"You Boys from New Zealand??" - Munich, Germany

“You boys from New Zealand??”

The man who addressed us this question can only be described as hardy. Say the word “hardy” out loud, and picture the first human being that comes to mind. You’ll probably have a pretty accurate representation.

We tell him no, we’re from Kansas. I have no idea why he thought we were from New Zealand.

“Kansas??!! I love Kansas! I own 8,000 acres of oil land down by Parsons. You know Parsons?”

We nod.

“Yeah, I got about 8,000 acres around Parsons. I’ve also got a bunch of land in Oklahoma and Texas. You know Bartlesville?

We nod again.

“Yeah, there’s this old guy I’m trying to buy some land off of. He’s in my lawyer’s office right now taking up too much time.”

He tosses his Blackberry onto the table and takes a massive swig of the beer in his hand.

“Cheers to Kansas, guys. Prost! You know prost? That’s how they say cheers here in Germany. But you gotta look the other guy in the eye or else you get 7 years of bad luck.”

I feel the glass mug tremble in my hand as we clink glasses. Our companion downs the last quarter of his beer and slams it on the table.

This is how we met Doug DeFoe, Midwestern Oil Magnate and world traveler.

“You boys want another round?”

Each of the beers costs about €7.50, and we tell him that our wallets won’t really let us buy another.

“Buy another??! I’ll buy a round. You bet I’ll buy a round!”

He takes a €50 note out of his wallet, slams it on the table, and bellows to the waitress across the room.

The Hofbrauhaus in Munich, Germany likes to replay the excitement of Oktoberfest every night. A brass band wanders around the hall, playing traditional Bavarian songs. Some of the German people sing along, and the drunken foreigners bellow nonsense words with equal gusto. The waitresses are dressed in old-fashioned lederhosen, and they dart between long wooden tables where strangers from all over the world gather to enjoy a mug of beer.

“I’m from Canada.”

Doug the Midwestern Oil Magnate says this with a fair degree of pride. His chest doesn’t quite puff out, but if he had feathers they’d be all extended and such.

“Canada’s a great place, boys. We got Niagara falls. We got Vancouver. We got hockey. We even invented basketball.”

Umbrage: Offense or annoyance. a vague feeling of suspicion or hostility.

Basketball history. The man clearly had no idea who he was talking to. As proud Jayhawks, Jesse and I considered it our sacred duty to set the man straight. I wondered who could actually believe that a game like basketball could be invented in Canada. Surely the net would freeze and then shatter upon the first made basket.

Doug Defoe, Midwestern Oil Magnate, must have sensed a change in the air, a slight stiffening of the breeze that passed among us, an increased hum in the ether carrying the still but potent vibration of unspoken words.

Basketball, we inform Doug Defoe, Midwestern Oil Magnate, was given birth by the good man himself, Dr. James Naismith, in Springfield, Massachusetts, and nurtured from pup-hood to shining pureblood glory on Mount Oread, Lawrence, Kansas, United States of Merica.

The man had no response. His flustered nature steamed out all around him like an aromatherapy machine gone awry, and it was only when we conceded that Dr. James Naismith, god rest his soul, must have gained some inspiration from the Great North, spending a significant part of his early life carving igloos and hunting moose outside of Montreal, did the owner of a good fraction of Midwest America regain his boisterous nature.

“You boys ever been to Canada?...”

….

One round turned into two. And when the beers are a liter each, that transition is no slowly rolling snowball, it’s an avalanche that hits you in the mouth with beer-colored ice.

At this point, Doug Defoe was busy monologueing to his companion, a thin blonde woman who looked as though she’d spent a few too many years in a tanning salon. It was unclear what their relationship was.

…

Just before we arrived at Hofbrauhaus, my friend Steffen had taken Jesse and I to the English Gardens, a large green space at the northeast edge of the Munich city center. It reminded me of the parks in Denver, Colorado, where makeshift volleyball nets appear and retreat over the course of a lazy Saturday afternoon.

It was early evening as we walked through the English Gardens. Remnant storm clouds from the afternoon pondered their return. Trees made a sound that can only be described as “brustling”, as they carried their newfound moisture through xylem veins to growing roots and sprouting shoots.

The river Isar runs through the English Gardens, and at one part of the river, a rock formation on the riverbed makes the water into a constant wave. All throughout the year, warm or cold, rain or snow, people wearing wetsuits stand alongside the bank, and one by one they take turns surfing the constant wave. Some take a running start from the bank, others lower themselves into the water and push off the river’s edge. All of them try to stay afloat, balancing on a fiberglass board, buffeted by the constantly changing fluid of a wave that has been the same for countless thousands of years.

….

Running through the streets of Munich, I try to balance on the crest of my surging stomach.

With our train leaving at 11:40 PM, 11:30 had come and gone at the Hofbrauhaus, and we were almost a mile away from the train station with 8 minutes to get there.

and my insides were not happy with me.

The rain from earlier that evening had stopped, but streams still poured from the gutters overhanging the sidewalks. Droplets from trees fall into puddles and then fly skyward again as my shoes interrupt that scene’s placidity.

I usually quite enjoy running, but that night my body decided to teach me a lesson.

About 2 minutes into the run, I turn to Jesse and say “hang on, I think I’m gonna….”

Puking my guts out by the side of the road, I’m still very much aware that we have about 5 minutes to get on a train or be stuck in Munich’s central station for a cozy ten hours.

So I start running again. Thirty seconds later, my stomach decides I need more punishment.

This scene repeats itself two more times on the way to the station, sometimes with me maintaining a brisk walk while my guts do their own thing. I remember that over the last half quarter-kilometer, a tailwind seemed to spring up and push us along, as if the city itself was anxious for us to leave.

The conductor may or may not have been blowing the final whistle as we turned the corner onto our platform. I do know we made it with less than a minute to spare.

All we wanted was sleep. All the compartments in the first several cars were packed. We stumbled down the train’s corridors, looking through darkened glass for any open seats, knocking on doors and pulling back curtains.

We found one car that was miraculously almost completely empty, with a compartment that was entirely free. Unhooking the packs never had never been more of a relief. The seats felt luxurious; my jacket was a warm silk sheet. We pass out almost immediately.

…

Two hours later and it’s about 2 AM. We are abruptly awakened by the conductor checking tickets. After he ponders our reservation for a minute, he looks up and asks,

“Where are you going?”

“Vienna,” we murmur, rubbing sleep from our eyes.

“No, this is the wrong train. This train goes to Slovenia.”

Crap.

Vignette: Zagreb, Croatia

A small market sits outside the Zagreb train station. It is home to several dozen stands, all the same rusty red color, with the same slanted roof and counter space. Behind one, a girl talks impatiently on her cell phone. She’s sitting sideways on a stool, with one leg crossed over another, shoulders hunched and staring intently at the space that distant conversations traverse. In the stand beside her, a middle-aged woman wearing jeans and a blue blouse smiles at the crowd. “Dobre don” she greets me as I walk by, and I smile and nod in response. Several more stands over, an older man with a crinkled eyelids and a plaid shirt stands and sways slightly, as if buffeted by the wind generated by the passing crowd. His hands are tucked behind him and his shoulders are straightened by his pose. His head is tilted up slightly, and he scans the horizon for clouds, paying no attention to me or the other people in front of him.

Twenty or thirty stands, vendors of the same number, and they’re all selling the same thing: strawberries. Boxes upon boxes of strawberries are stacked on the wooden counters, each selling for 10 Kunas (~$2) per box. They are big and small, curved and jagged, lush and pale. I imagine that each throws a unique fragrance into the cool Croatian air. The scents combine and drift westward, settling in the trees hanging over benches that surround a fountain, moving onward, floating past the botanical gardens and into the parks that lead to the centre, giving the city a taste of natural sugar and red fruit. Maybe that’s why so many people sit outside in café chairs.

Motorcycles and maybe a bit of Zen: Pula, Croatia

Istria is the region of Croatia that hangs like a water drop off the North-west coast, a peninsula nearly falling into the Adriatic Sea. The city of Pula is on the very southern edge of Istria. Like many other cities in Croatia, Pula was heavily settled by the Romans, and the people of Istria retain much of their connection with Italy. When Istrians speak, their Croatian words mix with the up-and-down pitch and cadence of the Italian language. Many people speak Italian fluently.

Our Eurail map indicates that there is a direct train from Ljubljana, Slovenia, to Pula. We find out one day in advance that this only starts running in June; we’re about 7 days too early. Instead, we catch a train from Ljubljana to Rijeka, and then a bus to Pula.

The mountains between Rijeka and Pula are called Uçka. They seem pricklier than the Slovenian mountains, which are more rounded and have trees with smoother canopies. The highway runs around and through Ucka. Small towns are nestled in the valleys between the peaks, and each one contains a nearly identical church tower; they look like pencils with points cut by an old sharpener. Each is topped with a pyramid-shaped spire.

When the bus arrives in Pula, we are immediately approached by an elderly woman trying to sell us accommodation for the night. We politely but firmly refuse, and she drifts off, looking disappointed, to wait for the next coach with a fresh batch of backpackers.

Our host in Pula is named Zoran. We call him, and he says to come to the center (wherever that is) and he’ll meet us with his motorbike. After asking directions from a taxi driver, we walk for about 10 minutes and find the Arena, as they call the Coliseum structure constructed in Roman times. The stone is much lighter than the one in Rome and looks bright from the lights of the shop signs on the street below us.

As we keep walking, a red motorcycle approaches and screeches to a stop. The man riding it takes off his helmet, smiles, and says “What’s up, dudes?”

Zoran has blonde hair styled upwards, and a tattoo covers much of his right arm. His smile is easy as he steps off the bike to say hi. After a minute of introductions, he rides off to go get his car.

He comes back with a plastic bag of beers, and announces that we’re going to the water to hang out and drink. We drive around the city for a while, with Zoran pushing the gearshift of his Ford sedan through the front dashboard. We get to the coast and park on the side of the street. Zoran moves with a quickness and energy of a man who likes to get where he’s going because he’s excited to relax when he gets there. We climb from the street down a short hill and onto the rocks that line the coast. We step carefully from one rock to another, avoiding the crags that split the stones down to the water level, but the moon is bright enough to light our way without much trouble. We move closer to the water, and I hear for the first time in a long time the sound of waves crashing against rock. It’s not one I get to hear very often.

The caves below the rock and the small indentations between the outcroppings vanish under the water and then appear again as the Adriatic Sea recedes. With some of the larger rocks, the water looks immobile as the stone seems to rise and fall on its own accord. The sound is of the shoreline breathing.

We sit, drink, talk, and listen to each other and the ocean. The water is cold but feels good on my tired feet hanging over the rock line.

……

Zoran is a motorcycle enthusiast, interior designer, and excellent photographer. He’s learned all his English online and from media, and he loves to practice with English-speaking couch surfers. He grew up in a town on the border between Croatia and Austria, and consequently is fluent in Croatian and German as well as English. This has served him well; Zoran is now a sort of regional manager for an Austrian company with a strong client base in Croatia.

He lives by himself in a 2-bedroom apartment just northeast of the city center. Zoran says that he will spend the rest of his life in Pula, that he wouldn’t live anywhere else. In the morning we eat bread with diced salami, cheese, and a delicious sauce that I cannot place. Zoran’s mother likes to prepare small pickled onions, and he brings out a big jar for us to try. The first bite is unique but exactly what I imagined a pickled onion to taste like. I eat nearly a dozen.

The morning sun sets the white rocks on the beach aglow. Each rock is incredibly smooth; the smallest are golf-ball sized and the larger ones as big as cantaloupes. The bright pearl color of the rocks makes an excellent contrast with the blue of the ocean. I step in the water with my sandals on, and we spend a few minutes skipping stones off the surf and out to the sea. By noon, I’m already red.

We spend most of our time doing nothing on the beach or sitting on benches in the city center while editing. I hadn’t realized how strong a café culture this part of the world has. I’d first noticed it in Slovenia, and Pula also has chairs and tables lining nearly every street. People watch us walk by, and we watch them.

…

I had never been on a motorcycle before, so when Zoran came to pick us up from the beach on his bike, I was pretty keen to try it. There were no handlebars on the back, so I held on to the bike in front of Zoran.

Saying that the ride was exhilarating doesn’t give it justice. We flew around blind turns hugging the median, passing cars by at least 30-40 mph faster. I remember the how much I liked roller coasters as a child, but they seemed so tame compared to this. Every moment of acceleration surpassed what I thought a vehicle could do. My hands were sweating as I gripped the bike as hard as I could. My knees pressed against Zoran’s ribcage, and I hooked my chin on the top-left corner of his backpack to give me more traction while letting me see the world flying by. I must have looked absolutely ridiculous: mouth wide open, eyes agape. I didn’t know whether people would think I was terrified or thrilled. To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure myself.

The ancient amphitheatre appeared and disappeared in a split second. I briefly saw three old women scowling at us. We crested the top of a hill. The sea was on our left, and some thin trees on our right. About 500 meters in the distance was a rocky outcrop chiseled to a point; it stood about 20 feet above the low waves tickling the land. The setting sun was hidden halfway behind it, and a wide, horizontal beam of light seemed to lie on the top of the rock.

I howled laughter at this thrill of being alive, even as I thanked the hitherto unknown patron saint of Croatia for keeping me off the pavement.

That night, we made pasta with Alfredo sauce and asparagus for Zoran. There was no oven, so we cooked the garlic bread on the electric grill. The melting cheese dripped down onto the burner with a sizzle. We watched a hilarious You-Tube video during dinner of a guy teaching fake Serbian language lessons. Afterwards, we sat outside once more on Zoran’s porch to finish our beer. The air was warm; the night was quiet. Every time we heard a motorcycle pass by, Zoran tilted his head to listen. He wanted us to stay longer. With regret, we told him that we had to leave in the morning. When he asked why, we told him the underlying reason for this trip. Too many places to go. Too many things to see. Comfort and familiarity can wait for a while. Radical novelty every day.

Hitch-hiking in Slovenia

Lake Bled contains Slovenia’s only island. The island is only accessible by boat, and from the single harbor, a line of ferries snakes their way along the water. Each boat has two oars that make ellipses as the captains follow a slow, silent rhythm. The ferries are many different shapes and colors. Some look like the gondolas of Venice, and others resemble something you would expect to see on the Congo River from Out of Africa. Half a dozen of the ferry drivers are lounging in one boat. One has his wide-brim hat over his eyes; he’s lying on the bench with one leg hanging down beside him, slowly swinging it sideways. The water is an impossible shade of clear; the crystal surface seems to shimmer.

We’d taken the 10:52 train from Villach to Lesce Bled. The train station is about 5 km from the lake itself, and our first attempt to find it led us to a large field that we eventually figured out was private property. Within the field, a fence enclosed a herd of sheep, and a dog came charging out from a copse of trees to hurry us on our way. We walked about a mile through that field before encountering an impassible hill and turning around to try a different route. It was a beautiful day.

We finally made it to the lake after walking for another hour. The town of Bled makes me think of a place that’s just starting to try modern tourism but doesn't quite know how yet. There are signs in English for “Traditional Slovenian food”, but these adverts are subdued and relaxed, a half-hearted offering to capitalism. The small village doesn’t seem quite ready to give itself up.

The lake itself is not huge; you could probably walk around it in an hour. On one of the hill(tons) surrounding the water, a cable car takes the thrill seeker to the start of a bobsled course that twists and turns in concert with the natural indentations in the stone. On the opposite side, Castle Bled sits atop a patch of bare rock. It has walls and a few other fortifications, but clearly its extreme height was its main defensive advantage. The stairs that criss-cross up the mountain face don’t have any fences or handlebars, just some wooden poles spaced about 5 feet apart. I touch one, and it wobbles under the light pressure of my hand.

We get to the top and discover that it costs 8 Euros to get into the castle! Instead, we climb around on the outside walls awhile to view the lake from a height. It seems so small from above: a Duke’s private swimming pool or a Bishop’s fishing pond, perhaps.

As we climb down the stairs, we notice a parking lot on the other side from where we came up. We aren’t keen on walking all the way to the train station, so we decide to try and catch a ride. There are about 40 cars in the lot, and an old man is putting his things into one of them. He must be in his late seventies or early eighties. He moves slowly; his hands shake slightly.

Just as he’s about to climb into the car, I summon my gall and ask him if he speaks English. It takes him a second to discover that my voice comes from me, and it takes another few seconds for him to respond.

“Yes”
“Are you going to Lesce Bled?”
“Lesce Bled?” He says it with a combination of sounds that my mouth can never hope to replicate.
“Yes.”
“Ya ya ya, come in!”

I would say that he enthusiastically begins to move his stuff from the passenger’s seat to the back, but his motions are so slow that it is hard to tell. We get in the car, and I consider offering him a cookie before deciding that it would be rude to get crumbs in his car.

There’s a highway that runs from the lake to Lesce Bled, but he skips the first part of it, winding through the narrow streets of the village instead. We begin to talk, and it becomes obvious that he understands English quite well. He says his name is Tony. He pulls into a gas station using an illegal left turn, and says “Yah Yah, I know I know” to the honking cars that swoop behind us.

Tony wants to talk, and we want to listen. It seems like he hasn’t spoken English in a while; he appears to enjoy feeling the foreign words come from his own mouth. His face scrunches and puckers. Not for the first time, it strikes me how rough my Germanic language must sound to ears that are used to smoother sounds. I like how he begins every sentence with “Yah, yah”

Our plan was to take the train from Lesce Bled to Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia. Tony tells us that he lives about 13 kilometers from Ljubljana, and will drive us there. This will save us a lot of time, and we thank him profusely and sincerely. He protests that he is happy to do it.

Tony was a manager in a company that produced and exported a variety of gelatin-based products like glue and chewing gum. He has been retired for about fifteen years now. He has two daughters, but he never says a word about a wife.

He talks a lot about his former boss, ten years dead now. His boss, we learn through Tony, was a heavy drinker. Whenever they went to a conference, his boss would always be asking where the beer was. Tony thinks that is why he died relatively young.

We drive through the hills that become lower as we go further south, and Tony tells us about life in World War II and through communism. He tells us that his boss killed an unarmed German soldier in the woods that we are driving through.

“To kill a man”, Tony says, “it never leaves you. A man with no weapon, I think he (the boss) never forgot that. The German asked to not die because he had a family, but my boss killed him because he was scared and didn’t know what to do.”

Tony tells us more about his boss’s destructive drinking behavior, and I think that Tony believes his boss committed suicide slowly, one liver cell at a time.

We arrive in Ljubljana, and Tony decides to take us to the castle. He has not been up there for more than ten years, and he wants to see from above how the city has changed. There are dozens of stairs leading upwards, and I’m astounded at the speed with which Tony climbs, especially given his shuffling gait and shaking hands. We spend nearly thirty minutes atop the highest tower. Tony points out to us many of the historical and cultural landmarks: the University, several old churches, a couple of monuments. Tony is very proud that the main monument in his city is to a poet, rather than a politician or a war hero. This, he tells us, shows that culture is most important to Slovenians. I like how he tells us this with an affectionate pride, like a parent. It’s clear that he’s enjoying himself.

Tony drops us off just outside the border of the Old City, which is inaccessible to cars. We watch as he does a halting 5-point turn and disappears with a wave, and we walk along the river whose name translates to “Little Ljubljana”, enjoying the trees that hang low over the bank to graze the water, the brown stone of the houses standing remarkably close to the river, and the peacefulness that settles over a city whose residents want only to sit outside at a café and enjoy some sunshine.

Uncertainty in Austria

Me: “That’s not an Alp, that’s a hill.”
Jesse: “Nah, man. You try climbing that ‘hill’ and see how far you get.”
Me: “Oh I respect the hill. That hill would kick my ass. And in most other places that would definitely be a mountain. But it’s relative, right?”

I turn the other way and point to the sheer, snow-covered summit of a different topographical entity.

Me: “That’s an Alp. Compared to that Alp, this one,” I turn back to the mound in question “can only be called a hill, or maybe a hill-ton at best.”
Jesse: “A Salzburg Hilton, you might say”
Me: “Sal Hilton, long-lost sister of her more famous sibling.”

These were the types of conversations we had that day. Speculative and carefree. We let our eyes roam over the landscape as we walked along the Salzach river and through Salzburg, taking in every feature. On a bridge over the river at the north edge of the city, you can see three spires painted a sea green, teal color. That shade of green matched the color of the river almost exactly. We stood on the bridge, and the wind began to strengthen as storm clouds in the southern sky moved closer. The wind barreled over the river and created little spots of white foam, as pockets of air-swept water crashed back into the Salzach.

We should have been worried. We were about 2 miles from the main train station, and thunderclouds were chasing us. I saw a bolt of lightning emanate from one of the many hill-tons that surround the city. Our train to Villach, Austria was leaving in about 40 minutes, and we did not know where to meet our host, where he lived, or anything about the city. My phone was down to $0.08 in credit, which meant that I could only receive texts but could not make/receive calls or send texts. The plan was to get to the city, find internet, contact our host on Skype, and meet up from there. If any of those things went wrong, we’d probably end up camping in a park. The weather was looking frightful.

….


In Villach, we got off the train, and the station was pretty much deserted. Luckily, the storm hadn’t followed us, and we walked outside to a warm, clear night filled with taxi cab drivers conversing and several students laughing on the sidewalk.

We had a lot of trouble getting ahold of our host. After eventually finding an internet signal, the skype connection was bad and he had a heavy accent. We sat on the sidewalk outside a closed café with our packs strewn around us and our laptops open. A drunk Austrian guy came over and, in broken Germano-English, had us add him as a friend on facebook.

For all intents and purposes, we were homeless, and there seemed to be a growing possibility that we would end up in a park somewhere with packs for pillows and jackets for blankets.

But is that actually so bad? It was warm, the thunderstorm seemed far away, and this city had a relaxed, safe, and friendly atmosphere to it. As we walked along the street next to some bars and an endless row of kebap shops, we held a computer aloft to try and catch another wi-fi signal.

I wasn’t worried at all. There was absolutely no stress. I loved walking around this little city at night, having the cathedral in the middle of the central square to myself. I loved that we were in a town we’d never heard of 2 days ago, surrounded by hills that seemed to embrace the valley we sat in. As Mary Klayder has said to so many stressed undergraduates: It was going to be fine. The worst that could happen wasn’t actually that bad.

Of course we found our hosts, and they were amazing. Students at the local university, many of the people in their house were away on holiday, so Jesse and I each had our own room for those two nights. Tomorrow we’ll go to Bled, Slovenia, where we’ll walk around a big lake and take lots of pictures of a massive gorge. How much better can life be?

Day 1: Prague to Cesky Krumlov

We awoke this morning at 8:15. After a quick shower, we say goodbye to our hosts Craig and Will, and walk out the door.

My backpack is an Osprey Atmos 35 liter. By sticking my running shoes in the front pouch, I can fit 2 pairs of jeans, 2 pairs of shorts, 5 t-shirts, 2 long-sleeve shirts, 7 boxers, 10 socks, 1 bath towel, 1 bar of soap, a razor, shaving cream, contact lens solution, various plugs and chargers, my computer, and a water bottle. These items, along with the things I have in my pockets, will be my only possessions for the next 2 months.

The backpack sits comfortably on my shoulders, and when the buckle around my waist is fastened, it’s more like gaining 20 pounds than having something strapped to me. Jesse and I each buy a ham & cheese sandwich and 5 bread rolls to snack on. A short tram ride later and we’re at the main Prague train station, Hlavni Nadrazi.

I love train travel because it’s much more relaxed than travelling by air. No security, no lines, no stress. After checking our departure time and platform number, we sit on a bench outside the station and eat some bread. People come and go through the front doors, some businessmen and businesswomen with briefcases in tow, some younger people with big backpacks. As we walk back into the station, I can hear an American family squabbling. The mother, a short woman with cropped red hair, says “See that red pole there? That one right there? Well, I’m not going past it. I’m staying right here.” Neither the significance of the nondescript red pole nor her reason for fearing it is readily evident.

The train from Prague to Ceske Budejovice leaves at 11:16. Upon arrival, we will transfer to another train for a one-hour journey to Cesky Krumlov.

The train is compartmentalized, a series of rooms with two benches facing each other. The seats are reasonably comfortable, and I’m happy to see there’s plenty of legroom. The windows are large and wide, and we open ours to let the fresh spring air flow into the compartment.

This countryside reminds me of the Ozark Mountains. As a child, my family and I would make the seven-hour drive to Arkansas to see our grandparents, usually three or four times per year. Those winding roads jut in and out of the mountainside, curving through tall thin trees. When the view opens, you can see green meadows punctuated by plots of forest or farmland. Trees with rounded tops populate the higher parts of the short, densely packed mountains.

Here in rural Czech Republic, the winding road has turned to train tracks, and the green meadows have transformed to fields of bright flowers. Their color is striking: marigold yellow, with the green stems poking through between the lush petals that fill this landscape. It contrasts well with the brick houses spaced intermittently.

Cesky Krumlov is a small town of about 150,000 people. It’s known for its natural beauty and quaint charm. The highest mountain in Bohemia, the Klet, is just 7 kilometers from the center, and the Vltava river snakes through the city, where people go tubing or rafting in the summer. The castle has a moat surrounding it, and a family of bears resides on its grounds. Today we will explore the city, climb the castle grounds, and perhaps have a beer or two. Tomorrow morning we hike the Klet.

An Overdue Farewell

Last month, I went three weeks without eating any fresh fruit. Each of my home-cooked meals had a heavy portion of carbohydrates (rice or pasta), a meat dish (chicken or pork), a few vegetables mixed in (broccoli, onions, mushrooms, and/or peppers), my requisite dairy product (cheese), and some flavoring (soy or chili sauce). I alternated the various components to create all sorts of tasty permutations. The meals were sufficiently hefty, and I would lean back from our little kitchen table feeling quite full, but not entirely satisfied. Hunger starts at your stomach, travels up your esophagus to yank at the bottom of your tongue, and ends by pushing small circles against your brainstem. But this need was a bit different. I couldn’t trace it to any body part, except perhaps to my teeth. I thought scurvy was imminent.

It has been nearly six months since I’ve written anything, but neither for lack of desire nor dearth of content, I assure you. There is so much I want to talk about: my first experience with 4-Loko on New Year’s Eve, the beauty of the sun setting beside Prague castle, a powerful epiphany on a San Francisco park bench. These things, and the need to express them in writing, have been building inside me over the last few months. Scarcely a day goes by but I think “Hey, that would be fun to write about”. But holding me back was a felling that I had unfinished blogging business.

At the end of those three fruitless weeks, I bought a sack of clementines from the grocery store. My first bite felt like all the taste buds on my tongue had stood up and ran to the point of flesh-fruit contact, singing hymns and shouting hallelujahs all the way there.

This is my writing clementine, and I want to taste it by saying goodbye to my recent home. It’s hard for me to talk about Cambridge without sounding sentimental, but if it pleases you, just share with me a few recollections.

...........

I remember seeing the front gate of King’s College for the first time. I had three bags and a heavy stink trailing behind me. I recall turning right from Pembrooke Street onto King’s Parade and seeing the spires silhouetted against the dim October sun. Pushing my way through cycle traffic, I crossed the threshold and turned left into the first room I found, and asked for the Porter’s Lodge. The man behind the desk looked at me stoically and said, “You’re standing in it, Sir."

I remember, near the conclusion of one formal hall, looking down and seeing a penny sticking out of my dessert. Ste then informed me that I was required to eat my chocolate soufflé without the use of my hands. To the detriment of my suit, I obliged.

I remember punting with my lab group. I had predicted that Shane would fall in the river, and he did so with absolutely no help from me. As the boat continued on, I looked back and Shane was standing there, submerged to the waist, with his hands on his hips and that big goofy smile on his face.

I remember paying rent to Liz by taking us to Jamie’s Italian for dinner. We drank lots of wine and had many different appetizers.

How they all come back to me now.

I remember driving to the beach in mid-November; we took the A-14 up to the Norfolk coast to a village called Holkham, adjacent to the charmingly-named town of “Wells-next-the-Sea”. We had brought some blankets, chocolate, bread, hummus, fruit, and drink. After a perilous toe-dip in the frigid North Sea, we huddled near some reeds and laughed at ourselves.

I remember Gareth’s leaving do: how we all got drunk and tried to cartwheel on the back lawn. One of the porters appeared and started yelling at us. We ran off, daring him in his large black robe to chase us. The night air was warm and we so jubilant in our rebelliousness.

I remember punting 3 hours to Grantchester and feeling the sun brown the back of my neck. I let my hand dangle over the side, and the river rose up softly to meet my fingers. Somebody had brought an i-pod, and we listened to music on those little speakers all the way up and back down the river.

I remember the swan family. When I first arrived, the cygnets were small and grey. Their feathers looked fluffy, and I remember being surprised that they didn’t just soak up with water and sink into the Cam. I remember sitting by the river and watching them swim by me. The mother at the front, majestic and imposing, and the cygnets in a perfect line behind her.

I remember sitting in the wooden chairs on the old shack’s patio near the northern edge of the Fellow’s Garden. At night, the trees to the left quash the motorway sounds, but somehow the wind manages to push through, free of the exhaust and bustle of the street. The grass stretching out in front curves left because the right-hand garden moves in to annex it. Flowers, low shrubs, and trees all sway with the wind, some more slowly than others. We would sit in those chairs and listen to music for hours. Often an album would finish and the night would take over, and we’d listen to it just as attentively.

I remember running, as I so often did, down King’s Parade. It was early December, only a few weeks before I was to leave. The night was cold and moonless, and I could see my breath puff out in front of me, illuminated by the street lamps. My sneakers pounded on the pavement: softer on the cobblestone and louder on the concrete. They made a melody of volume as I weaved back and forth between the two surfaces. I ran by the Copper Kettle, and then by Nero’s, Benet’s, King’s Shop, and then I crossed the narrow street in front of St. Mary’s Church. I rested for a moment and walked in a short circle with my hands tucked behind my head, and I filled my lungs with the frosty winter air. A few flakes of snow hit the pavement in front of me, and the bells of St. Mary’s Church began to strike. Six in a row, they went, one right after another. Because of the echoes and residual noise, each one seemed to grow louder than the previous. I stood there, unmoving, listening to the bells, and I was ferried back nearly a year earlier, to Christmas Eve 2009. On that night I had also been running and rested in front of the church, and I saw the first hints of snow blend with the cobblestones. I listened as the bells of St. Mary’s Church began to strike. Six in a row, they went, one right after another.

I was there as two different people. A young man newly arrived, and a slightly older one about to leave. Time lost it’s hold on me, and as my mind struggled to connect the two people, I seemed to shuffle back and forth among the memories I’ve laid out before you and the countless others that float before me now.

The cold brought be back, and I started to run again. Faster and faster I went as I sought that dissociation once more. My lungs were pistons, forcing bitter air out of my body before it could warm. I turned from Bridge Street to the wooden planks along the river and saw the swan family. I must have startled them, because as I drew abreast they took flight. The mother in the front, and the young ones (nearly fully grown now) in a neat line behind her. They glided just above the water and I glided just beside it, and we formed a triangle plane that breathed the night air back before us. We stopped, and I marveled at a few stars while the swans tucked their long necks under their wings and went to sleep.

I remember lying in the green of Bodley’s Court under the tree that overlooks the river. It is summertime, and the afternoon light bounces off the water onto the underside of the leaves to create a shimmering mosaic of color and texture. One of these days, you might see me sitting there with a book in my hand turned facedown on the grass, and I staring out at the passing boats. I invite you to sit with me. You can dig your fingers into the soft earth. You can smell the stone and the foliage. You can talk to me about your studies, or if the soup in hall was too salty. You can give me your jokes and your worries, your smile and your furrowed brow. You can tell me all about what you did today. But if I decline to turn my head, and appear not to respond, please do not be offended. I really do enjoy the company; it’s just that I’ve found a good spot, and we’ve got all the time in the world to move.