What's the Japlan?

Last December I was minding my business when I received a phone call from American Airlines. I was surprised. I hadn’t flown AA in years. I didn’t even know they still existed. Why would they call me?

“Your miles expire tomorrow.” they said.

“How many miles?” I asked.

“105,000.”

Years ago I signed up for an American Airlines credit card during a promotional period that offered, as a signing bonus, a ludicrous amount of miles. The card was long gone and if I didn’t act fast the miles, roughly two international round trips worth, would also be gone.

“What should I do?" I asked.

“Book a trip…today.”

I got home, put my proverbial finger to the spinning globe, and landed on Japan. Japan seemed like a good place to go. I had never been to Japan. I had a friend in Japan. Japan wasn't the target of a North Korean nuclear missiles strike. Satisfied with my vetting process, I booked my trip and put the whole incident out of my mind.

Four months later I found myself en route to Japan with a six hour layover in Honolulu. I figured this would be enough time to hit the beach, so I wore my bathing soon under my jeans. In retrospect, packing the suit in my backpack would have made for a more comfortable flight.

I was excited for my trip, mostly because I love sushi and feeling tall and I thought I would get plenty of both. I hadn't done much research, opting instead to enter "blind" and see just how skewed my expectations of Japan could be. What was I expecting?

I was expecting large crowds and bright lights - a Times Square on every block. I was expecting subways to employ people whose sole job was to push other people into already packed cars. I was expecting it to be really expensive. I once heard an apple can cost $50. I wonder if a $50 apple tastes any better. I was expecting marvels of technology - vending machines that dispense things I didn’t know could be dispensed - ice cream, pizzas, small pets maybe? Cell phones embedded into people’s ears. I was even expecting technologically advanced crosswalks with diagonal crossing options. Can you imagine how much time a society could save by eliminating the two part intersection cross? Minutes a day could turn into hours a year. A population could save years as a whole and use that time to become technologically superior to their neighbors. This is probably where they found the time to invent pet dispensers.

I wasn't sure what else to expect and that excited me. Surprises are fun and I felt a bit like an explorer. I'm in Japan now and over the next few posts I'll do my best to pass along my thoughts and experiences. If you have any of your own, please share them in the comments section.

Yosh. Gahn-bah-di-mus.

Days 31-37, Mozart, Ice Hockey, and Terror

On my way to Budapest, I stopped briefly at Vienna, then Bratislava. I was mostly interested in seeing the birthplace of the great artist and socialite Arnold Schwarzenegger. Mozart's house seemed interesting too.

Vienna

I arrived at the central train station and began my City Assimilation Process (CAP). Every time you arrive in a new city, there is a checklist to go through. Find the information kiosk, get a map, locate the hostel, buy a transportation pass, convert to local currency, route your trip to hostel and go. My CAP has dramatically improved since I first arrived in Europe. Where it used to take me upwards of 30 minutes to get going, now I am usually en route to my hostel within 10. The skills you never thought you'd master.


I was reluctant to make the trip outside the city to the Schoenbrunn Palace. Palaces are great, but I've seen so many and this one can't be so different. I was wrong. This palace has a garden the size of a small city with lush green expanses, precious flower sculptures and a maze! I didn't even go inside the palace I had so much fun exploring the labyrinth of my childhood imagination.

The city center is conveniently outlined by the Ringstrasse, a circular road that contains many of Vienna's architectural achievements, most of which were built before 1860. You can walk by the Museum Quarters, the Parliament Building, and the Vienna State Opera.

Not far from the Rinstrasse is St. Stephen's Cathedral, the mother church of the Archdiocese of Vienna. It's multi-colored tile roof seems to contrast with its towering central Gothic spire, giving it a somewhat contradictory feel of warm and imposing.


Just a few blocks further is the original apartment of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the prolific classical composer who prodigiously started composing at the age of 5. Unlike many great artists, Mozart was wildly popular throughout his life and he reveled in his fame. He threw many parties, was an avid gambler, attended the best balls in town and generally enjoyed the company of Viennese high society. His death at 36 remains a mystery and some speculate that he was poisoned with Mercury by rival composer Antonio Salieri.

Vienna is in many ways like a museum: nice to look at, but not very exciting. Maybe it's still recovering from the Bubonic Plague, which struck the city in 1679 and killed a third of its population. I might have felt differently if I had attended one of the 200 annual balls the city is most famous for, but I'm not at that stage of life just yet.

Bratislava

I first heard of Bratislava when I saw the movie Hostel, where several backpackers who visit the Slovakian capital are abducted by wealthy sadists who purchase victims to torture. It seemed like a lovely city. Like most European cities, there are plenty of architectural achievements, idyllic plazas and a hilltop castle with an expansive view. I didn't see any of them. Instead, I opted for something truly Slovakian – an Ice Hockey match. I donned my light blues, bought a Slovan scarf and inserted myself in the middle of the raucous, megaphone blaring, drum beating die-hard fan section. I cheered hard, sang the battle songs and jumped for joy when our mighty Slovans defeated the perennial favorite HC Košice in overtime.







I met a great group of guys that night and we partied well into the night. Some of us had a better night than others, but all of us loved Bratislava.





Budapest
You know that feeling when you meet somebody who you are immediately attracted to, so you start paying extra attention to them, then you find out they are also intelligent and fun and they are all you can think about? That's how I feel about Budapest. The city is aesthetically gorgeous, with stately boulevards, proud monolithic structures, and a graceful river that divides Buda from Pest. It has a rich history, progressive museum exhibits and a lively night life that is easy to explore.

The view from the top of the St. Stephens Basilica is breathtaking. Totally breathtaking. After 328 stairs, I was panting and heaving. From its circular balcony you can view the 2nd largest parliament building in Europe, the Danube river, which brushes past Budapest castle, and the distant city park that houses some of the best Turkish Hot Springs. Note: Add Turkish Hot Springs to the To Do List.

I was expecting more of an old town, windy street feel to Budapest, but this city is a modern metropolis. A stroll down the iconic Andrassy street with its fine cafes, theatres, designer boutiques and fusion restaurants confirms this. The boulevard stretches from the Danube river to the panoramic Heroes Square and can take up an entire day's worth of site-seeing.

In small letters on my map were the words “House of Terror”. I'm a sucker for words like that. I circled the location then made my way. I didn't know what to expect when I entered the House of Terror, and I really didn't know what to think when I left. The first thing I see when I walk in is a giant WWII era Tank in a pool of oil, the sleek black substance oozing off the edges in long thin strands. There is no “start tour” sign so I approach one of the unassuming grey doors and try the handle. It's locked. I hear voices behind it. I walk to the second door and try that one. It opens.

I'm clearly in the middle of an exhibit. I can go left or right. There is a TV playing a black and white video of an old woman being interviewed. She is speaking in Russian. Eerie violin music emanates from an old, cone-shaped speaker. I choose left. The next room is plain and dark, with a red light that fades, then surges. In the center is a black curtain and behind it, when the red light surges, I make out a black, 1940's coach car with red velvet interior.

The next room is shaped like a tunnel and contains just one item, a giant, 20 foot cross emblazoned across the floor. A recording of a man giving a speech is playing and I can hear the faint hymns of a church chorus. I walk around the cross. A pit it my stomach starts to grow. It could be the coffee I had before I came here. Or the bizarre nature of what I now recognize as a memorial to the victims of Soviet Communism.

A soft blue light emanates from the room at the end of the tunnel. I enter the room and see a mound of rocks dumped in the center. The room is a dullish grey. Above the mound of rocks is a large metal grate and the sound of a wrench clanging against pipes can be heard from within. The pit in my stomach grows. Either a maintenance guy is fiddling around up there, or this exhibit is brilliantly unnerving me with subtle visual and audio cues. I am utterly confused and totally unsettled.

The next room is bright and colorful and at first I think it's the gift shop. Every inch of the walls and ceiling are covered with posters of the American dream - stable white families holding a bottle of coke or leaning against a Ford, laughing and smiling. I have no idea what the hell is going on. Next to the poster room is a simple, boxy room containing nothing but 20 old, black rotary phones sitting on pedestals. For fun, I pick one up. A voice starts shouting at me in a foreign tongue and I quickly slam the receiver down.

Room after room my senses are bludgeoned and my confusion grows. The pit in my stomach is fully aggravated now and I think it must be the coffee. Or maybe it really is a visceral reaction to the exhibit. At the end of the final room there is an elevator with the door open. I enter the elevator and hit the only button, marked "Basement". The lift starts to descend and the lights flicker off. A screen appears behind me and the black and white footage of an old man being interviewed begins to play. Slowly, methodically, he explains his time working at the Soviet headquarters on Andrassy street where political prisoners where tortured and murdered. So that's where we are – the former headquarters of the Soviet Communist party during WWII. Things start to click. The old man describes in great detail how prisoners were led to the basement, tied to a post, lifted off the ground and hanged. The video shuts off and the elevator door opens.

I'm in a basement. It's grimy and cold. I can hear water dripping to the right. I peer into a room, actually it's a cell. It's all cement, with a rusted, filthy toilet in the corner, the source of the drips. The walls are wet with mold. The next room over is a small, standing room only cell. The door is cracked. I push it open and it creeks. I walk in and shudder. This place is so real. It's as if they left everything untouched. In one room, clearly an office, there is a faded manuscript with scribbled writing all over it. I flip through some pages. All are full. There is a black wool coat hanging on a rack. The desk lamp is on. Everything can be touched.

A man walks in and noticeably jumps back when he sees me. I laugh because I realize that every person here is tense to the bone. This exhibit is so authentic, so tactile and so confusing. It assaults the senses and plants seeds of discomfort and unease. Up top we were bombarded with colorful symbolism, but down here in the basement there is nothing but cold, hard reality. Just the truth. Then I see the hanging post.

On my way out I write in the guest book "utterly confusing, mesmerizing, harrowing, and terrifying. An experience like no other.  8/10/10” I rejoin Andressian boulevard, headed towards the Turkish Baths. 30 minutes later I'm sitting in a hot spring, still uneasy from the strange exhibit, but quickly relaxing. What a trip.


See the rest of my Vienna, Bratislava, and Budapest pictures here.

Thinking About Prague

I'm sitting on the outer wall of Prague Castle, the largest castle complex in the world, scanning the scenery. Cascading down the hill before me are lines of red rooftops on creamy white buildings, unfurling all the way to the shores of Vltava River. The river snakes through the heart of Prague and divides the Castle District from the Old Town. Towering Gothic structures interrupt the calm cityscape, relics from a time when this great walled medieval city housed Roman emperors and Bohemian kings.
It's art, literally. Designated as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1991, Central Prague is no longer a hidden gem, but a brilliant brick of gold nestled between Eastern and Western Europe. The city's resplendent beauty and absorbing history of knights and kings, invading emperors, and war time occupation offer an allure that reaches into the deepest corners of the world and attracts millions of adventurers every year. Recently, it's nightlife has modernized feverishly and 7 story nightclubs rumble well past dawn. Herein lies the power of Prague's dichotomy; visitors come for its history and beauty, but can't resist the after party.

I was in great spirits as I set out walking down the long, winding path from the castle to the river. Fresh off my extended stay in Krakow and back on my own, I had much thinking to do. After all, this is a soul searching trip; I had better get to it. I moved at a brisk pace and kept my iPod off so I would not be distracted from my musings. I walked down the uneven cobbled roads of Mala Strana, cutting across plazas and darting through alleys, all the while drifting in and out of my thoughts. I asked myself questions like “what should I do with my life?”. I unraveled each question into a decision chain to be digested one at a time. Drummer? I have played since I was 10 and it brings me joy, but when you turn a passion into a business, you risk turning joy into work. Playing the drums are an escape for me. Working as a drummer would mean catering to other's tastes and schedules. I would be robbing myself of an outlet. Practically speaking, I am also painfully aware that I'm not good enough to make it. Lawyer? I enjoyed the study of law, but feel the work would leave my creative nature unsatisfied. Writer? On this trip I have rediscovered the satisfaction of writing, but as a career it seems daunting and I'm not sure I have the patience to master the trade. Startup founder? I'm still working on my last startup and I don't have the energy or the resources to start another. In this way I dismissed each of my “passion careers” until I had none. I could not decide, so I decided to do them all. I will continue working on Bojam, get a job in technology, start a music blog, join a band, take the bar exam and, in 6 months, see which one is working out best for me and go from there.

I reached the river bank and then crossed the Charles Bridge, a stone Gothic structure with 30 Baroque statues evenly perched throughout. The bridge is popular with Czech artists, musicians, and souvenir vendors who fill most of the free space along its walls. At dawn you can have the bridge to yourself, but I didn't make it.

I continued walking, passing several drawn horse carriages, a lone violinist underneath an archway playing a lovely rendition of Pachelbel, a young blond woman in a wedding dress posing in front of a baroque church while her photographer snapped away, until I reached Old Town Square. The square is about 100 yards in diameter and is made up of several architectural accomplishments, a plethora of restaurants, and the imposing Tyn Cathedral and St. Nicholas Church. The square bursts at the seams with tourists, an expansive oasis for travelers fatigued from Prague's narrow streets. In the center of the church is an ancient astrological clock. Built in 1410 with surgical accuracy, the clock was such a scientific masterpiece that visitors came in throngs and other countries became envious. As legend goes, builder Hanus Carolinum was blinded so he could not recreate the feat. It is said he took his life and exacted revenge by throwing himself into the clock gears, disabling the structure for 150 years.

My tourism tour complete, I ducked into a side street and walked away from the buzz. I was amazed to find that, after just a few blocks, the clatter and chaos of tourism disappeared and the streets were suddenly empty. Roads narrowed, alleys began to curve. I started to discover hidden gems, like the beautifully carved statues that so often adorn the rooftops of various buildings. The best advice I received in Prague was to look up. Another treasure is the distant view of Prague from Vysehrad.

I stayed in Prague for 5 days and met many wonderful and interesting people, some of whom I could write an entire book about. I'll tell you quickly about Pierre, a Frenchman who was staying in my hostel. He is a computer programmer who recently discovered a passion for flying. Just a hundred hours into his airborne training time, he quit is job and decided to become a pilot. At first he approached commercial prospects, but his eyesight isn't good enough and he was quickly dismissed. He then applied for a military flying position, but failed the psych test when he honestly answered that he wasn't prepared to die for his country. I suggested he try tourism.

Pierre and I went to the Drunken Monkey, an ex-patriot bar also with an interesting story. The owner moved to Prague to party and made a career out of it. After familiarizing himself with the best pubs and clubs in town, he started a pub crawl where every night for 10 Euros each he took a group of visitors to the best bars in town. He negotiated a deal with each bar and they now pay him a fee to be selected. He “partied” every night for 2 years until he saved enough to buy his own bar, where he now begins every pub crawl. It's an American bar with American additions like beer pong, big screens and American football, but it's inexpensive and serves good Bavarian beer on tap. He also has a team of American entrepreneurs who recruit customers and lead the pub crawls, an ideal position for a young person looking to have fun, meet people, and live in Prague. They happen to be hiring.

My expectations of Prague were sky high, having heard several times over that it is the favorite European destination of many travelers. I must happily admit that my expectations were satisfied; Prague is ancient and modern, beautiful and booming, and a must-see destination for any restless adventurer.


See the rest of my Prague pictures at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2599344&id=6016496&l=190cf5ba8a

Auschwitz

Awful. Horrible. Cruel. Sick. Disgusting. Incomprehensible. Unbelievable. I rack my mind for a word to describe this place I walk upon, but I can find none. What word can describe what I feel as I look upon the site of the greatest mass murder in history, perpetrated by the Nazis. How can I suggest to anybody how to feel when confronted with this darkest chapter of our history. I can't. I can only describe what I saw and learned here today. You can decide for yourself how to feel.

It is a small compound with two-story red brick buildings. Except for the bricks and the black wrought iron fence, everything is brown: the dirt streets, the roofs, the wooden posts where public hangings occurred. There is a room full of shoes of all shapes and sizes. Small, worn shoes, some with ribbons, some still tied. So many shoes. Another is filled with possessions – combs, shoe polish, eye glasses, bent out of shape and with cracked or missing lenses. The other rooms are empty except for straw mattresses neatly lining the floor. The bathrooms consist of a cold slab of concrete with holes. No shower. The basements are dirty and gray, small slits for light near the ceiling and jail bars on the entryways. The hallways are lined with mugshots of ghosts who came through here long ago, rock faces betraying no emotion. It is a simple place serving a simple purpose.

It started as a prison for intellectuals and political dissidents. Hitler's army invaded Poland and in June of 1940 Polish Barracks in Auschwitz were converted to a prison to which 728 Polish political prisoners were transported. In the spring of 1942 Hitler's army marched 1,000 km into Russia and, believing himself to be on the cusp of victory over the Communist Soviet Union, Hitler gave the order to begin his systematic extermination of Jews.

To accommodate the increase of prisoners, a second, much larger camp was built 2 miles down the road. Unlike Auschwitz 1, which was designed to house prisoners, Birkenau was designed for mass murder. It is a vast plot of land with two hundred evenly spaced wooden horse barracks, each identical in design: rows of bunks three beds tall and a long slab of concrete with holes for excrement cutting down the center. It is built around a railway so that prisoners arrive mere yards from the gas chambers. There is open space for mass graves and the horse stables that housed the survivors are located just far enough from the gas chambers to keep the screams out of earshot. Thousands of prisoners arrived daily and 9 of 10 were immediately sent to the gas chambers. Only those fit to work were kept alive; no children or elderly, and very few women, were deemed fit to work. On the railway platform, confused and scared children were pulled from the arms of their parents and sent to their deaths.

It is the world's largest Jewish graveyard.

A misconception of Auschwitz is that is was a labor camp, but I assure you, it was not. It was a death factory. It was a place where cold-blooded murder was perpetrated in a systematic and efficient way. I use the term “factory” because the corpses were recycled into human product. Human hair was used to make mattresses, pillows and blankets for Nazi soldiers. Human ashes were used as farm fertilizer. Doctors were employed to ensure the most effective killing methods. The only thing that couldn't be recycled were the victims' lives.

The SS were good at giving false hope to the prisoners to keep them calm until their execution. A sign above the entry read “Work will set you free”. Work killed. 18 hour days, scant food supplies and unsanitary conditions meant that few people, even the healthiest, survived more than two months. When Jews were taken from their homes and rounded up they were told they could bring a single suitcase with their most valuable belongings. I see a boy of 6 years old, told by his parents to pack a suitcase of his favorite possessions. I see the boy rifling through a drawer, picking out a toy truck, his favorite red cap, a picture of his family, a ball, and I see him arranging his prized possessions in his bag. I see him look at his room for the last time. I think of his dreams. His joys. His misunderstanding of the world. Then I see him, upon arrival, led to a room with several other boys and girls. I see a guard take his suitcase and toss it aside, the boy still not understanding. I see the canister of gas drop from a hole in the ceiling, and I see fear. I see this a million times over and I can't understand.

10,000 people arrived each day in Auschwitz. 7,500 were killed each day. 2,000 children were killed each day.

The few selected to work often met worse fates. To maintain discipline, prisoners were tortured at random or punished for acts they did not commit. Gynecologists experimented sterilization methods on women and most of the patients died. Prisoners were hung with their arms behind their bodies for hours, their shoulders dislocating immediately. The smallest infraction meant you were placed 4 at a time into standing cells 4 feet wide and long and left to starve to death. When they weren't being tortured, experimented on or executed, the prisoners were employed in the business of death. Bodies needed to be collected, hair needed to be cut, latrines needed to be cleaned, and a boy's suitcase needed to be discarded.

Compassion ran thin, but one story resonates. Maximilian Kolbe was a Catholic priest sent to Auschwitz in 1941. When 2 prisoners escaped, 10 men were selected to be tortured to death in their place. Maximilian volunteered to replace one, a young father and husband. He survived 2 weeks of torture without food or water until finally he was poisoned. The young father survived Auschwitz.

Each gas chamber held 1500 people. There were 4. It took only 30 minutes to kill 6,000 people.

The Battle of Stalingrad marked the turning point in WWII and the beginning of the end of Hitler's Third Reich. Germany swept into Stalingrad and at one point controlled 90% of the city, but a few tenacious Soviet defenders held their positions long enough for reinforcements to flank the German troops. The flank succeeding, German forces were cut off from supplies and starved over a 3-month period. It is one of the bloodiest battles known to mankind, with 2 million people dead in its wake. On January 27th, 1945, Auschwitz was liberated by Soviet forces. Hitler retreated to his bunker in Berlin and denounced Nazi leadership who favored negotiation and surrender. On April 30th, 1945, with Soviet forces blocks away from his bunker, Hitler swallowed a cyanide tablet and shot himself in the head.

1,300,0000 were sent to Auschwitz. 1,100,000 were murdered. Half were murdered in the final 6 months of the war. 90% were Jewish.

I have found the word now, the only word, to describe the atrocities that took place 70 years ago. It is a word that exists in every language and need not ever be translated or assigned another meaning. The word is Auschwitz.

To see a more complete history of Auschwitz, go to http://www.pbs.org/auschwitz/40-45/

Days 18-25, Quitting Poland

Poland, for me, was not so much a destination, but an afterthought. I was in Northern Germany with plans to head to Prague, but Poland was right there. Isn't Auschwitz in Poland? Knowing little else about the war torn country that has spent much of its existence on the pointy end of history, I entered Poland with a “why not?” attitude. I had no idea how much fun I was in for.


I wont spend much time discussing Warsaw, other than to say that it was a fine city and I mean that in the ordinary sense of the word. It's a bustling business center with bells and whistles – a dazzling array of restaurants and entertainment options, but the city's traffic-clogged streets and unambitious grey buildings can be hard work. Still, Warsaw is a city that has survived everything history has thrown at it - several wars, occupations, and the complete destruction of its Old Town. The Old Town, which is quite beautiful, was meticulously rebuilt after WWII. The story of Warsaw's insurrection against its Nazi occupants in 1944 is best told by the Warsaw Rising monument.

Across the street is an antique shop that could have passed as a museum. Small war figurines, pre-war postcards, old war uniforms and gas masks, pictures taken during the insurrection and endless other trinkets and antiques made for great perusing. Finally, no trip to Warsaw is complete without stopping by the Church of the Holy Cross where Chopin's heart is preserved in the second pillar on the left.


Krakow took me by storm from the moment I stepped on the train. The platform was packed with a mob of Friday afternoon commuters escaping the busy work week for the liberally-paced Krakow weekend. To say there was no available seats on the train is an understatement for there was not even any available standing room. I was trapped in the corridor between cars, trying only to make it to the window so that I could have a nice view. I almost made it too, but a nun literally shoulder-rammed me at the last minute and stole her place by the window where she could observe the heavens. I was relegated to the corner of the hallway by the bathroom where I uncomfortably sat on my bag and had to stand up every 5 minutes while bathroom users wriggled by me in uncomfortable, and sometimes violating, ways. All was not lost, however, for I sat next to Dominika, whose acquaintance with me would lead to a chain of events that culminated with me seriously considering moving to Krakow. Allow me to explain.

Dominika is an avid traveler who used to work at the Krakow tourist agency. People had always been kind to her in her travels and she reciprocated. Before I even knew her name, she was insisting that we forego a hostel and stay at her flat in the city center. Over the bumpy, stuffy remainder of the ride she filled my notebook with suggestions of places to visit, restaurants to enjoy, cocktails to order, and Polish phrases with which to get by.

We moved through her list systematically, our Krakow experience constructed by her advice, and it was at one of her suggestions, a local Polish restaurant, where I met Kuba. Kuba is Swedish, but grew up in Poland and defends his Polish-ness spiritedly. I only stood in line behind him for a minute, but he heard me speak English and his curious and outgoing nature took over.

“Would you like to join me for dinner?” He asked. I accepted the invitation and also joined him after to meet some coworkers. Enter Pekka, a Finnish accountant living in Poland with an intelligent wit and a passion for voicing strong and sometimes, but not often, outrageous opinions. His girlfriend, Marta, a fashion designer and an avid reader, shares his appetite for discourse as well as his hospitable nature. Both are also highly creative. I, of course, liked them both instantly and they liked me. It only took an hour before they insisted I move my bags into their flat and stay with them.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, deservedly, I had a network of friends and a home base. One of Pekka's friends, Brian, came across as quiet at first, but within minutes revealed a playful, outgoing personality that part of me thinks only fully developed in the 4 years since he moved to Poland. He invited me to watch a Blues band at Harris' piano bar the next night.

The band was phenomenal, an untapped gem in a place not renowned for blues music. Then again, music is a universal language. The band, aptly titled Hard Times (and with the Blues, they tend to be), comprised of two guitarists trading rhythmic cues and a singer whose sullen voice captured your mood and whose wildly flavorful harmonica jams willed your head to bob and your foot to tap. During an intermission, I approached them and told them I was a rock drummer with a crush on the Blues. In Krakow fashion, it took two minutes before they invited me to stay at their place join them for a jam a few nights later. For the first time in over a year, I sat on the drum throne and gazed out over a packed, eager crowd and rubbed my hands together. “Here goes”, and I began the count to cue in the band.

And what a band of misfits we had assembled. Only the guitarist from Hard Times joined us, but as jams go, a call out to the audience yielded a phenomenal young bass guitarist, a singer whose voice belonged in a 50's Chicago night scene, and a pianist whose right fingers could run the length of the keys while his left hand sipped his beer. We looked at each other, unsure of our potential, and with a few snaps to set the tempo we exploded into a standard Blues that we improvised on the spot to serve only one purpose – set a foundation for each musician to rock the audience with untamed, passion-induced solos. It was a night for the ages and I added another souvenir to my crowded backpack – a worn pair of wood-tipped drum sticks, well chipped, a reminder of a group of strangers who met on stage, rocked the night away and then went their separate ways, never to play together again.

The days went on and I felt not the slightest urge to move along. I awoke whenever I felt like it, walked the city streets, read my books, ate long lunches. One of my favorite things to do was sit at one of the abundant outdoor patios in Market Square, order a cappuccino and a plate of Pierogis and peel off a few chapters of my King Arthur novel, occasionally taking breaks and stealing glances at people passing by. At the top of every hour a trumpeter would emerge from the northern tower of St Mary's Basilica, the city's ancient Gothic church, and blast an ancient war call that according to legend awoke the night guard and saved Krakow from Genghis Kahn's invading army. Listening carefully, you can hear the song end abruptly, for on the night this tradition began the trumpeter was shot through the neck with an arrow, ending his song, and his life.

On a day trip I visited the salt mines of Poland, which houses an impressive church where everything from the alter, to the walls, to the elaborate sculptures, to the chandeliers on the ceiling, are fashioned from dried salt. I licked them too, just to be sure. Yup. Salty.

I visited Aushwitz and my heart tore from my chest, but that experience is best left to its own post.

In the evenings I ate dinner with Pekka, Marta, and their roommate Matias, who I also become quite fond of. We talked about politics, about war, about religion, about history, about comedy, about great YouTube clips, about traveling, about life.

Suddenly I felt the warm grip of comfort entrapping me. The security of friends. The peace of a home. It felt so good I knew I had to leave right then, lest I stay forever. So I did leave, that night. I didn't want to, but I had to. If I wanted to be comfortable, I would have stayed in California. This trip is for new experiences, new people, and many new memories for me to fondly recount. Dobranoc Krakow, it was a real pleasure to meet you.


See more pictures from Poland here

Days 14-17, A Tale of Two Cities

If you've never been to Oktoberfest then today is your lucky day. Grab a liter of beer, pull up your Lederhosen and gather round. Oktoberfest is Germany's most famous festival and the world's largest fair. Beginning in late September and lasting 16-18 days, 6 million people attend the celebration of King Ludwig I and Therese of Bavaria's marriage 200 years ago. Guys dress in Lederhosen (leather pants/suspenders), girls dress in Dirndl (traditional alpine peasant dresses), and I dressed like a sheep farmer.

The festival takes place just a short walk from central Munich at the Theresienwiese Meadows. Like any other festival, there are carnival rides, tent games, a ferris wheel, and concession stands, but unlike most festivals, there are giant white tents scattered throughout the grounds. Walk into one of these and the true Oktoberfest begins.

We entered our first tent and took in the scene. Giant blue and yellow streamers hung from the ceiling, at the center of which was an inflated, red-faced German caricature with angel wings playing the harp. A burly waiter bumps past us carrying 3 sloshing liter-sized steins in each hand, then slams them down on a nearby table. Behind him, a guy and a girl stand on a table locked in competition, seeing who could drain their stein first while a raucous crowd cheers them on. A girl is slumped over, her face lying flat on the table and a young man in lederhosen is getting the wedgie of his lifetime. A women walks by with a breathalyzer and a stack of empty certificates. A band performs and throughout the hall random groups join in chorus, arms wrapped around each other. We settle in amongst the crowd and when the burly attendant arrives, we order our steins of beer and a large, deep fried chicken.

In all truth, these things did not happen simultaneously, but they did happen that day. However, the air was not one of reckless debauchery, but of camaraderie and celebration. There was not a table we sat at that did not end with my arm wrapped around my neighbor, yelling “Prost” and clanking our steins together.

I never saw any violence that day, and except for this guy, most people were able to walk home.

Berlin

Germany's capital once was divided, but has emerged from its mind-numbing history as a haven for diversity and tolerance. The past echoes on its streets, from the still-standing segments of the Berlin wall to the Jewish Holocaust memorial. Walk past the iconic Brandenburg Gate and you'll hardly notice stepping over the brick-marked line indicating where the wall once stood. But the past is fading quickly, and in its place is a young-minded town with an openly gay mayor, a thriving entertainment and arts industry and a vibrant night life.

We began our day with a stroll down the East Wall Gallery, a 1 kilometer stretch of the wall where graffiti artists have inscribed messages of political freedom and acceptance over the years. The brassy sentiment of rebellion makes the wall a popular hangout for teenagers.

Berlin's economy is wounded with $60 billion of debt, leading the mayor to famously proclaim Berlin to be “poor, but sexy”. We did our best to help, shelling out the 67 Euros to rent Segways and tour the city with modern efficiency. Our first stop was Museum Island, where five of Berlin's most famous museums are located. Then we zipped over to Babelplatz, Germany's most prestigious university and the site of the infamous book burning of 1933. The spot is commemorated with an empty library and a daily book fair. Next up we saw Checkpoint Charlie, the sole point of entry from Eastern to Western Germany. Adjacent to Checkpoint Charlie is a wall filled with stories of attempted escapes from Eastern Germany. My favorite was of a West Berliner whose girlfriend was from East Berlin. After the wall was erected, he began dating a women who he selected because of her similar appearance to his girlfriend. Then, on a weekend trip into Eastern Germany, he stole her passport and left her at a highway rest stop, picked up his girlfriend and snuck her into West Germany with the woman's passport. As far as breakups go, that has to be top ten.

We rounded out our trip with stops at the Jewish memorial, The Brandenburg Gate, Reichstag and Hitler's bunker. I have stories about each of these places, but I'll tell you about those another time.

Something interesting happened that night at our hostel. I woke up to someone stomping up the stairs. He burst through the door, agitated and cursing, and shouted “I was robbed”!, then kicked a nearby chair, lit a cigarette and went over to the window. Walking home, he had been jumped by 4 men, beaten up, and his wallet and cell phone stolen. He was a big guy with several tattoos and piercings on his face and he seemed an unlikely target. Nonetheless, such was his fate. As I drifted to sleep I could hear him quietly sobbing into his hands.

See the rest of my Oktoberfest and Berlin pictures here

Days 12-13, The Train Ride

“There is a hill. It’s not very tall, but it is a lush green and it rolls across the horizon. There are trees with thick, bristly coats whizzing by. A pack of curious half-timbered houses with thatched roofs take shape in the distance and I wonder what kind of people live there. Behind them, the sun is already setting and the sky is blue-ish yellow, with a streak of red along the horizon. I’m listening to Bob Dylan because a good friend told me that is what she pictures when she thinks of riding a train across Europe. I don’t know exactly where I am – somewhere in Western Germany, or possibly still in Belgium, I don’t really care. This is one of the coolest moments of my life.”

I wrote that over a thousand miles ago. I’m so damned sick of trains now that when I pulled open my laptop and read the last paragraph I almost vomited on my sweaty, stained t-shirt. I haven’t showered in 3 days. Last night I slept on a plastic chair in a mission at the Frankfurt train station. I have been “en route” for 45 hours so I could get to Munich for Oktoberfest by Monday, so that I could enjoy Berlin for 2 days, so that I could reach Poland by the weekend. I’ve really been packing it in. Yesterday alone I visited 4 countries. Of course I will tell you about them, with a nice little picture for each description. But after this, I’m going to slow down for a bit and catch my breath, maybe stay somewhere for a week. Who knows.

Brussels, Belgium
I met up with a friend in Amsterdam and together we began our journey across the European countryside. We visited Brussels during a 45 minute train stop. The capital of Belgium, the small country sandwiched between Europe’s major powers and famous for fine food, chocolate and beer, Brussels is a charming town with cobblestone streets, Art-Vouveau architecture, elegant chocolate shops and the Grand Palace, one of the most beautiful plazas in Europe.



The Grand Palace is all we really expected to see in such a short time, but along the way we stopped in a chocolate shop at the Galeries St Hubert, Brussels’ best shopping arcade. It is here that I discovered that the Praline was invented in Brussels. I’ll take 10.






At the Grand Palace I immediately fixated upon the magnificent Gothic-style Hotel De Ville. I read later that this was the only building to escape bombardment by the French in 1695, ironic because it was the main target. The remaining three sides of the plaza are made up mostly of ancient guildhalls adorned with statues and symbols. In the center of the plaza is an open-air market selling fruits, foods and trinkets. It is telling that where most food stands sell hot dogs or kababs, Brussels' food stands sell Escargot. I’ll take 10.

A block down the road was a concentration of brasseries with large outdoor seating areas. The tables were packed and everyone was drinking Stella. I’ll take 10 (Kidding!). Stella is one of my favorite beers and I would have liked to sit and enjoy one right there, but I had a train to catch.

Luxembourg City, Luxembourg


Luxembourg City is rumored to be one of Europe’s most picturesque cities, positioned high on a promontory overlooking the Petrusse and Alzette rivers. We took a stroll down the Chemin De La Corniche, a promenade overlooking a sprawling, forested park, both rivers and the bridges that cross them, and a mountain top castle. It’s unique topography has made Luxembourg City eagerly sought after by neighboring countries and in 400 years the fortified city has been devastated and rebuilt more than 20 times.

Luxembourg City’s pace of life is “relaxed”, according to Lonely Planet’s Europe Guide. According to me, it’s dead. On Saturday night, 7PM, the plazas were empty, the shop keepers packing up, the restaurants closed. Luxembourg City’s loose financial regulations make it a banking city and its central location between France and Germany make it a good base point for which to explore Europe. I guess that’s why everybody leaves on the weekends. “When in Rome, do as the Romans”, I thought, and then I left.

Koblanz, Freiburg and the Rhine Valley

The last stop and fourth country of the day (we started in Amsterdam remember), we arrived late in Koblanz and quickly enjoyed a Bratwurst in the main plaza before calling it an early night. The town itself was not of enormous interest to us, but it is nestled at the point where the Rhine and Mosel rivers meet and German wine country begins. The next day we embarked on a boat tour down the Rhine, enjoying several regional wines, stopping for lunch in the small castle town of Bacharach, and then boarding yet another train to Frieburg. Freiburg is a college town and a great place to walk around and eat dinner in a local pub, which is exactly what we did. On a tight schedule and aiming to make it to Octoberfest early the next day, we boarded a late train for Munich. Unfortunately, we failed to realize there was a 4 hour stopover in Frankfurt, from 1AM - 5AM. Luckily there was a mission that took pity and let us crash on their plastic chairs for the night. Best plastic chair sleep I've ever had, seriously.

We where pretty tired when we pulled into Munich at 8AM, but there was a bench in a giant tent with our names on it so we dropped our bags off and headed to Theresienwiese meadows for Oktoberfest.

See the rest of my Brussels, Luxembourg and Germany pictures here