All Lost in the Forest & The Trees - The Red Bike Rides in Bretagne, Pt. 2

01.08        20:30  Restaurant in Ploërmel

“Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters,” a novella that makes up the first half of the last book J.D. Salinger published and my favorite of his books, though certainly not the best, begins with a fable of purportedly Buddhist or other East Asian religious origin (Salinger probably made it up). In the fable a man asks a religious figure for help picking a horse. The priest (or whatever) sends him to the local horse-picker. The man goes and gives the horse-picker details on what horse he wants: size, gender, color, etc. He returns to the priest and complains that the horse completely fails to meet his specifications. This delights the priest, who says, “I didn’t realize he was so far along.”

The story, whether Salinger’s or authentic, is bullshit, implying that the true core overrides the details, but in a trivial manner. It’s irrepressible bullshit, irrepressible because intentional, Salinger serving all of his own indulgences and none of his readers’, already long in recoil from his Catcher in the Rye fame. His joy at frustrating us is a delight.

Anyway, the story’s essence is about seeing past the details and to the core. Bullshit as I find it as a story, the moral is certainly worth remembering while traveling. Open to the possibilities and seeking the core experience, the traveler may find his/her trip fall far from the original plans and be all the better for it.

Me, I’m a stickler for planning. Even on this trip, with nothing written down or paid for in advance for eight days of the ten, I have a plan, and it’s hell for me to break it. My travel experience thus emerges in a very Western, American twist on this Eastern idea: a goal is set, and then all the fun is in overcoming all the silly things that get in the way to achieve that goal. Never flexible, I fight for what I’ve planned and believe should be mine.

Stupid? For sure. But just as with that horse-picker, I often find exactly what I’m looking for, just in the complete opposite direction. I look and do not find. I do not look and find. I am farther along than I think, but I’ve no idea how I got there.

It all started in Rennes. Bretagne starts in its eastern capital. I started my trip there and the first ten hours were fine – I arrived close to midnight, found my hotel empty but with my name and room number written on a board, and that was that. I woke up just after 9, the earliest I’ve risen since I returned to the continent five days prior, I found reception, asked where the nearest boulangerie was, and all was well.

Except the nearest boulangerie was closed, leading me on a 45-minute walk around our non-central neighborhood to find a mall with a supermarket and the chain bakery Brioche Doree. Ok, no big deal, I can do local another time.

I got out of the hotel and then out of town at 12. My destination would be the Forêt de Paimpont, known as the Brocéliande. My guidebook reported that it is said to be the forest whence Arthur pulled Excalibur (though in the next phrase, the book says the story probably came from Celtic settlers and is thus a hoax). Also that it was enchanting. And about 40km southwest of Rennes. That was as good a direction to me as any, so I settled on that as my first stop. All I knew was to head west and then turn southwest. Seemed simple, enough so that I never looked directly as a map with sufficient detail to know where I was going.

Water Mill along the étang

My first detour from the straight western track was along a stream, an étang, a pond. Quiet water flow, green bush, the grasshopper orchestra strumming, and I riding on a dirt path, unsure. The path ended once, but alongside another path continued. I came upon water mills and old stone houses, and eventually to a road again. The étang path continued on the other side of the road, but I thought I should go west again.

All signs west led to Le Rheu. Part of my plan was to find signs for the forest, a big deal around here, I imagined. Le Rheu, though, was not on my vague guidebook map. I found the village sleepy, the town hall closed. In the supermarket parking lot, an older man flagged me down. He was bald and short and round and shook constantly, and he needed money for something, I couldn’t understand why. I had only change that might go toward buying a map, and so told him I had none. “The third person who’s told me that,” and he flagged down somebody else.

The next town was Cintré. The last town connected to Rennes by the city bus system, Cintré had a center street with a tabac/bar shop and a church. I parked at the church and walked into the shop and asked for directions to the forest. A woman and a man pointed me to the next two towns on the way. I returned outside, had some of my baguette, and took off. I had covered about 15 km so far.

The ride took me mostly through flat fields of wheat or corn in varying stages of ripeness: some had the grain already baled up, others were green or brown but unreaped, and I beheld one tractor harvesting. Cows, horses, and sheep made appearances, though not as often as in Luxembourg. There was not much in terms of people, no gas stations and few stores. This was hardly a typical tourist path. 

I biked through Talensac and my first big hill in Bretagne, than Montfort. At a key intersection, Montfort being the second of the two towns I needed, I asked a road worker for directions. He sent me to St. Meen, which I heard as “San Maw” thanks to French pronunciation rules. I turned onto a country road and biked through Montfort, a quiet town with a widely-advertised supermarket.

In the center of Monfort, I found frustration. A map showed St. Meen de la Grand on it, but the direction was northwest. Further, Talensac was southeast of Monfort. That didn’t seem right. The sun hung behind the clouds, but it was already three and I had no idea where it should be by then. The wind howled in my face, slowing my meagre speed to a crawl. Fighting through wind to go the wrong way was not sustainable from a spiritual standpoint. I was lost.

A crossroads. A sign with 11 written next to St. Meen de la Gd. 11 Km is a long way to go the wrong way. I got off the bike and stared at the signs, hoping to divine a direction through pure hope. I had my instincts and strangers’ directions to rely on; my directional instinct is poor and the strangers’ directions were either bad or misunderstood. I am great at following maps. I had no map that showed these towns, these St. Meens and Montaubans and Iffendics and Montforts. I was lost.

A biker arrived at the crossroads. I called out to him, hiding my desperation. He was in his 60’s, bald with glasses and full biker’s gear – helmet, spandex top, and bottom. I had just the helmet. Even among weirdos, I stick out. Anyway, he pointed me to Iffendic. “Bof,” he said, “there’s a hill,” indicating with his hand how big it was. “Where are you from?” he asked, and then, “come to see the great interior of Bretagne?” with ironized pride. I praised the area reflexively and learned he was from Montauban. “Bonne route,” he wished me, and we parted.

Iffendic was another small town, but big enough to have a “centre commercial” – a supermarket, a bar, and a pharmacy. The supermarket had a little map of the region, and the bar had a bigger map on the wall, which the barmaid allowed me to study. Reoriented, I decided to discard the biker’s post-Iffendic directions with its grand hill and to light out for the D31. I trust maps, and so felt found.

From there, the challenge transferred from finding oneself to fighting the wind. It may not have actually been blowing directly in my face, but it felt like it. I thrashed. A spandex-clad biker passed me and shouted, “It’s tough, isn’t it?” Nothing is worse than wind for biking. Rain encourages one to speed up to get “home” sooner, but wind tells you, “the harder you try, the more I’ll hurt you.” Wind and rain are, of course, the purest distillation of evil for the biker. But this wind did not let up until the forest.

I came up to St. Malon and read a map: lo and behold, I was already in the Pays de Brocéliande and had been for a long time. I may not have reached the forest yet, but I was found.

Not the way to Excalibur, I think

And found at last in the forest. Green trees on both sides of me, thickets and limited sunlight (the clouds did their part as well). Except for the rare car or caravan driving by (one driver asked me for directions unsuccessfully), no sound did I hear but my pedaling, grunting, and singing. The forest was achieved internally and externally. But I found neither Merlin’s tomb nor Excalibur’s former home, both said to be in this forest.

The forest and its accompanying silence ended in the namesake town of Paimpont. Actually an abbey with a parking lot full of caravans ended my silence. It was 17:30. I had to decide on my destination for the night. My first choice in the area, Le Petit Keriquel, did not answer or return my call. Campgrounds were bad options without a tent. I called the last phone number on my list, Le Thy in Ploërmel. Beyond finding an available room, the phone call revealed two things: their reception closed at 20:00, and they did not tell me how far Ploërmel was from Paimpont.

I had a choice again. Push on or look for something here in the town. No doubt I could find a decent room at a reasonable enough price and end my day, 50+ km in. But any kilometers I covered today would be deducted from tomorrow’s requirement. And I knew it was only 50 euros for Le Thy. And I had my plan set…

Thought process: "No," and "Way"

Not long through Paimpont center, I saw the sign: 22 km to go to Ploërmel. Not looking for it, I finally found the hill the biker had warned me of – I walked it. My fourth wind came in time to get me through the next few hills and to steer out of the way of a tractor – the roads were, as Mr. Salinger might say, lousy with tractors. This last push, this last wind, could not help me against the rain, however.

I was wet, especially in Campénéac. The last real town before Ploërmel, about 10 kms away, had several hotels. I could have easily found a bed, a hot shower, and dinner. Instead, I thrust forward one last time. With well-advertised gas stations, help of two more strangers’ directions, and my cooperative, beleaguered bike, I made it.

Mural in Campénéac. Almost enough to make me want to stay.

And then, without looking for it, I found: a lively but quiet little city; an agreeable hotel with a lovely older couple as owners; an ATM I could get money from for free (not invaluable); a quality restaurant with crepes and Breizh cola and the Olympics on the TV; a pleasant set of bluestone-laid city streets to wander in; a store to buy a map from in the center, a sense of satisfaction; and even, most surprisingly, the sun, which didn’t go away until it set at 22:00.

In other words, without looking for it, I found everything I wanted on this trip. Maybe there is something to that horse-picking story.

That shirt is much lighter-colored when dry.

(Oh, and I slept like a king). 

One Ski to the Sky - Fallen on the Trail in Small Town Michigan

(Note: I guess my New Orleans writing really fizzled out, huh? Ah well, on to more fertile plains...)

The temperature hung just above freezing. The sun lit up the woods in a blessed winter scene, a still snow globe of trees and untouched white ground and silence. Little could disturb the Currier & Ives setting, a state park full of deer and American Beech trees and less so of intruding humans, of skiers like me. There was nothing that could disturb the cozy feeling of walking through, of skiing through a Robert Frost poem. Nothing that could ruin a first winter in three years, a first winter month spent in the solitude of a small town on the shore of Lake Michigan, one so pristine, so idyllic.

Nothing except me lying on my right side, left knee pulsing with pain, voice uncontrollably emitting curses. Nothing except my hubris and surety regarding the safety of cross country skiing and my growing skills on the long sticks. Nothing except the forever fear of the uninsured, the fear of a serious injury with nothing to pay for it. For a few seconds, a minute, it appeared that somehow this beauty would receive its first major blemish, one wholly my fault and, let's be fair, apparent only to me, beauty being in the eye of the beholder.

And even then, rendered horizontal from my point of view and somehow responsible for my woes, the picture remained pretty.

***

A Trail Sometimes Taken, Though Unclear If More or Less Often

When I tell people that I'm spending a month in Michigan cat-sitting my girlfriend Amy's cat while she is not here, people, after laughing at me for a few seconds and trying out their lamest jokes about cats, pussies, being whipped, and so on, ask me, "What the hell do you do there?"

Wait, let me rephrase. Were I to actually talk to people, I imagine that the conversation above is close to what we'd have. What with phone connections and bad internet and cold weather and snow and my anti-social inclinations and all, I don't talk to many people out here.

But if I were to answer that question, the what the hell do I do here, in Ludington, Michigan, a small town on the coast of Lake Michigan known for being a summer vacation spot and for having a ferry that runs over to Wisconsin (the venerable S.S. Badger, bringing you into Manitowoc, about an hour south of Green Bay! That's Baahadger, with the flat Midwestern "a". And no, it doesn't sail in winter), I would say: "Oh, you know, about the same thing I do anywhere - use the computer, cook myself food, read a lot, write a bit, look for work, work out every now and then, listen to music, play guitar, and so on." Such is the glory of the Internet age, after all. It doesn't matter where you live, because there you are, wired and well-connected! And I'm a pretty self-contained person besides, easily lured into the labyrinth of infinite information available online that makes me know way more about way too many things than I need to know about.

I might add, "The only difference between being here and anywhere else is that I here spend time feeding, petting, playing with, and catering to a fat pussy. A fat pussy cat." I tell lame jokes too, sometimes.

The pussy cat in question.

I could, however come up with a list of a few things I'm doing here that I don't normally do. For example:

- Cooking soups. Hearty hot winter soups. Like french onion soup, sweet potato soup, or borscht, the famed Eastern European beet soup.

- Eating those soups. And when I eat the borscht especially, I take off my shirt, so as to not stain my shirt, which would only lead to Amy buying more shirts, offending my anti-materialistic sensibilities. Beets, as I discover when cooking them, are very messy. They easily mess up the counter, the sink, the dishwasher, the floor, the wall, and, eventually, the toilet. The beet tinge washes out of all of those places, but who knows if it washes out of clothes. So shirtless borscht eating.

- Studying French. Though that has nothing to do with Michigan, really, unless I decide to dig up Pere Jacques Marquette's diary and study it for good tips on where the best hot springs and cherry trees are in Michigan. But still.

- Cross-country skiing. Which brings me to this story.

***

Cross-country skiing is a very low-key, quotidian sort of activity. Best done in a relatively flat area with short hills to climb and, one always hopes, slightly longer ones to ride down, XC skiing is a lower thrilled, higher energy workout than downhill skiing. I believe the better one gets at XC skiing, the more of a workout it probably is; my level involved a lot of huffing and puffing, but felt more like hiking than running, say.

Including these past two days of skiing, I have strapped skis on 3 times since I was 14. Up until the winter I turned 14, skiing was an annual activity, mostly of the downhill variety. Some of my earliest memories involve family vacations in the Catskill Mountains - for whatever reason, the steam room they had at the resort remains embedded in my mind as some holy room of warmth and comfort. I could downhill satisfactorily from the age of, say, 8 or so, and enjoyed trying to keep up with my younger brother who was inevitably a faster, more reckless, and better skier than I. Good thing he switched to snowboarding before too long.

When I was 14 and a freshman in high school, I went with my family on a ski trip to the North Conway area in New Hampshire. Between Attitash and Bear Mountain, I had some of the best, most challenging skiing of my young life. We also went cross-country skiing at some trails nearby, my first time on the flatter trails. I remember my mother being fond of it from her Moscow childhood, I remember it being hard, and I remember liking it. That could be a false memory, the last bit, but it stuck with me.

After that winter, I didn't ski again for 8 years. The intersection between skiing season and wrestling season prevented me from skiing for two reasons - more legitimately, that I had no time to go skiing; more spoken though less importantly, the risk of injury from skiing. Not that there's no risk of injury when skiing (I'm pretty sure the Michael Kennedy death happened around the time I was 13 or 14, as an exaggerated and morbid example), but I never really had any good chances to go skiing in the winter, so why bother with the threat? And, as I thought of it last week, cross-country skiing probably would have been a good way to cut weight and a low injury risk anyway. You can't get hurt if you're not going very fast or very much downhill, I figured.

This abstinence ended in a rather ironic way, then: my college coach Clar insisted the team go skiing on our trip to Reno my last season at Duke. My last being, as the final one, my most important season, and this trip marking my return to competition after my time in Russia. As Clar always says, good athletes don't get injured, so I guess I was to prove my athleticism.

Even then, ever cautious, I suggested that maybe I go XC skiing instead of downhill. This didn't fly with the relentless abandon we were supposed to display, and I headed out for the downhill slopes. After a bunny run or two, I realized the enormous intelligence of the body (and believe you me, my body is dumb as rocks as far as bodies go): my muscles remembered how to make it down a mountain upright, even if I had no idea what they were doing. Naturally, I quickly advanced from blue square intermediate hills to following a teammate, who had spent some time as a kid in the Swiss Alps, weaving down off-trail paths and past short trees, rocks, and other natural obstacles. I came out of this with a few falls, at least one instance of splitting a tree (i.e. straddling it with my skis; I'm not sure if there's a technical term for it, but splitting it makes sense - fortunately, the tree was not waist height, or rather, not slightly less than waist height), and a new appreciation for the process of finding a path, of going fast for two seconds downhill and then stopping to consider the next turn, and of earning a route. Blitzing downhill for a sustained time is fun once or twice, but the rush gets old; this sort of bit-by-bit downhill skiing really appealed to me. I hope to do it again.

In the meantime, there was at last the option of XC skiing again. Michigan, and the Midwest in general, is not known for its hills or mountains. Stranded here by the water in the middle of winter, with little to do and time on my hands as ever, I was free to try this old hobby out and see if it still suits.

After a day where I didn't leave the house or dress in anything sturdier than pajamas, I took the long walk of three blocks through Ludington's downtown and dropped in on the local sports equipment shop. I inquired as to whether one could rent cross country skis, and if so, how much it would cost. "You certainly can," the woman working there told me. The price was reasonable. I left the store and trudged another giant block to the local fresh foods store (this was the day I cooked my borscht).The next day, I saved my energy and drove to the ol' sports shop. The same woman helped me along in picking out my skis, my boots, and my poles (all for one low price), and within ten minutes I was back in my car and on my way out to the park.

Ludington State Park, home of sand dunes and ranked #1 state park in the Midwest, lies near the Lake Michigan shore, in between the great lake and a more local one, Lake Hamlin. Driving there, an 8-mile trip or so from the center of town, involves taking Lakeshore Drive, a.k.a. Michigan Route 116. The first half mile the driver can see the lake, then the shore juts out and the road runs over a bridge traversing Lincoln Lake, a lake now frozen; looking to the left, the driver will see a beautiful home perched upon a hill overlooking the bridge, and on the left just past that is a golf course, suggesting this is the more affluent part of town. Past the golf course, one takes a left as Rt. 116 splits off from Lakeshore Drive and goes more coastal again, and this is where things get interesting.

Lake Michigan's Wintry Shore.

On the right, dunes of eight to ten-feet height vary with a little outpost home and flat territory. On the left, an eight-foot tall or so sand dune covered with snow and patches of sand sticking out like missed shaving spots stands as the only barrier between the eye and the lake. Dunes of course undulate, and so the careful eye can spot Lake Michigan in all its glory. Its winter glory is an interesting brand, with a six to ten foot layer of ice stretching from the coast outwards; six to ten feet from the coast I mean, a width measurement, the length stretching as far as the coastline goes, and I can't tell you the depth. Then there's the steady water, clean and chilly even in summer's peak, when the savvier beachgoers get out of town and drive these extra ten minutes for relative seclusion compared to the downtown beach, surely hypothermia-inducing at the end of February. But the shoreline is beautiful, and one looks out due west to watch any number of technicolor sunsets, with a bluff sticking out to the south to add to the picture.

I visited Ludington State Park to ski four times in the past two weekends; rentals go for 24 hours at said local shop, convenient enough to ski immediately after taking the skis and immediately before returning them. My first trip involved a lot of blundering around to find the trail and, in the end, about an hour and a half of skiing. The next day I lasted about 3 hours, skiing on the trail, getting lost and losing track of the trail, and then finding it again at the mystical #6 checkpoint that I had sought so desperately while being lost. A week later, after a new, light snowfall, I went back out to the same trail, the LSP South Ski Trail, and blazed my own ski tracks on the trail, mostly without getting lost.

The accursed signpost #6.

By the end of three days, I learned not to follow cloven hoof footprints in lieu of the trail; not to expect deer to stand still long enough for me to reach into my backpack, pull out my camera, and take a picture of them; and not to discount the reliability of the following survival pack: the aforementioned camera, notebook, two stubby pencils, two Reese's peanut butter eggs, an apple, and a bottle of water - that can keep the energy going and the body safe and sound for a while. I fell every which way possible - dramatic one ski to the sky losses of balance, mundane stumbles forward while going uphill, self-induced crumples for safety when concerned about veering off trail on the occasional downhill, falls where my ski got caught in a low-hanging branch or stump, and laughable series of falls from getting up the wrong way after falling one of the other ways previously, climaxing in a four-falls-in-two-minutes stretch. I also witnessed a large family barbecue (i.e. 50-60 folks grilling in the snow on a Sunday afternoon); the utter silence of the woods on two of the days especially, with no sound except for broken branches creaking, wind blowing, and my clumsy tromping through the snow; that silence observed and disturbed by a woman who walked along the trail and talked to herself, saying, "You're a crazy woman, you're a real trailblazer," moments she lifted her head and noticed me approaching from the opposite direction - the red in her face, I imagine, was equal parts embarrassment and physical exertion in the cold; and, of course, the beauty of my surroundings when sprawled flat on my back after many of those falls.

A Split Stump Fall, the Aftermath Of.

My skiing had improved too, despite the falls. I progressed from arrhythmic strides, terrible downhill-to-straightaway transitions, and overall slow movement that was more akin to hiking with really long shoes (the ski coming off the ground much to often as I tromped through the snow) to occasionally on rhythm strides, the ability to maintain downhill momentum some of the time, and more frequent ski to ground coverage. In other words, a slight improvement; by my fourth day, I knew just enough to be dangerous to myself.

On a fine Sunday, cold enough to preserve the snow but with a surplus of sun and a surfeit of wind that makes for ideal winter sports conditions, I trekked out for the fourth day. I decided to seek out the North Ski Trails, employing the unfailing logic that if the trails I took the first three times were known as the LSP "South Ski Trails", there must be a North Ski Trails set (I learned this from Encyclopedia Brown books). After an initial trip along the roads, I found my hypothesis to be correct and landed upon those North Ski Trails.

The North trails were simpler, a little shorter, and less exciting to observe on a map. Where the South Ski Trails had three or four loops over 11 checkpoints, the North Ski Trails featured a straight shot from checkpoints 1-4, then a loop around a 5th checkpoint, #9; hiking trails intertwined with the ski trails, adding many checkpoints for paths not groomed for skiers.

Despite its limits, the trail offered plenty of its own beauty, with a wooded forest that felt both more dense and more open, somehow, maybe due to the presence of the sun falling on my head. In addition, my legs' energy and general enthusiasm both ebbed a bit; I had skied about three hours the day before and didn't feel much of a need to repeat that feat as I cruised along, again alone and surrounded by nature's low volume. The trail ran at least an hour and a half without interruptions, especially at my slower than usual pace. There was no need, I'm saying, for me to branch off trail.

And yet, there I broke off from #3 to try the Lighthouse trail, plenty long and most certainly a hikers' trail and not a skiers' one. I figured that out when the trail led me to the top of a dune, and then gave no indication where to go on the other side of the dune. Later, after backtracking, backtrack being one of the most defeatist verbs there is for the masculine mind, I saw on the map that I was indeed meant to continue across the dunes to get to the Lighthouse. I conceded that my backtracking was not only practical but the only realistic option.

I skied around the trail dutifully, musing about creating sports blogs and European rail systems. The trail was unspectacular only in comparison to the South Ski Trails - the North held even more of the understated, low-frill thrills that make up XC skiing; easy downhill glides, a laid out path to follow, and less than too difficult climbs, with the woods all around. All I seek, all I sought from my skiing is the space to think, to sink into a reality divorced from my computer and the technological needs of the modern world, to allow my body's natural desires for movement and exercise to express themselves, and I sought for all of this in a palatable, entertaining, and occasionally challenging setting. So far on that day, I had received all of this. I had had enough.

And yet again, when I got back to checkpoint #3, I decided to go a different way back to my car. I decided to take a hiking trail again, the "Coast Guard" trail, thinking it wouldn't be much longer, and would offer fresh territory. I noticed that somebody had skied there before me, as there were grooves to follow. I presumed that I would be fine.

The trail ran fairly narrow; wide enough for one person, but hardly a lot of room for error. Scattered trees lined the trail. I began going up, and anybody knows that what goes up must come down. I came to a bluff as it were, a peak in the trail before a short downhill, a little left-breaking curve of about twenty meters. Nothing special about this curve except perhaps the combination of the elements mentioned in this paragraph, combined with my dangerous knowledge and my wearied attention.

In any case, I started down the short slope, hesitated as I didn't have great control, feared hitting a tree, leaned to my right either to fall or to stabilize myself, fell, and left my left ski behind, catching either snow, ground, or a root and wrenching my knee and ankle. Which brought me to the cursing.

My first thought as the pain shot through my knee was that a ligament had gone. My second was that I needed to take off the skis and straighten my legs to assess. I poked the buttons on the skis off and began feeling around the damaged area. I found all three ligaments known to me to be in place. Relief washed over my uninsured joints. I had dodged a bullet, considering.

The next step was to get up, test the knee, and get moving. I stood and found that I could bear weight. My initial reaction turned out to be my most overdramatic response to pain since I thought I needed arthroscopic surgery on my knee in 5th grade when I woke up and couldn't bend it; I had been reading about Mary Lou Retton and her similar injury, which explains my fears over missing out the LA Olympics (the solution to this "injury" was to take a few pills and wait a few days; it's something of a mystery to me when I think about it). All in all, it looked like I would live without need of helicopter rescue.

After a more mundane fall, the only pain to the ego.

There was still the matter of finding my way back, and how to do it. On the one hand, walking was probably hardly easier on my knee than skiing, and slower for sure. On the other hand, another hesitant ride on a narrow turn might not be so good. The head said walk back to the previous trail and then ski on known paths. The ego said get back on the skis, tough it out, don't hesitate, and get home. Naturally, after walking through that first bit where I had fallen, it was on with the ego's decision.

I plunged forward, first on boots, then on skis slowly down a stupidly placed downhill trail (seriously nature, what gives?), and then trudging along through the hiking trail. The trail dragged on. I wondered why it was so much longer than it looked like on the map. I wondered whether eating an apple instead of candy helped or hurt my energy levels as the trail kept going. I wondered how I ended up in the campground cabin area and whether that man walking out of his truck was going to follow me and abduct me for reasons unknown and best not speculated about. At last, much to my wonder, I came back to the initial, roadside trail that would lead to my car, the trail where earlier I had seen someone riding on a sled pulled by three dogs. Ahh, Michigan. I limped on in.

So ends my overdrawn, not quite as dramatic as 127 Hours story about skiing. A week later, I still ice my knee and ankle and take aspirins and wait to see if the weather and my body will cooperate for me to go out on the trails for one more two-day stretch. I promise to myself that I'll stay on the trails. Or at least, I won't hesitate when I veer off.

At least, if I don't get any more skiing this winter, I hear Luxembourg has a few trails, so it won't have to be a 12-year wait till next time around.

2010 Travel Outtakes

Among the countless stories that happen in life, especially on the road, and the many times I have been on the "road" this year, there are a few stories that inevitably don't get quite told. I thought I'd take some of my free time to tell some of those stories. At least two of them.

Trabzon Terror and Turkey's North Coast

Turkey is an interesting place, and I'd love to spend more time there. Their political situation is interesting (even if not always the most encouraging), their culture a strange blend underneath a constructed form of nationalism, and the role Ataturk (Mustafa Kemal, the founder of modern Turkey who forged the nation to his desired form in the interwar period) played fascinating, especially as the current government shifts away from certain aspects of Ataturk's Turkey. Yes, I like Turkey, and hope to go back someday and either live or visit thoroughly.

That said, looking back on it nine months later, I'm not sure what I was doing in Trabzon.

Trabzon is a city on the north coast of Turkey, along the Black Sea. It is the capital of the province of Trabzon. There is a football team in Trabzon, Trabzonspor, that is generally in the top 5 of the Turkish Super Lig table every year; this year, they currently lead the table at the halfway mark. By virtue of being so far east, Trabzon, a few hours away from the Georgia border, apparently boasts a Russian-speaking minority, one I didn't come into contact with in my very brief stay. Either my guidebook or something on the internet also suggested that Trabzon might be a port involved with either human trafficking or with former Soviet women coming over on their way west; they were, apparently, derisively termed "Natashas." I didn't come into contact with this either, exactly, but I hope you'll see that this isn't a completely gratuitous pair of sentences.

Those who have talked with me over the past year, especially anyone who studied with me in Israel, would have figured out why I was actually in Trabzon, i.e. what my reason for being there was: I was going to Georgia. It was the Passover spring break, and I wanted to visit Georgia for reasons of personal and academic interest. Professionally, I had led a Model United Nations trip to Ankara, receiving a free ticket to Turkey, as it were. I put the pieces together and decided that the best way to get from Ankara to Georgia would be via Trabzon. And though I originally conceived of a plan to go to Trabzon by bus, an overnight deal that could be nothing but miserable, I was convinced by my hosts at the MUN conference to fly there. For $45 (59 Turkish Lira), I had a one-way ticket to Trabzon, from where I would catch a bus to the Georgia border. So that's why I was in Trabzon.

I arrived on my plane and caught a bus to the center. Having been in Turkey by then for about five days, I had picked up maybe 10 words or phrases - I'm one of those jerks who loves to learn a few words and then flaunt it, as seen in my Rwanda posts. That said, I was out of my depth here - "hello" and "thank you" doesn't get you on a bus to the center easily. I found that bus and got off at more or less the right spot. "Goodbye" and "Ataturk" doesn't get you a place in a hotel. I walked around, generally heading downward, in this case north, towards the water. It was already dark, about 7:00 pm, and I was dragging around a backpack on wheels while wearing another backpack on my shoulders, and a bit of paranoia came upon me as I walked the streets. I tried to stay on well-lit streets, of which there were several, and away from alleys. Unfortunately, nice hotels are the only ones on well-lit streets, and cheap hotels are generally only in alleys in Trabzon, from what I could tell, and so after not managing to score a room at a nice place for cheap, I ducked in to a short alley and walked into the Otel Ufuk.

The Ol' Ufuk was as much a dive as could be. Two guys eventually came down to the reception desk on the second floor to greet me. After some linguistic confusion and some problems putting in my passport number correctly, they accepted my money and showed me to my room on the floor above. My bed was covered in dingy blue sheets and had a scratchy blanket that looked like it just came out of a cat's throat. The light bulb flickered above and the dresser creaked more than was worth thinking about or testing. Outside of my room, there was no toilet but just a hole to relieve oneself in. There was no shower, either, really; on the floor above mine out of the sink came a longer water tube, but I had to just stand there and wash while hoping the run-off would go down the drain appropriately. The only saving grace was a very nice painting of a soft maiden outside my room.

Now, if she was the one knocking on my door, maybe I would have been a tad more agreeable...

But whatever. I was only passing through, I'm cheap, I'm tough, I can deal with it. Not everywhere is a 1st world 5-star experience (actually, that's just what I had in Ankara for the first few nights - it's nice traveling on "business"). I put my stuff down, went out to an internet cafe and to buy some chocolate, walked along the streets as roars came from various houses with groups of people, mostly men, gathered around TVs - Trabzonspor was playing that night and would go on to a 1-0 defeat. I felt better. I had heard good things about Trabzon from my Ankara hosts, descriptions of the more colorful head coverings I would see on the women there, demands that I should go see the nearby Sumela Monastery, and so on. I was open to the experience.

Then I went to bed.

I went to sleep around 10pm, more or less. Though the mattress was hard and the blanket scratchy, I fell asleep after not too much time. I must have slept for about an hour or two without any real problems. This sleep may have lasted had I not been woken by noise coming from the "common room" a room or two down the hall. There, somebody had the TV on too loud and there was also conversation going on between two voices, one male and one female. The conversation was episodic, interjecting and overshadowing the steady buzz of TV sound at unpredictable but frequent intervals. This woke me up.

As long as I was awake, I figured I might get up and go pee. So I did. I put on my jeans and a shirt so that I wouldn't be inviting any unwanted attention. Alas.

Coming out of the bathroom, I encountered a short woman. She had her black hair pulled back tight in a pony tail. She was not slim, and not especially attractive, especially at that time of hour. She was of undetermined nationality, presumably a Turk at some point, and not Russian or former Soviet by any means.

Anyway, she said something to me. "Sorry, no Turkish," I said back in Turkish. She repeated herself and made the gesture of putting her hand over her fist. I made the gesture of shrugging my shoulders, hoping that my gesture was more universally understood than hers. She repeated the gesture and pointed at my fly, which I had left unzipped. I, still groggy and confused, continued to try to express that confusion. She repeated it one more time with a broad, salacious smile. Ahh. I was being propositioned. I said no thanks, waved my arms in a no gesture - hand going over hand, akin to a declining gesture, or how wrestlers defer choice in the second period - smiled, and went back to my room. Hey, I'm a white male who probably looks like he has money to spend on those things. It happens.

I returned to my bed, hoping to fall asleep. The TV seems louder, if anything, and the interlocutors outside are laughing more frequently, and it appeared my hopes would go as fulfilled as all my high school date requests (or college date requests). Which is to say, I wasn't falling asleep.

I can get riled up, for sure, and demand things every now and then. But for the most part, I try to be pretty easygoing and to avoid confrontation. It's not in my interest, as I see it. I try to train myself to deal with just about anything. So my natural inclination is to just suck it up and wait it out. And again, from the vantage point of nine months later, I think that still might have been the most reasonable response. I was on vacation, I had nothing important to do until I arrived in Tbilisi two days later, I had no absolute need of rest. I could have just turned on the light, pulled out War and Peace, and kept plugging away.

But, for the eternal desire to rest and turn off, I got up, put on my jeans and t-shirt again, and walked over to the TV room. There, I said please and made the universal gestures of "turn it down, mofo," (right thumb and index finger held a centimeter apart and twisting counter-clockwise as if a volume knob were between my fingers) and "I'm sleeping, come on now, this noise is too much," (pointing to my ears, tilting my head sideways to the right, placing my hands under my head as if for angelic sleep). The guy there, by the way, was one of the guys from reception. Not a great sign for the ol' Ufuk. That said, he seemed amenable.

And nothing changed. I continued to toss and turn, and to not sleep. I got out a little later to pee again and, in lieu of my other gestures, held my arms up and made a beleaguered face - yes, that's right, I pulled out the flying dolphin. My man showed a touch of sympathy and reassurance on his face, but otherwise, the results went unchanged. I stayed awake. And then came the insult atop my injured nighttime.

A banging came on my door. Fortunately, my door was locked, and so it could not be opened. Unfortunately, this did nothing about the banging, which continued. After the first couple of phrases, presumably in Turkish, my friendly Turkish woman of the night started a conversation with me in guttural Russian, which I will present to you in Russian, transliterated Russian, and then translated English:

Проститутка - Ты спишь? Ты спишь?
Уставший мужщина - Я сплю.
Несимпатичная Проститутка - Зачем?
Сердитий человек - Поздно!
Проститутка которая не знает когда перестать - Ставай, на хуй! Ставай на хуй!

Her - Tii spish? Tii spish?
Me - Ya splyu.
Her - Zachem?
Me - Pozdno!
Her - Stavai, na khui! Stavai, na khui!


Lady of ill-repute - Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping?
Embattled gentleman - I'm sleeping.
Not so nice prostitute - What for?
Angry person - It's late!
Prostitute who doesn't know when to stop - Stand up, fucker! Stand up, fucker!*

*Loose translation, as she literally said "on a cock", which can be translated in a number of ways, many of them unknown to me. If I had to guess, she knew the phrase "idi na khui", which means "go on a cock", or "go fuck yourself."

All this happened while she continued banging (on the door, I mean). After a few more knocks, she gave up and went away. Sometime after this, I gave up and turned on the light to read. I kept reading until I heard the muezzin's morning call, and shortly after that heard them leave.

So while I don't know what I was doing in Trabzon, I can reassure you that it certainly wasn't her.

*** Postscript to Trabzon:

After blundering around that morning, I found my way to the bus station. At the time, I was still keeping open the option of visiting the Sumela Monastery. Instead, when I got to the station, I got sort of railroaded into getting on the bus to Batumi (or more accurately, Sarp, the border crossing town for Turkey-Georgia). I didn't get any clear indication of how long any of these trips would take. In all likelihood, I wouldn't have been able to go to Sumela and then make it to Batumi in time to catch the overnight train to Tbilisi that would have had me there in time for an appointment I had scheduled the next day. Still, I would have liked to have made a better informed choice.


The bus trip itself was beautiful and strange. We went right along the Black Sea, the road winding in between the coast and hills to our right, not more than 50 meters from either most of the time (That morning I had dipped my toes into the water, touching for the first and only time the sea my family used to vacation to back in the old country). That part of the Turkish coastline, at least, holds that quality we often call "rugged beauty" - rocky cliffs to our right, the flat sea to our left, and houses or port towns of varying size and stature on both sides. 

About midway through the journey, those continuing to Sarp were ushered off the bus. They then escorted us into a white van, cramming us in nice and tight. I sat next to a few jovial fellows in the back row, some with gold or missing teeth, all laughing and telling jokes eagerly that I couldn't understand but laughed along with as necessary. The van took something of a local route, taking stops to drop everyone in a preferred stop, leaving me in that location I continually find myself in, a state of confusion. At last they dropped us off at the border, the crossing its own state of chaos with line cuts, vague directions of where to go, and Georgian border officials who were very happy to see my American passport.


My Long Walk in Los Angeles

As you might have read, I took a long trip around the U.S. of A. a couple months ago. The trip concluded in California with a day and a half in San Diego, a day in LA, and a few days in San Francisco. I intended to write about all this on this blog, and didn't. At this point, I don't feel like digging up too much out of my memories and observations, as I don't think they were that unique, for the most part. I liked San Francisco, San Diego and Los Angeles were laid out weird and I didn't have enough time to grasp them, people are different, etc. Any East Coaster going out West can tell you these things. Instead, allow me a couple quick anecdotes I compiled and then a story about an LA feat that I think with reasonable confidence that only I am stupid enough to undertake. In many ways, this feat was a microcosm of my greater U.S. trip as a whole.

- First anecdote comes from my train ride from San Diego to Los Angeles. This was, as mentioned, my only intercity travel on something other than a bus. And without meaning to sound like one of those pompous, "trains are awesome and we should put them everywhere so as to be green and cool and European and keeping up with China" people, well, trains are awesome, and train travel is definitely the best way to travel. After all, I am one of those people.

So anyway, I get to the train station, show my necessary identification, get a ticket, and go down to the platform. As I stand there waiting, a woman starts talking. It's not clear if it's to me or to anybody else. She's talking about an issue she's having. At last she looks over to me, and I respond. We have a brief conversation. I found this indicative of California from my whopping 6 days there - people are very willing to share their conversations with you or to jump into your conversations. It comes from a collective personality trait somewhere between friendly and self-absorbed. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it, but it's different.

This train anecdote isn't about that. It's about being on the train, enjoying the view of seaside tombs and morning moons in a nearly empty coach (I guess San Diego to LA at 7:50 on a Sunday morning isn't a super busy time, huh). It's about our cheery conductor, who was all business whenever she walked into the cabin to check tickets or make sure things were in order, but was all chirpiness when on the mike announcing the stops. It's about what she said as we pulled into Anaheim:

"We are now arriving in Anaheim, for the Magic Kingdom, home of Disneyland, the Angels, and the Mighty Ducks. Welcome to Anaheim." Pause. "QUACK!"

- As for the other anecdote, it was upon arrival in LA's Union Station. I mentioned in the last post the roundabout and wasteful way I went about getting the necessary change to make a pay phone call. Once I had the $2.00 needed, I purchased a 3-minute phone call. I was calling a friend who had just moved out to LA from the East Coast. Our conversation:

Me: Hey, how's it going? Where do you want to meet?
She: Dan, good to hear from you! Hold on a second, I'm just checking something, I just want to check where I'll be.
Me: Ok, I should be in wherever in about 20 minutes, I just have to take the subway.
She: I don't know where to meet, hmm...
Me: (counting the seconds) I can go wherever, just tell me which stop to go to and I can get off there.
She: Well, we could meet somewhere on Hollywood, somewhere on Vermont, let me check on my computer.
Me: You have a car, right?
She: (humming as she searches, presumably) Huh? Yeah, I have my car.
Me: Then just meet me somewhere, it doesn't matter.
She: I don't know where, though, hold on.
Me: WE'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME!!

Eventually, we settled on Vermont/Sunset. Where, while waiting for her, I walked around with my leather jacket over my shoulder, stroking my beard, waiting to be discovered. Anyway, the anecdote was more about how environment affects us: the same girl who was a high-powered hipster living in Brooklyn and an popped-collar douchebag when I saw her in Nantucket this summer (kidding!) was little Miss Languid Los Angeles after her move out west. There's a reason the airport abbreviation is LAX, I guess.

On the phone with my agent. What can I say, it worked.

- Now, to the big story.

The thing about Southern California (again, speaking from a whole two days of experience), is that there are hills everywhere, the ocean is right there, but the cities are more sprawled out than a tired USC student after their post-finals drinking binge. There is a downtown area for both San Diego and Los Angeles, but I spent time in neither of them; there's no action in the downtown areas, and yet the other areas don't feel like cities anymore than, say, my Boston suburb hometown of Burlington does. So not very.

I've been spoiled, I concede. I've lived in Tel Aviv for a year, a city of near perfect size; walkable, bikeable, and easily navigable, but not so tiny to feel unimportant. I do most of my traveling in Europe, where walking, bike-riding, and metro systems are the best ways to get around and sufficient to see a city. In the states, I have spent most of my time in the cities of Boston and New York, again two cities that one can walk or ride the rails around in attractive fashion. I love to go walking when I visit cities; on this trip, I uncorked a couple good walks before getting to California, including a trek from Union Square area to MOMA and back, and one from Vanderbilt's campus down to the river in Nashville and back.

In LA, though, nobody walks. "You can't walk to get around," I heard. "It's just how it is," they said. "Go back to cowtown, man!" they told me. (Ok, no they didn't). As evidenced on the whole of this trip and in many other ways in life, there's nothing I like more than doing something (stupid) when I'm told I can't. Something like taking a long walk in LA, for example...

My Israel wrestling teammate (and former UNC Tar Heel) Dusty dropped me off at Hollywood, right near all the attractions, the famous theaters and what not, within eyesight of the Hollywood sign. It was about 4:00 pm. I had scheduled to meet with someone at 8:30 down at Union Station, where I had left my things. I had time. It was a nice day out. I was relatively unburdened, carrying only the clothes on my back, my camera, a slim book (Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour, an Introduction), and a slim notebook. I couldn't do it. I started walking downtown.

I started about 6900 Hollywood Boulevard. I quickly figured out that LA was gridded, and that I probably had to get down to somewhere near zero. Union Station's address is 800. So 61 blocks. What's 61 blocks? I only had to go one way.

I walked down Hollywood Boulevard until the glitz disappeared and I was back in post-urban suburbia. So I walked over Sunset Boulevard, right through Little Armenia. The blocks were longer than I had expected, even knowing how long this would take, and so when I returned to the familiar Vermont/Sunset intersection, I figured I should throw in the towel. They were right, I thought. You really can't walk in LA.

I went into a tea shop on Vermont just off that intersection. I drank tea, ate a cookie, and read the LA Times. I recuperated and refocused. I watched as a light drizzle began outside. I considered. I returned outside. I went to the subway station and looked at the map. I noticed the Red Line went right under Sunset Boulevard. I noticed Sunset Boulevard led straight into downtown and Union Station. I thought about how many sentences i could write consecutively that began with "I". I looked at the stairway down to the subway station with dismissive disdain, put my hands in my pockets, and kept walking.

The drizzle came on and off, not quite enough to threaten my jacket. I walked as it grew towards dusk. I quickly got confused at the intersection of Sunset and Hollywood, and ended up wandering in a residential neighborhood up on some hills (right around Sunset Drive - see the second point in the map below), and had to ask my way back to Sunset Boulevard.


View Larger Map Of One Man's Ridiculous Journey

Los Angeles has many facets to its wider reputation, the one that reaches a naive young man from the Boston 'burbs. I had already checked that my route wasn't going through any neighborhoods like "the Wood", Compton, Long Beach, or Snoop Dogg's house. Nevertheless, a new sense of paranoia crept into my mind as the dusk slid over me. I figured out a way to walk with my hands in my pocket and through my pocket holding my camera, so that no one could readily see that I was carrying a camera. I got concerned about my 500 shekel jacket. I kept my head up and my path in the light as much as possible, my pace brisk. I began muttering to myself about my stupidity.

Wouldn't this make you paranoid?

At the same time, I realized that I was walking through a lot of famous neighborhoods. Echo Park came and went like an Elliot Smith warble; Silver Lake showed up, the hip neighborhood that I had visited earlier that day with a friend to check out an apartment; Angelino Heights struck me as significant even as I cursed its poorly lit sidewalks; though I never saw Dodger Stadium, I knew that the signs pointing me to it meant I was reasonably close. There was something cool about all of this, even amidst my paranoia.

My first encounter came a little before Echo Park, as I ran into a group of dirty looking kids my age or a little younger walking a dog. They asked me for change to buy some dog food. I asked them if they could tell me how far away downtown was. They couldn't. I think I gave 'em a quarter.

Then I walked past a short, wide lady in her 40s or 50s. She had frizzy light brown hair, and freaked out a little when I walked by her. Understandable: she might have felt the same LA paranoia that I did, especially walking in the dark. But then she said something about a black beard. I stopped to scratch my beard.

"A very black beard, like the ultra orthodox."
"That's what I look like," I said. She kept rambling about the ultra Orthodox.
"I don't have a hat," I said with a smile.
"See this coat?" she said, showing me the white coat over her bag. "This coat and bag, I got it for $3.50, that's a very good price. The Jews like money, so if I got it from them, that's a good deal, I did good," and she kept ranting. I walked away, confused.

The Hollywood Sign is in there, somewhere.

Not long after that, wondering when if ever I would arrive downtown (I stopped in CVS, 7/11, and a gas station in hopes of finding a map to get a sense of how long it would be, I asked for directions at a Burger King and was just pointed to keep going), I popped into a record store. I had already visited the gigantic and famous Amoeba Music on this walk, shortly after I left Hollywood Boulevard, hours ago as it was. This time, I noticed there was a gig going on. I got to hear a couple songs from the electro-funk stylings of Globes On Remote (I can't say I dug it all that much, but it was still cool).

Digging the show (just not so much).

I continued along the road as it turned into Cesar E Chavez Avenue over the 110. I knew by this point that I was close. A little ease seeped into my soul. I spotted a touristy spot and decided to detour through it for a few minutes. I had stumbled on the famed Olvera Street, a little pedestrian alley of shops and food stands, mostly Mexican in nature. I can't say I saw too much of it, but I did notice it was going to get closed down sometime soon.

This Chinatown dragon was also a sign I was almost there.

That was basically the end of my journey, except for the laughter when I told my friends at dinner that night. As much fun as it is to do stupid things people say I can't do, the best part is when I tell them about it afterward. Even if they're laughing at me, it's a good time.

And by the way, you really can't walk in LA. I think my story is mere proof of that.

Weed, Whores, and the Western World

Disclaimer: The author has only taken part in the last activity of the three mentioned in the title, and the title and the following post should not be construed to mean otherwise. Well, unless you consider the author's taking off his shirt and whipping it around his head like a helicopter to that Petey Pablo song senior year of high school at the behest of his friends as a sign of the author whoring himself out. Then you have a case. Paul Crowley once argued this, in fact.


Getting the ego shot out of the way early.

"You're going on vacation?"
"Yeah."
"Where are you going?"
"Amsterdam."
"Oh, nice."
"Yeah."
"You're gonna have fun in Amsterdam, aren't you?" [eyebrow raise, possible elbow nudge]
"Of course I'm going to have fun."
"No, I mean, that kind of fun." [eyebrows rise higher, elbow nudges sharper]
"Oh, sure."

Anybody who has taken a trip to Amsterdam has held the following conversation, with mild variations. So let's get it out of the way right here: Yes, everybody, Amsterdam, like the rest of the Netherlands, has a fairly lax weed policy and "vibrant" coffee shop culture. Also, prostitution is legal (pimping is not; straight pimpin' it on the dance floor depends on the legal interpretation). Magic mushrooms are now illegal, but magic truffles are not. This is significant. Let's move on.

Actually, let's back up for a second. Why does one travel? What are the reasons behind it? See new places, relax, change your patterns, shock the system, partake in activities legally that would be illegal at home (hello, U.S. 18-20 year olds who travel pretty much anywhere out of the country!), meet new people, spend money, shop; a short list of possible reasons.

Why am I traveling this time? Well, frequent traveling companion and main man Ben made the call to commemorate our Euro blitz of 4 years ago, and increasingly frequent traveling companion Amy and I needed to spend a little time together. Also, I needed a break. Wanted to get off the computer (ha!), the workload, and the rest of it. Ben and I did some negotiating on where to go and ended up with an Amsterdam-Copenhagen trip (via Hamburg) and Amy and I will take down Denmark for a week afterwards. That's the short of it. I may just explore the themes of why I travel in the long of it, over the next couple months in the blog.

Really, his right leg is the short of it.


Ok, you say, but what about a better reason for traveling? A more general reason for traveling? Well, how about learning about the other, finding what a people is like, a new language is like, and whether the stereotypes held about them are true? Would that be a good reason? More importantly can I theme this blog post around the idea of testing stereotypes about Netherlands and the Dutch, and perhaps discovering fodder for new stereotypes?

At least for the last question, the answer is, "You goddamn well bet I can." It's my blog, and I'll write about what I want if I want to.

Amsterdam: Nothing but a Hippie's Paradise?




So now we can address the weed question, right? Let's make it clear: there are coffee shops everywhere. Many of them have Bob Marley related paraphernalia. The smell of weed permeates outside these shops. We saw a guy on the metro of whom Ben could say nothing but, "That guy's got a fat doobie in his hands."

Furthermore, I can point to our hostel, Lucky Lake. First, the hostel was a good choice: not too far from the center, cheap as it comes for a private "room" (more in a second), everybody's friendly, the breakfast is good. All you can ask for from a low-key hostel.

The inhabitants of the caravan next door to us. For some strange reason, they were really loud around 6 am every morning.

That said, the hostel is set up as follows: near the eponymous lake, there is a compound. On that compound are a bunch of little white cabins and white caravans. Caravans like the one Matt Foley talked about, but smaller. Sufficient, but certainly cozy. There is also the a caravan that operates as the "Smallest cinema in the world", and a big cabin known as the Lucky Lounge, where our nose-ringed host at reception said we might, "have a joint, talk some bollocks, whatever you'd like." Needless to say, that "like" sounded like "liiiike." Also, there is a pervasive habit among our fellow guests of just lounging in the courtyard on chairs by the plastic crocodiles and toking on their own. Also, chickens and a couple roosters walk around. Ben and I have taken to calling this the community. In the Community, we wash, dry, and put away our own dishes. In the Community, we dry the shower floor after we take a shower.

Hippies party, don't they?

This is evidence for the hippie side of things. And Amsterdam at the center is certainly tolerant. But also not that crazy. Sure, we saw two separate frat-like groups of young men, one where the newbies were dressed in suit jackets and purple tights and forced to run along the canals, another with freshmen (so to speak) dressed in yodeler costumes in a main tourist/restaurant street. But that's, well, frat-boy stuff. There were lots of boats in the canals on which groups of people barbecued or partied, but is that so different than what we would do? I dare say it is not. The brown cafes (instead of the coffee shops) are where men are men and beer is strong and Dutch. The beef is salty, the fries are thick and slopped in mayo, and the air is far too chilly to come directly from Israel. No, I tell you, Amsterdam is not so different from us. We are the ones who see the world.

Nice legs.

Ok, but what about the Sex?

Amsterdam has sex in many places. There is a sex museum. There is an erotic museum. There are the whores. There is a larger than usual listing of escort services in the city guide (note: I giggled at this, thinking about how it was actually legal here. Sometimes, I'm not as mature as I think). Many girls here are pretty (I would argue many girls everywhere are pretty, but I'm easy). Hell, as I type this the first time at the Lucky Lake computer, flies on the edge of the screen are undertaking an act that at least suggests copulation. Oh, the inhumanity of it all!


Beyond that, however, it's just, well, sex. Snicker, giggle, move on. Even the red light district, vaunted and famed beyond all other districts of Amsterdam, was kind of tame when we went. Sure, we went at 1300 on a rainy Tuesday in September, perhaps not prime time. But all the same, despite persistent searching (believe you me, we searched), we saw nothing more than one woman standing in a white negligee behind a ground floor window, her expression not especially happy. This is what Amsterdam's policy of opening up sex does, apparently, which is to say, not much besides dirtying it a little.

Another Dutch dream bites the dust.

What about the Dutch people?

As hosts of a lovely place to visit, the Dutch are difficult to complain about. They are mostly friendly, they speak English very well (at least, within Amsterdam's confines), their language is very funny (Eet Smalejik = Enjoy your meal), and I haven't heard one car horn over three days in Amsterdam and Haarlem. Just bike bells. It is possible that I have grown immune to the sound of a car horn since living in Israel. But I doubt it.

That said, we've had our run-ins. There was the homeless man who kindly advised us on how to get to Centraal Station (in good English) and encouraged us to check out the Red Light District, all for a tip. There was the feisty crew at the supermarket around closing time (more below). Ben dealt with a cold clerk at the railway ticket office. And then there baker in Haarlem who spoke limited English. Upon our asking about what a Haarlem kruid cake, advertised on a sign outside, was made of (it looked like a dark pound or fruit cake), he said bread. We probed further: "What fruits does it have in it?" He deftly responded, "Ja ja, it has fruits, nuts, bread." We didn't buy any cake.

Most notable for me was our experience in an Indonesian restaurant in Amsterdam. We each ordered a sampler plate, and had the choice of getting it in Mild, Medium, or Spicy. Our guidebook said, about the restaurant's fancier sister next door, that spicy was on a par with ordering napalm. I, not a lover of spice in general (as anybody who has tasted by "famous" guacamole knows), decided a full two steps away from napalm would be safest, and ordered mild. Ben ordered medium.

After fifteen minutes, a different waiter came up to confirm our orders. Ben's medium was all set. He asked me what I got. I said a mild. He said, "Is medium ok? The chef's wanted to make only medium." Well, there's no arguing with the chef. I said it was fine. That seemed like it would be the end of it. It was not.
As he brought the food, after I tasted the food, as we continued on our meal, and after we finished, the waiter continued to check on us, making sure medium was ok for me, bringing us a jug of water, refilling that jug, and so on. He also worked to persuade me that medium was better. "Mild has no taste. Why get mild? You need to have an adventure. Go for medium." And so on. He all but denied me of my manhood for daring to order mild.


The Dutch, needless to say, are known for their blunt honesty.

How about a traveling in the Netherlands fact that isn't yet a stereotype?

Well, we found it very strange how the Dutch dealt with credit cards. Paying with a credit card is nearly impossible. Same for debit cards. You could only use a card if it had a special golden chip in it, a thing which probably only exists in the Netherlands. Fine, you say, use ATMs and deal with it. It's just that the principle gets twisted to perversion.

To wit: at the Amsterdam central station, "Amsterdam Centraal", the ticket machines would only occasionally accept coins and rarely if ever bills. When checking out at the supermarket, we were left with not enough cash (despite making a meager purchase of 11.44 euros) and no card to use, and only saved by the ATM.

And yet we were not able to buy tickets for our trip to Germany with anything besides a card. When we rented bikes for the day, we had to leave an imprint of our card with the shop, but could not pay with a card. It all got a little confusing.

"Why can't you pay with a card?" Ben finally asked attendants in one store.
"That's a good question. There's no good reason I can think of," she answered.

Mark it as something for future travelers to be aware of, at least.

Back to stereotypes: Aren't the Netherlands famous for tulips, cows, and windmills?

Oh ya, you betcha. We saw plenty of shops for the first, plenty of the second, and at least a few of the third. Some evidence:

Ok, you can sort of see the cows. I didn't take many pictures of them.

They ride bikes there too, don't they?

Do they ever.



Netherlands has, according to our guide book, the highest proportion of bike users to the general population in the world, at 85%. There are bike lanes on most streets in Amsterdam. There are bike highways connecting the whole country. On streets without bike lanes, meaning smaller streets and canal banks, bikes have right of way regardless (de facto if not de jure). Bikes locked to rails fill bridges, sidewalks, and every light pole, mail box, bike parking spot, or timid sapling.

We didn't experience the nightmare of driving a car amongst all these bikes, but we did walk by many of them. If on a given walk in a city you have to be aware of cars and mopeds within the confines of the paved street, on a given walk in Amsterdam you have to be aware of those cars, of mopeds within the bike path, of bikes within the bike path, of trams running along the tracks, of other pedestrians, and of little red wagons pulled by tall Dutch children. There are a few additional ways to incur physical damage while walking, to say the least.

Ok, but you said you rented bikes. How was that? And how about you tell us a story after 2,000 words of babbling?

Yes, we did rent bikes. And hoo boy, let me tell you how that went...

We took bikes from Frederic's Bikes right near Amsterdam Centraal. For a mere 10 Euros (and the aforementioned credit card imprint) we had bikes for 24 hours. Considering we rented the bikes at about noon, and that the shop closed at 17:30, there was a good chance we would have to bring the bikes back to the Community with us.

Frederic's offered a fixed price for all bikes, meaning we could pick whatever we liked. Ben went with a sleeker handbrakes-laden bike while I choose a yellow cruiser with coaster (i.e. foot) brakes, hearkening back to my childhood bikes. We adjusted our seat heights accordingly and set off. Next stop: Haarlem.


View Larger Map

As you might notice, it's a pretty straight shot from Amsterdam to Haarlem, and then onwards to the North Sea coast. We set off at a relaxed but decent pace, observing the pleasant highway and suburb vistas of the LF 20 bike route. We passed by a billboard for, presumably, a Dutch reality show, featuring, presumably, a female Dutch celebrity who was crawling through brown stuff with a smile while the words next to her said that she was, and I quote, "diep in de shit." I almost ran into a few mopeds going the other way on the bike lane, as well as a moped that had passed me and then stopped around a bend where I didn't see it. Ben used his bike bell expressively. One of us went faster than the other (ok, Ben), though it may be left to the realm of eternal disputes whether that difference was due to biking ability or the quality of the bike in question.

Note the slick, racing design of Ben's bike. Also, it had hand brakes.

The trip to Haarlem, then, was uneventful enough. The day was beautiful and sunny, Haarlem nice and welcoming (Dutch-speaking baker excepting), and our mood pleased and satisfied. Not sated, however; we decided the bike trip could be extended to that North Sea destination. So off we went on a more pastoral 9 Km jaunt to the sea through the outskirts of Haarlem and on to the water. Our reward was a faceful of nonstop wind and a big, open, relatively low-developed, and not terribly appealing stretch of beach. I spent most of my time huddling behind a seat or a bench that would offer shelter from the wind, and a little time ruing the fact that my fries were knocked over face down to the walkway. If there is ever a concrete walkway where the 5-second rule does not apply, it is one by a windy beach with sand all around.

Our adventures, as it were, began when we left the beach. Ben again took the lead, and I, delayed by a pit stop, the gusty winds for the first couple of KMs, and a lack of will to compete, lost sight of him before long. All was well and good with me as I entered the center area of Haarlem, but then I realized we had no plan for what to do next. I thought maybe I should go to the center where we sat that morning, but after botching a couple of turns trying to get there, I went to the train station, thinking Ben might be a step ahead of the game. He was not to be found. I returned to the center, biking through stone paths and past towering churches: still no Ben. I returned to the train station, thinking I might need to go to an internet cafe and try to call him to let him know where I was, seeing as I was phoneless. At last, pushed against the wall, I found him on the other side of the train station. He had been there all along, it seemed.

That mild taste of turmoil (not spicy enough, apparently) led us to our next phase, which was finding out how to get back from the train station to the Community. Normally, the Community Van shuttled us back and forth for the ten minute ride to the metro. We were close to the town Abcoude, and wanted to go through the town to pick up some things to make dinner. Signs for the bike paths are fairly good in the Netherlands, and so we followed our way on the signs and on the rough map that came in our Community Welcome Packet until we came to a supermarket at about 20:01. This being a small town, the store closed at 20:00. Ben locked his bike quickly and stormed into the store, not giving the young staff the chance to stop him. A minute later, I walked in, indicated my friend was already inside, and was allowed to proceed.

We speed shopped, picking out a basic dinner that we could whip up quickly in the Community Kitchen. Our speed was more yellow cruiser bike with coaster brakes than sleek gray bike with hand brakes, however, and one of the attendants especially got upset with us. "Gentlemen, we are closing the store and cannot wait for you any longer," she shrieked as I pondered jumping over a line of shopping carts to get a bar of Mika chocolate for 85 cents. At last we finished our selecting and went to the register to pay. A mere 11.44, as I said earlier. No problem...except Ben was out of cash, I was below 10 euros, and our cards weren't working. What would we have to give up? The pack of Holland bell peppers? The pair of onions? The loaf of bread? The 2 grams of marijuana? (Kidding, kidding. Really. That was a joke. Come on. They don't sell marijuana in the supermarket. Honest.) The six pack of Code Red? (Also a joke: if only they sold CR abroad).

Ahh, but our traveler's luck remained in our back pocket, and that luck trumped the ill will and shrill demeanor of our supermarket clerks (n.b. I've worked in enough retail business (ok, that one summer delivering pizzas at Papa Gino's) to know how much it sucks to try to close up when somebody comes in right at or right before closing time. Hell, that was a problem at the library this year. It doesn't get any easier when they come in right after closing time but before you've started cleaning up. I know we were in the wrong. We were traveling. It happens). An ATM appeared, an orange box of pure cash dispensation, and at last we had our opportunity to reap the benefits of our shopping efforts. Success was achieved, we found the road back to the Community fairly easy, made some friends along the way, had a nice dinner, and seemed poise to leave the Netherlands on a near perfect record.

Basking in the joy of getting to soon eat Holland bell peppers in Holland.

One thing prevented that.

An advantage of the caravan sleeping arrangements, one of the few, is that you are intimately connected with the outside world. Should it be cold outside, you will notice it. Should it be hot, it will be hotter inside. And should it be raining, you will know. The tap tap on the roof of the caravan is unavoidable.

"That's something we didn't factor in," I thought to myself as that tap tap woke me up at 6:30 on the morning following. There was no way around it, we would have to ride back to the train station and return our bikes shortly after 8:00 if we wanted to make breakfast back at the community. Both of us, coming from warmer climes, were ill prepared as it was for the rain and the cold that came with it; neither of us had brought enough warm clothes for just the cold weather, never mind for the rainy weather.

So there we went, I in my pajamas, Ben in his one long sleeved sweatshirt fit for the task, biking through the puddles, the rain, and the general misery of weather in most of the world, and made our way back to Amsterdam. Somehow, we did not catch pneumonia. Somehow, Ben made friends with a first grader on a field trip on the metro who wasn't intimidated by the "sopping wet, strangely attired, heavily musked" appearance that the two of us gave off. Somehow, we made it back to the Community just in time for the last moments of breakfast, and then again just in time for the 11:30 shuttle back to the metro station so we could catch our train. On the whole, traveler's luck kept us going.

And then, at last, we missed the train we needed to get to Osnabrück when we wanted to. As we stood on the stairs, watching the train head east, we realized that while it is better to be lucky than good, luck can only get you so far. Ah well.