Today I travel to Schenectady to complete the most elaborate joke I have ever conceived. I have mixed emotions: Is this a fantastic accomplishment? Am I the hugest nerd ever? Does everyone think I’m an idiot for doing this? Do I care?
Hmmm. More updates as the day goes on. Check Facebook for mobile updates as they become available.
You can’t get there from here. Seriously - doesn’t matter where you want to go, not even back to Madrid, whence you’ve just come. It’s a goddamn space-time anomaly. Well, you can, but not on the tourist ticket (which is 3€ to book the train all the way through to Paris). Instead, you have to pay full-fare, first class, 123€ because that’s all the trains they have. Oh, and when you get on the train you find out that you don’t actually have a seat and have to sit in the corridor on a folding chair and stand up every time someone wants to go to the loo. Unless I want to stay in France until next week sometime, then maybe. They don’t have a 2nd class or anything else class, because everything is first class. It’s France, there is no second class. Now, to my untrained eye it looks just like the 2nd class trains in Spain, but it’s goddamn classe-primo. Oh, and even though your euros are good here, your $1200 euro-rail pass that is supposed to be good in 30 E.U. countries (including France) is not.
This of course leaves me in the place I want to be the least amongst people that hate me the most, without any reason to hate me whatsoever. Well, except that I’m American. Oh, and I’ve got the unmitigated gall to be an American amongst good proper French people, as no one should do, ever. Unless you’re so rich or famous to be worthy of sycophantic adoration, whereupon you are welcomed to France with open arms and willing smiles. Suck ups. So here I sit having a regular old (Classe Primo) cup of coffee in a regular old (First Class) cafe eating a regular old (Nombre Uno) piece of bread. Seriously, calling everything first class just because it’s French doesn’t make it so. Telling girls in bars that my name is Brad Pitt doesn’t give me pouting girls lips and perfect hair and Narcissian bone structure. I’ve tried.
France has always hated Americans, and yet up until about eight years ago we just put up with it. Maybe it was because of our debt to Layfette that we turned a blind eye. Then suddenly they did something typically French (post- 9/11) and we were allowed to hate them finally. We really held their feet to the fire for a while with that freedom-fries thing. This isn’t a chip on my shoulder or some grand anti-french racism on my part; it’s from my own experience. I have no good memories of anything french. French Bread hurts the roof of my mouth. French Onion Soup has too much cholesterol. Lately, I find that Chilean and Australian wines are indistinguishable from their French counterparts. French kissing is nice enough, but that just reminds me of sex and I’m not getting enough of that to not be bitter. France has recently taken to stand against America in various international political situations just because (and this was from a French Prime Minister) they don’t care if they are wrong, they just don’t want us to be right. That’s not reasoned balance of power, that’s just being an dick.
France is jealous of American superiority, so they stomp their feet like a toddler and tell us we have stupid faces. France is a bitter, impotent old troll making snide comments under it’s breath at virile youth. It’s the war-torn barfly well past her prime who refuses to age into elegant maturity and instead takes every opportunity to take everyone else down a notch. It’s not superior, it’s childish spite and hate-filled rudeness. It’s not sarcastically funny or ironically instructive; its just common, mean recalcitrance. It’s just so French.
And it’s not just IN France that they are this way. In Fiji I met a traveling French couple who kicked other peoples belongings across the floor of the dorm because they didn’t want to step over or around them. Seriously - it was shockingly petulant. In a hostel dorm, EVERYBODY’S stuff is in EVERYBODY’S way. The rooms are, by definition, small and seriously lacking shelves or personal space. The idea is to pack as many people per room as possible - thats what a hostel IS. Everybody else I’ve travelled with gets on fine in these environs. French people kick and throw things out of their way like children.
In Bangkok and South Africa, I tried to have a conversation with some of groups of people speaking French on a couple of occasions and they literally got up and walked away. Just standard traveller talk - “Hi, I’m Todd - Where are you from? Uh… Bye?” In Mauritius, the island is home to both Indians and French - the Indian people I met were very friendly and helpful, but the French were unanimously impossible to get help from. In Morocco, people ask you for money in French and if you say no they insult you as they walk away. My friend was called a whore because she deigned to bargain with the locals instead of taking the exhorbanent first offered price for something. I wouldn’t pay some boy to put his grandmother through HVAC school or any of the other situations I was supposed to resolve for them because I was American, and I was called fat, well, because I am, but that’s not the point. Hell, everyone in South Florida knows the only thing worse than New Yorkers are the French Canadians. I can’t wait until Lance is back on the bike, because this country wont hardly be able stand to have a Texan whup their asses for an eighth time. I will laugh until tears come.
I know I’m an asshole sometimes, But I’m a sweetheart 99 times out of a hundred. I never yell at people. When I meet someone in a service job, I sympathize. Hell, I EMPATHIZE because I worked in restaurants in South Florida where New Yorkers come to visit just to be rude and obnoxious. I put up with slow service all around this world because I know that we Americans move too fast and it’s refreshing to do things on Fiji-time or Africa-time. HOWEVER. No people on this planet do slow and insolent better than the French. Seriously, in this case, they are definitely First Class.
I feel like a modern day Diogenes, wandering the earth with a backpack and a Petzl head lantern, searching not for an honest man, but for a pleasant Frenchman.
The food’s not even all that good.
OK - here’s the dealio. I’m tired. Really tired. I am also running out of money. I’m finding it difficult to keep writing posts because I’ve noticed that recently that they all start with “I’m in a new city and I’m not impressed and everything is expensive,” then they all finish with “I’m tired and I want to go home.” I haven’t published many of them because they are negative and I don’t want that in my life; I won’t accept it’s presence. Traveling alone is probably one the most frustrating and difficult things I’ve done and now the only thing that is keeping me going is the stoic determination to finish what I started. I’m stubborn that way. I’m no longer enjoying the journey, I’m just pounding out the itinerary I decided on before ever leaving Austin and cramming the necessary Top-Ten sights of <blank> into the two days or 26 hours I have allocated to this particular city. The joy of exploring and the challenge of discovery and the romance of wandering have evaporated, leaving only my donkey-like refusal to accept things as they are. I keep expecting the wonderment that I had in Fiji, New Zealand, and South Africa to return, but it is elusive to arrive and ephemeral when it is present.
I have realized today, as a cab driver in Madrid was ripping me off by turning the 1.5km trip from the train station to the hostel into a 10km trip around the perimeter of the city, slowly spiraling inward towards the plaza near the destination, that I was being obstinate and recalcitrant towards my own authority over myself. I was no longer listening to myself and doing what I wanted to do; I was rebelling against my gut feeling and denying the way I really felt about this moment, right now. I was submitting to the plans I’d made without being flexible, agile, and adaptive to the way I feel today as opposed to nine months ago when I started this process. This is my turning point. I am coming home.
For those of you that know me, I hope you realize the magnitude of this realization. If you have any inkling of who I am and how I’ve lived my life in the past, you know that I have a singular skill in the ability to disillusion myself and convince myself that I can keep going no matter what the weight and level of discomfort. I’ve always said that if I can get it on my shoulders, I can carry it. This goes for physical things, but I’ve also realize it applies to obligations I accept as well. I have said in the past that I can do anything for 24 months. I have put up with bad friendships and bad relationships, bad jobs and bad decisions for far, far longer than I needed to. I have made situations my responsibility without anyone asking me too. I did it because I thought that struggle and perseverance were honorable and admirable qualities. I was right - they are - but struggling fruitlessly for weeks, months and even years becomes self-flagellation and self mutilation, and those are indulgent and childish. Especially when they are accompanied with self pity and the expectation that everyone else will one day recognize how strong, selfless and dedicated one is to their self-appointed burdens. Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight a long time…
This is NOT my Waterloo. I am not defeated. Far from it. I have accomplished everything that I wanted to do and more, beyond my wildest dreams. This is and has been the trip I’ve wanted my whole life; ever since I was old enough to read the stories of the places and people around the world. I have lived with natives on a South Pacific island. I have been on a safari and seen animals we usually only see in cages. I have seen coastlines that look exactly as they did when people first sailed past them hundreds of years ago. I have met people who live so differently from me that my horizons irrevocably expanded and my perspectives have reached a breadth and depth I was unaware existed. I have visited cities and places and stood in the footprints of authors I’ve revered and now those stories I read have a taste and smell and feel they have never had before. I have made friends I hope to see again many times. I have felt the weight of history in the stones around me. I have learned about myself and realized that my limits are imaginary and my abilities are far beyond my limits.
In the past two years I’ve torn my life down to it’s base elements and rebuilt myself. I have been through the difficulty and discomfort that comes with a rebirth. As of this moment, I am reborn. I need to rest and reflect on this; I need to flex these new limbs and explore the strength in these new muscles. I want to build something with these new tools, with new possibilities and choices and challenges.
Then I’m gonna blow it up and do this again. :-)
Hi, y’all. I’m in the heart of La Macha headed towards Toledo and Madrid. So far I have been to Granada for the Alhambra, Sevilla for a cathedral and an alcazar, then Cordoba for another cathedral that used to be a mosque. Ciudad Real is small and less of a tourist destination which leads me to believe that it might be more like actual life in Spain. It’s also one of the many places that has adopted Don Quixote as a favorite son, so three days ago was the anniversary of Cervantes birthday and there are still flowers and candles on all of the statues around town.
Headed for Toledo, listening to the Cumberland Blues. I’ll compare it to Ohio when I get back.
New pix are loaded to flickr - most of the shots up through February are there. LIONS AND GIRAFFES AND HEFFALUMPS!
I realize this isn’t a real post, but it’s been so damn long since I was able to sit and have a coffee with my stupid internet time that I was a little beside myself.
Took the Ferry from Tangiers to Algencia today after spending three nights in a depressing little hole called the Hostel California. No hot water and the toilet some times worked - thats the best I can say of the place, aside from the witty name. Everything I own is either wet or dirty or both, but I´ve had my first HOT SHOWER in two weeks and I´m on the trail of a place to get my clothes washed. I managed to get out of Morocco more or less intact, with the only casualty being my US cell phone, which can´t be used anywhere else in the world and is completely out of battery so they can´t even turn it on. It will make a nice paperweight for some enterprising young medina boy.
Once my digestive system calms down and I have clean clothes again, things will start to feel bueno again. Until then, things are looking up! This is the last leg and after a whirlwind tour of Spain, Holland and England I will be home soon. My pack is lighter than ever and I´m ahead of schedule and under budget. It´s gonna be a good day!
I spent the night in Meknes and then jammed myself onto a packed train to Tangiers. Still fighting with Arabic keyboards in tiny internet cafes - hoping that conditions improve once Im in Spain. Thousands of pix on the way once I find wireless again…
I cant updqte zell now becquse Im on sone zierd internet cqfe qnd I qm on on Qrqbic keyboqrd. Fes was ok but Meknes was awesome. Chefchaouen is unbelievqble - so gorgeous. more later once I get actual internet qnd cqn upload about 1500 pictures.
Much love…
After the train from Casablanca, we wandered around the old medina and shopped in the market until dark. I bought a lot of silly crap. Managed to find beer and wine in a hole-in-the wall shop and took it back to the hostel. Sitting on the porch under the stars drinking and telling jokes and stories will hopefully never be forgotten. Go Team Morocco!
Woke up the next day and wandered the Medina before entering the Kasbah. Based on local comments and third party observations, we definitely rocked this particular Kasbah. Sherif don’t like it. We did however get taken in by a rather slick and well-practiced hustler who promised to show us the way into the Kasbah, then rather nicely showed us around for two hours until, on the way out, saying that we could pay him whatever we wanted, “50 euro, 60 euro, 100 euro - whatever you want.” As no price was stated when we started, this took us by surprise and we left 40 euro lighter. Went back to the hostel and got our luggage to catch the 3 o-clock train to Fez.
Train was great until after the stop-over about 1/3rd of the way here. The next train we caught was ridiculously crowded and we walked through three train cars until we found even a place to stand. Met several nice people who invited us to stay in their homes; it’s usually a genuine and sincere offer but it’s come so quickly in the meeting process that sometimes we (westerners) feel that it must be a scam or a contrivance. Met a man and his sister who were travelling home and they were very nice and helpful with telling us which train to get on and which stop to get off at. They asked us to come see them and stay with them - even extending the invitation to years from now, “… when you come to visit us again.” Met a great drunk guy on the train who works in Dubai for Chevron, is in Mekenes to get married and then goes back in two weeks to work again, loves America and Texas and Obama but hates Bush and wanted us to come to his house so we could stay with him and his family and he would show us around. All of this in less than 10 minutes from introduction. Great fun - had us all in stitches.
Arrived in Fes after dark and had to fiercely haggle with a couple of taxis to get to the Medina for a fair price. Spent a while looking for Jade’s friends and then found Ignacio again and found a horrible little hostel to sleep in. Went to dinner in a Medina cafe and then went to a club called Mezzanine just outside the old city walls. Climbed up to the roof of this nearly empty club and ordered drinks under the stars. Great gin and tonics, good conversation and quite possibly the best atmosphere I’ve ever had in a club, and certainly the best since I’ve been overseas. Exclusive, chill and permissive - great house and trance with a distinctly Moroccan tone. Unforgettable.
Woke up at 4 AM to the loudspeaker on the mosque across the alley and the ‘call to prayer’.
