Travel is life distilled

Fountain in Paris

I began making arrangements for this trip almost exactly one year ago. The journey I ultimately realized was very different from the journey I first imagined. Circumstances shape our lives in ways we can't foresee.

These extended trips are milestone events. They're pilgrimages. They have for me as much significance as did marrying, or leaving my hometown for the city.

Travel is life distilled. Every day brings new discoveries, new and diverse challenges, human interactions by the score.

Thirty-nine days on the road. Seems like a year.

So, while the memory is fresh...

Lisbon and Brussells

Praça do Comércio, Lisboa

Lisbon and Brussels are cities where I could live and be happy. Lisbon is sunny and unpretentious. Brussels is understated, down-to-earth. Lisbon is inexpensive. Brussels is diverse. Both reminded me of Portland in certain aspects.

Most people in Brussels speak French in their day-to-day lives. But nearly everyone can converse in English and often German, Dutch or even Spanish as well. In Lisbon, people speak Portuguese which grants a level of comprehension of Spanish (and vice-versa). English-only speakers will have no trouble in Lisbon, though; there are many English-speakers --especially in service industries.

St. Gilles region of Brussels at dusk

How travel in Europe has changed

Near Flam, Norway, back in '99

In 1999, when last I did a Eurrail tour, traveling in Europe was different in many ways. Each nation had her own currency (francs, pesos, lira, et cetera). Now the Euro is here, there is no need to guess how much money to withdraw at each visit to the ATM! It's legal tender from Oslo to Naples.

Tour d'Eiffel

Note, however, that the Euro does not spend the same everywhere in the European Union! I found Iberia (Portugal and Spain) to be easy on the wallet. Paris and Luxembourg, on the other hand, took big bites out of my travel budget.

Another progression in modern-day travel is the smart phone. My iPhone served as camera, map, translator, reservation-maker, and communication device. Keep in mind, I accomplished all these things without telephone service. The ubiquity of wifi service (available at restaurants, hotels, coffee shops, convenience stores, Airbnb rentals, train stations, and on and on) makes telephone service all but unnecessary. (I wonder if that doesn't make phone company executives at all nervous...)

I never got lost on this trip. At times, I had trouble finding what I was looking for, but I never lost track of where I was. Thank you Google Maps! Maty and I kept in touch via video calls every day. Thank you IMO!

Gramercy to my hosts

Water trough in Nans sous Ste. Anne

I'm very grateful to Tim and Susan Hundsdorfer, who welcomed me into their home in the pastoral Franche Comté region of France. There I beheld a world I would never have otherwise seen.  They seem to have fit themselves into Nans sous Ste. Anne. It's a beautiful place and the life they are creating seems peaceful. A peaceful life in a beautiful place... Doesn't that sound like paradise? Tim is thoughtful and kind. Susan is a portrait of empathy. Tim and Susan, thanks for everything.

Utrecht at dusk

Brother Calee met me in Brussels where we spent the better part of two days before driving to his home in 's-Graveland (pronounced "SCRAW vuh land") in the Netherlands. My brother is generous, gracious, and accommodating. I only wish I could have seen Sister-in-law Sarah (who was away) before I came home. Thanks to you both! I wish I could tell you how proud you make me.

What was it like?

On the road in France

When I travel like this, the in-the-moment experience is one of constant low-level anxiety. There is stress, uncertainty, risk, minor disasters. There is very little "down" time. 

What day of the week is it? How many days should I reserve for Barcelona? How long will it take me to get from my room to the train station? How many days until I need to do laundry? Where are my Eurrail Pass and passport? Where is the key to my room? Questions like these plagued me throughout the journey. 

I saw many sights. The moments come frequently and fast. The onslaught can be overwhelming.

So why do it? Why go through it?

Obvious, of course. So obvious it's almost cliché. JRR Tolkien wrote a delightful allegory about it called The Hobbit or There and Back Again.

But here's my stab at it: Travel expands the horizon of one's mind. Travel adds texture to life. Travel makes you a better person. It teaches self-reliance. It strengthens skills: communication, organization, the ability to deal with stress.

Travel teaches things that can never be adequately expressed.

Travel is drinking deeply of the heady wine of being human. In this world. At this time.

Thirty-nine days later, October 1, the day Maty and I left Portland is a long time gone.

Close now, with some pics...

Peace.

Breakfast with Maty at a Mexican place in Staten Island

Mastodon skeleton, American Museum of Natural History, Manhattan

Sunset on the Hudson River

Feeling gnarly in Lisbon

Neighborhood folks in Lisbon

Sikhs in Lisbon

Turret in Quinta da Regaleira, Sintra, Portugal

Breakfast in Madrid

Catedrál Almudena in Madrid

Agujas de la Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

Arco de Triunfo, Barcelona

Parque Güell, Barcelona

Korean sailors on Las Ramblas, Barcelona

Saints outside the Catedrál de Barcelona in the Gothic Quarter

Glass-eyed busker in Barcelona

Turkish restaurant on Las Ramblas

Tim demonstrates the function of a vomitorium at the Roman museum in Lyons

Roman mosaic in Lyons

Susan and Tim, at home in Nans sous Ste. Anne

Stopped for a time in Franche Comté

Memorial to the fallen from the two world wars, Nans sous Ste. Anne

Fountain in Besaçon

Bad guys over the entrance of Notre Dame, Paris

Good guys, same

David and Goliath in the Louvre, in Paris

Macabre artwork in the Paris Catacombs

Adam and Eve according to Dalí

Medieval stained glass at the Musée Cluny, Paris

Cold morning on the Rue de Picpus, Paris

Playful turtles at the Paris acquarium

Color, in Luxembourg...

...and graffiti, in Luxembourg

German anti-tank position, diorama from the National Museum of Military History, Diekirch, Luxembourg

St. Gilles region, Brussels

Goose above the guildhouse door, in La Grande Place, Brussels

Stained glass, Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula, Brussels

Calee in his kitchen

Street scene, Utrecht

O'Hare International, ready to be home

Stepping off

Thinkin' about it, dude?

In my youth, in the 70s and 80s, we had a swimming hole.

The Topsy Recreation site is a plot of volcanic rock and Ponderosa pine along the Klamath River, about 10 river miles west of Keno, Oregon. In the summer, teenagers would drive along curvy, 2-lane highways from Klamath Falls to Topsy, to drink beer and smoke dope and go swimming.

There is a particular spot just off Topsy Grade Road where we went. It is a flat spot at the top of lichen-clad lava rock columns, 30 feet above the river. That is where we would go.

The sun blazed in those days, almost every day. (Or that is how it seems now, 30 years later.) In the heat, the ripples on the water tantalized and invited. When you'd cooked long enough, there was a point on the rocks where you could stand and, if you worked up the nerve, you could take the plunge.

To do so, you had to steel your nerves. The river runs slow at the point (it is just above the dam). You can't see far into the murky water. And the jump itself, required commitment and follow-through. Once forward momentum had started, you had to keep going. You had to push off hard to clear the rocks below.

Lunge, plant, launch.

It was an act of faith. Thirty feet is a long way down. 

When you started the jump, when the thing in your brain tripped and started moving your body forward, there was a magical feeling that came over you. Even before your launching foot had lost contact with the scaly rock, there was a heart-stopping "no turning back now" moment. Determination and fear, exhilaration and resignation all at once.

For good or ill, the act was underway.

Today --now --as Maty and I spend our last weekend at home, that same sensation stirs itself from my memory. Forward momentum has commenced. A journey is upon me.

From Manhattan to Lisbon, thence across Spain and France. A Eurail pass and a vague itinerary. Five weeks. I'm looking for a muse. A once faithful friend who has become a stranger.

The act is underway.

Cross-cultural faux pas

At the Taj

I'm a traveler.  I love traveling.  Travel teaches you things about yourself, about humanity, about the world and your role within it.  You learn about your own limits; you stretch your perspective.  As Mark Twain put it:  "Travel is fatal to bigotry, prejudice, and narrow-mindedness.  Broad, wholesome, and charitable views cannot be acquired by vegetating in one tiny corner of the globe."

Travel, of course, is more than booking an ocean-view cabin on a cruise line.  If you want to reap all the benefits of travel, you have to invest money and time.  And, most importantly, you have to be willing to put yourself into situations where you are not entirely comfortable.  You have to take chances.  The rewards, as I've said, are well worth the investment. 

Front row:  Martín
Second row:  Nelson, myself, Jason
Back row:  Cannabis sativa

Brazilian boys in Copenhagen

In 1999, while undertaking my Grand European Tour, I found myself in Copenhagen with another US citizen, Jason, and two Brazilians, Nelson and Martín.  It was early September and the weather was fantastic.  The Danes were out and about in the city, riding bicycles, sitting at tables along the waterfront, crowding the streets.

Danes, like most northern Europeans, are more reserved and stand-offish than are Americans.  More so than North Americans, like Jason and me, and certainly more than our two South American companions.  Danish people wear stern expressions, generally.  Their high cheek bones and square jaws, and their tall, broad-shouldered stature give them a chic and intimidating appearance.  Especially, the beautiful Danish women.

Well, Jason and I found the Danish women intimidating, anyway.  Not so, our Brazilian companions.  In fact, they were far from intimidated.  Nelson and Martín overtly admired the tall, flaxen-haired beauties.  "Hey, baby!" they would call, or putting two fingers to their lips, they'd emit shrill, piercing whistles.  They blew kisses; they winked; they leered.  "Mashe, mama, mashe!"  ("Move it, baby, move it!)

"You wanna get us run out of town?" I asked after the first few instances.

"What do you mean?" Nelson asked.  He and Martín did not comprehend.

"You don't do that!" Jason said.

"Do what?" asked Martín.

"Don't whistle like that," I said.  "They don't like it."

Martín and Nelson exchanged glances and shrugged.  "In our country," Nelson said, "the women like that."

"Is true!" Martín confirmed.  "Brazilian women expect us to whistle."

Jason and I shrugged, then.  There was nothing to be done for it.  We got into the habit of ducking away quickly whenever the whistle went up.

And, truth be told, the Danish women didn't seem to mind two Brazilian men whistling at them.  If they had been Danish men, however...

Sikhs in Delhi

Sri Gupta's lovely daughter

In 2001, I was in Delhi, India.  While there, I was honored to be invited to a traditional Indian wedding.  Of course, I jumped at the opportunity.  Indian weddings occur after nightfall and run well into the wee hours of the morning. 

This wedding occurred at an outdoor pavilion somewhere in the hopelessly labyrinthine streets of the city.  Before the ceremony, guests gathered to eat hors d'oeuvres, and socialize.  I was by myself and feeling a bit uncomfortable.  I made a few attempts at conversation, but didn't have much luck. 

Then, I espied a beautiful young Indian woman, perhaps 18 years of age, standing with her family.  She was a vision of Hindu mystique, with her veils and jewelry.  I caught her eye from across the courtyard and approached her.

"May I take your picture?" I asked, brandishing my camera.

Her father asserted himself abruptly.  He stepped between us.  "No!" he said.  He wore an expression of outrage.  Startled, I looked to the young woman for appeal.

"Sorry," she said.  She shrugged.  The family --father, mother, beautiful young woman, and siblings --turned away from me as a single unit.

I was left standing by myself in the courtyard.  I sensed that I had transgressed some boundary but I wasn't sure how.  Later, I asked an Indian friend about it and he told me:  "You spoke to the daughter without speaking to her father first.  You insulted him."

I was abashed, let me tell you.  And, of course, I didn't get a picture of that beautiful Indian girl.  But she looked something like this:

Lesson?

When you travel, it is best to assume that at some point, you're going to unintentionally step on some toes.  These cross-cultural faux pas --believe it or not -- are great learning lessons.

Admittedly, awkwardness can be painful.  My advice?  Have a laugh about it later.