Where's Sam the Man

Italia

2008-04-08T03:24:00.000-07:00

Italy is difficult to generalize about. I was told that Italians identify more closely with their region rather than with their country as a whole, with distinct traditions and languages creating clear boundaries. My 2 and half week blast through Italy didn't allow me to savor each difference as I should have, but I did notice the changes as I traveled. So, rather than try to sum up the trip, I have tried to explain the different characters of the places I visited.

Venezia, or Venice -- It lived up to every ballad, poem, or fairy tale written about it. Wandering its streets, you can't believe that humans actually conceived a city as magical as this; it must have been elves, or some people with an otherworldly sense of romance and beauty. As soon as you leave the train station, industry and cold reality are lost in an enchanted labyrinth. Buildings start, stop, connect, separate, grow, shrink, leap, and crouch in a completely random manner, creating a pastel-colored, cobblestone maze that continually delights you with strange twists and hidden treasures. You cannot come to a disappointed end in this maze, however. The dead-ends are marble gondola moorings, hidden courtyards, an ancient fish market, a tiny pink chapel wedged between two homes, an miniature opera house...

What really adds the magic, though, are the canals. They drift throughout the city, scattering light on the ancient stone walls and wafting the perfume of sea water into the narrow alleys. The truth is, these liquid streets are actually the only way to get around. There are the elegant, touristy gondolas, of course, but there are also vaporetti (public water buses), elegant water taxis, delivery boats, private boats, etc. Hundreds of little docks are scattered throughout the city for this traffic. It's fantastic to see the romantic of idea of getting around by boat actually to be true.

Milano, or Milan -- Although we left it pleasantly surprised, initially it was a disappointment. The city is famous for being the center of fashion, but I found the main shopping drags to be rather humble in comparison to other elite cities such as London or Zürich. To be fair, though, I saw stores selling such things as designer baby carriages, so for sheer diversity of luxury Milano was impressive. Perhaps it's famous for being a design center, and not a retail center?

What really impressed us, though, was a completely unexpected trip to the duomo (cathedral). The outside was incredible enough. Instead of the typical dead, grey stone I had been seeing on major buildings up to that point, the duomo was made of a glowing white stone that fountained up into brilliant spires. It had real life. Nothing prepared for the inside, though. Walking into the belly of the third largest church in the world, I was actually awed into silence. The sheer immensity of the building must be seen to be believed. Columns the size of redwoods silently rear up in rows on either side, disappearing into the black void above your head, making you feel as small as you ever will. The decoration was simple, but any elaboration would have cheapened it, I think. It's starkness added to its majesty. As many churches as I've seen up to this point, this one takes the cake.

Cinque Terre -- It was a delicious breath of sea air after the cities. The name actually refers to an area on Italy's western coast, now protected as a national park. It's a coast of exceptional natural beauty. Hills lush with cactus, pines, lemon trees, herbs, olive orchards, and wildflowers rise up steeply to dive dramatically into the vivid blue of the Mediterranean. Sheltered along the coast are five (cinque) tiny, pastel-colored villages of plaster and stone, which are either cosily nestled into small harbours on the water or breathtakingly perched on a cliff edge. The tradition is to hike from village to village along the coast, on small dirt paths which lead you past romantically crumbling chapels, ancient stone farmhouses, forgotten shrines to the Madonna, and magnificent sea views. And although the towns are becoming more "discovered" by tourists, there is still a strong sense of community. Unlike Venezia, you actually felt like you were experiencing the country. The locals loved sharing their town with you -- especially then during Holy Week, when everyone was excitedly preparing for the local festivities. A wonderful stop.

Roma, or Rome -- It wasn't so much grand as...a grand disappointment. Not much has changed since Roman times; the ruins have just grown. There is none of the cleanliness I found in Berlin; instead, every public space was defiled by layer after layer of graffiti and grunge. There is none of the color that I found in Prague; instead, the buildings alternate between dirty browns and pea-yellows. There is none of the harmony with nature that I found in Stockholm; instead, a weary Tiber River pushes plastic bottles up and down the banks. The shops were boarded up, the streets were loud, and the only impressive buildings were the ancient ones -- and even they weren't in great shape. And expensive! What am I paying for, exactly?

Admittedly, the ruins were cool. I had seen the ruins of Efes (Ephesus) in Turkey, but the sheer scale of these buildings put them in a different league. If the remains are this awesome, then I can only imagine what it would feel to wander the streets of Roma in its glory days.

Città del Vaticano, or Vatican City -- To be politically correct, I suppose I should put the it in a separate paragraph, seeing as it is an autonomous state.

After what I had seen of Roma, I wasn't prepared to be impressed, but within a few minutes of touring the Vatican I was excited. A few minutes later, I was amazed. Not long after, I was floored. Peterhof is a magnificent palace, the Hofburg is an incredible treasury, and the Prada has a priceless art collection, but they are all public displays and separate, public institutions. The Vatican City unites the rooms, gold, and the art of these three behemoths into one private collection! Incredible! Elaborately, intricately gilded hallways house row after row of gigantic mosaics, then tapestries, then ancient sculptures (the greatest collection in the world), then gold crucifixes, then artifacts from ancient Mesopotamia, then costumes...and that's before you see the Rafael-frescoed apartments, the Michelangelo-painted Sistine Chapel, and the glittering tomb of Saint Peter. You have to see it to believe it. An that was only a fraction of the Vatican's hoard! We never saw the museums dedicated to Egypt, the Roman Empire, the Etruscans, the Pope's carriages, modern Christian art...to name but a few.

The basilica itself was impressive, though more for it's opulence than for it's size (after seeing Milano's duomo). It was interesting to see St. Peter's supposed resting place and Michelangelo's Pieta (yup, that's here too).

No wonder the Vatican City wanted to be seperate from Roma. It definitely justified the trip the area.

Napoli, or Naples -- I have read in every guide book up to this point about the incredible energy here. Now that I've been there, I'm still not sure if it's energy or chaos.
It's Italy's third largest city, bit it has none of the sprawling parks, spacious plazas, or wide boulevards that allow the other cities to stretch out and relax. This city is an ants nest of chaos and activity. The streets of Napoli are tiny alleys that condense all of the energy into such a small space that everybody and everything is ricocheting off each other. Balconies, laundry lines, ancient scaffolding, and bird cages pile on top of the streets, turning them into narrow tunnels which cut between the crumbling stone buildings. These dark passageways gave me the most trouble to navigate out of any city yet. They spiral everywhere, branching apart, swooping up, coming together, diving down, and dead-ending in a most impossible manner.

And then there are the ants in the tunnels. Cars run bumper to bumper all day, while Vespas zip around them. Vespas have the real advantage, because if the going gets slow they can just hop up onto the sidewalk and swerve through the pedestrians (I saw this happen). Traffic lights blare vainly to control the steady flow, but the crowd seems not to notice. Neopolitans never wait for a pedestrian crossing, but just dive into the flow and press on resolutely in front of the vehicles. The drivers, thankfully, show remarkable courtesy for this, and always stop.

Overall, it was an incredible tour through one of the cultural giants of the world. To see the tombs of such intellectual giants as Machiavelli and Galileo, architectural masterpieces such as the cathedrals in Firenze (Florence) and Milano, and cities with such global influence as Roma and Milano was a real thrill. Few countries seem to have excelled and influenced the world in so many different fields as Italy, and it was fascinating to see it from the inside out.

That said, it definitely was not the place of beauty and romance that I had heard about. Perhaps at one time it was, but that place is back in the history books with Romulus and Remus. The grunge, disorganization, and poverty made it seem more like an Eastern European country than a Western one. At least the ones in the East have the excuse of Communist oppression -- what's Italy's? Admittedly, things like bitter cold and rain on Easter Sunday at the Vatican might give a more negative impression. But when a train leaves half of its cars at the train station (including the ones we were on), with only a passerby gesturing madly to alert everyone, something must be off.

But I still love my Vivaldi.

Germany pics

2008-03-13T01:11:00.000-07:00

Stuttgart Christmas market

Zürich Christmas market

The family in Heidelberg, Germany

Necker River Valley

Heidelberg castle

Five beautiful pairs of cheeks

Berliner Philharmonie -- foundation stone laid by Herbert von Karajan, home to the greatest orchestra in the world

Brandenburger Tor (Brandenburg Gate) -- symbol of Berlin

The East Side Gallery -- a remainder of the Berlin Wall given over to local artists

Holocaust memorial in Berlin

The Last Four Months, in Brief

2008-03-01T12:06:00.000-08:00

Thankfully, the last four months did not consist solely of tiling, painting, lifting, and shoving. As one of the great culture capitals of the world, Germany offered more than enough to keep me entertained. A complete listing would be time-consuming and tedious (for you, my readers), so I have highlighted some events and listed them below:

1. Christmas Markets -- During the Christmas season, most Germanic towns (from villages to cities, from Berlin to Zürich) will put up a Weihnachtsmarkt (Christmas Market) in the town square. Local vendors set up wooden booths sheltered with pine boughs to create rambling shopping alleys along the cobblestone. They sell local cuisine (whole smoked fish in Stuttgart, Germany, toasted cheese in Zürich, Switzerland, and always, always hot wine), local crafts, Christmas ornaments, and other random gifts. The atmosphere is always charming, but as the cities get larger so does the scale of the markets. In Stuttgart there was a contest amongst the vendors, where each would try to make the most fantastic rooftop decorations -- you would find whole nativity sets blossoming out of pine branches, glittering angels fluttering above the passersby, etc. In Zürich the main attraction was a three-story Christmas tree dripping with Swarovski crystals. It's a great way to spend winter evenings.

2. My family -- Rather than allow me to spend Christmas on my own, much less the next six months, my family was able to fly over and meet me in Frankfurt for the week from Christmas to New Years. The first six months of travel had rushed by so quickly, but when I saw them again I realized how much I missed them. We spent a day in Frankfurt (where we saw the home of the great German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe), but quickly moved to the more quiet and charming hideaway of Heidelberg. The historical village is located in the lovely Neckar River valley in the southwestern corner of Germany. We spent the week wandering the ancient streets, exploring the romantic ruins of a castle perched on the hillside (a favorite place of writer Mark Twain), and just catching up on family time that we hadn't had in months. The week went by far too quickly, but it was a blessing for all of us!

3. Berliner Philharmoniker concert -- Most of you should know, by this point, that I am a self-confessed classical music nerd. One of my goals for my travels this year was to see, in person, the great European artists, directors, and orchestras that fill my iPod. In Tallinn, Estonia, my father and I had the chance to see the Fabio Biondi's ensemble Europa Galante -- the greatest Baroque orchestra in the world. Really fantastic (seriously: you'll never hear such such purity of tone from period instruments or life-filled Baroque interpretations anywhere else -- get yourself a CD). Now, being in Germany, there was only one thing on my mind: the Berliner Philharmoniker (Berlin Philharmonic). It's usually held to be the greatest modern orchestra in the world -- every player is a virtuoso! I made a weekend trip to Berlin (a whole other story...) to see the revered Dutch conductor Bernard Haitink conduct Schubert's Ninth Symphony, an Anton Webern arrangement of a part of J. S. Bach's Musikalsches Opfer, and Alban Berg's violin concerto (with Frank Peter Zimmerman on the violin). It was the greatest orchestra in the world, conducted by one of the greatest conductors in the world, playing music by some of the greatest composers in the world, at one of the greatest concert halls in the world (the Berliner Philharmonie). It's an amazing experience to be part of art at that level!

Confessions of a Christian Maintenance Man

2008-02-18T10:40:00.000-08:00

My confession is not just that I haven't blogged since the last blue moon, leaving you all to speculate about where in Turkey I was captured and sold into the white slave trade.

Nor is it just that I didn't didn't send you guys any Christmas presents. Your waiting is not due to the Turkish postal system -- I really didn't buy you any.

No, the heart of my confession is this: I have become a real man. I have been working as a maintenance man for the last four months.

You might as well get all of the laughs out of your system now.

Now shut up and let me explain.

Back in June, as I began to think about the logistics of one full year of travel, I began to realize that I couldn't stay on the move for 365 1/4 days. That last 1/4 day would be certain to kill me. Even the hard-core travelers that I've read about or talked to -- backpackers, motorcyclists, whatever -- said that after 6 months of being on the road "travel" becomes "living". The day plan becomes finding the next pub (or tea garden, depending on your preference) to hang out in. I decided that I need a place to rest from the road, refill my travel juices, be productive (I threw that in for my parents), and hopefully get to know a foreign culture a little better than constant backpacking allowed.

When I graduated from high school, all I knew was that I was leaving for Europe in a month and that I had nothing planned. I was thrown into travel homework as soon as school homework was done. As the weeks slipped by, me frantically trying to address all of the problems that needed to be addressed, I began to worry about finding any employment. Once I eliminated the out-of-season jobs like grape-picking in France, the unrealistic ones like being a female au pair, and the illegal ones like theft, all of the remaining opportunities were only for European citizens.

Those skinny-jean elitists.

When I lowered my standards from "formal employment with pay" to "whatever the heck I can get", things started to look more hopeful. My mother put me into contact with a Christian organization called the Capernwray Missionary Fellowship of Torchbearers, who often used volunteer labor in exchange for room and board. Torchbearers runs bible schools across the world, from Costa Rica to Greece to India (my mother attended the school in Sweden years ago), for students from all denominations and countries. Since they had schools throughout Europe, I knew it wouldn't be hard to end up at a school after my autumn travels.

After dozens of e-mail exchanges, kind offers, and much debating, I finally ended up at one of their German schools: Bodenseehof, in the town of Friedrichshafen. It was a convenient half way point as I finished traveling in Eastern Europe and started moving towards the West. Additionally, I was in close contact with two Germans and two Swiss (all past exchange students), so I had the reassurance of friends either in the country or next door.

Bodenseehof is located on the Bodensee/Lake Constance (the third-largest lake in Europe) in the south-eastern corner of Germany known as Baden-Württemberg. Looking out of your window at the school, you can see three countries -- the lake borders Germany, Switzerland, and Austria. Germany has the worst side of the lake, but it has the greatest view; on a clear day, you can the see the Swiss and Austrian Alps rising up out of the water. It's such a huge thrill to see every day. To remind yourself that you are seeing the the Swiss and Austrian Alps across the vast, glistening lake surface never fails to excite me. The German side is much more flat, with some rolling hills as you go farther inland. It is thick with miniature farms, vineyards, and pastures -- very lush, very peaceful.

The English-speaking school is an international conglomeration of about 80 odd students and staff. Most of the 60 students are from America or Canada, but there are some from Kenya, Taiwan, Japan, France, Austria, and, of course, Germany. Although the majority of the students are fresh out of high school, there are some college students and even middle-aged men and women in attendance. All come to the school with no grandiose theological goals, but rather with the simple desire to learn the foundational truths of Christianity and to draw closer to God.

Enter Samuel Hathaway: a windswept young man wearing shorts and flip-flops in the below-zero weather (so Germany isn't as warm as Turkey...), slinging two fake Hugo Boss duffels from his shoulders which were slowly sawing off his arms with their oppressive weight (had to carry my bike gear somehow), dragging a grungy cardboard box with Turkish slogans fading on the side (that would be my bike box), wearing cloths that had been washed with dish soap in a hostel kitchen for the last four months, and smelling no doubt rather ripe. What to do with this pitiful hobo at your door? Put him on the maintenance team.

Bodenseehof was in the heat of a large remodeling project, which meant that I and my baby-soft hands were thrown into the thick of things. Week 1 was "Learning How to Tile a Floor with Gerhard, a German Man Who Can Speak As Much English as I Speak German", and it just took off from there. From tiling floors we went to dry walling, painting everything from plaster to radiators to fire doors, building patios, carpentry, sawing firewood in the forest...you know, being Real Man (I had no idea what that meant, until now). In addition, the maintenance team is made up solely of Germans, which means that asking questions or receiving instructions for detailed jobs was much more difficult (anybody know the German word for "hacksaw"? the English word for that strange canister marked "lecksuchspray"?).

The beginning was painful, as I learned completely foreign skills and the calluses they require, but I slowly began to adapt -- and even enjoy myself. The raw, hands-on nature of maintenance work leaves you very satisfied upon completion of a job. And the jobs themselves, although not necessarily fascinating, were constantly changing and demanding new skills. Painting doors would require a patient attention to detail and aesthetics, installing lights would require a brief lesson on electronics, carrying sewer pipes would require my awesome brawn, etc. I appreciated the lack of routine, and the chance to learn and apply new skills -- patiently taught by the German maintenance men. Although the language barrier was frustrating at first, my German grammar and accent naturally improved much more quickly than would have been possible, otherwise.

Of course, these German instructions have their downsides: I'm only a German Christian Maintenance Man. The terms I know, the electronic system I know, etc., are only valid in Germany -- Europe, if we stretched it a bit. So, mom and dad, don't be thinking how nice it will be to have me home so I can be a resident MacGyver. I mean, I am a MacGyver, but the European one. The one with the dark-wash skinny jeans.

So, that's a summery of the last few months of relatively normal life. Settling down has not just allowed me to rest and save money, but has been a great cultural experiance. I feel like I am no longer walking through Europe like a man at the zoo, looking at all of the strange creatures in the cages; living here has allowed me to leave behind the spectators and get into the cage to slap high-fives with the monkeys. Or something like that. Anyway, the culture suddenly seems valid and workable, and no longer as strange as it once seemed. Europe is now a home and not a vacation spot.

My apologies at this delay, and my promises for more prompt updates. I'll try to post some pictures, soon, and maybe a quick list of highlights from my time here in Germany. Meanwhile, I'm working on plans for my spring travels. First destination: Italia.

360° view of Cappadocian region

2007-12-18T05:43:00.000-08:00

Pics from the East

2007-12-17T10:30:00.000-08:00

The main street of Ephesus

The Library

Who are these archaeologists trying to kid?! What is this?!

If you have extra water in your pack, you can uncover the fantastic mosaics on the floors.

Pamukkale, emerging on the right

The ruins of Hieropolis, on the top of the springs

Cappadocian landscape

One of the many valleys...

The town of Göreme, where I stayed. Note the windows in the rock.

The town oozing out of the stone

Rock-cut monastary

A rock-cut castle...and someone who wouldn't get out of the picture

Safranbolu

Go East, young man, go East

2007-12-16T05:38:00.000-08:00

I was stubbornly trying to sleep on a night bus rumbling along through the barren hills of Turkey. The sleek new Mercedes charter bus was packed with dirt-crusted potato farmers and work-worn farm wives, who stuffed their burlap sacks in luggage storage and were returning home after the Ramadan festivities. They hadn't left the party in Istanbul; these peasants were the party. As a Turkish-dubbed Jet Li film blared on the screens, the hot-blooded Turks laughed and shouted and cried late into the night. Some cultures are too powerful for earplugs. I dozed off and on, tossing and turning, until suddenly I opened my eyes and the bus was empty.

In a panic I squinted through the tinted windows -- and saw water rushing past past me. Struggling to shake the dullness of mind that comes after a recent nap, I grabbed my bag and stumbled out the door. A cold slap of wind brought me to my senses. I was on a ferry.
Thus reassured, I wearily slumped in the lounge, sipping a chai. The rocking of the boat was soothing me back to sleep, until my excitement suddenly roared up again. My chai and I sprinted to the deck. The view from the bow justified my agitation. I realized that, in the middle of the night, alone amidst Turkish peasants, I was crossing the Bosporus Strait. The million twinkling lights bejeweling the black hills on the opposite shore was Asia. I was leaving the elegance of the European continent and drawing near to the exotic mysticism of it's neighbor. I was stepping from one world to another.

The thrill of that night is still with me.

I had three weeks before halting my travels to work in Germany, and, after a week in Istanbul, I was convinced that there was no need to explore another country during this time when the one I was in had such treasure buried in the hills. So I bought a second-hand Lonely Planet guide book in Istanbul, bought a Hugo Boss duffel bag (how these street vendors get this stuff so cheaply is beyond me...), left my bike at my Istanbul hostel, and did my first unhindered backpacking tour in the heart of Turkey. I tortured myself for hours as I read through my guide book. Ruins rivaling Greece, stunning natural wonders, whole towns protected by UNESCO... Cutting anything from my itinerary felt like a sin! Vowing to return later in my life to explore the rest of the country, I decided to limit myself to the Eastern half. So, one evening, I hopped on board a bus and motored off to Asia.

Unlike the rest of Europe, Turkey has an almost nonexistent train network. Instead, an armada of luxurious charter buses whisks you from one ancient village to the next. And what service! Within minutes of pulling away from the otogar, a immaculately groomed steward offers you cologne to freshen your hands and face. He is followed by another steward who offers you either tea or coffee, accompanied by a strange, gooey, Ottoman carrot bar (if you've never had one, then I can't explain it). All of this serves to make your neighbor's BO that much more bearable. Perhaps it would be cheaper just to pass around deodorant, but each culture to its own.

My first stop was in the small town of Selçuk. Although most tourists use Selçuk as a base for exploring the ruins of Ephesus (which I will come to later), the town itself has places to explore. Set in dusty, bleak hills, one of the main attractions is the site of the Basilica of St. John the Apostle, a sixth century masterpiece built on the supposed tomb of -- you guessed it -- the disciple whom Jesus loved. Catholic/Orthodox tradition says that John moved to Efes (Ephesus, next door to modern Selçuk) with Mary (the mother of Jesus -- a shrine built on her tomb is a major pilgrimage site for Catholics) in the last years of his life, where he went on to write the three epistles attributed to him. Alternately, you could visit the Temple of Artemis (also known as the Temple of Diana), one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. This is where Paul of Tarsus, in chapter nineteen of the book of Acts, faced the rioting of the Ephesians loyal to Artemis. Although today the temple is completely destroyed, aside from one solitary reconstructed pillar, being on the site of such a monument is a thrill in itself.

But the real attraction of the area is Ephesus, the best-preserved Classical ruins in the world. Although some parts were spectacular, most was not actually "preserved" but reconstructed my modern archaeologists -- very badly, in my ignorant opinion. They tried to build the facades of buildings, various arches, certain homes, etc., but most of the time it looked like some child had piled some lumps of marble on top of each other. Sometimes there were so many pieces missing that almost the whole arch was made of concrete...supporting one original marble keystone. Ridiculous. To come to a site of historical significance and wonder whether you are seeing history or someone's imagination is...a bit disappointing. However, like I said, there were parts that the archaeologists seemed to get just right and, when it happened, it would blow your mind away. Out of the marble litter strewn around the ground would suddenly rise up a magnificent facade or monument. You are stunned to see the foggy, distant elements of history suddenly rising proudly, tangibly in front of you. It makes the glory of history very real, and, for that, Ephesus was worth every penny.

En route to my next destination, I took a spur of the moment stop at site called Pamukkale. As you watch the steep brown mountains roll by outside the bus window, you suddenly see a brilliant white scar come streaking down the hillside. It looks like a avalanche of pearls, or a waterfall of porcelain. You would swear that it was snow, but the temperature is 80 degrees. All around it are grey filthy hills, which makes it blaze even more brilliantly. As you begin to hike up the trail, you see people in speedos and bikinis sunning on the slopes. Up close, the white substance looks exactly like freshly fallen snow...hardened into stone. What is this, you ask? Pamukkale is the site of a calcium-rich spring that has been trickling down the mountain for centuries, depositing its treasure in every nook and cranny it flowed over. Creeks and ponds of this bright turquoise water provide delightful bathing or foot-soaking all across the hard white slope. Modern tourists weren't the first people to discover this remarkable place; the ancient Romans built a city called Hierapolis on top of the springs. It was famous for its mineral baths, but the city also had a breath-taking theater, built into the hillside and overlooking the sprawling valley, and the ruins of a basilica built on the site (again, according to Catholic/Orthodox tradition) where St. Philip was martyred. The site was a remarkable blend of natural beauty and history.

Another bus ride drove me into the heartland, into one of the most fascinating regions I have ever seen. Cappadocia, an ancient volcanic region, is lined with hundreds of valleys, each filled to overflowing with beautiful and bizarre rock formations know as fairy chimneys (essentially a stone mushroom of gigantic proportions). Although the land is dry and vegetation is limited, there is no other word to describe the area besides gorgeous. It is a different kind of beauty, more raw and rugged, still there. The landscape constantly morphs itself into new and wonderful shapes -- the stone never repeats the same trick twice. Which would be remarkable and worth a tourist visit on its own, but it gets better. Since its first conquerors (the Persians, in the 6th century), Cappadocia has been slowly transformed into a human-sized ant nest. The inhabitants have been tunneling into the soft stone for centuries, creating castles, cathedrals, monasteries, schools, and entire cities...all underground! Like I said, this habit was not carried out by one people; each new culture would build upon the construction of the last. The cities were expanded layer by layer as the builders added ventilation shafts to carry fresh air, wells to supply water during a siege, stone doors to halt intruders, kitchens, schools for children... Today the cities extend eight levels into the ground! The rock cut churches are equally famous. Although not as structurally remarkable as the cities, most contain stunning frescoes painted by centuries of Christians. The churches seem to be built every few feet in the cliff faces -- there are hundreds in the area -- and as you hike the valley you may likely stumble across a forgotten one. Although the modern Turks do not live in these underground buildings today, their cities still grow organically from the stone. Especially in the old part of town, it is hard to tell where the wall stops and the cliff face begins.

My final stop was the UNESCO town of Safranbolu, in the north of Turkey. It is an almost perfectly preserved Ottoman town, which somehow escaped modernization and large-scale development after the collapse of the empire. Off the charts of large-scale tourism, living prices have stayed down and the town is populated almost entirely by a lower/middle class, which lends the town a very authentic feel despite its beauty and charm. Ottoman style is, to a certain extent, comparable to the American "Bungalow" style. Heavy, dark wood trim frames white plaster walls. The design is largely modest -- the only excitement comes from patterned woodwork and the richly colored Turkish carpets -- but the effect is pleasantly restrained and refined. Ottoman craftsmanship was renowned, and the homes are filled with ingenious touches, such as revolving cupboards which allowed the servants to serve food without being seen. The attraction in Safranbolu is simply the town itself, and you can wonder fascinated for hours through a living piece of history. Local crafts still thrive in the antique streets, and you are quickly welcomed into a store for a cup of chai and a private demonstration of the master's art. The locals seem to have forgotten that time has marched by. But, seeing the blissful bubble of culture and tradition that they live, I don't see any reason to tell them.

Istanbul was a thrill, but the last few weeks of backpacking in Turkey have thrust the country up to one of the highlights of my trip. Turkey is so historically rich, culturally thriving, and delightfully ignorant of a more traditional way of life, that my extra time only made me hungry to see more.

Istanbul pictures

2007-11-22T10:48:00.000-08:00

You know a city has been ushered into the 21st century when it has Minnesota Timberwolves posters.

The Grand Bazaar

Fishermen on Galata Bridge

Ramadan central, near the Blue Mosque

Coffee, Turkish style, made by men, Turkish style.

A friend and I (I'm the one with the chai, not the nargil)

Roll out the kebabs -- this party's just startin'

The Blue Mosque at night

The Blue Mosque...in the day. With a popcorn vendor below

The Hagia Sophia

A mixture of religous symbols testifies to the church's history (note the Virgin Mary on the dome and the Islamic elevated platform for the "preacher"...and the massive Arabic script)

Hmm...this one's slightly crooked. I guess the floors get a bit tilted after 1500 years.

Istanbul, Turkey

2007-11-11T04:08:00.000-08:00

Survival instinct kicks in soon after I first arrive in a new city. My one thought is of securing food and shelter, and I am struck with a peculiar focus that blocks out anything irrelevant to these two necessities. Every building fades into a grey haze except the tourist information booth and the road leading to my hostel. I smell nothing, hear nothing, and see nothing until I place my bag on the bed.

My train arrived in Istanbul early in the morning. As I navigated my way through the colorless fog to my pension, I assumed that I was walking down yet another cobblestone street, instinctively prepared for more baroque churches. It was only during my shower that all of my sensory functions began to whir again. Hunger was whirring the most noisily, so I took a short walk to find breakfast. I found a small cafe near the central park and settled down to breakfast, preparing to explore yet another European city.

And then I heard the call to prayer.

The Hagia Sophia began first, lifting its voice in notes never heard in Western music, breaking all the rules of ordered sound in the first cry. The Blue Mosque soon took up the call. Back and forth these religious strongholds wailed, dueling with chants that streaked across the sky and swirled around the minarets.

And then it suddenly stopped.

With the voices still echoing in my head, my neck prickling, I realized that I had left Europe as I knew it. The cliche is that Turkey is where East meets West, and, although I have never been too far east and cannot truly test the truth of this, the country strikes me as an amazing blend of eastern and western cultures that I didn't think existed. The population is 98% Muslim, but rather than stereotypically conservative it is very western-inclined. Most women go about in hip, albeit modest, urban wear, with only a casual headscarf to remind you of their background. The Arabic script was usurped by the Latin one when Turkey became a republic in 1923. Turkish government is, constitutionally, strictly secular. And, although mosque spires take the place of church steeples, Istanbul has all of the trappings of a modern city, with Gucci advertisements, lovely parks, a slick lightrail, and posters for the Minnesota Timberwolves.

Eastern exoticism remains, however. I arrived in Istanbul in time for the final days of the Islamic holiday of Ramadan, and it was an unforgettable glimpse into a world far away from anywhere I had been. During the ninth month of the Islamic calender, called Ramadan, many Muslims fast during the daylight hours. At sundown, however, they are allowed to eat again. In Istanbul this means going to the hippodrome (the main park in the city) for a grand ol' party after the coach buses have carried the tourists away. Underneath Egyptian, Greek, and Byzantine columns, glowing stalls line the streets, with vendors hawking roasted chestnuts, fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice, Arabic calligraphers for hire, hot apple pudding, baklava (a flaky pastry with pistachios and walnuts, soaked in honey), a photo op with a sultan (a surprising number exist in Istanbul), roasted sweet corn...kinda makes caramel apples and an organ grinder seem pretty lame. The entertainment roars up later in the evening, starring the world-famous Whirling Dervishes (spinning dancers from the Sufi sect) and an Ottoman marching band -- which received the cheers given to any popular rock band in the States. With a thousand exotic smells in my nose, a thousand in my ears, and at least a million in my eyes, I was as excited as any good Turkish kid.

But Istanbul has treasures in the daylight, as well. The majority are centered around the hippodrome, which, although today it is a park, it's the historical site of the actual Byzantine hippodrome. As it fell out of use and the years went by, local builders began to use the edifice as a convenient quarry and later as a dumping ground for the dirt removed for new buildings. As a result, the ground is 10 feet higher and nothing remains of the original hippodrome. Some elements serve as reminders, however, such as the Greek and Egyptian monuments which were stolen from throughout the Roman Empire to add classical grandeur to the spot.

The cities two biggest attractions, the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, sit at opposite ends of this oblong park, enemies made to stare at each other for centuries. Each one is a roar made by believers unrivaled to this day. Humbling any Christian or Islamic structure constructed since, they the epicenters of their sect's architectural achievement.

The Hagia Sophia ("Holy Wisdom") squats on its haunches at one end of the park like a massive pink behemoth, buttresses piling on top of each other like thick, flabby limbs. Inside, however, is a different story. After 1400 years of history and modernization, whole countries forming and dissolving much less people's opinions, every tourist is hushed when entering the Hagia Sophia. The timeless beauty and sheer size of this basilica cum mosque cum museum continues to silence visitors after more than a millennium. Coming inside, you feel like you have loudly stumbled into something terribly sacred. You are the filthy intruder of something pure. The dusky gold on the walls seems to drift across the vaulted ceiling like translucent cobwebs, making the room glow warmly. With no columns cluttering the nave, yours eyes are drawn up towards the cavernous dome by shafts of light. You see a towering, stern-faced archangel float in one corner, while on the opposite wall sweeping gold brush strokes proclaim the greatness of the prophet Muhammad. For two hours, with your head bent up to the ceiling the entire time, you wander the building entranced.

The Blue Mosque is, in my own estimation, blatantly misnamed. If any religious institution in town was to attach a color descriptive to its name, it should be the Hagia Sophia (I was thinking something along the lines of "Pink Church"). Of course, the tourists are to blame for this misnomer; locals call it the Sultanahmet Mosque, after Sultan Ahmet who commissioned the project. But the mosque has been the object of much understanding. When the sultan was instructing his architect, he said that he wanted a gold minaret as a symbol of his wealth and power. The words for "gold" and "six" are very similar in Turkish, and it seems that the sultan was misunderstood and got a granite minaret...six of them. Despite the confusion, it remains a magnificent building. The architect, Sinan, was the master of his day, and he created a stunningly elegant exterior -- even before being compared to the Hagia Sophia's. Growing organically growing from the ground, grey stone billows out into domes and fountains up into spires. The inside is the real attraction, however. Walls, ceilings, arches, and pillars all drip with the famous Iznik tiles. Each tile is a hand-crafted work of art, containing leaves and flowers in shades of purple, red, and teal. The effect is an intricate ceramic garden that drapes between elegant arched windows and gilded accents. A contrast to the heavy mysticism and dark beauty of the Hagia Sophia, but a delightful one.

And that's the flavor of Istanbul. Over two thousand years of different cultures being whipped into a unique whole -- a melting pot to rival any American city. You can wander the Byzantine walls, pass a cafe built into a crumbling Ottoman mosque, find Grecian columns in the cistern, and see a Roman road sign all within a 10 minute walk. An incredible mix of new and old that continues to change today as the country races towards European Union membership. Considering how it has managed the last two thousand plus years, I look forward to seeing what happens next!

Good thing my senses kicked in again. Istanbul was just a warm-up (tune in next time...).

Granola Ranchers: I've found you guys a new look for 2008!

2007-10-24T04:58:00.000-07:00

You would take the leader's flute, of course, Gentry.

Kika: do you know how marketable you are?!

2007-10-24T04:55:00.001-07:00

You wouldn't believe what they charge for a gallon of gas over here!

2007-10-24T04:50:00.000-07:00

Czech Republic pics

2007-10-24T04:10:00.000-07:00

The Continuing Adventures of Ol' Block and Chip-Off-The-Ol'-Block

2007-10-23T00:55:00.000-07:00

You don't need to be a biker to appreciate the invitation of Spandex and sweat. It's an appeal to the inner barbarian in each of us, a call to the days when our hunter/gatherer ancestors would don tight black pants and go spear a mammoth. And really, when you're in the saddle, grunting up a hill, streaked with chain grease, and raspberry sport drink staining the corners of your mouth, it's not hard to see the similarity with early man. Except you're actually killing yourself as you suffer up the mountain, and not the mammoth.

However, regardless of who or what was going to die, my father joined me in St. Petersburg, Russia, for one month of bicycle touring in Eastern Europe. Along the way we delicately balanced time in the saddle and time in the streets. Beginning in the cool pine forests of the Baltic States and working our way down to the sun-baked minarets of Turkey, we spend time in Riga (see earlier blog), Praha (Prague), and Krakow in between days of cycling. A route of that scale offers an incredible display of diversity -- ecologically, geographically, and culturally. We watched pubs change into tea gardens, moist forests lose ground to dry scrubland, Orthodox churches give way to mosques. Although we never gave each location the time it deserved (but could you ever?), we had a delicious sampling of the best of Eastern Europe.

Although we rambled all over, we did the bulk of our cycling in the castle-encrusted hills of the Czech Republic. We arrived in time to enjoy Autumn in Bohemia -- one of the few places in the world that is truly exists for Fall, forming a symbiotic relationship with the season that allows each other's beauty to grow in a way that it couldn't on its own. The richly color-gilded hills and the Hapsburg fortresses that crowned the cliffs needed the other. The hills, flecked with autumnal scarlets and golds, would build in excitement on the slopes until they climaxed at the peak with the ancient castle, shouting for more attention than you would have given before. Flanked by this scenery, we were guided both through towns of quiet pastel cottages and the cultural bastion of Praha. One day would reveal the wealth and power of aristocrats, and the next would bring us pedaling by a family gathering mushrooms -- all made more glorious by the season.

Although we only noticed these things on the downhills, as we only saw our pain on the uphills.

The land had history to match. Praha was the seat of the Holy Roman Empire from 1355 to 1492, and so benefited from all of the wealth that the emperors chose to lavish upon it. With all of the hype that I had heard about Praha I was prepared to be dissapointed, but the ''mother of cities'' lived up to every excited description. In the other cities on my trip, there is a special, roped-off ''old town'' that is smothered by modern development. However, Praha is an old town. You can wander for hours along its cobweb of streets and and marvel at the grand architecure that forms each building, never seeing the same one twice and still marveling at the city's culture. And there is plenty there: a Gothic cathedral to rival Notre Dame, the historic home of the second largest population of Jews in Europe, the largest castle complex in the world... The creators of the city not only dreamed big, but followed through.

The cultural magnestism of Praha -- combined with some political pressure from the Emperor -- drew Holy Roman nobles from all across Europe to settle nearby. So even after my dad and I left Praha we caught glimmers of the aristocracy on the hilltops. The castles provided a nice backdrop for our cycling, but they also provided a fascinating insight the lives of the privilaged class. Most tourism pours through the castles and palaces of emperors and kings, but rarely do you see the life of the regional lords. To see their homes, and learn how their estates were managed, was a rare treat.

I could fill web pages with descriptions of the different peoples, places, and sketchy breakfasts that we experienced, but hopefully this small excerpt will give you an idea of the wonderful time had by myself and the first member of my family that I had seen for three months. I wouldn't have changed a thing.

A word about Babushkas.

2007-10-12T05:02:00.000-07:00

Babushkas. The foundation on which Eastern Europe is built. Their aggressive resourcefulness drives all the multi-various cogs of a civilized nation: child protection and transportation, pocket Kleenex sales, and hostel breakfast etiquette. When the younger generation falters it is the Babushka, with her iron-jawed determination, who slaps the weakling back into place. When you try to dip your mug into the hot water pot, it is the Babushka who berates you in your native tongue to get you to pour the water, instead. Babushkas are the fiery coals the heat the furnace of progress.

When one sees the efficiency of these skirted soldiers of discipline, you have to wonder: how does one achieve the ranking of Babushka? It can be no small feat, surely, considering the single-minded focus and untiring energy which they apply to scowling at young hostelers tip-toeing across a newly mopped floor. What mine field must they navigate? What sumo wrestler must they thump into submission? What predator must they kill with a glance? Or is it something less obvious, and more elusive?

I believe I have uncovered the answer.

Everybody ages into a Babushka. While people-watching one day, it suddenly struck me: there were no old men! None! You were able to see toddlers, children, the teenagers, the young adults, the victims of various mid-life crisises, but the chain of development abruptly stops...and then you notice all of the Babushkas patroling the streets.

The answer was so simple and natural, but had eluded me up to that moment. It seems that the qualities of Babushka lie dormant in the blood of every Eastern European, man or woman. I have never once seen an intermediate phase (i.e. a male dockworker with the requisite Flowerd Scarf tied over his head), which leads me to believe that the evolution is quite rapid -- perhaps even overnight. The women would adapt readily, no doubt, to wearing the Grey Skirt and Flowered Shawl, but I imagine the whiskered carpenter would struggle pulling on his Brown Nylons for the first time -- indeed, he may even feel some shock when he rolls out of bed one morning when he sees himself a foot shorter, and a general bulge throughout his body that may not have been there before. But the younger men that I saw seemed to courageously look forward to this new step in their life, calmly chain-smoking as if nothing was going to happen.

I suppose they would be comforted by the fact that they still had their whiskers.

This is just one of the many extraordinary cultural discoveries I have made on my travels! And perhaps they are only remarkable to me, as an outsider. Maybe I should not pity the men, who miss out on the Western joy of being a grandfather; it is not for me to hold my own expectations and traditions above others'. I hope to have the open-mindedness to see more of these cultural nuances, and the sensitivity to accept them without judgement. After all, without the Babushka, would we even have a Eastern Europe?

The Baltic States

2007-09-25T06:59:00.001-07:00

The Baltic States -- an sweeping term that covers the distinctly different countries of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania -- have been some of the great success stories in Europe. Despite being squeezed by Sweden, Poland, Russia, and, most recently, the USSR, the peoples of these countries have maintained a proud national identity and culture that lead to their recent independence. Although young as independent nations (this is only the the sixteenth year of Latvia's independence) and left with a crumbling economy by their retreating conquerors, the Baltic States have risen to join NATO, the European Union, the United Nations, and have built up some of the fastest growing economies in Europe.

After taking a train from St. Petersburg, Russia, to Tallinn, Estonia, my father and I began our bike tour in the thick pine forests and wonderfully preserved old towns of these states. The unmistakable touch of communism is still seen, with stark grey cubes rising alongside medieval towers, but much of the historical towns still remains. Everything seems to be built on a charmingly miniature scale -- from the castle wall to the carefully-tended parks. It does not, like St. Petersburg, awe you with size and grandeur, but it does not overwhelm; you can wander the delicate gardens and cobblestone streets without a 20-foot stone giant swinging his dagger at you from a pedastel at the fortress gate. They are built on a refreshingly human scale, instead of that of gods and godesses that Peter the Great had in mind. The people take great pride in their countries, and one of of the first steps they seem to have taken after independence was to restore their cities to their former beauty. It took some fierce scrubbing to clean away the communist grime -- indeed, some still remains -- but the sparkle of Estonian, Latvian, and Lithuanian culture is beginning to show.

Although we biked and strolled boulevards in each country, our real experiance came in Riga, the capital city of Latvia. Rather than our ignorant strollings, we had the pleasure of a guided tour by the charming Miss Zanda Treija -- a native Rigan who actually became acquainted with my family in Montevideo, while she was staying with Paul and Sandy Thompson. She played the gracious host of two sweaty, spandex-clad bikers (people I certainly wouldn't want in my house), and lead us around her city. It's exciting to see a city in the midst of such a wonderful transformation: to see smog wiped from copper domes, Art Nouveou facades shining again, streets laid with fresh cobblestone, etc. Although there are still reminders of their difficult past, these brilliant monuments to prosperity, blooming throughout the city, gives evidence of the energy and enthusiasm of the Latvian culture. We not only saw this during our walk, but we had the opportunity of hearing it for ourselves from Zanda. She never tired of explaining her history, pointing out the present delights of her culture, and envisioning how her country would develop.

You can't help but leave the town full of admiration for Latvians' drive, and excited for what's in store for their country. At least, not if you had the guide that we had! To the Treija family: best of luck, and thank you for sharing your country with us!

St. Pete pictures

2007-09-18T07:53:00.000-07:00

Ahh, that elusive Russian touch

Take a look above the window...

The Hermitage, and some drunk who wouldn't get out of the picture

Peter the Great's lake cabin

The lake cabin's private chapel

Санкт-Летербург, Россия (Saint Petersburg, Russia)

2007-09-10T00:42:00.000-07:00

I arrived in St. Petersburg on September 6, feeling like Lenin returning from exile as a tinny Russian anthem was cranked into the air from Soviet-era speakers. It was a strange contrast: grand symphonic music projecting from a crumbling station that was probably maintained last when the speakers were installed. But St. Petersburg itself is a contrast, of grand extremes.

I have never before seen a city on this scale; the size of Peter the Great's vision is staggering. The idea behind his city was not just to build a gateway to the thriving western nations (St. Pete is located on the Baltic Sea, allowing water access to these nations), but also to trumpet Russia's success by western standards. Before building the city, Peter traveled around Europe as a humble shipbuilder, learning for himself what was great and beautiful across Europe. After travel, he washed the grime off his hands, pulled out his notes, recruited 40,000 serfs (per year)and, in 1703, got busy.

His vision was a "Venice of the North," a city of waterways and canals that would be unrivaled in its grandeur and sophistication. The greatest artists in the world were called in to design the buildings, parks, canals, etc. Peter held nothing back that the mighty Russian Empire could offer; anything that would make the city more breath-taking or cultured or unique was encouraged. Whatever he had found that made the west "great" was skimmed during his travels and incorperated into the city. Nobility, too, were called from throughout Russia and settled in the city. It was the Russian capital for over two hundred years. Although Peter's early death slowly killed the city's development, he lived long enough to create a city of incredible size and magnificence.

Like most things in Russia, however, time and Soviet rule have clouded the brilliance of the empire's remains. Walking along its streets, you are feel the same as when you see the wreck of the Titanic. You are struck with awe that something so massive and grand could appear in front of you as something humbled and corroding. The gay blues, yellow, and pinks of the sweeping arches have worn back to the dull sandstone. The broad boulevards are chained down by hundreds of rusting tram cables. The bright copper limbs of the gods and goddesses flying up the facades has aged past a proud green to a mouldy grey, coated with smog. The people rushing along the polluted streets, their eyes distracted with Blackberries and and ears plugged with headphones, seem oblivious to the faint echoes of opulance that rear up on either side.

It's easy to be distracted by the decay, but the grand dream of Peter the Great can still be seen. Nothing short of leveling the city could hide the proud splendor found in its streets. Despite historical and real divisions of politics and society, St. Petersburg still stands as a monument to civilization.

Enough veggies -- more meat!

2007-08-30T05:23:00.000-07:00

Okay, I hear you guys: "Enough of the freakin' botanical monologues!" True, I'm in Europe and most of my blog has been nature poetry that would have made Bambi weep. With this entry, I'm going to stop stuffing my writing with grass and twigs, and fill it out with flesh and blood. Not my own, because you guys need a good year of rest from me, but, rather, but that of some interesting folks who I've met along the way.

Every traveler who I spoke with before I left was excited for the people that I would meet during my travels. They would talk about the revolutionists, carnies, and Soviet police that engaged them in fascinating conversations over an espresso, and maybe even journeyed with them for a while. Then their wallet was stolen and the friendship ended, of course, but the point is that one of the joys of travel is not just what you see, but who you meet.

My plane ride over did not exactly encourage me to socialize, for those of you who remember, but I was still curious about what characters I would meet along the way. One of the benefits of solo travel is that you are never distracted by a conversation with your traveling buddy (note: I miss you guys!), so not only are you able to join others' conversations more easily, but you are more approachable by others. The communal atmosphere of a hostel is ideal for this, where budget travelers share everything but toothbrushes -- you can't help but interact with others. Yet, for the first few weeeks, my interactions with others only caused them look harder at their shoes. To be fair, I approached Scandinavia ready to be proven wrong on every stereotype taught to me by Ole and Lena, but not a word was spoken to me by any sober person other than what was absolutely neccessary. Oddly, it was only when I pushed into the far north that people began to converse with me. A lot. In fact, I couldn't get them to stop talking even when I wanted to have a moment of peace. But I was finally meeting "those people," and I thouroughly enjoyed hearing their stories. Gabbing with a complete stranger for hours, while happening occasionaly on other levels, seems to be most common for budget travelers, and, as long as I was down there at the bottom, I wanted to take advantage of this potentially fascinating opportunity.

By this point I have met a number of characters, and I have listed a couple below, for your enjoyment:

First on my list is a 60 year old woman who just started bike touring four years ago! And I thought I was a toughie. Her husband wants no part of the sport (at 60 years old, who can blame him. I don't want to be biking with a trailer for my IV), and her friends feel the same way, so she has gone by herself (not just a woman traveling by herself, but a 60 year old woman!) across Poland, Croatia, and France on bike! Pulling her own luggage! She has seemingly avoided the worn trails, and gone for more challenging route -- like Poland, with roads of uneaven quality, and Croatia, simply a biker's hell with narrow roads and reckless drivers. This lady had guts. While she was holed up in the winter, she would fill her living room with maps and charts, planning the routes for the coming summer. While it snowed outside, she said, she would imagine the sunshine, warm sea, and wildflowers of her new cycle journey. She was a real pleasure to talk: so alert, curious, and excited about living. Rather than let the adventure intimidate her, she let in excite her for what she would find. A lovely person.

There was also a fellow that had me scared out of my socks, at first sight. I shared a hostel room with this guy, and I was tip-toeing by his bed before I got to know him. I walked into the room, one day, and saw that someone else had joined me -- he wasn't in the room, but I saw his luggage. Heavy black coats were draped over the bunk bed, heavy-duty boots were placed on the floor, bandannas in crazy prints were stuffed into different orifices (seriously, anyone who wears bandannas is mixed up), and a bottle of Jack Daniel's was on the floor (okay, it could have been apple juice, but who's telling this story?). When I finally saw the large-jawed, long-haired fellow who owned this stuff, I was even more intimidated. Yet, somehow, we started talking, and he turned out to be the nicest, simplest person you've ever met -- and a passionate environmentalist! He talked for a long time about why we need to preserve the Swedish pine forests, about how he would love to see the national parks in Alaska, and about how he loves the freedom offered by the large swaths of undeveloped land in northern Sweden -- especially how you can stop by the road anywhere and eat the wild blueberries that grow in abundance. An excellent point. Such a nice, honest fellow!

People are so fascinating! Seriously, you guys should talk with one, sometime. Travel isn't neccassary for that, I suppose, but travelers can offer such interesting stories. Each adventurer has their own fascinating experiance to tell about. If the last few weeks are an indicator of what's to come, than it should be an interesting year.

Anyway, there's the proof that I haven't spent all of my days plopped on a toadstool.

Those Finns...

2007-08-24T07:52:00.000-07:00

Moose traffic has gotten so bad in Finland that the government has spent millions of Euros on special paved lanes for their horned friends.

Pictures from Above the Arctic Circle

2007-08-24T07:26:00.000-07:00

The town at the Arctic Circle...and my bike (he really wanted to be in a picture)

A li'l moose calf -- surprisingly unafraid of humans.

A fascinating sunset on my last night

Above the Polcirkeln

2007-08-20T02:20:00.000-07:00

Although much of my trip only took shape in the last month before departure, and much of it still remains vague, biking above the Arctic Circle was a preexistant goal. Taking such a route would bring me hundreds of kilometers off of a direct route to Turkey (my end of 2007 goal), but it seemed to bring new scope to my trip that few other things could. Anyway, I looked forward to peering down from my vantage point and seeing the tops of your little heads as you went about your daily business. I'll even reach down my finger from up here and tap your shoulder when you're not looking. And, in the end, I should have better momentum at this altitude for my dive South.

This last week of biking was a demanding push to get beyond the Polcirkeln (as the Swedes call it). Each day I locked horns with a ferocious wind that tossed me backwards and forwards, sometimes in the direction I wanted to go and other times it simply had me panting on the ground. The first day of the week I was on its good side, and, with my panniers as great honkin' sails on the side of my bike, I was flown over 150 km of amazed Swedes. In the following days it became more ornery, and each day became a battle. It was a formidable opponent. As soon as I thought I understood its moves it would swiftly come in from the side, hitting hard and leaving me breathless. As I neared the Circle my waterprood gear also had its first real test, with torrential rains joining the wind to slap me up. So I arrived at the Arctic Circle weary and soggy, but triumphant.

Although the last few days have had me distracted and exausted, and although the weather has not always been the finest, there have been enough moments of peace and beauty for me to put together a favorable report of the land this far north. The area is something very special, but the qualities that make it such can be somewhat elusive. I have done my best to give you an accurate impression of what, I think, are the two most important characteristics.

1. One of the most preciously unique elements that give the land its allure is, I think, the light. I have arrived at a time when the sun is neither always present nor always gone (as the land is often known for), but this "in between" lighting brings special effect. I'm not sure if it ever gets completely dark. When I go to bed at 11:00 pm, the sky is still draped in a heavy twilight, and when I am woken up at 3:00 am I find bright afternoon sunshine streaming through my window. But the magical effect begins later, around 7:00 am, when the sunlight ages from a white brilliance to the warm yellow glow of evening, casting a golden veil over the leaves and rivers. The colors of the pines and wildflowers flare up deep and rich under this finery -- the color palate has a new vibrancy. This used to create some slight tension as I biked, for as I saw my long shadow and the evening colors, I paniced that it was late in the day and I was not at my hostel, yet. However, when I checked my clock, I would realize that it was only 12:30 pm. Once you get used to the idea, though, you can only appreciate the unique effect.

2. Everything seems cleaner and purer up here: the air, the water, the blue in the sky . . . I think this comes from the lack of human presence above the Circle; there is so little that interferes with your pure enjoyment of the land. The self-contained towns are so small and quiet, so mild and unassuming, that the miles and miles of untouched natural beauty can rise up and take center stage. There are no cabins or hill-top development, just a charming cluster of houses every so often. You can bike on the top of a valley and simply marvel at the panorama of sky and hills, watching the shadows of the clouds glide like gentle, silent behemoths across the pines, not breaking a single twig.
I have never heard a silence like this, either. With the traffic of highways hundreds of kilometers away, and no factories grunting and moaning in the distance, you are left with a peace and quiet that can only be compared to a forest during a snowfall. But even that silence implies muffled noise. The calm here is absolutely pure. Sitting by a lake in the evening, I could hear the soft patter of a birds' wings as they flew across a lake. You could sit and listen to the sound of a breeze traveling through miles and miles of pine. The moth fluttering nearby seemed to be making an unnecesary amount of noise.

The peace and simplicity of this area have completely enchanted me.

Pictures of Mark and I

2007-08-13T09:12:00.000-07:00

This place cranks out some pretty mean kanelbulle. Charming cafe.

Mark and I

2007-08-12T07:01:00.000-07:00

For some reason, people say that because I have never done bike touring before, therefore I am an amateur. They say it's common sense. I call it quick to judge. Well, those folks got lucky, I guess, because when I started my biking I realized that I lacked some information that would make me completely proficient at the sport. To say the least.

Enter my uncle Mark, a hardened traveler who has spent time in South America, Europe, Asia, and even the United States. He is also a butt-hardened cyclist, who has logged miles touring around Europe, so he was a natural choice for a travel mentor. I'm not sure if I passed the final test or not, but here are the highlights from the notes he gave me:

1. No need to rush. Spend time each morning to feed your addiction; you'll start the day more relaxed.

The evening of our arrival at a hostel, Mark would prowl the grounds in the dark for a suitable "mate spot." I never dared ask him exactly what the criteria were (what do you say to a guy who slinks in dark corners?), but when morning came he would lead me to a couple of chairs in the lovliest spot that the area had to offer. There, he would sip at his yerba mate, I would sip my tea, and, as we chatted, any tension left over from the previous day's ride would melt away.

2. Just bike. Don't ask the map guy how far it is to the hostel unless you want to feel really good at the moment.

Okay, so the maps are a little hard to read. Is that my fault? Seriously, the distance looked pretty short every day. What's a few dozen kilometers in either direction? I mean, are we men or are we men? And didn't you feel relief every time I told you that low number, Mark? I was just prolonging your mate-induced relaxation and helping you to have a more enjoyable ride.

3. The metric translation of "mileage" is "kilometrage." We think.

4. Let out a 10 km whoop, Paraguaian style.

This is where my amateur status really showed, and where a veteran was needed. When you've biked 100 km, you have 25 km to go, and the map guy originally said you'd only have to bike 80 km, you need a little pick me up. Sadly, they don't teach whooping at the Hathaway Institute for Higher Learning (in fact, it is generally frowned upon) or at Struther's Camp Corruption (are you reading this, Scott? I'm thinking some course reorganization), but thankfully Mark spent four years in Paraguay in the Peace Corps. And those guys can whoop a whoop that will push you through that next 10 km.

5. Talk to the cows.

Everybody likes to toy with their prey...before they tip them over, heh heh heh...

6. Wasa.

Wasa bread is a lesson in itself. Actually, it's a belief system in itself. If you've never had Wasa, then I don't know that I can explain it to you. Imagine all of your favorite memories (the day you got a puppy, your 16th birthday, the day you saw a fairy) and the greatest smells (soft rain, fresh bread, pine forests) and the greatest sounds (the first robin of spring, the largo from Vivladi's "Winter," the cry of a newborn baby) and the greatest touch sensations (soft...stuff) and the greatest tastes (one word: manna), role them all into a small rye crisp, and you have Wasa. And it comes in different flavors! Sport Wasa, breakfast Wasa, fiber Wasa... There is a Wasa for every occasion and emotion. Actually, Wasa is an emotion. You don't just eat Wasa. You feel Wasa. And it fills up your stomach when the nearest grocery store is 20 km away and all the hostel has left in its kitchen cuboards is Wasa bread.

7. Stop and check out stuff.

Never having done bike touring before, I started out, naturally, a little tense. If I made it to the hostel, I hugged my bed like a sailor who just stepped onto land after months at sea. Miserable months at sea in a cramped little fishing boat that leaked and smelled like tar and fish and the cook's BO, when the weather was terrible and everbody was sea-sick. And you had scruvy. Bad. That's how I hugged the bed. So, I was very focused each day, intent on getting to destination with as few stops as possible. I wanted no chance of getting lost in the middle of the night with no place to sleep (Stockholm comes to mind...). Mark taught me to relax. He showed me how to stop at the charming roadside cafe, run out of a old woman's kitchen. He showed me how to explore the town in the evening and eat supper by ridiculous statues. He showed me how to make bike touring enjoyable.

In sum, it was a fabulous week of companionship with my uncle. The weather was gorgeous, the hostels were charming, and, most importantly, I was reintroduced to the pleasures of bike touring in Europe.

Marco -- when did you do modeling in Norway?

2007-08-05T09:18:00.000-07:00