didn’t take me long to wish I had a few more days to spend in Genoa.

 

The city of Genoa, like any other Italian city, is marked by countless Piazzas and winding streets not wide enough to fit a car, and lined by stone walls and buildings that are older than the discovery of the new world. Grandiose statues and monuments honoring the great citizens of Genoa and notable moments of its history jump out at you every time you turn a corner. The facades of buildings are monumental and stately and no detail was spared in their creation.

 

Genoa was Italy’s great crossroad where ideas, beliefs, languages, and religions melded together to create history. It was the gateway to the new world for it was here in its great port that the Mediterranean Sea linked different people, cultures, and goods. It is also here that its maritime history brought with it the Black Plague in the 17^th century, wiping out one third of the city’s population. The streets of Genoa are where a young, innocent Christopher Columbus played as a boy, not even yet capable of imagining the dream he would achieve, a dream that would change the face of the map and forever alter the course of history.

 

As the day slowly started to get away from me, I rushed home to take a walk through H&M to do some clothes shopping. I simple couldn’t resist. I dropped my purchases off at my hotel and quickly rushed back to the Church of San Luca for the free walking tour. As was typical and for the fourth time of the day, I was soaked in perspiration by the time I reached the church. Unfortunately for me, no one showed up for the walking tour so I did some more walking and sweating on my own. I found a beautiful park that crept up one of the hills of the city. It reminded me of Portland, Oregon, where they have magnificent parks within the city limits full of all sorts of uncommon surprises. As I followed this trail through the park, priceless gems such as hidden grottos, small decorations honoring the Virgin Mary, and coy ponds revealed itself to me. From there, I went back to the hotel to do some writing, shower, and freshen up for the evening.

 

As I set out on my way, a hazy dusk hung over the harbor. My iPod, one of the most impressive and revolutionary inventions of the last 50 years, beside the cell phone and the Internet, was playing on random and Little Trip to Heaven, a mellow, somewhat easy-crusing song by Tom Waits provided the opening tune to the evening’s soundtrack. It was a relatively uneventful and unremarkably evening until the end when I sat in the main Piazza and watched a young Italian couple passionately arguing, limbs flailing and body language expressing fury. The young man would step into her personal space arguing his point of view as she would back up and I wondered if he was going to hit her. I was hoping he wasn’t going to hit her because that would have required me to step in and be the hero, and consequently most likely get my ass kicked by a group of young Italian men.  On the sidelines, the couple’s friends looked off into the distance trying to keep their distance and keep a look of distant disinterest. I can still see the girl so clearly. She was incredibly cute but dowsed in her own tears. Back and forth and back and forth they let each other have it. I wanted to say to her; you are so beautiful. Why are you wasting your time with this thug – this mindless troglodyte? I wondered why she stayed in this abusive relationship because clearly he had the bigger problem than she did. But who can explain young love? We have all been there and for reasons unknown at that present moment, you just can’t walk away from that person you think you love, despite the fact that more often than not they make your life miserable. The only explanation I can give is young love is all heart and no head because you simply don’t have the life/relationship experience to have your head govern your heart. Young love is love at its best and worst. It is the beautiful and the ugly; the passion and the fury; the beginning and the end of innocence.

 

I had my earphones in but my iPod on mute and pretended like I was just a tourist listening to music and not paying any attention to them. The girl had her arms crossed over her chest and her body language suggested there was no way to communicate and there was no way he was entering the walled city she had built. The funny thing is, I would bet my wallet that they went home that night and fucked each other’s brains out, for what is more fun and passionate than the make-up sex of young love? I had the best taste of that in a small town on the island of Crete when I was 24 years old, but that is another story for another time. For this couple on this night, I can guarantee the same situation will happen over and over again until one of them becomes strong enough to walk away for good – or one of them takes a new lover.

 

I left the Piazza that night and walked home, and as is the miracle of the random option on the iPod, a lazy, drunken, meandering number called Virginia Avenue, by Tom Waits completed the circle; “Well I’m walking down Virginia Avenue, trying to find someone to tell my troubles to.”

 

There was no trouble on this night, however, besides the turmoil of the young, troubled couple. I made my way back to the hotel and laid my head down in the air-conditioning for a heavy, dreamless Genoese sleep.

A Slice of Humble Pie

July 26, 2007
Genoa, Italy, 11:16pm

If you knew anything about my travel itinerary, you are probably asking yourself, what is he doing Genoa? I often find myself asking the same question David Byrne posed; “Well, how did I get here?” I guess I should back up.

The morning after the party in Westerpark, I went back into town to meet Eva and Noa for lunch and to find and repair the flat tire. Eva and I dropped the bike off and then went for stroll and found a little sandwich place a few blocks from the touristy area. We had a great time walking around chatting about our lives and love, politics, and art. We were both sorry we didn’t have more time to get to know each other but sometimes encounters on the road can be brief but last a lifetime. I failed to mention she has a communications company and I will be doing some editing for her so we have not seen or heard the last of each other.

After I left Eva, Bret and I met up to discuss what our next part of the journey would be. The plan was to go into a travel agency and book a last minute flight to somewhere warm and sunny since it was cloudy and raining in Amsterdam. Our plans didn’t go as planned as we couldn’t find a cheap flight. We began discussing the possibility of doing a beer tour in Belgium but my mind was on the Mediterranean and I couldn’t shake it. We decided to hold off on our plans as my friend Kim, who I was house-sitting for at the earliest part of this story, was going to be in Cinque Terre, Italy. I wanted to explore the option of meeting up with her so we decided to chat the following day.

It didn’t take long after I left Bret and began my bike ride home before the tire went flat again. They charged me 17.50 Euro but I’m pretty sure they did the 7.50 job. I guess that is “typically Dutch” in the tourist areas as Susan would say.

The following day I received an email from Kim confirming the dates she would be in Cinque Terre so I walked down to the travel agency and booked a flight to Genoa, Italy as it was the closest place near Cinque Terre I could get to. I made all my last minute arrangements, packed up, and was ready to go by the time Susan got home that night.

Susan and I met up with Judith that night at the Concertgebouw, which would probably be the equivalent of New York’s Carnegie Hall, except much smaller. It was a beautiful, ornate building with a grand pipe organ in the back and around the balcony the names of famous composers from Strauss, to Wagner, Debussy and Tchaikovsky. The best seat in the house was dead-center above Mahler, and if you had those seats and the queen happened to show up that night, well, tough luck. Built in the 1890s, the sound was impeccable. Judith’s boyfriend, Wouter Huzinga, was playing that evening with Nynke Laverman so he got us some free tickets.

Nynke was born in Friesland, a northern Dutch province that more or less speaks their own language and for inspiration she travelled to Mexico and Portugal. What she brought back with her was a hybrid of traditional Portuguese music which she translated into Fries, so even Judith and Susan didn’t know what she was singing about. When I heard traditional music I wasn’t to excited but wanted to see the concert hall none-the-less, however, the music and musicians were quite impressive. It had a gypsy/mariachi feel which was accentuated by her dramatic presentation. After the show we had a drink with Wounter, and Susan and I made our way home.

***

The following morning I was up at 6:30am and at Schipol Airport well ahead of my flight. I looked for a book on Italy or a map of Genoa – something that I could ground myself with but to no avail. What the hell am I going to do when I get there? I thought. Dealing with a hint of anxiety, being as I had not been in Italy in ten years, did not know one word of Italian, and had no idea how big or small Genoa was, I gathered my senses on the plane and devised a plan. First, I needed to learn five phrases so I asked the stewardess how to say the following things;

1. Excuse me

2. Do you speak English

3. Hello

4. Please

5. Thank you

Yes, that should make my journey in Italy smooth. They either thought I was funny or another jackass-American.

Flying into Genoa, I was surprised that the city was much larger than I had imagined it. I guess when a city is named on a country map, and it is in larger type than any of the surrounding cities, that should be a pretty good indicator of its size.

As I was walking off the plane, I asked a cute Italian girl if she knew how I could get into the city. Turns out she was studying law in New York City and was here visiting her parents. She asked the proper authorities and I found out that there was a bus leaving in 15 minutes. Perfect, I thought. That gives me time to go to the information desk, grab a map, go to the vending machine to get a bus ticket and be on my way. I was so excited at how smoothly everything was going I forgot to pick up my bag at baggage claim. I am a simple man and my mind can only process so many things at once. No matter. The airport was small enough that I could buzz in and out and still have plenty of time before the bus left.

The bus left me off right in front of the tourist office so I went in and gathered some more information. This is great, I thought to myself. I am really getting good at this travel thing.

Patting myself on the back and using some of the knowledge I gained from Bret, I decided it would be foolish of me to jump at the first few hotel I came across. Instead, I made my way into town. After a half-kilometre walk I followed a sign to a one star hotel down a dark alley. I walked in and asked the woman if I could see the room, even though she wasn’t the most welcoming host I have ever come across. I went up to the room, checked the water pressure, checked the cleanliness of the sheets, made sure the fan worked, and all looked well for 35 Euros, with the exception that the shower was in the hallway. I should have called it a day but my head was getting so big I could barely get it out the door. “I’m just going to check one more place,” I told her and I could feel the tension and her anger in the air. I remember thinking, I have probably just insulted her.

I can decide to go to Africa or Europe, or move across the country at the drop of a hat and yet I can’t even decide what to order on a menu, so why should choosing a hotel be any different? No sooner had I walked out the door and stood on the street then I thought, what the hell am I doing. I just want to be done with this. It is hot as balls out and I am exhausted. I walked back into the hotel and said, “I changed my mind! I’ll take it!” expecting to be welcomed back like a sailor who has been long out at sea – but no. With people walking in the door she barked at me with her finger wagging, like a good Italian woman reprimanding her child, “No! Now you may not have the room!”

Bitch showed me. That was the biggest slice of humble-pie I’ve ever had.

It had me rattled for a bit and as I walked back into the sunlight from the dark hovel, the sweat poured down my face and it looked like I had just participated in a wet t-shirt contest. From there things just got worse. It was hot, I was dehydrated, tired, and I was having trouble finding hotels in the part of the city I was at. Of the places I did find there were no vacancies.

Finally, I came upon the Bel Sorroggio. Josephine was the kindest woman I have come across in a long time. The hotel was going to be full until about 8pm (because people who bring their boats into the harbor rent the room for certain times) but she offered me other solutions like renting a place at her flat for 35 Euros, but again, she wasn’t going to be off of work until about 9pm and I had to be out at 11am. I just needed to lie down or sit down. We finally agreed and for 65 Euro, I would have a place come 8pm. I went into the small bathroom, towelled myself dry, changed my clothes, went to the corner store and downed three small bottles of water in a row. Bret told me about one time when he got dehydrated in Shanghia and how terrifying it was. I was not that bad but I was not that good either. What did I say earlier; HYDRATE! HYDRATE! HYDRATE!

As luck would have it, when I returned from the water run, she had decided to just give me a double room instead of a single for the same price so I could go right to my room, shower, and rest for a while before I went out for dinner.

Push It A Little Bit Harder

July 26, 2007
Genoa, Italy

I awoke from a dead sleep and with ten minutes to check out I threw my things in my bag haphazardly. As Bret will attest, I don’t like to be rushed when packing. Every morning I would be up a half hour before Bret breaking my tent down and organizing and yet somehow he would always be waiting for me. 

We walked around Paris for the rest of the morning in a haze, drifting here and there and through the Latin Quarters looking for something to eat. I was somewhat tired and hung-over and just wanted to sit down but Bret wouldn’t have it because it was too touristy. In our hung-over state, we were getting on each other’s nerves a bit but when we finally sat down at the Beire Academy , a Belgium Beer restaurant where we had eaten two nights before, we were back on track. We decided it would be in our best interest to have a few Duvel Beers and crash on the train ride home, but has fate would have it, there would be no sleep on the Thalys from Paris to Amsterdam.

At the beginning of the trip on the TGV train from Amsterdam to Avignon, we sat across from an older women and a very attractive French girl about our age. She must have been in advertising as she was working on some proofs for a good part of the trip. I tell you this; if she looked at us once it was a lot. Bret and I got a good laugh at this afterwards thinking, how can you sit across from someone on a train for four hours and not even look at the person across from you and at least fake a smile. Are we that despicably detestable? This train ride would be different, however.

Across from us on this train ride sat Eva and her two-and-a-half year old daugter Noa. Eva had a bright, warm smile that I’m sure could even warm the heart of the apparently heartless girl we sat across from on the way to Avignon. She had a great energy about her that was at once welcoming and open. At first we were thinking, this could be a long train ride with a screaming kid across from us, but Noa was amazingly well behaved and had some of the most beautifully striking, innocent, and curious eyes I’ve seen. With those eyes and her mother’s spicy personality, she will surely be a heart breaker.  

From the moment we sat down across from Eva until the train pulled into Paris four hours later we were talking up a storm. She was on her way to meet up with some of her best friends in Paris and told us to come out the next night for ‘ladies night,’ and if that didn’t work, perhaps we could meet up the following day in Westerpark for Bret’s friend Thom’s birthday.

When we arrived in Amsterdam, Bret and I left each other at Central Station and I went back to Susan’s for what I hoped would be a mellow Saturday night, this was not the case however. In the Bourbon Street Bar in Leidseplein, we ran Owen and his Irish cronies and Ron the Northeastern American expat. “I love Amsterdam,” Ron said. “Where else can you take your bike to the store and pick up some Milk, baby’s diapers, and some hash?” Needless to say, we didn’t get home until 6:30am that morning, and consequently, I did not make it out for girl’s night the following evening. I did not even get out of bed until 2:30pm. Bret did make it out for girls night and he didn’t get home until 5am. At that point, I don’t think my body was ready to handle two nights of that.

Saturday night I went out with Judith and Susan in the trendy Jordan area of Amsterdam for our African reunion tour and they caught me up on the rest of their trip after we left each other in Zanzibar. My favorite part was them telling me the story of a botched Safari they went on in a two wheel drive van with a driver who had barely ever driven off road. At one point he tried to cross a small river and said, “Hold on!” Well, the car went in and never came out. It was leaning in thigh-high water at a 45 degree angle in the middle of nowhere. He told them to get out and push and they said absolutely not as snakes were in the water and the area was known for some of the most aggressive Lions in Central Africa (at one point years ago when a railroad was being built, roughly 140 people were eaten by lions).

The driver said his phone didn’t work and after seven hours of baking in the sun with the  Judith said, “Give me that damn phone!” She was holding it up in different places all over the car and finally managed to get a signal and call into the station. To make a long story short, they got help and left the driver there for lion bait. When they got back to Nairobi, they called the tour company to get their money back but they would not give it up. Finally, Judith yelled into the phone, “Your gonna give me my fucking money or I’m going to burn your mother-fucking place down!” They got their money back. Sometimes you need to speak in a language the Africans understand. The two lessons learned here, a) if you are in Africa and go on a Safari, make sure it is a reputable tour company, and b) never cross a Dutch woman if you are a home or business owner. 

***

The weather in Amsterdam is incredibly unpredictable. Bret says you can get all four seasons in one day but sometimes it seems like you can get them in an hour. The following day, Susan had some things to do so she escorted me to Leidseplein on bike where she left me on my own to find my way to Westerpark. The moment we left her house the skies opened and we got stuck in a downpour. I was feeling a bit shaky on the bike as you have to cross train lines and watch out for other cars, bikers, and pedestrians, not to mention have a general understanding of the bike system. As soon as Susan left me on my own, however, and I got out of the busy area of Leidseplein, I was thinking to myself, this is really fun - I’m having a great time. The moment I had completed that thought, my back tire blew so loudly I was sure someone was using the American as target practice. I could do nothing but laugh once I realized blood was not pouring from any gunshot wounds. I asked several people if there was anywhere to get the tire fixed but it was Sunday and everything was closed so I was forced to walk the bike the rest of the distance to the park.

When I got to the party which was under a tent in the park, I changed out of my wet clothes and had some food and drinks, but in the back of my mind I was still thinking, what the fuck am I going to do and how am I going to get Susan’s bike back to her house? As my buzz got greater, that thought receded further and further into the back of my mind. At one point someone broke out a soccer ball so I decided I needed to teach the Dutch a thing or two, and while playing, Eva showed up as well. It was a great afternoon filled with good people, good food, and drinks, and the first sunshine I had seen in Amsterdam since the the day I arrived. There was even a little guitar action and the ‘Push It A Little Bit Harder,’ song was created, a song with descending chords about what I’m sure you can imagine. The last ten of us were singing the refrain at the top of our lungs; push it, a little bit harder, a little bit harder, a little bit harder…I can assure you it is a catchy number and I sang it in my mind for the next few days.

At the end of the party, it was decided that I should walk the bike back to Leidseplein and lock it up over night, and from there I could take the tram back to Susan’s house. Westerpark and Susan’s home are on opposite sides of the city so there was just no way I could walk it all the way home that night, not to mention I wasn’t exactly sure how to get to Susan’s place.

As luck would have it, however, the tragedy of the blown tire turned out to be a blessing in disguise (at least on this day). Being that I was forced to walk the bike all the way back to Leidseplein, it forced me to slow down and really look around at the city – to pay attention to its architecture and to watch its people – and since the rain had stopped, a beautiful sunset was unfolding over Amsterdam.

On the ride home, or should I say walk, everyone was busy doing something. In Amsterdam, every one rides their bike; women in very, very short skirts, men in business suits, people ride with their children in small baskets on the front or back of the bike, and all the while they are holding bags of groceries, an umbrella, talking on the phone or texting and driving across train tracks and over bridges and canals. At one point I walked past a skate park and stopped to watch the kids who had no doubt been  riding the half-pipe all day - back and forth and back and forth. It was poetry in motion. They were fearless as their body and mind became one fluid motion.

After a while of hunching over the handle bars to walk the bike, I began trying to walk the bike by just holding on to the seat. It took quite a while to figure out the right balancing act. If you held on to the seat too tight you forced it to do something it didn’t want to do and if you held it too lightly, vice versa. You needed to hold it just right and gently guide it. Any force in the wrong way would make the wheel turn and buckle. I thought this was a good metaphor for life; you must hold on to the reigns of life while gently guide it, and in that process, it will take you where you need to go. If you force things, they just don’t work. I also realized you can turn just about any repetitive action into a Zen exercise or meditation by really being aware of what you are doing, whether it is walking a bike, walking down the street, or breathing. That night was one of the best walks home I have ever had.

The first day or two in Amsterdam I was overwhelmed at trying to get around and figure out their transportation system. To be quite honest, I think many Dutch people haven’t figured it out either. But I realized that night, the only way to figure out a city is to just do it; walk its streets, ride its transportation systems, follow winding streets that seem to go nowhere on a bike, ask questions, and meet its people. All you need is a penchant for adventure, a willingness to explore, and an insatiable curiosity.

One Night in Paris Makes the Hard Man Humble

July 23, 2007
Amsterdam, NL – 12:25am

Ah, the blank page. I know you so well my old friend and nemesis, and yet I know the only way to deal with you is to greet you and begin the conversation.

How to possibly catch up on the last few days since we left Pavel and the south of France? There was Avignon and my birthday, two nights in Paris, and a few nights in Amsterdam – one which included driving home on the back of a bike at sunrise. So much to tell, so many words to describe it, and as always so little time. This much I can tell you; for the children’s sake, I will not be able to divulge all the details because the content involves heavy sexual and drug content that is only suitable for a mature audience, and in no way do I want to influence a minor or suggest in anyway that what I do should be mimicked. I am after all an uncle to some very impressionable minors. Plus I must leave some air of mystery.

I guess I will just choose to fast forward to our main night in Paris when we met ‘Guy’. I won’t reveal his real name because I am pretty sure Interpol, the KGB, the FBI, and the Canadian Royal Mounted Police are looking for him, but if ever there was a character to meet in Paris it was Guy. The day before we received an email that said, ‘Are you interested in treats? I am going to see the Wolf tonight,’ so this piqued out interest as to who this international man of mystery was. 

Guy is a friend of the great ‘drinking man’s poet’ who I mentioned earlier in this story and in no way, shape, or form am I talented enough as a writer to pin him down in words. He is a true character, the kind you not only want to run into in Paris, but write an entire novel about.

We were supposed to meet Guy at the Bottleshop Bar near the Bastille on the Rue Trousseau, across the street from the Auberge International des Juenes at about 6:00pm. When we arrived, Up, Bustle & Out was playing, a Spanish band reminiscent of Morecheeba meeting Theivery Corporation and I thought, this bar has a good, familiar vibe to it. Not long after our first or second beer, the bartender changed the music to Ray LaMontaigne’s Barfly which has consistently been playing on my iPod throughout the trip and has served as a part of the soundtrack. If you know the song, it was the perfect scene and the one I had somehow imagined ever since I first heard the song. Here we were after traveling for the last two plus weeks on our second and last day in Paris, at the tail-end of a mad, mad trip, about to meet a character straight out of a Hunter S. Thompson novel. It was one of the first pauses in a go-go-go two weeks where we could actually sit back and enjoy our Grolsch beers.  

 The Bretster and I sat in an open window facing the street, looking over the drinking patrons on the sidewalk as we watched the garbage truck go back and forth and back and forth, and we wondered how much garbage could really be on this street. Behind the bar, a sexy siren from Fairfield, Connecticut, was serving drinks. She had the type of beauty and bone structure that made you wonder if at one point she had done some international modeling, and yet she had these far away eyes, as Mick Jagger called them. They were eyes that looked off to a distant place, a place that existed somewhere between the past and the future but in no way was a part of the present. Only a few hours earlier I said to Bret, `Paris would be the perfect place to go if you had to or wanted to disappear for a while.´ Beneath the archways, below the history, and in between the narrow winding streets and medieval buildings that stretch off into the distance, it is a place to very easily lose yourself and your trail.

It was one of those nights for me where I was somewhat amped with energy and I was ready to tackle any challenge. Bret and I have traded off these nights throughout the trip where one person’s  energy carries the other to a new level. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Guy was my friend’s friend so I had to carry the conversation and interaction throughout the evening until we reached that jumping off point where it didn’t matter any longer.  

As it turned out, even though this bartender was gorgeous and probably out of my league at any given bar in the states, I was determined to get her story. When she played Barfly I saw my window open. She was immediately impressed by my musical knowledge and said she had only come across a few people in Paris who knew of him and very quickly, even though the bar stools around her were filled with expats drooling over her, I gained some credibility and attention. As it turned out, I was right; Paris is a great place to hide out and there was something behind her far away eyes. Just a few months prior, while she was studying in Paris, her best friend died so she quit school and began bartending.  

It is at this jumping off point, as I said earlier, that I am going to have to refrain from some of the adult details. You will have to read about them in the book so I will fast forward through them, letting your imagination wander. What I can tell you is that Guy did in fact see the Wolf the night before, but what the Wolf gave him burned a hole in his pocket that night so he had to do most of it – in fact he did enough of everything the night before to wipe out on his bike on his way home. But being the professional he is, he had a potpourri of things and from the Bottleshop Bar we found ourselves walking the streets of Paris.

The Bastille is a very busy area and on this night it was no exception. Compound that with the fact that there was a pretty significant building fire on the corner of the Bastille with probably 10-15 fire trucks with their ladders moving up towards the people hanging out of their windows as the dark smoke billowed over the building. It is horrible that we took the opportunity to videotape and talk to a few cute girls from Houston, but after all, we are men. In my defense, no humans were hurt and every one was evacuated from the building safely.

We took this opportunity to realize that probably the Police were somewhat distracted and figured down by the water and canal it was fine to go have a cup of some of the Dutch coffee we brought down. The three of us sat there brewing a cup and told Guy the whole Jack Will Travel story. He was loving it and had a shit-eating grin on his face like Ralphy from A Christmas Story when he finally got his Red Rider BB gun.

When the cup of coffee was brewed, the Bretster was ready and had that look and energy about him so I grabbed the video camera, plugged in the microphone, handed it to him, and threw the camera on the uni-pod, which generally makes us look like we have some credibility (we were also supposed to have earphones to add to the prop-factor but they were just too much to carry at this stage).

Bret jumped into the walkway and began throwing the microphone in people’s faces (can you say ugly American?), but in actuality, at this point in the night, people were receiving it somewhat warmly and with intrigue. I’m pretty sure everyone in the area was smoking hash and drinking anyway. Guy, in the simplicity of his brilliance suggested the question, `We are in one of the fashion capitals of the world. What do you think the color for next year will be?’ One of the passerbys told us but I can´t reveal it at this moment as I want to be at the forefront of fashion this fall.

When the tomfoolery was over down by the canal, we walked around the area for quite a while, occasionally stopping to interview people. I peaked my head in one bar with the microphone in hand and the camera behind me and they more or less slammed the door in my face. This does not, however, deter an American with a buzz and a microphone in hand. With the gentle coercion of Bret and Guy behind me, I stormed my way into the bar and began questioning the small circle, asking such questions as, ´Why do French people hate Americans besides when they ask questions such as this and put a microphone in their face?´ It´s not quite as obnoxious as it sounds, or maybe they were acting similar to the passive-aggressive Seattle-ites I’ve come to know and love. Maybe they were just entertaining us, despite their loathing. From there we searched for a place that suited our mood and agreed that the only place possible would be the Bottleshop Bar, where the evening began.

Since Guy was the newest member of the ‘I have a girlfriend club,’ it gave him the authority to be pushy about hitting on the single women. It was the old ‘If I was single and I was you,’ routine which if at this point as the single guy, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that one I would be retired. The Bretster and I have had some fun on this trip when the time was right, but that hasn’t necessarily been a focus of the trip. But as I was stepping up to the bar to order some beers, Guy said, ‘Hey Tim, wouldn’t it be nice if you ordered some drinks for these ladies?’ I took a moment to think about it and thought, why yes – it is a lovely moment to do that.

I took the opportunity to buy a round of drinks, which turned into many rounds, for the five very cute French girls that were sitting next to us. We knew they looked young but later found out they ranged from 20-22. Age is so hard to distinguish these days. On the approach, I felt like I was storming Normandy Beach but without casualties. The only thing we were risking were bruised egos. In only a matter of minutes we had punched through their front line, secured the area, and showed these pretty girls that we were not just simple American G.I. automans, but human beings beneath all the guise.

At this point, I think I need to take a pause to say that throughout the trip, we have barely gotten a second glace from the French woman. They are tough nuts to crack. Here and there we have had minor victories but we had yet to win a battle. I don’t know if we are not good looking enough for them or if we don’t smell sweet enough, or if it is the fact that we look like German backpackers with our gear. At one point I told someone that the French had been great to us and they said that they are probably gauging that with how recently they had a run in with a German person. And yet again, the Germans we have met have consistently been delightful, warm people. Oh well – to hell with stereotypes anyway. But the French women – this is no joke my friends.

After we punched through the front lines, we used the opportunity to ask them again why the French don’t like Americans but as it turns out, they love Americans, at least this small group. From that point on, they were puddy in our hands and the girls took turns moving around the table and sitting next to us. I felt like a soldier who had just liberated Paris. As luck would have it of course, every girl sitting at this table had a boyfriend, but it did not stop them from exchanging information with us. Had we had one more night in Paris I think one or two of them might have forgotten about their boyfriends but hell – that is a dangerous game. Been there, done that, don’t need to do it again. Again, the index cards proved to be invaluable entertainment. I hope this secret doesn’t get out too far because it is money when it comes to meeting women outside of international waters. The victory was in fact, if they did not like Americans before, they like at least two of them.

We left them that evening (after Guy spilled an entire pint in my lap – luckily I had my shorts in my backpack) giving the typical two or three kisses goodbye and as is also typical, I went for five or six. Hey - I was a philosophy major and numbers have never suited me. We walked a good 45 minutes through Paris and I had to go on the blind, drunken faith that Bret knew where he was going. Of course, as the good navigator he is, he found our way home. I hit the pillow hard and awoke what seemed like seconds later with him pounding on the door saying, ‘Timbo, what are you doing? We have to check out in ten minutes.’  

Pavel, The Chechnyan Rebel

July 19, 2007
Paris, France

A word of advice about renting a car in Europe; should you be under the constraints of a mileage clause, before you leave the parking lot, make sure you know how to check the odometer.

On the morning of July 16, our last day in Avignon, in my impetuousness I made the decision for both of us that we were going to rent a car, despite the fact that the Bretster was not looking favorable upon the decision. “I just hate to be cooped up all day in a car,” he said. I imagine for Bret it is somewhat like purgatory. My reason for renting the car was that we only had one day left so let’s see as much as we can in that amount of time. Granted, I ‘shit the bed’ on this one as they say because we only had 100 kilometers to work with and no idea how to view the odometer. Compound that with the fact that I also forgot to ask what the penalty was for going over the allotted mileage. I was looking for a little help from Bret when renting the car but he couldn’t be bothered and said, “This is all you Timbo. This is your thing.” Being that he is the consummate professional traveler, when he puts big things like this in my lap I am bound to make rookie mistakes. I suppose that is the best way to learn, however.

We were going to hit the lavender fields of the Luberon region, but that would have eaten up most of our guess-stimated miles so we went straight to the Colorado of Provence, a combination of the Bad Lands of South Dakota and Colorado’s Red Rocks. We walked around there for a few hours in a section known as the Sahara and it was just that hot. As always, did some filming and put the camera up on a little mini tripod to get us both in the picture. Next time of course we will have a camera man.

We cruised around more that day, traveling from one touristy hill town to the next. The Bretster said, “You see what happens when you rent a car? You fall into the circuit.” The towns we visited were laden with sun-burned tourist with multiple cameras around their necks and the streets were crowded with cars, bikes, and mopeds. In Roussillion, you would have thought were were in Paris with all the congestion and the languages that were being spoken around us. As always, however, very little English speakers or Americans. It was quite a different experience from the small, somewhat quiet (except when we were there) hill towns of the Valcluse.

You would think filling a gas tank would be a pretty universal experience but no, not in France. ‘Things are a little different around here,’ is what we always say. After a stressful experience of trying to fill the gas tank with about eight cars in line behind me, we returned the car with six extra miles to go. Score one for us.

The stage was set for a mellow evening that night. We went into town, had a small bite to eat, came back to the campsite and kicked it in our camping chairs. We split a bottle of Rosè and Bret read the the Herald Tribune while I listened to music and organized some of my notes and index cards. By this time the friends we had met at the campsite had moved on and it was basically us and some new people. One of the new men was a very drunk man about our age named Pavel from Chechnya. His effort to communicate with Bret fell somewhere between passion and desperation and Bret was kind enough to entertain him. Like a good wing man, I hit pause on my iPod to listen in, however, I didn’t take the earphones off so as to not be dragged into the conversation. Pavel was going off about this and that and after a long time, he moved on to me. I snubbed him a bit, leaning into my tent to get something while he was talking to me and he got the point and moved on. A new German couple with their motorcycle, roughly our age, was next to us and said, ‘Do you have any idea what he is saying?’ ’Not a fucking clue,’ I replied.  

“He is a wery, wery crazy man,” said the wiry, scraggly-haired German. We were surprised to learn that he was a Police officer and he confirmed our suspicion that his commander didn’t approve of look. ‘But there is no rule against it,’ he added. When he heard that our Jack Will Travel European operation was based out of Amsterdam, he said, ‘I like Amsterdam. It is a wery nice. Clean city,’ he added. ’But every one there smokes the shit.’ We concurred.

Darkness was fully upon us as we talked to this couple for a while and soon Pavel came back. We are not sure what he was saying but he was able to communicate with the German police officer’s girlfriend who was from Borat’s country of Kazakhstan. She was a little red-headed girl with a tight body but tried to convince us she was blond; she had vixen written all over her. Pavel realized he could communicate with her and was chatting away which made the German police officer not too psyched so in an effort to mark his territory as a dog might pee on a fire hydrant, he put his arm around her and pulled her in tightly to his body.

Pavel was going on and on about this and that and making some very exaggerated motions as if he was firing a rifle. Pieces of the conversation moved from Al-Qaeda and Islam to Christians and Christ and there were even hints of communism and fascism as well. He was very interested in the two of us and our opinions because we were Americans, even though we could not communicate with each other. It is in these instances interpretation takes on its own momentum and being that you can’t understand the other person, you mold what they are trying to say into what you believe they might be trying to say. What we pieced together from all of these seemingly non sequitur comments Pavel was making is that the U.S. Navy is fighting Jesus Christ in Brooklyn. Damn – I want to stay out of that war zone.

Our German friend became very uneasy and again I snubbed Pavel. I tried to tell him to keep his voice down because people were sleeping but he took it the wrong way and stormed off in a self-deprecating manner, as if he was going to start lashing himself with a cat o’nine-tails. Again, our German friend took the opportunity to tell us Pavel was a wery, wery crazy man and that he was going into his tent to get and sleep with his can pepper spray. In the meantime, Pavel was just pacing around the campsite as if he was on speed or meth. Bret started to get rolling and say things like, ‘Hey Timbo, we don’t want to fuck with this guy. He may have fought in the Chechnyan war or something. He could be really crazy.’ This comes from the fact that Pavel, who was pacing the campsite as a spy or a scout might do, was communicating with his friend over by their campsite making clicking and whistling calls back and forth to each other as one in the military – or a militia – might do. Bret was having a more fun time with this than myself. I had my rain fly on but Bret was saying, ’Man, I want to see what he is doing and if he is coming at me,’  so I took my rain fly off to keep an eye on him all night. I was imagining an ax or sledgehammer coming down through my tent and my obituary saying something to the effect that it was such a shame Tim didn’t make it to see the morning of his 33rd birthday. I was so riled up, the half a valium I took to make sure I got a good night’s sleep for once didn’t even work.

In what I now view as a bit of an over reaction, I slept with my hand grasped to a knife on my chest that night. When I awoke, I would search for the knife as a child might search for his security blanket. It was a very restless sleep and every time I woke up, Pavel was still pacing. When I finally got up that morning, Pavel and his friend were packed up and just pulling out of the campsite in their car. They gave us a big, warm smile and waved to us enthusiastically. I am almost certain they didn’t sleep that night.

God speed where ever you were sleeplessly off to Pavel, my crazy incommunicative Chechnyan rebel friend…

Bastille Day – Viva la Fance!

July 17th, 2007
Apt, Fance 

The first time I met the Bretster, as I call him, we were at a party in high school. We went back to his house afterwards with another friend and went into his room to have a few more drinks and a smoke. He turned off the lights, put on a lazer machine and a black light, and all over his room he had painted abstract things that would only show up under a black light. He was also playing Enigma. At this point in my life, my musical repoitre consisted of classic rock and the Grateful Dead so this was pretty far out there for me. Who is this young, crazy, creative madman? I thought to myself. Whoever he is, I want to be friends with him. It is hard to believe that was almost 20 years ago. You think you know someone and then all of the sudden they say something and you think to yourself; “Wait - do I really know this person?” That is what I thought to myself on Bastille Day when in a drunken, dancing frenzy, the Bretster leaned into me and yelled over the band, “This is my favorite Christine Aguillera cover!”

At this point in the story, I have no idea if I have written a thought in this blog, my proper notebook, my pocket notebook, on index cards contained within the new filing system I have created, on a napkin, or if I said it on video. At all times I have been writing, writing, writing, logging notes and details in several forms. At any rate, the creativity is flowing at a furious pace and both of us are feeding each other.

It is July 17th, my 33rd birthday and what a great place to celebrate it. The days have been fast and furious but we have finally managed to slow things down a bit for the last two days. It would be hard to top Bastille Day anyway. As Thurston, our Harley friend said when I rolled out of my tent the day after Bastille Day, “That was quite a party last night, yes? Very hard to out-do, no?”

It was Saturday, July 14th and we rolled into town that night from our campsite (which is the closest campsite within a city yet) and had a bite to eat. As we have said every evening for the last week, “Let’s just have a mellow evening.” Somehow we never seem to find that happy medium, however.

After dinner, Bret and I were standing outside St. John’s Pub watching a band play a Jimi Hendrix cover when Thurston and Bridgette walked up (I was calling him Tomas in the last chapter). We posed for a few pictures and they invited us to sit down for a drink. As you can guess, one drink turned into many. There we were in the middle of Apt in the Luberon region of France - two American backpackers and two bikers with leather and tattoos all over (they are actually tattoo artists and work six months of the year). “All we need is a place to camp, a little bit of food and beer, out motorcycle and each other,” Bridgette told us. As I’m sure you can visualize, our table stood out amongst the rest. Here is another travel tip; always buy the first round. It is just in good taste I believe and a good way to make friends.

Since it was Bastille Day, the French Legion was in town, decked out in their full, crisp uniforms. They are an imposing group, chiseled from the Rock of Gibraltar and straight faced. A group of them sat right behind us and I think Bret and our biker friends were a little uneasy, but I thought it was exciting and I was determined to offer these gentleman in some way an olive branch.

As the trip has gone on, I carry the video equipment at all times. Bret hates to carry anything and he would rather miss a great opportunity than to be burdened with anything he has to be responsible for. Being the writer, I know a price-tag can not be put on the moment so I carry it at all times – just in case anything interesting might happen. As the wine from dinner and the pints slowly made its way to our brain, I had to use the restroom so I said to Bret, “Get out the video camera and get ready to film me when I get back.” 

On my return from the bathroom, I got right in front of the band and started dancing like a fool. There was no one else dancing except a street-drunk and there were maybe 50 people listening to the music, drinking, and watching the animated American fool. When I got back to the table, the men from the French Legion seemed to like this and they let us take some pictures of their “cappi blond,” which is their white hats. Sometimes all I need to do is something idiotic like this to push Bret and get the game on. Neither of us could have had the adventure we are having without each other. We are a great team and constantly pushing each other further in one way or another.

I didn’t know much about the French Legion but apparently it was formed at the end of WWII. People from all countries, including Germans joined the French Foreign Legion so it is a fighting force made up of people from all over the world. 1 in 5000 people are accepted into this elite fighting class, so Thurston told us.

The light was almost completely gone from the sky and a thunderous crack signaled the fireworks were about to begin so the party, as well as everyone else from the town, moved into the town square. The fireworks began and Bret leaned into Thurston and said, “These are all right but they are bigger in the U.S.” I am pretty sure Thurston knew we he was joking.

When the last crack of the grand finale ended, everyone was standing and facing the direction of the fireworks, looking up at the sky as commuters might look at the board for the track changes in Grand Central Station. With the square being shrouded in a midst of gunpowder, the band started immediatley and it was as if the track number appeared and the mass moved in one fluid action towards the stage. Thurston, Bridgette and I moved towards the closest bar.

At the first bar we went to, Thurston got served three drinks but they didn’t give him his and he was left there standing at the bar so Bret said, “Screw it. Let’s go sit outside. If they want our money they can come find us.” Brdgette has a collection of glasses from all over the world and her drink was served in a “51 Pastis” glass. Since she wanted it, we split the joint with the glass under her leather jacket and our free drinks, compliments of the French liberation.

I will probably never be able to hear “Billy Jean” by Micheal Jackson again without thinking about Bastille Day in Apt, July 14, 2007. The band that was playing, Kashmir, played a great array of covers from Lynard Skynard, to Micheal Jackson, to Bob Marley, but when Micheal Jackson started playing Bret started dancing like a madman. As I have said before, Bret has some seriously contagious energy. The guy at the next able was loving it so he bought us a round of drinks and then insisted we go out into the square and meet his wife and friends. We were putting it into fifth gear at this point.

Within no time, the crowd was dancing with a new, revitalized enthusiasm as they played one Micheal Jackson cover after the other. I broke out the camera and had it on a uni-pod so it looked as if we were somewhat professional, at least the 15-year-old kids seemed to think so. They started forming a breakdancing circle and then were fighting to get on camera. These kids were good.

There was one tweaker at the front of the stage who was probably on LSD or something similar and Bret became his puppet master. He was loving and feeding off of Bret’s over-the-top energy and at one point Bret dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups and the kid dropped down as well. The video is hillarious. All the while there were a few French Legion guys around us who were letting lose as well. It didn’t take too long to be arm and arm with them yelling “Viva la France!” at the top of our lungs. They even let us wear there “cappi blonds” which Thurston said is like a relic and, in his German accent said, “It is wery, wery rare. Wery, wery good for you.” As he said this, he would put his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger together, bring them to his lips, kiss them, and throw them into the air. It was his trademark move. It would be like a Green Beret in the United States army letting you put his beret on your head, he said.

 At one point, I had to go to the bathroom, but while I was gone, two military police came and removed one of our new French Legion friends because he was so drunk. The guy was absolutely plastered. He had this “googly-woogly look” as Bret called it that almost made him look as if he had some sort of palsy or retardation. Bret said, “Man, if they take this guy, they must take anyone.” When I returned, the googly-woogly guy was gone. Lucky for his friend, he was in the bar buying us drinks. It was quite a scene to see two bikers, two backpacking Americans, and two French Legion soldiers arm in arm dancing to Bob Marley and pretending we were smoking a Bob Marley classic. It was as if we had just liberated France and it didn’t matter who you were or where you were from; freedom was ours at last.

I tell you what - I have heard lot’s of stories about how rude the French are to Americans but we have been received with open arms. I think people are just so curious to see these two Americans walking through the region in weather that is too hot to be outside at the height of the late-afternoon sun, in the the middle of July, with all of their belongings on our backs.

With the military police lurching, we decided maybe it was time for us to move out before they sobered up and thought we might be subversives. We headed back to our campsite and took lot’s of pictures along the way such as Bret and Bridgette on a see-saw. At the end of the night we hugged our new friends good night, telling each other how great we thought they were, but we were not quite ready to go to bed. We had to review and breakdown the night. “I can’t go to sleep. I’m too wired!” Bret said. The boy has a lot of energy.

We had a cup of “Dutch coffee” and found a well-lit spot beneath a street light and I spouted some verbal diareaha into the camera. I was truly overwhelmed and having what I called a Serengeti Moment, which I touched upon at the beginning of this story and which I expounded upon in Jambo Tanzania. The Serentgeti Moment, as I call it, is a moment of clarity when all of your expereinces, thoughts, and feelings of your life come into one sigle-pointed moment of consciousness. It is as if all of the sudden the blurred image you have been looking at comes into focus and your life is forever changed. I don’t necessarily have time to expound at the moment, but as I said in the beginning of this story, the techtonic plates of my life have been shifting. I didn’t really know what I was writing down in the first six chapters before I left for France but now they make sense to me. Perhaps Bastille Day was the great earthquake that has reformed the landscape of my thoughts and life. I think it will be hard to look at life again through the same lenses I have been looking through. The lense is different, but the camera is the same. As always, that camera, that tool that captures the moment for me is the pen. I have tasted the cup of the life on this trip. It is brilliant. It is rich. It is nurturing. It is vibrant. It is varied. It is seemingly random, and yet it is calculated – meticulously created from the oldest and greatest recipe, made divinely by the greatest wine maker. How amazing is life that I had to travel first to Africa, into the heart of the Serengeti and Tanzania to taste this blend, and then to a small town in the heart of France’s Luberon Region to again imbibe in its rich, nurturing, inspiring, and life-filling taste.

As Bret said the other day, much like life, we are on a journey and these experience are just one of many GPS coordinates on the map that tells the tale of our lives. These coordinates are the experiences that enrich us and teach us about who we are and what our place is in the world.

Happy Birthday to me. Off to Avignon where the madness began. There is the Festival d’Arts going on there and we have met many people along the wwy who are performing in these small productions. Hopefully we will see some tonight.

Just For Shits and Giggles

July 14, 2007
Apt, Provence, France

Yesterday we left Carpentras headed for Cavillion to make our way to Apt in the Luberon. Unfortunately, we got some faulty information and didn’t need to go to Cavillion, so from Cavillion we had to go back to Avignon and then take an hour and a half bus ride to Apt. Most of the day was spent traveling and I think all of the previous “get up and go days” (we have a get up and go theme song we wrote) of traveling caught up with me. Perhaps the liter of Rosè at lunch in Carpentras had something to do with it as well as the pint in Cavillion.

Since we had time to kill in Avignon, we decided to buy two train tickets to Paris for Wednesday. We weren’t sure if we were going to do Paris or not but we said what the fuck since I have never seen it. It will give us a little structure as well, so we thought. I don’t know if it was the wine, the traveling, or the fact that I realized the wine route was over, but I was a tad down and lacking energy for most of the day. This trip has been a total high and each day produces one great surprise after another.

I got a good sleep in on the bus even though I fought it because I didn’t want to miss a moment of the scenery. When we did arrive in Apt I was feeling much better. Since Bret has been here before, he remembered the way through town to the campsite, which was sold out, but since we only had two small, single tents, they said we could pitch our tents where we could find space. We wound up filling in this circle of sorts next to a Harley Davidson looking couple, complete with bandanas, tattos, leather, a braided beard down to his chest, and their bike parked right next to their tent. They were Germans and we were surrounded by them, however it provided a much different feel from what you would imagine France in 1944 to be.

This German group was a riot and we quickly found out they were good people and loved to drink. As always, the onlookers curiously checked us out. The best way to make friends is just to give it a shot and to laugh at yourself in the process. Again, they were curious about our tiny tents. We also have this contraption that turns our camping mats into chairs and Bret was laughing, saying out loud, “What are they going to do now? Oh wait, they are turning it into a chair!” This just ads to the gay factor as we sit there in our matching chairs sipping on Rosè. We joked with them and quickly made friends.

The best way to make friends in these camping situations is to go to the reception and buy a bottle of wine. In case you haven’t noticed, it is what you do down here in the South of France – well - at least we do and the people we interact with. We were all packed in to this tight little circle so we got to know each other quickly. This time we truly were huddled together like refugees in a camp. Lucky for us the attention was quikcly diverted from us and onto another new arrival who blew up their air mattress before they put it in their tent and then were making a big production to get it in. The Germans were loving it and laughing so hard our Harley friend had beer coming out his nose. It almost became uncomfortable but the jovial spirit continued.

The Harley couple were a riot and I have a feeling we will be drinking some more with them this evening. I hope to get some great video with them as well. Turns out they love au-natural camping, which are these European nudist camping sites. If we have time, we plan to check one out for the experience. When we pulled up, Brigette was wearing a g-string and her husband Tomas was wearing a good old fashioned Euorpean bannana hammock. I may have to get me one of these. You know what they say, “When in Europe…” On second thought, maybe it is best not to firghten the locals. 

I wouldn’t be surprised if our new friends are swingers. They are very free and open people which is always refreshing and they are digging what we are doing with Jack Will Travel, granted, they don’t know the real story and that we are full of shit. My writing career is also getting more and more impressive every time we meet someone new. I think tonight I shall tell someone I have a book deal with Simon & Shuster. Our new Harley friends said if we come to Hamburg, they would love to show us their Red Light District and they can garuntee us a good time for 70 Euro. We also got a good laugh when they compared Bush to Hitler, but first he called Bush the greater cowboy than John Wayne. “Hey,” Bret said in surprise, “I did’t know you talked about Hitler!”

As I believe I have said before, Bret is a great travel companion. He speaks a smattering of French, Italian, Dutch, and Japanese, has traveled all over the world, knows his European and Asian geography, and has a motorcyle at home in the U.S. He saw his opportunity with Tomas to talk about his bike so this quickly brought us into Tomas’s inner circle. You can never waste an opportunity. I’ll say it time and time again.

After partying with the Germans for a bit, we headed into town to grab something to eat but it was so late already that most places were closed. We found a Kabob stand and sat on a bench beneath an awning of Sycamore trees. Behind us were four cute blond girls and the moment we heard them speaking English, Bret was loose enough after a bottle of wine and two beers to go in hard. Again, you can’t miss these opportunities when you are traveling. Turns out they were four British girls on vacation and one of their parents had a little villa right outside of town. We extended their evening a good two more hours and could tell they took a liking to us; not enought to invite us back to their house, however. We did all we could but they weren’t having it. We said we would meet them in town the next day but they were leaving so the chances were doubtful. We were happy to talk to some fun ladies and left it at that. Sometimes you have to make a connection and move on.

The next day we heaeded into town and straight into the Apt Saturday market. The streets were teeming with people under the hot Provencial sun. Everything you can imagine Provence was here; lavender, fresh flowers, floral table clothes, bread stands, habadashery stands, fresh fish, herbs, scented soaps, impressive displays of fresh fruit and vegetables. It is truly heavenly. We decided just for shits and giggles we would go to the area where we said we would meet the British girls at eleven, not expecting to meet them there. Sure enough, there they were. We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon with them and told them the real Jack Will Travel story as well as our ages. Last night they guessed 28 and Bret said, “You got it!”. They had lot’s of great English expressions like “Oh you’re mad!” and “You’re having a right piss are you?” which means a good laugh in this case. When I asked Katie if she had a boyfriend and she replied no, I said, “I don’ get it. How is that possible?”

“Oh Tim,” she replied, “You’re being a bit cheeky aren’t you.” Katie, indeed I was, however there was a bit of truth to my cheekiness as well. She was a cutie, in fact they all were and provided us with a great afternoon as well as some decent footage. During lunch we pulled out some of the interview questions we wrote up and passed them around the table but they didn’t want this to be on film. They left in the meid-afternoon and we headed back to camp. Bret and I are becoming quite good at this travel thing and should there be what we are calling Phase 2 of Jack Will Travel, we will be pros at this.

Traveling is truly amazing and it seems as if interesting people seem to congregate. It is a microcosm of life at full speed. I once heard someone say that traveling can bring out your best self or your worst self – maybe your true self. One of those things. I certainly believe it anyway. We are experiencing freedom like never before, without a care in the world, going where the wind and wine blows us.

Bret does like to be on the move, however, and I am a bit more of a lolly-gagger. Before we left we had all of these conversations of what to bring, and then when we got to Amsterdam, we cut everything in half. I went back and forth on the iPod and decided at the last minute to bring it. Turns out it has been great because sometimes it is the only way I can get Bret to chill and focus so I can get some writing done. I am finding the Hereld Tribune, the European version of The New York Times is also great for this purpose. He buys it every day and as I sit here at the Internet cafe, he is back at the campsite reading it. 

Tonight is Bastille Day, which is their independance day. Every night of this trip so far has been amazing. I’m curious to see what kind of tomfoolery we will find this evening beneath a blazing French sky of fireworks. Viva la France!

P.S. the damn spell check won’t work again!

Canals and Cognac

July 13, 2007
Carpentras, Provence, France

“Another day in paradise, huh Timbo?” is what Bret said to me as soon as we hit the trail yesterday at about 9:38am, give or take a few minutes. We were leaving Beaumes-de-Ville headed for Carpentras and it was our earliest start yet. Back in Amsterdam I had bought a flask and just the night before I was saying we should pick up some Cognac for so we’re not carrying the flask around for nothing. Just like that, Bret produced the first bottle of Cognac of the trip. We decided to take a swig off it just because we could and we had nothing to do but walk, but those tiny swigs add up and by the time we reached Carpentras we had finished off the bottle (in our defense it was a small bottle and not too long of a walk).

The day’s walk took us along a canal for about 10 kilometers. It was beautiful and flat and we made a rule that we can only drink on the trail if we are beside a canal. Drinking and climbing mountain passes is probably counter-productive we agreed. As usual, we were walking along olive groves, vineyards, over railroad tracks where the canal became an aqueduct, and all the while wisps of happy cottony clouds reminiscent of Bob Ross brush strokes filled the sky. Maybe the clouds weren’ t happy; maybe it was our heads swimming in Cognac. Because of the intense beauty, sights, sounds, and scents here in Provence, it is almost impossible not to be present and in the moment.

When we reached town, we found a park to eat our lunch of bread, cheese, fruit, and a chestnut spread we bought because it looked interesting. I never know what I am ordering on a menu here but I haven’t gone wrong yet. If something has “Provence” in the title, I usually get that. After lunch we headed to our campsite and for the first time since we have been on the road, we chilled out for the afternoon.

That night I headed into town to find an Internet cafe but couldn’t find one so I just walked around and eventually met up with Bret. We wanted to go to a Pizzeria where we could sit outside. Turns out the one we chose would not let us sit outside because of the Mistral and they weren’t serving Pizza. The waiter gave us a look which got Bret fired up. Bret wanted to interview him and let him have it, but as it turned out, it was merely a communication breakdown and we had one of our best meals yet. The waiter spoke broken English and we asked him what he was doing in Carpentras. He told us he got lost here. I thought that was interesting because Bret and I are having the time of our lives and in a sense finding ourselves, and here is this guy is who just wound up here one day. It made me think life is very much like the GR4 trail we have been following throughout the wine region. You have to keep your eyes open on the road for the trail markers, however sometimes you lose the trail and get lost for a while.

We finished dinner with a Cognac and found our way to a free concert where we did some pretty good candid filming. After that we did some more filming at a carnival full of agressive young teenagers. I was doing most of the filming just holding it in different places so it didn’t look like we were filming. We are getting more and more bold in our filming and learning new things every day. Walking through the crowd of a familiar carnival scene, except foreign because it was in France, Bret said, “This is a pretty crazy game we’re playing, huh Timbo?” refering to the filming. Many statements Bret makes ends with, “huh Timbo?” or “know what I mean?” It is as if he is looking for reassurance and yet he isn’t. He is a pro at this traveling thing and truly an independant character.

When we finally reached the campsite, we were locked out, along with two Dutch couples. They were not as much fun as some of the other Dutch we have met, or maybe they were just tired. Bret and I thought it was pretty funny and were cracking jokes the whole time. It wasn’t as if we could even climb over the fence because it had barbed wire running along the top. “It’s like we’re at a refuge camp,” Bret said. This did actually get the Dutch folks to break out laughing even though some of them were trying to contain it.

I’m pretty sure people think we are insane just walking from town to town. Then when we are at camp, every one is curiously observing us. Perhaps the funniest thing is when we are cruising around our camp at night with our headlamps on. No one seems to have these so we look like U.S. soldiers in Iraq about to storm the bathroom. We met one couple in their mid-50s the night before at a wine tasting who took a liking to us and wanted to see all of our gear. “How cozy your little tents are!” Jane from England said. Her husband Bob was a civil engineer and had tattos all around his neck and up his leg. He seemed like an unlikely chracter to have that much ink. Bob and Jane were a hoot, have lived all over the world, and all along the canal yesterday we were retelling their stories in their emphatically British way. I don’t know if we are discovering something new and off the beaten path or doing something that only older folks do but we are generally the youngest people at these camps. The only people younger are the kids traveling with their parents.

There is so much that has been happening every day and so much hilarity that ensues that it is frustrating not to be able to get it all out on this blog. It is also quite a challenge to type on a French keyboard but I am actually starting to get used to it. I guess you’ll have to wait for the book version of the story to get all the details, or hopefully parts will be filled in with video on the Jack Will Travel Web site.

The Man Who Drowns and Glimmers in Seven Colors

July 11, 2007
Beaumes-de-Venise, Provence, France

The Man Who Drowns and Glimmers in Seven Colors

Your shine becomes even more radiant
a new you is coming to life
your profound sadness and pain
will surely become your strength
- Miyuki Sato (translated from Japanese)

Bret knows just enough Japanese, Dutch, Italian, and French to be dangerous. That makes for an excellent travel partner. As a result, we found ourselves in a small hill town called Seguret. Bret heard this group of three Japanese women talking so he engaged them. As it turns out, it was a mother, daughter and a friend who they had just met and was studying to be a wine connoisseur. The next thing you know, the mother is dragging us into the home they are renting to show us her daughter’s paintings and to feed us wine. Miyuki is an amazingly talented girl who writes and paints. In one book she compiled, she painted the picture and wrote something next to it. The poem above is one of the writings she had in this book and I thought it was beautiful and poignant, especially to me at this point in my life.

We spent the day with this group which deviated from our plan but you have to be fluid and adventurous when you are traveling. There was a pretty good communication barrier but Bret knew enough about Japan to say names, places or things and they would reply with, for example, “Ah yes! Sony!” After finishing off a bit of wine that afternoon, since we were walking to the next town and they were as well, we escorted them. Every time a car came I would announce it in Japanese and they couldn’t get enough of it. “You r hero,” they would say. I bet the locals had never seen a scene lke that.

When we got to Sablet later in the afternoon, the third girl wanted us to meet her French friends so we walked all over Sablet to try to find them. Finally we did and we sat in this person’s backyard with two fifty year old men, their 93 year old aunt, Bret, myself, and three Japanese women sipping on Pastis. You just can’t make these things up. The Mistral was blowing gently and we all sat around a flowery table cloth getting snippets of each others life stories. When we finished our drinks, the kind gentleman drove us to a campsite.

I had basically only heard horror stories about the French but we have been warmly received everywhere we have been. They all seem to be intrigued by these two American men walking from town to town with 40-50 lbs of gear on their backs. “You are doing what?” is a common reply. They probably figure only Americans would be so foolish to be doing this in the Provence heat of summer. I really don’t think there is a better way to do it, however. France is a walkers paradise and as long as you have a map and some map reading skills, it is pretty easy to get around. We are taking the GR4 in the wine region and all over on trees, rocks, and telephone poles little red and white lines guide us on our route. All day we walk through vineyard after vineyard, down country roads, up into the mountains where you can see the vineyards disappear into the horizon, and at all times you are surrounded by lavender and sunflower fields. It is ultimate freedom to wake up each morning and decide in which town you will be drinking great wine in that evening.

Every day we have had some amazing little treats like meeting the Japanese people or some stranger who sees us walking invites us into their house for lemonade. One old lady actually bowed to us when she heard we were Americans. Last night we met Michael and Darby from L.A. and they were a trip. We wound up meeting them at a wine tasting at the local office of tourism. They are very liberal with the wine at these events which is great and each of us walked away with a half of our own wine to drink from the bottle. We followed them to the center of town and had a little smoke they brought down from Amsterdam. They were in their early to late 40s and they were pros. Michael’s first Dead show for instance was in the yer I was born. I think at one point early in the evening they thought we were gay because here we are, two dudes walking through France tasting wine and then heading up to the lavender fields next. It was quite funny. We got dinner with them and later she gave us a Chinese blessing so that we would get laid by French women. Time will tell if her sorcery is legit. They were a treat, however and made our evening.

The amazing thing about this type of travel is the head-space you can get into. I think sometimes you need to remove yourself from your day to day life for an extended period of time, to get into a new physical space so it can create that mental space. In the process you gain clarity, have the freedom to imagine a new life or the life you want to lead, and then walk into it. Off to a wine tasting…

Travel Tips, Filming Tips, and Random Thoughts

July 10, 2007
Vaison la Romaine, Provence

It seems like we are learning and absorbing things at the rate of a child as every day brings new experiences, challenges and adventures – especially typing on a French keyboard. My notebook has almost become obsolete as a tool of organizing thoughts as any sense of order has disappeared; therefore the types of writings will change. Also we are on the trail most days and rarely get a chance to hit an Internet cafe.

As a result of this notebook situation, (meaning I am taking so many notes with lines pointing to French names all over the page, ideas for filming, techniques, etc.), I incorporated a new system of organizing thoughts last night with index cards. This idea came about as we were camping on a hill above a vineyard. Here are some thoughts I just pulled out at random:

1. When you are caming in Provence, especially at a vineyard, they make it very easy for you to get drunk for 5 Euros on good wine.
2. Control the interview.
3. I am very much at home with good cheese, wine, olives, and bread.
4. Don’t run away from a connection.
5. Make your connection, roll with it, and move on.
6. When traveling by train, if you can, have everything packed in your pack or at least make it as flat as possible so it fits overhead.
7. Travel with purpose. Live life with purpose.
8. Pack right – pack light. Invest in good lightweight gear. By once, by right.
9. Always get an isle seat on a plane, train, or bus.
10. Always leave PLENTY of time to make tavel connections.
11. Make the first move. Hello or Bonjour is an easy way to do it. Also ask for a lighter or cigarette and always smile.
12. HYDRATE! HYDRATE! HYDRATE!
13. Don’t be afraid to make an ass of yourself from time to time. You will never see these people again anyway.
14. Take calculated risks in life.

This is all I have time for as I have to catch a bus. Hope all is well with everyone. Looking forward to getting a chance to really sit and write out some thoughts. It has been amazing and so many incredible things happen each day. We are in the creative and travel flow.