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| London: Drinking in an English pub watching a tied overtime match play out between two Premier clubs. Empty stomach buzz off a pint of cider, an exchange ratio of 2 to 1 making one too much a pauper to order fish AND chips. Old woman with a stray eye on the edge of her seat for 121 minutes. Preoccupied bartender not hearing American requests for libation. Goal! 2 to 1. Already active volcanoes erupt. Chanting, screaming, belligerent Arsenal fans taunting the silenced underdog. Every uttered word concerning sport, foiled terrorist headlines considered trivial conversation. Every eye except one glued to the tele as if life or death depended on sleight of foot.
Barcelona: Not only does one not have to tip at a Spanish bar, you receive green olives with your beer. My idea of heaven really, except if God were the bartender I'd probably tip Him, 10 percent. | | |
| And there is something Waldenesque about packing your life into a matchbox. A bowl, a toothbrush, and one change of pants are the simple, austere possessions of the self-sufficient, nomadic life reminiscent of that picture of Gandhi's belongings on the day he died. (Sans the laptop and iPod, luxurious indulgences but necessary none the less. I'm positive that a 21st century Thoreau would agree).
Backpacking.
Method: Devoid pockets of everything extraneous. Leave behind American silver, car keys, and Marsh discount cards. Everything on person and in the pack must be useful. Worthless grocery receipts clutter pockets making it harder to find important papers. And even receipts add weight to a pack over time. Walking 7 miles a day carrying .05 pounds of unnecessary material adds up to carrying 14 pounds of extra baggage in 40 days.
Backpacking is a reverse anthropomorphism, becoming like the camel relying on the back for sustenance, sympathetic of the turtle cognizant of his carried shelter. Sleep habits adapt the trait of the nocturnal marsupial, attempting to sleep in a room with five other men all racing to the land of Nod. Last one asleep forced into a consolatory listening of the polyrhythmic 'Symphony of Snore, ' composed specifically for the insomniacs' listening pleasure. Backbeat provided by the deep, heavy, and wheezy breathing of the crippled immigrant worker, the only sound he makes save the residual echo of his ceased petition for early darkness. Grunts and animalistic vibrations from the top-bunk sleeper make for an improvised, passionate solo comped by the harmonizing baritone snore from the inconsiderate, unconscious guy two beds down. After prescription sleeping pills, 3 am marks a drift into slumber, but suddenly pillow-plugged ears become mindful of a fumbled key in the lock. Tightening, closed eyelids are yanked open proportionally to the opening door as if surgically tied to each other by taut wire. Light pours in to the room preceded only by the stench of smoke and sangria. Another flatmate. And before his head can hit the pillow, a fully-clothed pass out joins the chorus of unconscious melody-makers. But an early train departure gives opportunity for ample payback. I've found that rustling plastic bags works the best. | | |
| Back in America, home of baseball and fat people, I am starting to experience reverse culture shock. Quarters are smaller than I remembered, and I have no idea which way to round these roundabouts. Ah, counter-clockwise. Yield left, no longer "Give Way" to the right. Remember matriarchal advice, look both ways before crossing the street. Right is right.
Everybody keeps asking what I've learned from my travels. Hmm, well how about this... What is the capital of Canada? Is it Quebec? Toronto? No, no, Montreal! Or is it? I have yet to meet an American that knows the official seat of government of their closest neighbor and ally. The rest of the world is appalled by the fact that Americans do not care about anything beyond our borders. We are ultranationalistic, overly patriotic, and our flag-waving has blinded us from an international appreciation and concern for anything non-American. Proud to be an American, eh? Being born into an economically competent country doesn't entitle us to anything. I do not deserve anything that is given to me here. On July 7th in 1983, I was born into a wealthy upper middle class American family. On the same day in 1983, a child was born as a Tutsie in Rwanda amidst poverty, despair, and destruction only to be killed 11 years later by a machete. His only fault? Not being able to choose his place of birth. Understand that we are not black, white, Mexican or French. We are one and the same; altogether the human race sharing the same air, water, and sun. We all put our pants on one leg at a time. America, put down your flag and read that article in the BBC about the genocide in Sudan.
I've also learned that I must continue to travel, live, and adventure. The sedentary life chosen by those close to me will not satisfy my growing desire to "go," to "be" somewhere and something else. I am not where or who I want to be. Not yet.
Before watching the moon set on a beach in Fiji, I watched the sunset with a Portuguese friend. As we were watching the glowing orb sink into the South Pacific, she told me that the same setting sun was rising on her small town in Portugal half a world away. A thought I had never considered. That is why I travel. I've also eaten a hand prepared feast with a Chinese family that understood not a lick of English. Holding my chopsticks, I listened to the din of Cantonese spoken over steamed fish, prawns, oyster, crab, seaweed, and taro realizing it was authentic because there were no fortune cookies or soy sauce in sight. I've eaten with an Indo-Fijian cab driver who invited me into his home to eat chicken curry with our fingers as a Bollywood film flickered on the television in the background. These meals make me hungry. Hungry to travel, to experience the world and its people. I could continue to tell you all my stories and adventures, but as Joseph Conrad writes in Heart of Darkness, "It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream -- making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of be ing captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams. No, it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence, that which makes its truth, its meaning, its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream -- alone."
Thank you for your prayers, support, and love. | | |
| I'm tired, lonely, homesick and depressed. Oh yeah, and I'm in Fiji.
...How's that for my last entry? | | |
| Hello world. Currently, I'm wandering the streets of Auckland by my lonesome. Auckland is NZ's populous metropolis of a million containing a quarter of the country's denizens. I'm getting really tired as I've had to sleep in a new place every night for the past week. But, I'm waiting to meet up with my friend, Nick, who has offered me a place to stay in his friend's mansion, so no hostel for tonight at least. I'm happy that Nick is coming up to meet me here, otherwise I would of had to wake up in a hostel for my birthday, and I would of had to hire a girl for company just like in Pretty Woman.
A couple of days ago on the 4th of July, the day of our great country of America's independence 229 years ago, I completed the first of my lifelong goals and ambitions leaving only one more yet to be obtained. You may ask, "What did you do that was so amazing?" Go ahead ask it. Well, inquistive one, I'll tell you. On July the 4th of the year 2005 I went snowboarding on a volcano, BUT not only did I snowboard a volcano, I also surfed the Tasman Sea (start bold letters now) on that same day! That's right, I finally did it, surfed and snowboarded on the same day. Dave and I woke up early and caught some waves on the Surf Highway with Mt. Taranaki in the background. (Lyd, that's the volcano they filmed in The Last Samauri). After completing the first stage, we raced across the country on windy, dirt cliff-hugging roads to arrive in Mordor with an hour left to snowboard. We told the Maori worker about our extremely brave and courageous mission, and he let us into the evil, ominous gates of Mordor to ski "Happy Valley" for free. Life Goals Complete = 1 out of 2.
Well, I leave this immaculate country of New Zealand in two days... Here is a list of things that I will and will not miss.
Top Five Things I Will Not Miss. 10) the follow up question to being asked where I'm from, "You're from India?" 9) annoying accent of Kiwi women, the ending intonation of each sentence changed in pitch with no regards to declaritive sentences 8) dirt rock highways with one lane bridges 7) sheep 6) sleeping in hostels.... top 5 coming next week.
Top Ten Things that I Will Miss. 10) Having a pub on campus 9) NZ beer, Tui, Speight's, Steinlager 8) downtown Christchurch pubs, Sammy's and Mickey Finn's 7) Fish and Chips 6) NZ landscapes... rest coming later.
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