Exploring the Unknown

No Stranger Land

2008-05-01T21:33:00.005-06:00

Please check out www.nostrangerland.blogspot.com to follow Brian Triplett and Denny Clark as they walk across America this summer.

Thanks!

Some much-needed change

2007-12-04T15:08:00.000-06:00

Bowl Of Oranges
-bright eyes

"The rain, it started tapping on the window near my bed.
There was a loophole in my dreaming, so I got out of it.
And to my surprise my eyes were wide and already open.
Just my nightstand and my dresser
Where those nightmares had just been.
So I dressed myself and left then, out into the gray streets.
But everything seemed different and completely new to me.
The sky, the trees, houses, buildings, even my own body.
And each person I encountered, I couldn't wait to meet.
I came upon a doctor who appeared in quite poor health.
I said 'There is nothing I can do for you you can't do for yourself.'
He said 'Oh yes you can. Just hold my hand. I think that would help.'
So I sat with him a while and then I asked him how he felt.
He said, 'I think I'm cured. No, in fact, I'm sure.
Thank you Stranger, for your therapeutic smile.'"

***

Maybe it's the cold. Maybe it's my messy sleep schedule. Maybe it's the fact I have $2.78 in my checking account. For one reason or a combination of them, I'll be the first to admit I've been a bit negative lately. Not negative in the sense of "my life sucks" but in a more obnoxious, unfair way. I've found myself secretly judging others and their lifestyles. Over the past year I've really bought into the theory of Nietzsche (I know, not the best of role models) that there are no "right" paths in life. Aside from being a good person, I do believe there are no right answers to life. Lately, though, I seem to be noticing ways I don't think people should live their lives, and not only is this unfair and selfish, it gets me, rather, gets us, nowhere.

Mainly I've been bashing materialism. Note: This could be a symptom of my lack of funds, but I doubt it. Prior to traveling, I donated most of my things to Goodwill and have not thought about a shopping mall ever since.

Funny anecdote: My great friend Scottie called the other day to tell me about this second-hand store in San Diego where you give them stuff and they give you store credit to buy stuff. "It's just like Goodwill but better," he said. "So, it's like Goodwill without the Goodwill," I asked. "Fuck you," he said as he laughed. "Don't make me feel bad." Love you Scottie!

I live in a very nice, rich neighborhood called Lincoln Park in Chicago. I am able to afford this because I sleep in a twin bed against a brick wall in the living room of my friend's girlfriend's apartment. Aside from lacking diversity, I really do like the area. Since I can accomplish my work in my underwear if necessary (I'm working on a screenplay and a book) and can do it on my own time, I am very content with my lifestyle. However, aside from my musician friend Tim, I do not have many friends. By friends I mean people who like to/can hang out on a consistent basis. Everyone is so busy. Busy working. Busy being too tired from work. Busy going to bed to wake up from work. Busy being busy. And aside from the lucky/smart few who actually pursue careers based on things they are passionate about, most people I have encountered around town speak of this busy lifestyle in a negative tone. We aren't talking about 64-year-olds here who are looking retirement in the eye. I am speaking of people my age, 23-year-olds, who are too busy to do anything but work. They live to work. The only thing work accomplishes if your job is not fun nor gratifying is having money. I understand some people are in debt and respect the hell out of people who work hard to support families. But what's up with the people who work all the time just for the sake of it?

I cannot help but see these people as materialistic, whether consciously or subconsciously. They don't like their work. They do it for money. They buy unnecessary things with this extra money. In all fairness, I'm probably just sad I don't have many friends to play with. Whether it's stupid or not, I'm a dreamer. When I was on the road I had people to share dreams with. Here it seems I can't talk to anyone about dreams because they're already sleeping.

***

Let it be emphasized I am neither proud nor happy of this recent attitude. It's judgmental, stereotypical, negative, and pointless. It's not the way I normally live. It's not me. I don't support it. I'm admitting it simply to help put the following story of one of the most-thoughtful human beings I've ever encountered into context:

I had gone grocery shopping the previous night. This left me with $2.78 in my checking account and $10 in my wallet. I managed to spend $2 at the coffee shop despite being there for seven hours (hot water is free, the $2.04 tea bags are good for a while, and the girl at the counter let the 4 cents slide). This left me with eight accessible dollars.

The $2.78 is sure to double in the near future since I started a new job. Unbeknownst to me, a handful of employers demand you get tested for tuberculosis. I was unaware this was such an issue. Not HIV, not rabies, not the bird flu. Just TB. And this convenient little test requires you return 48 hours after getting pricked to see the results (small mark = negative, some reaction I'm hoping not to see within the next 48 hours = positive). Since I am leaving town on Thursday, it was a must that I get pricked on Monday so I could return Wednesday for the good (I'm an optimist) news. This required me to take the el from Lincoln Park to Union Station ($2) and the Metra train out to the suburbs ($5), leaving me with $1 to spare. Perhaps you're supposed to tip your TB tester? I don't know. I'm new at this.

I thought I left in plenty of time. I don't have a watch nor do I ever know what day it is. The point is, I suck at time. I think it's just a made up thing to give people something to stress about. Anyway, apparently trains run on something called a schedule. I watched the Brown line el whiz by me as I climbed the staircase. It would be another 15 minutes before another would come.

I sat next to a friendly girl who helped me strategize my route for getting to Union station by 1:30. Take the Quincy exit. Head west. Walk three blocks. Or in my case, since it was 1:26, sprint three blocks.

I did just that, dodging frightened people on the downtown sidewalks who assumed I was either going to attack them or that I must have stolen something the way I was running in street clothes. I arrived to the station at 1:30:33....1:30:34....1:30:35...The ticking digital clocks everywhere did not let people, including myself, forget how important time is. I asked a man with a nametag where to catch the 1:30 train to Aurora. "Too late for that one," he said. "You'll have to catch the 2:30."

I called Tim, who was to pick me up at the Aurora station, to inform him I would not be there as planned. I never thought I'd be trying so desperately to make it to a destination in which someone with an all-blue outfit would stick a needle in my forearm, but here I was, blood boiling. I was wasting this precious concept known as time.

I'm aware that you can purchase tickets for the Metra on the train, but I had an hour to kill, so I figured I'd buy the ticket in the station. As I went to get in line, a young gentleman and his father asked me for some assistance at the self-purchase ticket machine. This was ironic because just the night before I spoke to my brother about how I am old-fashioned when it comes to certain things. The example I cited was never using self-check-in at airport. "I always prefer to speak to people," I claimed.

Their problem was simple. They were trying to put the money in first before selecting an option. They wanted the $5, one-day fun pass. What makes this pass fun? I'm not sure. But you could use it for 24 hours and it claimed it included all trains and buses. The father did not learn from his son's success, so I had to instruct him as well. They thanked me and went on their way. "That wasn't too hard," I thought to myself. So I decided since I was there, I might as well join in on the fun. I slid my $5 bill into the slot and out came the fun pass.

I noticed the machine and ticket said CTA. It said nothing about Metra. There wasn't even an 'M' in the acronym. I still had 15 minutes to kill, so I waited in line to rid my bit of paranoia. Four windows were in use. I noticed a bit of an argument going on between one of the attendants and a customer. The customer was being rude as if the attendant was a self-service machine without feelings. The attendant seemed offended and bothered. I hoped he would not be the one to assist me, but he was. "Next." I stepped up, explaining I had just purchased the fun pass and was wondering where to go to catch the 2:30 Metra.

"Those passes aren't for these trains," he explained as if I was the biggest dumbass in the station.

I remained calm and played extra dumbass. "Oh, really, I didn't know that. Okay, I'd just like to exchange it for the Metra ticket then."

"We can't do that." I would have been more confident had he said, "I", but "we"? He was speaking on behalf of everyone in the building.

"Umm, okay, well could you direct me to someone who could?"

"No. That's just a machine. We have nothing to do with it."

"Well, obviously you have something to do with it since the machine is in your station."

"No."

"Okay, well this was my last $5 and I have to get on that train at 2:30."

Blank stare.

"Wait, I have a credit card."

"We don't accept credit cards."

Blank stares from both parties. I wanted him to say something like, "But today I’ll make an exception," or "I feel sorry for how stupid you are. Please let me assist you onto the train."

Still blank.

I walked away slowly and dramatically, wanting him to yell, "Wait! Don't go! Let's figure out how to make this work!!!"

Instead I heard, "Next."

I walked to the nearest cement pillar and banged my head against it three times. I actually thought I might cry. And it wouldn't have been a subtle cry like when I watch The Land Before Time. It would have been a frustrated one that included all kinds of strange moans and yells. But I think I was too pissed at myself and the world to react much after the self-inflicted beating against the concrete.

I didn't have much time to consider alternatives (although now that I've had 24 hours, I've realized there weren't any) when I heard, "Hey man."

I didn't know it at the time, but the patron saint of public transportation was standing beside me. He was young to be a patron saint, I thought, and he dressed like a businessman.

"I heard what happened," he said. "You handled it well. Do you need a few bucks?"

"Um, man, that is so nice of you. Uhh, well, I could give you this fun pass?"

He laughed. "Um, yeah, I really wouldn't have much use for that. Here, just take this." He slipped me a $5 bill.

"Wow. That is so generous. What's your name?"

"Larry."

"Larry, I'm Brian." We shook hands. "Can I write down your address so I can send you the money?"

"No way. Have a nice day." He walked off into the horizon (past the Burger King) and I knew I would never see him again.

***

I spent the next ten minutes waiting by the fun pass machine to pay it forward. No one seemed to want to have any fun that day, and I was risking missing my train. A couple potential customers seemed bothered by the kid trying to offer them something. "Nah, I don't need anything man," one guy said before even learning what I was offering. "But I'm actually just GIVING you a pass for free. I don't need it. I bought it on accident," I said. (On the inside I was saying, just take the fucking fun pass. Hey, goodwill comes in many forms.) "Oh, well, in that case, okay."

I spent the hour-long train ride thinking about Larry. His thoughtful act was a simple thing to do. $5 likely didn't break his bank (I'm boycotting Jamba Juice because you can't get anything on the menu for under $5). But the point is that it went such a long way. It got me all the way to the tuberculosis-testing center. And it's still traveling with me. My faith in people was restored and then some. I feel stupid for my few days of pessimism. People aren't bad until proven kind. They are good-hearted until proven selfish.

Thanks for the change Larry. I really needed it.

Exploring the West

2007-10-13T14:15:00.001-06:00

The return of wanderlust

2007-09-17T16:13:00.000-06:00

I had been back in Iowa for nearly a month. After working a double bartending shift at Micky's Irish Pub, I went out with some friends for a few drinks. I was in a strange mood, still chatting, but mostly off in my own little world. I thought of how much I missed the lifestyle of being on the road.

I talked with a couple friends about how we all hoped to make it out to the Northwest someday. We had all heard Portland, Oregon, was a great town for people like us.

On the walk to another bar I decided to head in my own direction without telling anyone. I walked to the Greyhound station, read the schedule on the glass door that informed me a bus was heading west at 3:20 a.m. that morning.

I walked to the apartment I had been staying at, showered, packed up all my belongings, hopped on Greyhound's website and found out I was not allowed to purchase an online ticket so soon in advance. I wasn't going to let that stop me.

I arrived at the station three hours early. I chatted with the people who gathered to catch the bus heading east to Chicago. An 18-year-old named Darrell watched my bags as I went to use the nearby Port-o-Potty. I watched as a man said goodbye to his family with kisses and tears. I asked him where he was going. "Istanbul," was his answer -- this caught me off guard since Iowa City is in its own little bubble and outside world is usually a distant thought.

I told him I loved Turkey and had recently spent a bit of time there. I spoke highly of a guest house I had stayed at. "Metropolis ring a bell?" I asked him. Surprisingly he knew exactly where the place was I spoke of.

"If you ever stop by, tell Muro I say hello," I said.

"I will," he said, as he boarded the bus heading east along with everyone else in sight aside from me.

The conversation on the dark, chilly street corner at 1 a.m. reminded me of why I love traveling with no agenda -- because you never know who you might meet or what might happen.

***

A group of three guys a few years younger than me showed up about an hour later. They were the first people I had seen in a while other than the cars passing by.

I found out they were freshman at the University of Iowa and one of them was hopping a bus to Minnesota to see his girlfriend although he hadn't told his parents. They asked what I was up to. "I'm not sure," I told them, knowing the answer wouldn't be sufficient and that they would be in for a long story.

A half-hour later, after explaining I had been traveling for eight months, came home for three weeks, and now here I was on the road again, the boys said how cool that was and how they'd like to do that. Victor seemed particularly interested, stating he may just drop out of school and take off.

The two who weren't making the trip hugged me goodbye as I boarded the bus with Ben. "Is there room for me?" I asked the driver. "Sure is," he said. He took my driver's license and told me to pay once I reached Des Moines. I chatted with Ben for a while before we both fell into deep sleeps. Once we reached Iowa's capital, we parted ways. He told me good luck and we promised to keep in touch.

I boarded another bus west for Denver.

***

I slept through most of Nebraska, getting the best quality sleep possible while sitting up, resting my chin on my backpack. I arrived in Denver around dinnertime, realizing I had a four-hour layover before I was to catch another bus to Salt Lake City.

I stored my bag in a locker at the Greyhound station and roamed the streets of downtown Denver. I sent Andrea, the girl I had met in Los Angeles and went to Fiji with, a text message to let her know I was in Denver since she goes to school in Boulder

"What?!" she replied almost immediately. I told her to call me. I explained to her what I was up to. She decided to come down from Boulder to meet up. I walked back to the station to ask the woman at the information desk what it would take to extend my ticket and hop another bus another day.

"Honey, that ticket is good for a year. You can hop on and off any time you want at any of the stops," she said.

***

I've been in Colorado for four days, three nights now. I don't know when I'll continue west. Maybe sometime soon. Maybe not.

Sweet home Iowa

2007-08-19T19:30:00.000-06:00

Yes, I'm home. Yes, I'm overwhelmed. Yes, I'm elated. Nearly eight months on the road with no structure, no plan, no routine, no place to call home, no familiar faces -- it's made being in the place I know best feel like I'm living a different life.

I currently have no plans other than spending quality time with the most important thing in the world to me -- my family and friends (including all the great new ones I've met along the way). I feel like my priorities are in the right place, and I'm in no rush to take off again. Home is where my heart is. Although, the unknown still excites me just as it always has, and the future at this point is definitely unknown. With no job, no car, and no money, it will be interesting to see how I land on my feet and what new ideas I hit the ground running with. With a great tale to tell and a new outlook on life, I'm certain I will continue to live with the same curiousity and passion for this life as I always have.

I haven't stopped smiling since I surprised my family by showing up a few days ago. My head, however, is in a million places thinking of what just happened in the past, how to spend the present, and what to look forward to in the future. I've only been back a few days and am trying to do everything at once and see everyone. Please know I'll be around for a while and will be in touch with you as my mind settles.

Unless anyone wants to read about my daily life in Iowa, I think this will likely be the final post. Although, a lot of what I learned this year will be realized now that I am home and have time to digest the events of 2007. Thank you so much for following along with my journey.

I plan to write my first book about this last year of my life. It will be nothing like the blog. It will include new perspectives, new material, and a deeper meaning of all of this. I hope you will be reading it in the near future.

If you want to get in touch with me, please...

email me at:
brian.triplett@gmail.com

call me at:
c 563.940.2053
h 563.391.4738

write to:
1335 W. 57th St.
Davenport, Iowa 52806

Thanks again for being part of my trip of a lifetime.

-brian

Nearing the finish line

2007-08-11T09:14:00.000-06:00

"And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."
-t.s. eliot

My mom still had the radio in the car set to 101.3, hoping to catch my interview the day before with Mark and Steve of KUUL-FM. To her surprise she heard, "And now we will talk to Donna Triplett, the grandmother of Brian Triplett who we interviewed yesterday." She turned the volume up and listened to my grandma chat about my travels. One of the radio guys said she sounded like a typical grandma. The other host said she sounded like the sweetest grandmother in the world.

The best part of the story: When my mom called my grandma to tell her she had caught the interview on the radio and to congratulate her, my grandma responded, "I didn't know that was on the air. I thought they were just chatting with me." My grandma became a local celebrity without even knowing it.

So I'd like to take this time to thank my family for being there for me throughout these past eight months, even if it's had to be through e-mails and surprise phone calls. Not only couldn't I have done it without their support, I wouldn't have done it without their support. Thanks for understanding I had to go check out the rest of world to confirm the Midwest is the best place on the planet.

Thank you also to my friends who have done their best to keep in touch with me. I know it hasn't been easy. I'm also very thankful for all the new friends I've made all around the world in 2007. I hope to see you all again some day.

I love you all.

-brian

Curb my Enthusiasm

2007-08-08T11:28:00.000-06:00

After spending a summer interning for the L.A. Times entertainment section, I've always been a little numb to the excitement that typically comes along with celebrity encounters. At the Sundance Film Festival, I spent most of my time on the slopes and in the hot tub rather than trying to party with JT. When I stopped in my tracks to stare at Kate Hudson, who was shopping on the east coast of Australia, I did so because she was an extremely hot girl adjusting her thong -- I was completely oblivious that I was drooling over a star until someone informed me later down the road.

I get more anxious to meet people I respect for what they do rather than who they are. Example: I'd rather chat with the writers of my favorite show Entourage than the cast.

When I saw Larry David -- half of the brains behind Seinfeld and star of HBO's Curb Your Enthusiasm -- at a bar in Edinburgh a couple nights ago, I knew I had to try to chat with the comedic genious. I had attended my first ever soccer match earlier in the night and headed for beers with the boys right after, so I was more than a bit tipsy when I walked by him.

"Hey Larry," I said. "My dad and I watch your show together and both love it. It's a bonding experience."

"Thanks," he said, not seeming to annoyed with the attention although the good-looking 20-something blonde next to him was likely a bit more interesting.

"So what are you doing here?" I asked, as if we were old friends who coincidentally ran into each other in Scotland.

"I'm playing golf. What are you doing here?"

"I'm been traveling around for almost eight months. I'm staying with some friends, checking out the festival."

"That's great. Where ya from?"

"I'm from Iowa."

"Iowa?" he said in the same condescending tone he does on his show.

"Yeah, I went to school at the University of Iowa for journalism. I'm a writer as well, so I just wanted to say I respect your work. Sorry to bother you."

"You're not bothering me. No problem. Take care."

I dialed up my dad on the car ride home to tell him about the encounter, just like a 16-year-old girl calling her friends after meeting Justin Timberlake.

The following day I headed north to St. Andrews to check out where golf was born. Bryan, who along with his wife is taking care of me yet again while in Edinburgh, mentioned I might see some celebrities roaming around. Not more than two minutes after he said this, Larry David and I crossed paths, staring at each other as if to say, "Didn't I chat with you at the bar last night?" The only difference was, I knew I chatted with him at the bar last night.

"How's it goin' Larry?" I asked.

"Good," he said, with a little laugh at the coincidence.

"I bet he thinks I'm stalking him," I said to Bryan as we walked away. "Maybe he's stalking me?"

Life before death

2007-08-04T07:29:00.000-06:00

"You promise me I'm not going to die?" I asked Jordan?

"I promise you that you will not die," she said, doing her best to comfort me, yet justifiably taking this far less seriously than I.

"I just feel like I'm going to faint, and I think that if I faint I'll die," I said, ignoring her promise.

If I stood up, I would vomit again. If I lay down, I would pass out. I wanted neither. I wanted nothing but to feel normal again. I wanted to enjoy the most beautiful beach I've ever stepped foot on that taunted me from a football throw away. But instead of basking in the Zanzibar sun, I sat on the step outside the tiny restaurant kitchen with my elbows on my knees, my face in my palms, suffering from one of the many options floating around my overreacting mind: Extremely unfair hangover after a relatively calm night of drinking? Malaria? Food poisoning from the fresh snapper the bartender caught with his bare hands in the Indian ocean and grilled up at 12 a.m. to satisfy our munchies? Some African disease I don't know about that makes you believe you are going to die even though you likely just have food poisoning?

Fact: I was being a big baby. Fact: I didn't give a shit. Fact: I wanted my mother.

Despite my pessimism about my chances of survival, the symptoms screamed nothing life threatening. What had me freaked out was the thought that if this 'whatever it was' took a turn south, I had no idea where or how to find a doctor since I was a 45-minute drive from the nearest town. And even if someone with a stethoscope and thermometer appeared out of nowhere, I was on the thinly-populated side of an island off the coast of Africa. Not exactly the campus of Harvard Med School.

I stood up and used all the energy I had to walk the 10 feet to the bed of bamboo in the kitchen staff lounge. Before I could put the pillow in a suitable place, I had to run out the room so I wouldn't make a mess. I didn't make it more than a quarter of the way to the outhouse before I knelt beside a flowerless flowerbed and projectile vomited. There couldn't have been another passion fruit seed in my stomach from the morning's breakfast. I added a bit of color to the naked landscape with chipati, toast, fruit salad, coffee, midnight snapper, and a few servings of my dignity.

After I gathered the courage to stand up, I noticed two Maasai men staring at me from 10 feet away. For those of you who have never been to Africa, think National Geographic photos. Think warriors. Think beaded bracelets, red and blue cloth outfits, and stretched earlobes.

When they were certain the show was over, the men walked up to me with quizzical expressions. They wanted answers.

"I've been puking all day....uhhh....vomiting....(I put my left hand by my mouth and spread my fingers out like a firework as I moved it away as if playing a round of Pictionary)," I replied, as if talking to a two-year-old despite the fact these men speak perfect English. "I've never felt this strange in my life."

"Would you drink special Maasai medicine, or would you be afraid to?" one of the men asked.

How do you tell a man who possesses the skills to kill lions without modern weapons that you are scared to take a little local Pepto-Bismol.

"Um...yeah...I mean no...I would appreciate that," I squeaked out. "I would love some. How much would it cost?"

"No, no. You do not have to pay. We just want to help you. We will return shortly."

While the Maasai went to their village to gather what was synonymous to magic potion in my mind, I retreated to a sandy area nearer to the outhouse. With nothing left in my system, physically or mentally, I lay as still as a dead body, letting sand stick to the side of my face and ants use me as their playground.

The men returned within a few minutes, not leaving me much time to ponder whether or not it was a good idea to accept strange medicine from a tribe who, according to Wikipedia, "Believe that they own all the cattle in the world," and have a diet consisted of, "meat, milk, and blood from cattle."

My doctors with holes in their earlobes the size of quarters squatted down beside me as I sat up, noticing a small tea cup in one of their hands with what looked like a double shot of watered-down blood

Not allowing my hesitation to last any longer, one of the Maasai handed me the cup. "Take it all at once," he instructed.

One of the worst feelings in my opinion is drinking something that tastes much different than you anticipated. Like taking a drink from a carton of orange juice on accident when you expect it to be milk. But I had no way of knowing what dance this would do on my taste buds, especially since I neglected to smell it.

On a dare in college I once took a shot of well tequila, Tabasco sauce, and a raw egg. "Can't be any worse," I thought as I downed the potion.

Much spicier than I thought, although I can't say I formed a mental prediction aside from 'blood from cattle', which I've never had the opportunity to try. I hiccuped violently, and then once more. I could picture some sort of chemical reaction I learned about in fifth grade taking place in my stomach. Bubbles, steam, green flames. The Maasai began massaging my belly in clockwise circles, to, I assume, let the potion work its magic. Jordan apologized, saying she "had to do this" as she snapped a picture.

Once I confirmed that I was not going to die or turn into a frog, I thanked the men. They said I could take some more later if I needed to.

"I think one dose should do the trick," I said, and lay my face back in the sand while the Maasai walked away.

I still felt like death, but at least I had a story to tell if I lived.

"What are you laughing at?" Jordan asked.

"The kid from Iowa getting his belly rubbed by two Maasai warriors in front of an outhouse on an island off the coast of Africa," I said. "Just another day."

At a loss

2007-07-28T02:18:00.001-06:00

It's important to note that these blog posts do not reflect my entire trip. They are simply small windows providing a glimpse into certain days and certain moments. The negative and the positive experiences are not equally proportioned. I realize sometimes I come off as a complainer, but the truth is sometimes the challenging times are just more fun to write about. I realized this is an important thing for me to note when I received several messages from readers offering to help me get out of Africa following my last post. The truth is that my trip has been filled with ups and downs, all of which will hopefully be told in a book some day. Thanks!

I was all geared up to write something positive about my time in Tanzania, until this happened. I was ready to write about the great experiences I've had here, but this is all that's on my mind. I was very anxious to share many of the 600 photos I've gathered on my camera from my five weeks in Tanzania, but unfortunately for you and for me, someone decided they needed that camera more than I did yesterday morning on a crowded bus to town.

I never gave pickpocketers enough credit. I thought they only existed in the movies. So imagine my surprise when I reached for my camera in my right front pocket and found nothing but lint. I'm not much of one for material possessions anymore, so it's not about the camera, it's about all the time I spent taking the photos. Now I will not be able to share my encounters with lions and rhinos and zebras and giraffes. I will not be able to show you the friends I've made here or the children I've made smile.

I'm trying to come up with something positive out of this and remain mature, because it's not the end of the world. They say pictures are worth 1,000 words. I suppose as a writer my challenge now is to come up with the right 600,000 words to describe what I've seen.

Race through the streets

2007-07-21T08:54:00.000-06:00

"Ready to feel blue again?" I asked Jordan, referring to her remark about feeling like we have blue skin the way people stare at us.

"This time it will be like having blue skin and water skiing naked through the streets," she said as we began our jog through a tiny Tanzanian village where they see a white person as often as a change of season.

If America is the melting pot we learned about in grade school, then an African village is a box of regular fries and I am the curly one that somehow made its way in. The villagers can choose to dip me in ketchup or throw me in the trash, but either way they know I don't belong.

As I ran I tried to stare straight ahead at nothing but the air, but it was impossible not to know that every pair of eyes was directed right at my light skin. The bolder locals feel the need to make some sort of reaction, either whistling, pointing, laughing, pointing and laughing, tapping their friends on the shoulder to make sure they don't miss this opportunity to see a "mzungo" doing some strange activity that is a bit like walking but slightly faster. It was like one of those dreams where you arrive to work without pants on, only real. I admit it can't be a bad thing for a white, middle-class American to feel a bit out of place for once.

To be fair, many of the people I've gotten to know throughout my three weeks in Tanzania have embraced me like a family member. Many locals start up innocent conversation. They attempt to connect to the world they imagine I come from, on more than one occasion telling me I look like David Beckham. It's the people I don't get a chance to know who look at me like an alien that gets to me.

Children stare with wide eyes and dropped jaws as if I'm the boogieman or some character they've heard about in stories they were certain was a myth until he came running by in his Nike trainers. "Pepe," some scream out, assuming I should have some candy since that's what they're told the white people will bring. In America we teach our children not to take candy from strangers. In Africa, it's encouraged. The adults don't have as much of a sweet tooth. They just ask for money. I don't have either to offer, so I am of no use to them. I am all for helping people in a time of need. But when it's a life of need it becomes a bit more confusing. I am sympathetic and defensive at the same time.

I wished I was in better shape so the group forming behind me wouldn't be able to keep up. I can hear the footsteps and laughter, but I forge on. Cultural and language barriers sometimes make it confusing to determine when someone is sincerely interested in your business or just plain mocking you. There was no gray area here. I stopped in my tracks, turned around and began running in my hecklers' direction, sending children screaming into bushes, wishing they hadn't messed with the boogieman.

"Good morning," a little boy says, although it is 6 p.m. This innocent attempt at conversation eases my tension for a few steps until a teenager on a bicycle heads straight for me, making some strange 'meow' noise -- an odd choice in my opinion -- forcing me off the road and into a field. This is the moment I choose to stop running.

I'm certain all humans have a limited capacity for cultural experiences. Me, after seven months on the road in 18 countries, I'm over my limit and my body is starting to reject it. As I walked back to the guest house, a group of teenagers pointed and whistled. I snapped. "Ooooooo, a white person, let's all stare," I yelled back. Of course I regretted it a few seconds later, but I couldn't help it at the time. I'm all for throwing yourself out of your comfort zone and experiencing new cultures, but sometimes you can have too much of a good thing. I once heard about someone dying from drinking too much water.

***

I came to Africa under the impression I would spend some time volunteering for an organization that helps orphans. I have not laid a brick for a school or been led to a group of children to organize a game of soccer. I've been asked for money and more money despite the fact I've explained I'm fresh out of school and in debt. I've met disctrict leaders who assume I'm here to finance projects based on no other information than the color of my skin. They slide their visitors' books across the table to have me sign for whatever reason and thank me for my contributions which I haven't made. I want to help, but with my ideas and energy, not my checkbook. I suppose when you see the mailman, you assume he's got mail for you. White people don't come to a village in Tanzania because they enjoy the scenery.

It's not the rats running through the ceiling or the spiders bigger than my ear crawling on the walls or the buses that make you feel like you're involved in a large game of Twister that have brought me as close to a breakdown as I've gotten on this trip. It's the feeling of not being wanted. "What am I doing here?" I've found myself questioning on an hourly basis. It's not fair to those around me. I'm not my usual curious self. Had they encountered me in my earlier days of travel we would be sharing stories over beers. Now it seems like there's no choice but to recharge my batteries and go back to the world I know.

I try to make the most of my days, but for the first time I don't know how. I read, run, write, and think, but then there is still more than half the day remaining. I can choose to stay in the confines of my room or walk the streets and deal with the stares and laughter. I can no longer practice the openmindedness I preach. I feel as if I've discovered all I can in this place, at least for now. The only question I have remaining is, "Am I a bad person for wanting to get the hell out?"

***

After a few deep breaths and a bit of meditation this afternoon, I concluded that I will look back on this experience and smile someday. I told myself I am here and nowhere else and if I can't enjoy what's right in front of me, I am not living the right way. I have two more weeks and one challenge - to make the most of my time in Africa. Who knows when I'll be back?

As we left the village I was handed another visitors' book out of nowhere. I have no idea what purpose this served, just like all the rest of them. Instead of rolling my eyes, I began smiling. I scribbled my information and closed the book. I'm sure a few people will be curious about why David Beckham was in town.

Simple stuff

2007-07-10T05:14:00.000-06:00

As I attempted to load my email account, a message informed me "This seems to be taking longer than usual." It would be fitting if Tanzania borrowed this notification from Gmail to act as the country's official motto. Everything is done at a slower pace here. After running to the market for groceries, it is time to rest. After reading a few chapters of a book, it is time to rest. No one seems to be in a hurry. It makes America look like it's functioning on fast forward. Since Internet access follows the slow suit here, I will have to make this update a quick one yet again.

I've been: Reading. A lot. Learning the basics of Swahili. Getting a good farmer's tan. Eating beans, rice, bananas, and more bananas. Learning how to do laundry without machines. Showering with a big bucket and a small bucket. Functioning without electricity or running water. Shitting in a hole in the ground. Looking at the stars, which show the other side of space's face in the southern hemisphere. Sweating my ass off. Making children smile simply by being white and saying "what's up?" in Swahili. Playing soccer/football with a ball made out of pieces of material taped together. Cramming into crowded buses, one of which caught on fire. Swearing at slow Internet connections. Learning patience. Missing my family, friends and the concept of home more than ever these days. Craving pizza. Wearing the same clothes every day. Learning the beauty of simplicity. Getting stared at. Crossing my fingers my mosquito bites won't lead to malaria. Contemplating when to come home. Falling asleep to chirping crickets and barking dogs. Waking up to roosters cockadoodledooing. Wondering what day it is. Taking lots of pictures. Learning how to say grace without embarrassing myself. Dancing at Sunday mass. Getting stared at and laughed at while dancing at Sunday mass. Learning not to care about getting stared at and laughed at while dancing at Sunday mass. Learning that we have it pretty damn good in America when it comes to some things. Learning that Americans, including myself, need to take a few pages out of Africa's book when it comes to enjoying the simple things in life like children, the stars, friendship, and eating dinner as a family at the same table.

That's all for now. Thanks for reading.

Grace is wrong

2007-07-02T04:07:00.000-06:00

"Go ahead and get on," Raphael said as we waited outside the bus that would take us to town.

"I would if I could," I thought to myself. "Okay," is what I replied.

This particular bus I estimated had a capacity of 30 people. There were already at least twice that crammed into any place physically possible to store a body. I squeezed my way into an empty seat - a rarity - since someone was exiting just as I passed by. Raphael sat in the aisle across from me, no more than three feet away, yet I could not see him through the sea of Tanzanians. This is how buses work here.

A man in his 50s stood in the aisle right beside me. The way his body was positioned meant that his manhood rubbed against my left shoulder throughout the journey. Over every bump, and there are plenty, the rub was more like a thrust. I was somewhere between vomiting and laughing. When a seat opened up next to me, my close friend sat down. He was very tired today. I know this because instead of rubbing his man parts against me, he was now sleeping on my shoulder.

The man to my right handed me an English newspaper, a very nice gesture. I was unable to read anything but the front page and the left column of all the others since I did not have the proper space to unfold the paper. I was holding my left leg up with my left hand since it had fallen asleep without the proper space to expand. The man who handed me the paper laughed at my situation.

"This is Africa," he said.

When it was time to exit, which seemed to take longer than it probably did in reality, we headed to an Internet cafe. No connection today. We headed to another. No connection. We then decided to accomplish our other mission for taking a pair of buses 45 minutes into town. I found an ATM. Out of service. We found another.
A line of 20 people. I said I would use it another day. So here I am, typing from the "third time's a charm" Internet cafe in Dar es Salaam. Of course, the first computer I used didn't work, so I had to swtich seats. I've never felt such a mixture of frustration and sympathy.

***

I'm short on time again. This will be a common theme it appears throughout my time in Africa. I hope you do not lose patience with me. Hopefully I will be able to provide enough anecdotes (not enough time to look up the proper spelling on that one) to keep you interested until the final project -- the book -- is released. Also, posting pictures is not possible, so please look for a slideshow from my time in Africa in early August.

***

In my previous life, Sundays meant laying on the couch watching football. In Pugu -- a village outside of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania -- Sundays mean time for prayer and worship. Lots of it.

I went to prayer service in the morning yesterday, and then again in the evening, doubling the number of times I've attended church in 2007. Do you ever get the feeling people are specifically watching your every move even though they probably are thinking about what to have for dinner that night? Well this happened to me yesterday during prayer and worship service, although the only difference is I KNOW that everyone was specifically watching my every move. I was the only white man in the open-air church, and likely the only white man for miles around the church. So when I was asked to come to the front and say something into the microphone, people didn't have to turn their attention toward me. It was already on me.

More on this later.

In the name of culture, I thought "What the hell" and participated in the rituals as much as I could, despite not understanding the Swahili language. I danced around the church with everyone (they don't celebrate Jesus' name like this in Iowa) and since I was a bit timid, my white-man dancing curse was worse than ever. I received many thumbs-up and smiles. Later on during the service, I was certain a fight had broken out. After chairs were cleared out of the way, I saw a girl having a seisure on the ground and people all around her screaming and pointing. Emmanuel, a kid my age from Zambia who I have become friends with, calmly said, "She has demons," as if it was no big deal.

Later that evening, my time came. I knew it would come, I just didn't know when. I gathered with the family I am staying with in the village in Pugu for dinner. Since there is no electricity in the house, we dine by lantern, which creates a beautiful atmosphere of silhouttes (also no clue how to spell this) around the room. It's a shadow puppet's playground.

After almost one week of meals with the family, it happened.

"Brian, would you please say grace?"

My time is ticking at the Internet cafe. All I have time for is to tell you the grace ended in contagious laughter throughout the dinner. Lines from my prayer are now repeated like a famous speech.

This is Africa.

Irony in Africa

2007-06-29T05:16:00.000-06:00

Prior to heading to Africa, I didn't feel like writing, yet had the resources. Now that I am in Tanzania, I want to write more than ever, yet it is extremely difficult. It just took 26 minutes for this page to load at the internet cafe in downtown Dar es Salaam, so I am down to two minutes of time. Half of me wants to throw this computer across the room. The other half of me wants to dedicate the rest of my life to helping Africa catch up to the rest of the world.

I am living in a village at a place with no electricity or running water. I shower with a bucket. I fall asleep to chirping crickets and wake up to roosters. It is very simple, and very peaceful. I have been here four days and want to tell about so much.

I will write more when I can.

-brian

A change of pace

2007-06-24T10:40:00.000-06:00

So I'm off to southeast Africa for five weeks in the morning. I have no plans. I have no idea what to expect. That's my favorite way to arrive in a new place. Tanzania isn't Europe, so I'm looking forward to being outside my comfort zone for the first time in a while.

I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update, but I will do my best. My laptop is in Scotland, so posting pictures will likely be out of the question. You can expect an extensive slideshow of photos when I return. I bought four more journals today since I have been doing more notetaking than ever these days. I'm very anxious at the idea of a book when this is all over. If you ever feel like my blog entries are not complete, this is intentional. I'm saving the best stuff for the book. I'll let you know when it hits the stands.

Take care and thanks for reading. Keep your eye out for notes from my fifth continent.

-brian

Expectations

2007-06-24T07:09:00.000-06:00

I stood on the side of the road where the bus had dropped me off. I scanned the area for any sign of life, but found none. It was only 9 p.m. Not everyone in the small Irish town could be sleeping.

I was to be picked up at the bus station by someone. That's all I knew. I began to doubt that the chunk of sidewalk I was standing on could be labeled a bus station, so I began to walk in search of someone to confirm my whereabouts.

I came upon a market that appeared to be closing down. I asked the woman if that was the bus station.

"Only stop in town," she said.

I asked to use the restroom.

"You'll have to go to the pub next door," she said.

I was greeted, well, stared at, by four Irish guys who watched my every move as I approached them. The fact I had all my belongings strapped to my bag made it clear I wasn't from around here.

"Can I help you?" One of them said in an accent so strong it sounded fake.

"Guinness please," I said. I hadn't planned on ordering anything, but after seeing the company, I didn't want them to think I was taking advantage of them by using their toilet and leaving. They didn't seem like the type who would be pleased by that. Plus, I had caught an earlier bus than intended, so my mystery ride wouldn't be at the "station" for another few minutes.

When I arrived back from the bathroom I found my first true Irish Guinness waiting for me at the bar. I have heard from a handful of people that Guinness tastes much better in Ireland. I have concluded this is one of those things people just like to say to make them sound wordly. It tasted exactly the same to me. Delicious. But the same.

I reached for my pocket when the drunkest man I've ever seen shouted out, "I'll pay for ya drink."

"You don't have to do that," I said since that's what anyone who is offered something is supposed to say. "Are you sure?"

"Well, no, I'm not sure, but..."

His sentence trailed off, but he continued searching his pockets for coins. I introduced myself to the owner and the other two patrons. I have no idea what their names were or what they said, but their gestures were friendly, so I felt welcomed.

"I thought I was the richest man in the world," the drunk man said as he found no sign of money in his coat.

I was consuming the Guinness very quickly since the atmosphere wasn't the most comfortable situation I've been in and I didn't want to miss my ride from a stranger who would be appearing any minute.

"I don't mind paying for it," I said.

"No, no. I've got it."

It appeared I wasn't going to be able to leave this place.

"Thank you, but I've got to be on my way to meet my ride."

The owner said something and motioned for me to leave in a friendly way as if I needn't worry about paying for the beer.

"Good food here too, so be sure to come back," he said, at least I think.

I thanked the guy who technically hadn't paid for my drink but was determined to, thanked the owner, and walked out the door back into the ghost town.

Not more than a minute after standing at the bus stop, a police car pulled up to the curb.

"Are you Brian?" the officer asked.

"Yes," I said nervously, but knowing I had done nothing wrong.

"Okay, I'll be right back for ya."

The cop car pulled away as I stood confused. I was to stay the week with a girl I knew from university, and one of her relatives I had never met was to pick me up. I just didn't expect it to be a police officer.

I got in the car and immediately searched for confirmation.

"So, how do you know Colleen?" I asked.

He began speaking of someone I was not referring to.

"Um, actually I think Colleen is only 23 and has never been married."

He understood his mistake and corrected himself. He explained his connection to the family I was to be staying with, and it confirmed I was in good hands and wasn't, in fact, being arrested. I later found out Colleen's mother's name is Eileen. Colleen, Eileen, simple mistake.

He drove me to the next town over where I was transferred to another car, this time containing a familiar face. Colleen and her aunt drove me to meet the rest of the gang who were, not surprisingly, at the pub.

I found myself in the middle of an Irish family reunion. Over the course of the next week I would learn the names of every single aunt, uncle, brother, sister, cousin, and everyone else in Killarney for the 80th birthday of their father/grandfather. I had close to 50 names memorized. Not a simple task.

***

The Budweiser in Shane's hand stood out like a boy in the girls' bathroom. It just didn't belong, and everyone around knew it.

"I see you're back to mineral water," said uncle Denis, who like every other male at the pub, had a Guinness or Murphy's stout in hand.

Shane, Colleen's brother, tried to defend himself but knew there wasn't much hope. There's not much you can do when you receive shit from this family, and a lot of it gets dished out.

I'm not sure any other place I've been has fit my stereotype of it before arriving like Ireland did, which is not a bad thing. Gloomy skies, scattered rain, rolling green hills, witty people who love to laugh and joke, Guinness, heading to the pub every night, big families, generous folks. I didn't see a great deal of Ireland, but I felt very fortunate to be a part of the family gathering. I didn't have to follow the tourist trail. I got to see the real Ireland, a lot of which looked like the inside of a pub.

***

After a two-hour car ride, a six-hour wait in the Shannon airport, an hour-long flight, a pair of buses and a ride on the tube in London, I arrived at Mary's house. I was very glad we had the chance to reunite since I had been so sick the last time we saw each other. Throughout my six months on the road, I believe this marked the first time I returned to a place. It was strange seeing something familiar since everything has been about the unfamiliar on this trip. Strange but good.

After two days we said goodbye again. She left for Amsterdam, I was off for Africa soon. I met up with my sister-in-law's cousin on the south side of the city for a couple nights. I just got back from the store to gather the remainder of the items on my list for what to take to Africa. Most of it revolves around bugs and how to keep them away. I don't know what to expect, and I like that very much.

Bear necessities

2007-06-12T09:30:00.000-06:00

"Time to get up boy," said a three-year-old girl's voice.

Myka had grown anxious about the presence of a new guest in her house in Edinburgh, and was losing her patience as I continued to sleep.

"Good morning," I said, trying to focus my eyes. "What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock," Myka said confidently.

I was surprised at how refreshed I felt at this hour of the morning since I had stayed out late the night before with Myka's dad, Bryan.

"Okay, I'm coming downstairs," I assured the curious child. I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, then flipped open my laptop to check for e-mail. I had not considered the fact that 3-year-olds don't typically tell time. It was 12:15 in the afternoon.

***

Although I haven't broken the habit of sleeping in past the a.m. since fighting a fever a week ago, I feel healthy and rejuvenated. And my wanderlust is back in full effect. Chatting with a travel agent over drinks late into the night will do that to you. Bryan, who owns a travel agency in Scotland's capital city, has been handing me travel guides throughout the week I've been staying with him and his wife Mandy in Edinburgh. I leave for Africa in 11 days for five weeks. The idea of heading home in August had been growing more and more concrete. But now, South America was looking pretty intriguing as I flipped through the pages and heard stories of people who'd spent time there. That would make every major continent in one journey. And what about Antarctica? Could I make it there?

I think it took a bit of comfort for me to be able to dream of exotic places and desire adventure once again. Bryan, Mandy, Myka, and Elvis, a Newfoundland who resembles a bear more than a dog, made me feel as close to at home as possible without actually being back in Iowa. They are friends of friends I had never met before who graciously invited me into their home for as long as I wanted to stay. I feel like I've known them much longer than a week. I got a good feel for the town and Scotish culture, but most of my time here was spent more as a citizen than a tourist. Going out for drinks at the local bars, heading to the theater to catch Ocean's 13, going for runs, walking the dog, watching Entourage. I think after five months of being on the road, I had craved comfort. And now that I've had a bit, I'm ready for some more adventure.

Bryan and I went cycling through the Scotish country a few days ago. The stone fences and the flocks of sheep that covered the rolling green hills was the Scotland I wanted to see. I felt far away once again, feeling the joys of exploration, wanting more of it.

***

I called home last night, knowing from an e-mail that my family would be gathered in my living room around 6:30 p.m. their time, 12:30 in the UK. The phone got passed from my brother to my grandma to my sister-in-law to my nieces to my dad to my mom to my other sister-in-law, ending with a final goodbye shout from everyone. I heard my mom yell, "Wait, one more thing," as my dad hung up the phone, but it was too late. The conversation was bittersweet. Of course it was great to talk to everyone, but all it did was make me want to be in my living room in Davenport. My brother rubbed in the fact they were eating my favorite pizza - taco pizza from Happy Joes. My nieces repeated sweet things my mom told them to say in the background like, "I love and miss you." I hinted at the fact that I might stay away for a while. I wasn't sure how they took it. They support me, but they want to see me. I love to explore, and yet I am a homebody. These are two opposite mentalities and it's difficult trying to deal with their coexistence. "When will you come home?" is the most popular question I get in e-mails. Honestly, I don't know the answer.

***

I woke up this morning later than I planned, leaving me not much time to pack for Africa. I'm heading to Ireland tonight, but I must condense my belongings since I plan to leave some things in Edinburgh with a planned return visit in August to spend more time with Bryan, Mandy, Myka and the bear, check out the Edinburgh Festival, and possibly find some work to fund a trip to South America.

Bryan loaned me some gear I may need for hiking through Africa. I narrowed down my wardrobe to a few t-shirts, a week's worth of socks and underwear, and two pairs of pants. I'm leaving behind my laptop, iPod, and other luxuries. I've become a bit of a minimalist, and I like it that way.

Bryan and Mandy will be picking me up to take me to the airport in just a few minutes. I just walked the bear and gave him a bit of pizza as a going away gift. Since I will not see Myka today, I said goodbye to her last night.

"I'm going to miss you," I said.

"I know," she replied.

Hitting the wall

2007-06-02T04:53:00.001-06:00

I just closed the curtains in Mary’s room because it’s such a beautiful day in London, and I don’t want to see what I’m missing. I don’t feel like writing. Haven’t felt like it in a while. But it’s been too long and I’ve felt so worthless these last few days, I need to do something productive.

“Have you run out of things to write about?” my mom asked in an email a few days ago. That’s not the case. There’s always something to write about, even if it’s not earth-shattering material. It’s just the fact that I’m burnt out, physically and mentally.

With a one-hour exception yesterday, I haven’t left Mary’s apartment in three days. I’ve been sleeping in until 3 in the afternoon, taking long showers, and lying back down again. I haven’t been sick like this in a while. My nose is chapped from all the toilet paper rubbing against it. I never know what to wear since I sweat and feel freezing at the same time. There is a gland on the left side of my throat that is swollen to the point where my neck no longer looks symmetrical when I look in the mirror. I don’t feel like exploring. I don’t feel like traveling anymore. I just feel like sleeping. I’ve hit a wall, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get through it or not.

***

Mary and I have a strange relationship. We’re not exactly sure how we know each other. We went to university together and have mutual friends, but that’s the best we could come up with. Regardless, when she asked if I’d like to meet up with her in London, I said yes.

I was a bit nervous as I waited for her to appear outside of Euston station since I wasn’t sure on what level we would click. I didn’t know if I’d stay for the afternoon, share an awkward conversation and head in another direction, or spend most of my time in London wither her. The latter has been the case, but neither of us could have guessed how we’d be spending our time together. The first night we partied late into the night. I had a bit of a sore throat, but felt no symptoms after a few drinks. Ever since the following morning, she’s been the nurse and I’ve been the patient. She reminds me when it’s time to take my medicine and checks my temperature. Her and her friend Jess brought me a grilled cheese sandwich and apple slices since I didn’t have the energy to hunt down my own food. Mary kept me company in the indoors, watching six movies two days ago and a couple more yesterday. I apologized that this had to be her first impression of me, but she seems to have taken it in stride.

I really lucked out having my illness occur while around such kind people, but on the flipside, I do feel guilty this is how I had to enter Mary’s life. I leave for Scotland in two days. I hope the next time we meet I will be up for a bit more.

***

I arrived in England over two weeks ago. I don’t know where to begin reporting what I’ve been up to. Normal things really. I got my third tattoo – a compass on my left calf – done in Camden Market in London – a famous hippy hangout. I met up with three friends I met in New Zealand – two English guys, Jim and Tom, and a Swedish girl, Helen. It’s strange to think that we had old memories to talk about, yet they were from this same trip. Helen and I went to London together where we stayed with family friends of hers – the Benjamins. They treated me like their own son, doing my laundry, cooking for me, making me feel at home as much as possible. Maybe it’s all become too easy and no longer challenging. England is a lot like the states, just with older buildings, different accents and bad service at the restaurants. Maybe the lack of challenge is why I’ve hit the wall.

I was planning on staying in Bristol for the better part of five weeks, possibly finding work, but after a complicated situation, I had to get out. I don’t feel like going into details. You’ll have to read the book when it comes out to get the entire story.

For now, that should catch you up a bit. I’m sorry this was nothing too special. Like I said, I don’t feel like writing anymore, but I felt like I needed to let you know where my mind was at. This next chapter will be about trying to break through this wall I’ve hit. If I can’t, I may have to come home.

***

I wrote this yesterday. Today, I feel a bit different. I woke up, around 3 this afternoon, with a refreshed attitude. My plans for heading to Africa in a few weeks are confirmed, so I'm not heading home anytime soon.

I did some people watching out the window, trying to appreciate the little things in life like I used to. I found myself smiling again. Like I’ve said before, it’s a mental rollercoaster. I had an extensive dream this morning that my friends had a comeback party for me, but no one paid attention to me as if they forgot who I was, and no one asked questions, as if I had nothing to show for the past six months. I didn’t know what to make of it. It was sad, but it wasn’t real, and at least I got to see my friends. Maybe that’s my biggest fear, that I have nothing tangible to show for this journey.

Birthday presence

2007-05-23T10:20:00.000-06:00

My knees were having trouble absorbing the shock that came from my flip-flops banging against the hard pavement on a steep walk down the hills of Cinque Terre, Italy. The quaint, bright buildings no longer showed their beautiful array of colors in the dark streets, which managed to be a bit eerie at 11 p.m. compared to their daytime charm. It didn't help that Manarola, the village I was staying in for five days, went to bed early. I walked at least 200 of the 300 meters or so it takes to get to the waterfront before seeing a face. As I reached the bottom of the hill, a few people, mostly couples, were finishing off the last bits of their local wine before calling it a night. The majority of the other guests were likely fast asleep, ready to rise early in the morning to get a good start on one of the many breathtaking hikes the area offered. After having a handful of drinks in the early evening, Jordan had been out cold for over an hour. I wouldn't let myself go to bed before midnight. I didn't want to be sleeping when my 23rd birthday arrived, so I decided to take a walk.

***

I reached the very edge of the village, which overlooks the Mediterranean. The sea also seemed to have gone to sleep as calm as it was. I gripped the cool railing. A dark abyss lay in front of me and a clear sky above. Birthdays being a common time for introspection, I found myself staring out into the endless stretches of open water and open galaxy, lost in thought.

My most recent few birthday celebrations have featured beers, meaning the introspection has been a bit affected by over consumption. Twenty-two (which fell on the same day as college graduation) was brought in with my worst hangover to date, keeping me from eating my parents' home cooking and doing much thinking at all, aside from timing my trips to the toilet accurately. On the younger-year birthdays, deep thinking meant how I would go about designing the best couch fort. But 23 came with a unique set of circumstances. I hadn't had a drink in days. I had been going for runs every evening and cliff jumping, hiking, and reading in the daytime, so my mind was crisp when it came time for a bit of reflection. I don't recall ever being so aware of my own presence. I found myself talking aloud, saying a bit of a personal creed. My sanity remained intact enough to the point where when people would pass by, I would put a brief halt to my one-person conversation.

I thought about the man I was and the person I wanted to be. Jordan had asked me recently what I thought the worst thing a person could say about me was. I answered, "He doesn't care about anybody but himself." She followed up the unpleasant thought with a positive one. "And the best?" I answered something of the opposite: "He would do anything for anybody." My babbling creed stemmed from the answers to these questions.

The earth had taken another revolution around the sun, and who had I become? What was it that I wanted out of this life? It seems deep, but I can get deep. I searched my mind for meaning. I searched the sky for some sort of sign. I thought I saw a shooting star streak across the black background, but it could have possibly just been a bug flying by, reflecting the streetlights. I wasn't that superstitious. I didn't need signs. I needed to relax.

I wandered around to see if any cafes were still open for business. I found one overlooking the water. I ordered a glass of red wine and took a seat.

It was my first birthday away from Iowa, away from family and dear friends. I wouldn't be eating my parents' home cooking this year either, but for different reasons. I was on the other side of the world. I sat alone, still staring out at the sea. A pair of girls walked by and giggled. This means one of two things: They thought I was cute or awkward. Either way they continued up the hill. It didn't seem like much of a birthday. It simply felt like another day. But there had to be a bit more to it than that.

***

I walked to the counter to order my second and final glass of wine, which would last me until midnight struck. I passed by the two people I had been eavesdropping on in between my thoughts. I don't know what sparked it, possibly loneliness, but after exchanging a friendly hello with the couple, I blurted out, "I'm just waiting until my birthday at midnight." It would appear I wanted attention, but I was really enjoying my time alone. So when they invited me to join their table, I regretted opening my mouth.

Claudio, the 50-something Italian man, and Eef, the 20-something Dutch girl, sat among the remnants of a late dinner. I felt as if I was interrupting a very unusual date, but it was them who invited me to pull up a chair. We chatted about the usual -- who are you, what are you doing here, and where are you going? After several minutes of discussion I asked Claudio for the time since I don't ever have my own access to it. "11:40. About 20 minutes," he said, pretending to be equally anxious to the approach of a stranger's birthday. The funny thing is that on the inside we were sharing a similar feeling of not caring much at all. This one didn't have the same meaning without loved ones around.

Eef apologized that her hostel had a midnight curfew and she would not be able to celebrate with me. It appeared her and Claudio weren't the peculiar item I figured them to be since he stayed behind. I awkwardly became Claudio's new dinner date. Being several years older, he felt comfortable sharing a bit of wisdom with me. He encouraged me to learn a new language and really discover the places I go. I made a joke about being from Iowa, something I always regrettably do as a sort of icebreaker even though I love my home state. He told me to be proud of where I came from. I was. I just needed to show it more I guess.

I told him how I had the idea to watch the sunrise and sunset on my birthday and asked him what time I should expect the sun to come out of hiding.

"About six, but with all these hills, it isn't much of a sight," he said.

"Well, I don't have an alarm clock anyway, so I suppose I better not count on it."

"Okay, well it's time," Claudio said as we toasted our glasses and I sipped the small pool of wine I was saving for the celebration -- if you can call it that.

It didn't seem like the 20 minutes had passed. I shook Claudio's hand and began my ascent up the hill, this time the front of my thighs feeling the effects of the steep grade. I remained in a deep, philosophical mood. I wanted to put my creed into action. I wanted to do something to prove I had matured, and that I cared about others more than myself. But there was no one around to carry groceries for or give a smile to. I suppose that type of thing has to come naturally rather than forcing it anyway. I always get these ideas that I can instantly become a better person with the snap of a finger, in some fictitious, magical sort of way. I think I've seen too many movies like Phenomenon or Rocky IV in which the characters change in movie time rather than real time -- their muscles becoming more ripped and their piles of finished books being tossed to the side in a matter of a couple hours. I suppose becoming better has nothing to do with biceps or concepts anyway. The only things that really matter are to love and to be loved. I was overthinking this. Only sleep could cure my overactive mind.

I passed by the only open bar and saw Eef through the window playing guitar with a guy much younger than Claudio, and obviously more interesting than the birthday boy that night. It appeared her curfew was not all that strict. She hadn't see me, which was good. I didn't want her to feel embarrassed for getting caught lying.

After a ten-minute walk, I arrived to the guest house. The lemons on the tree in the garden seemed to glow from their reflection of the porch light. I quietly opened the door and flipped on my computer to check the time. I knew it. It was only exactly midnight just then. Claudio must have felt he didn't have much more to say to this stranger and, knowing I didn't have access to the time, called for a premature celebration.

Oh well. These strangers had been courteous, but they weren't my good friends or family. I suppose on this night of reflection they helped me to realize this. Realize that although Cinque Terre was the most stunning place I'd ever seen, I knew where I'd rather be on that night. Or who I'd rather be with for that matter. Simply, I knew what was important.

And since Iowa doesn't have mountains, I could have seen the sunrise that morning had I been there. My parents could have woken me up for it. Although, my friends likely would have kept me out all night.

$120,000 worth of complaints

2007-05-22T05:51:00.000-06:00

“God, this sucks,” an American student paying $4,000 to tour around France and Italy said to me as he was forced to learn about the famous architecture of Florence. His earpiece dangled by his hip as he refused to listen to the information provided by the Italian tour guide. Many of the other 30 students in the group seemed to be sharing his sentiments with rolling eyes and scattered conversations based more about hangovers than Michelangelo.

I hadn’t heard him the first time since I had my own earpiece in place. I will confess the information being delivered wasn’t earth-shattering, but I was intrigued at times, and since I had been invited to tag along with the students from the small Iowa college on their visit that day, I was just happy to randomly be there.

“This sucks,” he repeated.

“Hmmh,” was all I replied, not wanting to support or shoot down his feelings. At this point my attention was shifting to the intriguing fact that these students had signed up for an educational European excursion and appeared to be on the verge of breaking out in protest of the conveyer-belt-like trip. I feel sorry for the ones who didn’t know what they were getting into when they signed up. But for the others, I ask, “Why all the money for the kind of traveling you don’t want to do?”

Although it was an intimidating idea, I had the feeling that taking off on my own was the only way for me. I had a hunch the adventures would come out of figuring out how to navigate foreign city streets and where I would eat and what bus I would catch. I thought the most exciting discoveries might be found off the beaten path. And I’m sure that’s what many of these young minds were looking for – a bit of their own adventure. But here they were, walking around like depressed robots, missing the idea that Florence could be beautiful and didn’t, in fact, suck.

Later that evening I sat down with some of the students for drinks. When one kid heard I might be heading to Africa next month, he stated, “Don’t go to Africa. We had to deal with these Africans today who were trying to sell us stuff.”

It appears cultural experiences go in one ear and out the other for this poor soul. Or maybe they never go in an ear at all.

A hostel environment

2007-05-19T07:04:00.000-06:00

“Am I the only one alive in here?” I thought to myself as I struggled to fall asleep on the top bunk of the four-person guestroom at a quiet place on the outskirts of Vienna. I couldn’t hear either of the Hungarians on the beds below me breathing. Not a single movement or sound out of them since I entered the room a couple hours after they had gone to sleep. It had been a while since I slept with strangers. I had grown quite used to it, almost preferring the setup, while traveling throughout the South Pacific. But since Southeast Asia was dirt-cheap when it came to accommodations and Jordan and I had been splitting rooms since meeting up in Turkey, it had been a while.

I wasn’t up to no good. I was simply writing emails in the lobby until I noticed it was past midnight and I’d better get to sleep since the free breakfast ended at 9 and I didn’t have an alarm clock. I had a strange feeling of guilt while entering the room, like a sneaky teenager climbing through the basement window of his parents’ house after a night of debauchery. I neglected to brush my teeth in fear of waking up the Hungarian brothers by turning on a light to find the necessary supplies I had forgotten to leave out or by running the sink. I had spoken to them briefly upon check-in – an awkward conversation in which they would speak in their native language after I would make a comment. Overall they seemed like nice guys, not the type who would mind much if I temporarily interrupted their slumber. Yet I tried my best to make it to my resting place in stealth mode, and it appeared my mission had been successful despite a creaky ladder that threatened not to support my 190 pounds. As I attempted to nestle into a comfortable position in a series of slight movements, I noticed how eerily quiet it was. Not only was there no snoring going on, there was no breathing. I had to peek over the edge to confirm there were two bodies below me. I settled for mid-range comfort, not wanting to move anymore since rustling the over-starched sheets sounded like a jackhammer in this environment. “Had the Hungarians coincidentally both died in their sleep on the same night?” I wondered as I lay in bed restless. I had slept with 10, 12 other people in the same room in New Zealand and Australia, so I can confirm that a bit of white noise helps more than it hurts. Had their been a creature stirring in this room, even a mouse, I would have heard it.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep, completely breaking my conspiracies, one of the Hungarians rose from the bed below me, vigorously shaking the Fisher Price-quality unit, and headed for the bathroom. He couldn’t see where I had placed my bags, so he tripped, using the wall for support. He scanned the area for a light, flipping it on for a few seconds to get his bearings. I could hear every drop of piss hit the toilet water. He returned to his bed, reeking of flatulence, shaking the unit once again. At least one of my roommates was, in fact, not dead.

***

I don’t get yelled at frequently. I have been a law-abiding non-citizen throughout my travels. I have no boss to shout at me. I usually stroll through the days without disturbing any peace. But on this particular day in Vienna, I seemed to be pissing the entire country of Austria off.

It began at breakfast. Jordan and I were enjoying some free muesli and coffee at the guesthouse we were paying too much money for, and I needed something to quench my thirst. I noticed a refrigerator filled with water, half with gas (like soda water) and half without. A sign read on the front: 1.40 euro. The only problem was that there was no on one on the other end of this potential transaction, so I was unsure how to go about the purchase. I decided it shouldn’t be a problem that I walk back into the kitchen, take a bottle, and replace it with 1.50 euro -- the most exact change I had and 10 cents more than the price asked for. But before I could make the 10-second walk back to my chair, a woman who I recall looking something like Satan came running at me.

“What you doing here?” she shouted.

“Um. I was just getting a water. I didn’t know how to…I’m very sorry.”

“No. No sorry. No sorry.”

“But I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No sorry. No sorry!”

I gave the woman a confused look, shocked by the fact that someone could be so upset by such a small action. She grabbed the money out of the refrigerator, physically pushed me out of the kitchen and marched back to the place she magically appeared from – a place that does not make it convenient for customers wishing to purchase bottles of water.

I never received my 10 cents in change back. I took a sip of the water. It was gas water. I hate gas water.

Later that evening, Jordan and I decided to buy a pair of tickets to an opera or symphony or show or musical or some combination of those things. The performance was located at a concert hall where Mozart had once performed, so I was sold.

We had dinner and drinks earlier that evening with a guy named Rick, who I had met while bartending at Micky’s Irish Pub in Iowa City. Rick, a native Midwesterner, had been visiting Iowa for a Hawkeye football game last fall. When I told him of my plans to travel, he said I was always welcome to visit him in Austria, where he currently lives. So I did.

We chatted about Iowa sports and the pros and cons of being abroad. When we parted ways, Jordan and I realized we had less than five minutes before the show began. Luckily it was only about a three-minute walk. We checked our coats and went to enter the hall when we noticed a man selling bottled beer and wine right outside the door where our seats were located. We forked over the 8 euro for a pair of drinks in preparation of a little night music. Not two steps after purchasing the drinks, a man, the conductor or leader of the symphony – someone of important status – yelled my direction.

“You cannot take those in there!” he said, appearing appalled.

“So then why do you sell them right outside the door?” I asked.

He hesitated, unable to answer what I thought was a simple question.

“This is a concert hall!” he said, as if it was a church.

Apparently symphonies don’t work the same as games at Wrigley.

***

Prior to catching the train back to Italy from Vienna, I had to relieve myself to the utmost degree. I threw my bags down at Jordan’s feet and began a light jog toward the men’s room. The pressure inside my bladder was multiplying since I am convinced it knows when a toilet is nearby. My progress came to crashing halt as I was faced with a contraption of the future that should only appear in science-fiction films. A sign informed me I was to pay 70 cents. I frantically reached into my pocket and pulled out all I had – two 1-euro coins. I slipped one in the machine. Rejected. I tried again. Rejected. I read the sign again.

“This machine accepts 10, 20, and 50 cent coins.”

Not only did you have to pay the obscure amount of 70 cents to pee, you had to have exact change. I ran back to where Jordan was standing, pleading to her for a handful of coins. I ran back to the Star Wars doors and inserted the proper amount. As they opened, they made a noise similar to a laser beam (I might be making this up for effect) and they immediately shut behind me as they sensed I had crossed the holy threshold. After the most expensive urination of my life, I considered leaving all of the faucets running to get my 70 cents worth out of the place, but the sinks were all sensor-operated. I shouldn’t have been surprised. To be fair, Austria had some beautiful qualities. But I didn’t feel wanted, and I was ready for a new environment.

Excuses, excuses

2007-05-06T15:08:00.000-06:00

Hey ya'll, I apologize for this unimpressive post. I'm writing quickly from an overpriced Internet cafe in Cinque Terre, Italy, to explain the reasons behind a delayed update.

I had a very big scare a few days ago. As I went to choose some photos for the blog, I noticed a peculiar glitch in my computer files. All of my photos taken in 2007 were missing. Gone. Nowhere to be found. And of course I have no backup of my pictures from the most incredible journey of my life. Why would I do something stupid like that? It appeared all I had left were mental images, and I'm not sure technology allows for me to put those on my website. However, after a clever girl got her hands on my laptop, she figured out how to restore the photos. This would include me spending several frustrating hours in front of a computer screen, tediously placing the photos one-by-one back in their proper place.

And then I find out, due to strange Italian laws, I am not able to use my laptop at Internet cafes, nor am I allowed to upload photos through their computers. So, I decided it was best to wait and deliver the full package instead of adding photos later to old blogs.

If you don't feel sorry for me yet, I ordered an orange juice in Florence a couple days ago. I figured this would be like any other orange juice, a few dollars, so I felt no need to confirm the price on the menu. When I received the bill, it read "9.80" -- and that was in euro. I had two choices: run like hell, or dish out $15 for the most overpriced product in the history of mankind. And since I am not a thief, I was stuck with the latter. It would have been fitting had I thrown it up all over the cafe floor due to my nausea, but I could not force such a thing. Instead I told the woman that was the craziest thing I had ever been a part of. She informed me it was freshly squeezed. I walked away baffled. I hope karma kicked into action and that the place burnt down later that day without anyone getting injured.

I will be flying to England on May 17 and will have a heck of a lot of material posted for you shortly after. So, please take a break from checking the blog for a few days, and I promise to have some good stuff ready for you by the end of the week.

Thanks!

-brian

Tasting Venice: A story of ups and downs and learning you can't always avoid the rain

2007-05-05T15:27:00.000-06:00

After a three-and-a-half hour train ride, a 22-hour ferry ride, and five more hours on a pair of trains, we arrived in Venice. Sometimes, often times, train stations and airports inject you into the not-so-glamorous parts of town. But this is not the case with the Santa Lucia station in Venice. It took Jordan and I less than 30 seconds to walk from our seats on the train to the edge of the picturesque Venetian canals.

Couples walked hand-in-hand, a pair of twin boys chased pigeons, and gondolas drifted throughout the famous waters. It was exactly as I pictured in my sleepy mind as we approached the city -- and I had plenty of time to conjure up images.

Clouds were scattered throughout the sky, but overall it was a beautiful day. I had a slice of Italian pizza in my mouth not more than five minutes after our arrival. We crossed to the other side of the canal over a bridge I'm sure has a well-known name. I took a seat on my backpack and soaked up the sights as I inhaled my slice of margherita. Some people have 15-minutes of fame. I would have 15-minutes of Venice.

***

Although part of us immediately wanted to roam the streets, our bodies were telling us otherwise. We hadn't had a quality night's sleep in three days, so we decided to head to the campsite we had booked a half-hour out of town, planning to wake up early to head back to possibly the most unique city in the world. It would be a day filled with gondolas and laughter and blistered thumbs from snapping so many photos. Or so we thought.

I slept well, and by well I mean 12-hours well. The pouring rain allows for that, but what it doesn't allow for is an enjoyable day discovering Venice. We tried to wait it out, going for a wet run near our cabin, doing a load of laundry, sipping on Italian beer and making ham and cheese sandwiches in the uneventful campsite shelter. Jordan is normally a very goofy, cheery girl. At this moment, she looked sad. She had forgotten to collect 6 euro from the change machine, but I knew her frown was not just due to this small loss.

As I swallowed my last bit of lunch, I had a thought.

"What if we just go to Austria right now and come back here when it's nicer?" I suggested. It was a crazy idea, but it wasn't at the same time.

"I was just thinking that," Jordan said.

I ran to the front desk through the downpour to figure out some logistics. Yes, we could checkout what was now four hours past checkout time without paying extra. Yes, we could catch a bus for one euro a piece to the train station. And yes, we would arrive just in time to catch the final train heading for Innsbruck.

We dashed toward the room to gather our belongings and fold our laundry. A stranger approached us to hand Jordan the extra money she found in the change machine. Good things were happening. Jordan was smiling again.

As we headed toward the station with restored hope of brighter days, the woman at the front desk informed us we had missed the bus. Our ups were going back down. She called a taxi for us which wasn't guaranteed to get us there in time. The bus, which would have put us there a half hour early for 2 euro, was now replaced with an unpredictable 36-euro taxi.

The driver drove along the shoulder, cutting cars along the slippery streets. We arrived to the station with time to spare. We grabbed some snacks and boarded the train bound for Austria. We would visit Venice again under sunnier skies.

I write this from a guesthouse in Vienna, Austria. My clothes are still soaking wet from our two-minute run back from dinner this evening. I guess it's a lesson that sometimes it rains everywhere. It's then up to me to make the best of it and learn to appreciate the rainbows.

Broken plans and Greecey food

2007-05-01T04:06:00.000-06:00

I've come to think traveling is extremely easy, but maybe it's due to the fact I am no longer fazed by anything. Jordan and I had our bags packed, we had checked out of the hostel in the Victoria Square district of Athens, and we were ready to catch a cab to the station to hop on a three-hour bus ride that would connect us to a seven-hour overnight ferry to Venice. Jordan returned from what was to be a quick confirmation phone call with this news:

"So the ferry that leaves Greece at midnight and gets into Venice at 7 a.m. is actually not a seven-hour ride. It's a 31-hour ride and we get there the following morning."

It appeared what we had calculated as a drive across Iowa was now more like a drive across most of the U.S.

"Oh, and the ferry doesn't run for the next two days, so we can't go until Thursday."

I sat in silence for a few seconds, cracking a smile at how quickly our plans were changing. "Okay. So now what?"

We spent the next hour coming up with plan-B, which included a train instead of a bus and a different ferry to a different Italian city the next day. So we had one extra day in Greece. Life could be worse.

***

"You see, the beds are very clean, the room is very clean. This area of town is, ahh, ahh, very clean."

Mama Fula's English was not extensive, but it was enough to convince us to stay at her guesthouse in the Old Town of Rhodes upon our arrival to Greece last Thursday afternoon.

"How many nights you want?"

"One is fine."

"Ahh, see, there is problem. I will have to clean room and, no, one night no good. Two nights?"

Jordan and I looked at each other and nodded. "Okay, two nights."

"And what time you check out?"

"Well, our flight to Athens is at 4, so maybe noon would be good?"

"Ahh, you see, I have to clean room for new guests, so how about 10?"

We complied. It appeared it was mama Fula's world. We got too much of a kick out of the old Greek woman to care. And she was right, everything did seem pretty clean.

"You need me, I live upstairs. Just yell, 'mama Fula, come!'"

***

I was running faster than usual, and there was a reason for this. I don't know exactly what went on in the ancient stadium I was jogging around, but it made me feel like an original Olympian, or a gladiator, or maybe an Olympic gladiator. Nike training shoes and iPods didn't used to make frequent appearances on the track that has been around since 300 B.C., but the atmosphere was surreal nonetheless. I sprinted up the staircase that led to the ancient Acropolis and began an intense set of pushups and sit-ups. My sweat hit the ground at a place that had soaked up perspiration since sometime in the B.C. years. Sometimes fathoming history is impossible. This was one of those times. I ran back to mama Fula's place, feeling like I had won the gold or conquered an empire. It was time for my first taste of real Greek food.

***

There was a Simpson's episode I recall in which Bart told Lisa, "You don't win friends with salad." He obviously forgot to take Greek salads into consideration since I'm pretty positive you can win a lot of friends with them. Throughout my seven days in Greece I would have seven of these.

If my information is correct, and this particular bit of information happens to come from the Will Ferrell movie "Talladega Nights," then a crepe comes from France. I will, however, forever consider this to be a Greek treasure since crepe stands can be found on every few corners in the country. I never thought it was possible that taco pizza could lose its place as my number one food, but the crepe may have enough punch to capture an upset. As I eat one crepe -- filled with spinach and feta and red and green peppers and tomato and ham -- I find myself staring at the crepe menu, already considering my next selection. Possibly yogurt with honey and nuts and strawberries. Or maybe Nutella and bananas. Oh, and also on the list of ingredients -- "alcohol". That's right. You can get Bailey's or Grand Marnier or rum in these very special treats. I have already recorded several recipes in my journal. I hope that someday I possess the ability to recreate them.

***

We collected our bags at the Athens airport after the one-hour flight from Rhodes around 6:30 p.m. We asked a woman at the information desk what time the ferry ran to Mykonos.

"The only one is at 8, and the bus takes at least an hour and ten minutes to get to the port. I don't think you will have time."

"Thank you, we said, already sprinting off toward bus X96 that would possibly get us to the ferry station with a few minutes to spare. The traffic on the way was thick. I waited by the bags, ready to collect them while Jordan stood by the door, ready to sprint to the ticket office. By the time I had loaded our bags off the bus, Jordan had already purchased two tickets. Our ferry happened to be the furthest one away. I sprinted with over 30 kilos of baggage attached to my body as my flip flops threatened to fall off. We reached the ferry, out of breath but proud. I mentioned to Jordan that it felt like we were on the show The Amazing Race. The ferry, as it turned out, was running about a half hour late.

***

After a six-hour ferry ride, which included the consumption of the Raki we bought duty-free in Turkey and some homemade wine given to us by a Greek man who worked on the ship, we arrived on the island of Mykonos around 2 a.m. Jordan and I began chatting with a group of 15 Americans who were studying abroad for a semester in Athens and were heading to the popular Greek island for a weekend getaway.

"You can follow us to the cabins we're staying at," one of them offered.

Like usual, I hadn't taken any measures to book a place to stay, so we hopped a bus and headed to Paradise Island with 15 strangers in the middle of the night. The rooms, which included two beds, a mirror, and a light, were a cheap 10 euro per night. We signed up for two.

We spent the next day at the beach, throwing the football around -- something I haven't done since leaving America -- and drinking the local beer, Mythos. Jordan was in a goofy mood later that night as we roamed the streets of the main town.

"Did you know you can get everywhere faster if you run?" she would ask, followed by taking off into the maze of winding alleys. We went into a clothing store to keep warm, knowing very well I was not going to buy anything. The woman who ran the store held up a jacket, ensuring me it was a very good price at 75 euro. And that was half off.

"Actually, I was looking for something in the five-euro range," I said to the woman, who appeared baffled. Jordan and I ran out laughing and continued our antics. We made our third stop at the crepe stand within one hour - the first for dinner, the second for dessert, and now the third to attempt something I assume was unprecedented.

"Yes, can we have two shots of Bailey's please," I asked. The man at the counter, who recognized us by this point, was confused.

"You want them in the crepe?" he asked.

"No, just by themselves," I said, with the straightest face possible.

"Um, we don't really do that. Yes, I don't think that is possible. You will have to go to a bar for this."

So we took a seat on a beautiful private patio of a bar overlooking the Aegean Sea. The bartender delivered our drinks -- a whisky-Coke and a vodka-orange juice -- then went back inside to bring us straws. We thought it would be funny to chug our drinks by the time he returned 15 seconds later.

"I cannot believe it," he said with a thick Greek accent.

"We'll take two more," I said. The man shook his head and joined in on our laughter.

***

I am writing this from the biggest ship I have ever set foot on. I estimate it holds 5,000 people, but 1,000 or 50,000 could also be correct since I am bad with estimates. On this particular day there are only about 100 passengers according to the bartender (not that I've spoken to him already within the first 20 minutes of the 21-hour ride). We basically have the ship to ourselves. There is a casino, a swimming pool, a hot tub, a few bars, a children's play place, and probably a few other things I've yet to discover. The next time I step foot on land, I will be somewhere in Italy.

Another bird in Turkey

2007-04-28T01:44:00.000-06:00

Three girls from Belarus began chatting with me as I waited in the customs line in the Istanbul airport. I was a bit tipsy since the Turkish guy who sat next to me on the flight from Oman decided to keep buying me free beers. He didn’t speak English, but he continued to press the flight attendant button and ask for two Carlsbergs. I noticed the slogan on the bottom of the can read: Probably the best beer in the world. This was not true, but I respected his attempt to socialize without words and accepted his generous offerings.

Typically I may have continued my conversation with the girls from Belarus, but I had someone to meet. I walked toward baggage claim, failed to find any familiar faces, and headed straight to the men’s room. When I walked out, I heard, “Hi Bri.” Jordan had seen me walk in from a distance and stood by the doorway to surprise me.

Jordan and I dated four years ago. We had stayed in touch over the years, but hadn’t spent much time together. We would now be spending the next three and a half months with one another. When I told her I planned to head to Turkey in mid April, she suggested a plan to meet me there and then travel back toward England, where she is currently working toward her Master's.

Since she is significantly shorter than me, she reached up to give me a hug. We had a lot to catch up on and didn’t exactly know where to start. We collected our bags and hopped a cab toward the European side of Istanbul, which is the only city in the world that lies on two continents.

The guesthouse Jordan had picked out was perfect. It was just a short walk from where the Black Sea connects with the Aegean. We instantly became friends with the staff, which included a trio of Turkish brothers in their 20s and 30s. We hung out on the rooftop of the guesthouse during the day, drinking beers with the staff, playing guitar, telling stories and listening to Radiohead and Coldplay while overlooking the beautiful city with so much history.

Jordan and I celebrated our first night with a nice dinner on the seventh story of a building that lied between two famous landmarks in Istanbul – the Blue Mosque and Ayasofia. Our waiter hopped in pictures with us and wrapped us in blankets. He thought I spoke fluent German, so he continued to tell us stories in the language we didn’t understand. We thought it was funny to continue to nod our heads. Jordan asked to keep the wine cork. He handed it to her and told her one moment. He then returned with at least a dozen more corks with much lesser significance. Jordan and I laughed. It was good to see her again.

Istanbul impressed me more than any other city I had been to throughout this trip. I went for runs along the boardwalk that lined the sea, watching dolphins splash in and out of the water. When it came time to leave, I wasn’t ready. We said goodbye to the gang at the Metropolis Guest House and caught an overnight bus toward Cappadocia – a city made of caves that lies in the middle of the country.

***

With some occasional bickering, Jordan and I got along great just like old times. We fell in and out of sleep on the 12-hour bus ride. I got yelled at for having an open beer, and was woken up on two occasions so the bus attendant could drench my hands in sanitizer. I assumed this was because food was on the way. This was not the case. They just liked clean hands on their buses. We arrived to the chilly city around 8 in the morning. We had done no research other than hearing this was a cool place to come. A man immediately spotted the two confused travelers and pounced. He arranged a place to stay for us – a room built into a cave which I would hit my head on a total of six times – and tried his best to talk us into two days worth of tours. We held our ground and settled for a trip to an underground city used in the 13th century and a night of Turkish food and bellydancers.

At the dinner I was introduced to a drink called Raki, which tastes like black licorice and is supposed to be mixed with water. Since it was all-you-can-drink, Jordan and I took advantage along with the Australian couple we sat next to. It’s been complicated explaining to people that “no” we aren’t married, “no” we aren’t engaged, and actually, we aren’t even dating. Halfway through the show, the guests were pulled out of their seats to dance. We followed the Turkish steps, our arms crossed with strangers.

Cappadocia reminded me of the landscape of Utah, only less red in color. I’m always amazed most by the places I’ve never heard of, like I’m the first person to discover it, like it’s my secret and I can share it if I please. I went for a run one evening, having not much of an idea where I was headed. I was bored with the main road, so I took a path that looked interesting that headed into an area that looked similar to the Badlands of South Dakota. I went 20 minutes without seeing another person. The path was dotted with snake holes, or what I imagined were snake holes, so I considered turning back. I continued to see red arrows painted on the rocks, so my curiosity got the best of me. I ran up a staircase carved into the rock when I reached a cave café. “Hello,” said the young man running the place who introduced himself as Eammon. He said I looked thirsty. This was true. But I didn’t have any money with me. “It’s okay, come back tomorrow and you can pay then,” he said. I accepted his gracious offer, soaked up the view as the sun set over the cave town, chugged the water, and continued my run back toward the city.

I ran into a couple I assumed was American and asked them where they were from. “Minnesota,” they said. I obviously told them I was from Iowa. “Go Midwest,” I said. I have no idea what that means. It appeared my secret city was not just my secret. When I’m feeling adventurous, it’s frustrating to see familiar types of people. When I’m feeling homesick, it’s comforting. This occurrence fell somewhere in the middle.

The people at the guesthouse took a liking to us. Jordan went shopping with a girl she couldn't communicate with and I taught the kid my age how to play Happy Birthday on the guitar. Again, it was time to move on.

***

One night later, Jordan and I found ourselves on yet another overnight bus, this time 14 hours, heading toward the southwest coast of the country. Upon our arrival to Fethiye, we were offered a one-night, two-day boat trip throughout the islands off the coast. Jordan and I fought a bit about the decision. I have been traveling for nearly four months. She had been working hard at school and was ready for a vacation. I am running out of money. She has been saving up for this trip. I am used to traveling alone, and now there is another bird in my cage. We decided to take the trip, and it turned out to be a great decision. It seems the new bird has some pretty good ideas.

We spent two days relaxing, sailing through the navy blue water of the Aegean Sea. We clicked with an Australia couple living in London who offered to have us visit when we make it to England. Lisa and Jordan discussed celebrity gossip and England. Mick and I climbed waterfalls and talked about our similar ideas of embarking on cross-country cycling trips in the near future. We convinced the captain to let us stay on the boat a few extra hours on our second day. Most people were on the trip for four days and were surprised we were getting off so early.

“We have to get to Greece,” Jordan told them. I felt a bit guilty about our easy lives. There was a couple from India on their honeymoon on our boat. Jordan and I were just two budget travelers signing up for whatever happened to come our way.

We spent the next night in a touristy town called Marmaris. The man who approached us at the bus station offered his pension – what they call guesthouses – and we accepted on the condition that he had hot water since the last place we stayed in failed in that department. “Of course, are you kidding me?” he said. “You don’t have hot water, you don’t pay.” We were sold. We sat down for a late dinner with the couple from Chicago we met on the bus ride that evening. They had both completed med school and had many questions about my ambitions. They were curious about my lifestyle and I told them I respected their commitments. We had opposite mindsets – two people who had better be damn sure they knew what they wanted, and a kid who changed his mind about life on a daily basis. Jordan and I headed to bed. We were not speaking since I yelled at her for letting our passports and a big chunk of money out of our sight for 10 minutes so the man who owned the pension could book our ferry tickets. When I woke in the morning, I headed into the bathroom where I took a freezing cold shower. Jordan and I spent a half hour in the lobby arguing with the staff about the promise. They offered breakfast and coffee and another night’s stay, none of which we needed since we were fasting that day and we were leaving town. They said they were unable to contact the owner who had made the promise.

“You promised we didn’t pay if we didn’t have hot water. We didn’t have hot water. We want our money.”

Neither side seemed to be giving in. Finally, we walked away as I sarcastically told them they ran a great business, offering empty promises to their customers. Jordan and I went to hop a shuttle bus to the ferry station. None of the drivers we approached spoke English, and we finally climbed into one that seemed the most promising according to the direction it was heading. We were dropped off nowhere near a ferry station. We wandered around, looking for the company’s office when we heard a whistle. We turned around and saw the owner who had promised hot water but had also arranged the ferry tickets.

He said we were running late and helped us find the proper way to catch the 4 p.m. ferry. As we waited at a stoplight, Jordan and I looked at each other, knowing exactly what one another was thinking. “Do we mention the hot water situation?” We both individually decided not to, wanting no more problems. We boarded the ferry, fell asleep leaning on each other, and woke up with Greece outside the window.

Two days and two nights in the desert

2007-04-23T12:44:00.000-06:00

It’s not a coincidence that Bahrain sounds like boring. I spent less than 48 hours in the country, but I was ready to get out after two.

Upon arrival, I waited several minutes at the baggage claim, hoping to see my blue backpack circle around. I was informed it was prayer hour, so my bag wouldn’t be making an appearance for a while. I began chatting with an American who lives in the tiny Middle Eastern country. “I love it here.” He said. “I make great money, and…” He then trailed off and made no further comments about the place.

He offered me a ride with his driver to a cheap hotel he knew about. It was nice to save money on a cab ride, but a cheap hotel in Bahrain unfortunately meant $60 a night. After tossing my bags down in my room, I walked back toward the lobby and passed an Asian girl along the way.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Um, America,” I said.

“I want to come with you. Where is your room?”

“Uhhh, I’m not telling you,” I responded.

“Why not? You already have lady in your room?”

“Um, no. I don’t want any ladies in my room. Thanks.”

I walked away in confusion. I asked the man at the front desk what was good to do around the small island nation. Shopping for gold was the best he could come up with. I avoided his advice and caught a cab toward the tallest buildings, assuming there had to be something happening around downtown. This was not the case. I roamed the streets, failing to find anything interesting. Even the pigeons on the street looked bored. I rode up and down an elevator a few times in an air-conditioned mall. Since I happen to like elevators more than the normal human being, this was the most exciting part of my day. I asked a man if there was a movie theater in town. He told me there was not. I saw the familiar sights of KFC and Hardees, but I was fasting on this particular day, so eating was out of the question. Another cab driver asked me where I was looking to go. I told him I wanted to see a movie. He said he knew a place. He dropped me off at a mall where I found the theater on the second floor.

To give you an idea of the quality of the selection, I purchased a ticket for "Night at the Museum" starring Ben Stiller. The woman asked me to choose a seat on the computer screen. Every seat was available. Although it was the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, this surprised me since there didn’t seem to be anything else to do in this country. I had an hour to kill until the opening credits, so I took a seat at the Chile’s next door. Since I was fasting, I would not eat, but since the day was so uneventful, I decided it was fair to have a drink. As I flipped through the menu, I found no beers, no margaritas, no wine. I was informed this particular Chile's did not carry alcohol. I sipped on an apple cranberry juice and headed into the film. I only lasted halfway through the movie before walking out. I caught an expensive cab back to my expensive hotel and tried my best to fall asleep early. When I woke in the morning that meant it was time to get the hell out of boring Bahrain.

Celebrating 10,000 hits

2007-04-17T04:11:00.000-06:00

If you are reading this, then that means you are one of my readers, and I want to thank you for taking time out of your days to follow my adventures.

Your comments have been awesome, and I wish I was able respond to them. Please keep writing to let me know your thoughts, and please keep reading and influencing others who might be interested to have a look.

This morning, while sitting in a chilly cafe in Bahrain, I noticed the site has reached over 10,000 hits by nearly 7,000 different users. This was very encouraging news, and in return I promise to keep delivering my best material over the coming months.

The adventure will not be ending anytime soon. Thanks for helping make www.briantriplett.blogspot.com a success!

-brian

Wet and wild

2007-04-15T07:52:00.000-06:00

The Swedish guy I met just a few minutes earlier leaned over to yell into my ear while we stood in the heart of the noisy crowd.

"Look at that girl smoking a cigarette, standing there on the sidewalk. How the hell is she completely dry? We need to get her."

It was a great observation. I hadn't seen a dry body in the two hours I had been celebrating the Thai New Year off Khao Sarn Road in Bangkok. Buckets of water were being tossed into the sky. If you weren't carrying a watergun, you were an anomaly. How this girl managed to stay dry was quite a mystery. I ran up to one of the German guys I had been hanging out with. He had been nailing everyone all night with the most powerful watergun I'd ever seen. I brought the girl standing in front of the Burger King to his attention. An evil smile formed across his face.

"I'm going to get into position to take pictures" I said, running to the middle of the street. "Start counting down from ten."

The shot couldn't have been more perfect. The girl's cigarette lit out. Her dry clothes were now dripping. Everyone who witnessed this broke out into uncontrollable laughter. The girl paused for a few seconds, trying to register what just happened, then ran toward her attacker, who was high-fiving his friends. She yelled something I couldn't hear, then slapped him across the face and hit him in the arm. She then moved back to her original spot and attempted to smoke her cigarette without realizing it was just as drenched as she was. She was not happy. We couldn't stop laughing.

"Man, I'm sorry you got slapped," I said to my German friend. "I didn't think anyone was allowed to get mad for getting sprayed."

"It's okay," he said. "That was totally worth it. Did you see her face? Let me see the pictures." He then answered a call on his cell phone, which was wrapped in a condom to keep it dry. Nothing and no one was safe during this crazy celebration.

***

The day started a bit calmer. I woke in an unfamiliar apartment, trying to collect my thoughts. It usually takes me a few seconds to realize what city or country I'm in when I wake each morning since I'm traveling around the world at the speed of light. I remembered Neung, a sweet Thai girl I had met in Bali a couple weeks prior, had picked me up at the Bangkok airport the night before and offered to have me crash at her place while she slept over at her friend's apartment.

I heard a knock at the door and looked at the clock. It was 10:30. I had slept 10 straight hours with no hint of waking up naturally anytime soon. It was Neung, and her father was waiting downstairs to drive us to the historic sites around the city. These were some of the most generous people I had met in all my travels.

I apologized for not being awake and rushed as best I could to get ready. I sat in the passenger seat next to Neung's father, who spoke little English but smiled often. I thanked him for his patience and for taking the time to show me around. We visited the Grand Palace and Wat Pho, featuring a 150-foot long statue of Buddha lying on his side.

We then got dropped off at Neung's friend's parents' house -- a peaceful place packed with mango trees alongside a set of canals. A group of six of us gathered for a picnic of grilled shrimp and squid. I packed my stomach full, went for a rowboat ride along the canals, and napped under the mango trees.

I thanked everyone for their generosity and for showing me a great time on the Thai New Year - called Songkran - and hitched a ride from Neung's friend to a guesthouse I had booked for two nights right in the heart of the festival. I watched out the window at the little kids and adults dancing in the streets, soaking cars and people on motorcycles. It was good, clean fun. Everyone was laughing.

By the time I completed my five-minute walk from the car to my guesthouse, my face and hair were covered in white powder, and my clothes were dripping onto the floor at the reception desk.

"Happy Songkran," the woman at the desk said with a smile. It was a complete coincidence that the three-day holiday coincided with my three-day stay in Bangkok.

"Yeah, I think I came at the perfect time," I said.

I threw my stuff on the floor of my tiny room, wrapped my camera in a plastic bag, filled up the watergun I had bought in preparation the night before, and walked out into the middle of the world's largest water fight.

Angkor Wat, Siem Reap, Cambodia

2007-04-15T06:25:00.000-06:00

A teacher, a crush, and a little brother

2007-04-09T00:23:00.000-06:00

Ilias had been sitting on my shoulders for almost an hour, and I couldn’t take it much longer. But I promised Jo, his mother, that I would keep him up there so she could find us among the dense crowd at the Sunday night market in Chiang Mai.

Jo wanted to shop, and her six-year-old son, who had taken a liking to me when we met on the plane two days before -- drawing me pictures and giving me his favorite rock as a gift -- was getting restless. So I offered to take Ilias around the market to listen to live music and watch the Thai dancers. Jo agreed with the plan, saying she would find us when she was finished. The problem was, we hadn’t been found yet, and it was getting late.

I continued to walk with the curious blonde-haired boy atop my aching back.

“Hey buddy, keep looking for your mom, okay?” I continued to remind him.

The market seemed to go on forever. When I thought we were reaching the end, I discovered it branched out onto a street running perpendicular to the main road, giving us a one-in-three chance of choosing the direction Jo was in.

Ilias didn’t seem concerned the least bit. He continued to ask for money to put in the performers’ guitar cases and overturned hats. I, on the other hand, was a mixture of fatigued, concerned, and a dash of frustrated. I wanted to remove Ilias from my shoulders, but also I wanted to honor my promise to Jo, so I continued to tough it out. The thought of how worried she must be bothered me most. Even though I was a fellow American and had done nothing to cause suspicion, the fact remained that her only child was in a foreign country with a guy they had known only 48 hours.

I was having the kind of moment I experience once a week or so while traveling. It’s a “How-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-to-this-point?” moment. When I analyze the particular situation, it does not seem believable. Am I really walking around the streets of a city I’ve never heard of in northern Thailand at night with a six-year-old boy I didn’t know three days ago? I close my eyes, thinking there’s a chance I’ll wake up back home in Iowa. But when I open them, I find myself standing among a thick gathering of Thai strangers with dirty size-4 feet dangling in front of my face.

Jo had no way of knowing, but aside from my throbbing back, the two of us were doing just fine. Ilias was content with the balloon I bought him, and for me, hanging out with a six-year-old was refreshing. His creative ideas and funny conversation topics kept the mood light. I noticed a handful of girls giggling and taking pictures of the two of us.

“Can you put me down for a second so I can pull my pants up?” Ilias asked. “I think these girls are laughing at me because my butt crack is showing.”

I laughed, let him take care of business, threw him back up on my back, and asked what he thought we should do about our situation.

“Well, I think it would be a good idea to go back to the scooters because maybe my mom will look for us there.”

It was a perfect plan. If there was one wavelength we could all be on, it would be to meet up where we parked. For only being six, Ilias was a clever kid. We bought smoothies and played rhyming games while hanging our feet over the canal across from the bikes we had rented from the guesthouse. A half hour passed, yet still no sign of Jo.

I was officially worried at this point, but I hid it from Ilias, refusing to scare him. We played another game called “Would you rather.”

“Would you rather live in the ocean or on the clouds,” I asked Ilias.

“Um……..the clouds,” he answered. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Wow, I’ve gotten seven right in a row,” Ilias said with a smile.

He then had to call for a timeout. “I have to go poop,” he said.

It was not good timing. It was important for us to remain close to the scooters in case Jo showed up. “Can you hold it?” I asked.

“No, or I might go poop in my pants,” he said.

I asked if he was big enough to go into the bathroom of the restaurant by himself.

“Yeah, but can you walk me across the street?”

“Of course I will buddy,” I said.

“Okay, just to let you know it might take a long time.”

“Okay.”

I stood outside the restaurant, feeling uncomfortable not having Ilias in my sight, but I knew I also had to keep an eye out for Jo. After desperately wanting to see Jo for two hours, I didn’t want her to show up for the few minutes Ilias was not by my side.

“Yay!” I heard from across the street. Jo came running at me. She did not appear upset, just relieved. Before she could even ask, I told her Ilias was safe on the toilet inside. She gave me a big hug, squeezing my sore back.

***

“Are you from North America?” I asked Jo upon meeting her.

Rightfully so, she laughed at the way I posed the question.

“When I hear a familiar accent, I always ask the person if they’re from America, and they always end up being from Canada and get offended,” I explained.

I found out Jo and her son Ilias were living in San Francisco, and her friend Chris came from Salt Lake City. Chris had a lip piercing and Jo had the center of her nose pierced. They both had intense tattoos and mohawks and were in their mid-30s. They seemed like very interesting people, and I didn’t want our conversation on the short shuttle to the flight that would take us from Bangkok to Chiang Mai to end.

When we went to locate our seats on the plane, we discovered that Jo and I were placed right across the aisle from one another.

“That’s convenient,” she said.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

I immediately had a crush on Jo. I’m not sure if she could sense this or not, and I wasn’t about to tell her. She did inform me that Chris had a girlfriend, and it wasn’t her. My book remained in the seat pocket ahead of me throughout the flight as I talked to Jo about any and everything.

“What’s your favorite color?” Ilias yelled from the window seat across the isle. This was the first thing he ever said to me, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Blue,” I told him.

Ilias went on to create three masterpieces on the hour-long flight to Chiang Mai while Jo gave me some recommendations of places to stay in the city I hadn’t researched. She pointed to the guesthouse she was staying at, saying it looked very cozy on the website.

“A driver is supposed to pick us up at the airport, so you could follow us and ask him if there are any rooms available.”

It sounded good to me. Rarely do I ever make reservations prior to heading to a city. I like to leave room for a little luck. And there I was, face-to-face with a little luck.

Two nights prior, I had arrived on a ferry to the small island of Koh Phangan in the Gulf in Thailand with nowhere to stay. Upon jumping off the boat into the water I met a group of three from Switzerland who also had not made reservations. The four of us spent the next hour on a quest to find a place with availability. The answer “no” began to sound like a broken record. Had I been on my own, this would have been frustrating. As a group, it was an adventure. Eventually we found a set of cabanas that had just opened (by the looks of things that day) for $4. Something always seems to happen.

So I followed Jo, Chris, and Ilias into the airport. I told them I had to use the ATM machine.

“I want to go with you!” Ilias said, grabbing my hand. I looked to Jo for approval.

“You’re not going to sell him on the black market?” she asked.

“I’m not making any promises,” I joked.

From that point on, Ilias and I were best friends. When crossing the street, Ilias wanted to hold my hand. When riding over to the guesthouse, Ilias wanted to sit next to me. For the first time in my life, I got to play big brother.

***

The driver was also the owner of The WaLai House. His name was Yo, and I liked him from the start. He was 30 with a wife and a five-month-old baby named Leo. He told us about his family and about Chiang Mai.

“Every Saturday some friends and I take motorcycles up to the mountains, and I always ask guests if they’d like to go. We go through the jungle. We see elephants. We can go white-water rafting. You just have to pay for gas. Would any of you be interested?” Yo asked.

“Count me in,” I said. “That sounds great.”

“Okay,” he said. “You know how to drive a motorcycle then?”

“Um, actually no.”

“Well you drive scooters back home, right?”

“Um, no, not too often.”

“You know how to drive a stick, you know, a car with a clutch?”

“Actually I never had to.”

“Hmm.”

I would imagine that in most cases my background would automatically disqualify me from embarking on this sort of trip. But I learned that Yo was not about to leave anyone hanging.

“Okay, tonight we will take my bike out and I will teach you,” Yo said.

“That would be great.” I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

After an unplanned three-hour nap, I strolled into the lobby to find Yo waiting for me. The sun would set in a couple hours. We were short on time.

“You ready to do this?” Yo asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

I never checked to confirm this, but if you looked up patience in the Thai dictionary, you may find a picture of Yo.

The next three hours of Yo’s life were dedicated to teaching a kid he had just met who did not understand how a clutch worked, who had never even sat on the back of a motorcycle, to drive one.

Not that I know what I’m talking about, but apparently Yo’s bike was a few levels up from what I would normally learn on. It was a 650 cc engine. I was told 250 would probably be more my style.

He would start the bike and hop off. I would hop on, prepare to drive, and accidentally kill the engine. I would get off the bike, Yo would get back on, start the bike and hop off. I would give myself a pep talk, hop on, prepare to drive, and accidentally kill the engine.

Yo never showed a hint of frustration. He never threw out the option of calling it quits. He continued to talk me through the steps. Give it a little gas while releasing the clutch. If it starts to die, pull back on the clutch.

By the time the sun set, I was nearly an expert at driving in circles around the parking lot in second gear. I thanked Yo endlessly for his patience. We rented a bike for the next day for me – a 250 engine with an automatic start – and decided to hit the streets. Aside from pissing off a handful of impatient drivers, I felt pretty good about my driving. Although, riding on the left side of the road took a little getting used to. Just as I was gaining some confidence, I followed Yo on a U-turn, giving my bike way too much gas and releasing the clutch way too quickly, putting me and the bike at a 45-degree angle.

When I caught up to Yo and parked the bike, he let out a deep breath as a sign of relief.

“I thought for sure we were going to the hospital,” he said. “But you kept control. Nice job.”

Later that night, we went out for a drink to celebrate with two of the other guys who would join us on the next day’s adventure.

The music was loud. I reached over to yell into Yo’s ear.

“You think I’m ready for tomorrow?” I asked.

“Man, I’m not sure,” he said while laughing.

“Well, at least your honest.”

***

I hesitate to ever rank events throughout my trip, but I am confident saying not only was the next day one of the best days of my trip, it was one of the most memorable days of my life.

Five of us rode 50 km into the jungles of Northern Thailand, climbing the mountains, navigating around roaming cattle and soaking up the scenery of elephants hanging out by the rapids running through the tiny villages.

We reached speeds of 90 km/hour on the highway. I was protected by a helmet, knee and elbow pads, and had Yo watching my every move. He continued to give me thumbs-up in approval. I was nearly always the last in line, but I felt pretty damn good about my ability to keep up given the fact I had no idea how to do this the day before.

The winding road and the soft patches of dirt throughout the mountains made for some difficult driving. I came upon a pair of cows that left a narrow gap for me to squeeze through as a made a turn. I had one second to be proud of myself for avoiding the obstacles before my front wheel encountered a giant rock that sent me flying off the bike and onto the red, rocky road. This was the second of three falls, and by far the one with the hardest impact. The padding did its job for the most part. I made it through the entire day with only a few cuts on my hands, a rather significant cut on my right shin, and a few tears in my favorite pair of pants.

The Thai were preparing to celebrate their New Year, and the most common ritual is to soak everyone in water. As I rode through a small village, my eyes focused in on a tiny seven-year-old girl with a big bucket and an even bigger smile across her face. Her timing was right on the money. Her little arms ejected the water from the bucket, which landed a direct hit, covering every part of my front side. I could do nothing but laugh at the one-in-a-million shot. I looked back at Yo, who was giving me a thumbs-up.

After a refreshing rafting trip through the jungle, we went to hang out with an elephant. Yo held my camera, snapping pictures as I interacted with the giant creature.

“Get in closer,” Yo encouraged. “Hug his trunk.”

As the elephant chomped on his wad of grass, I could tell he wanted nothing to do with me. And he let me know it. When his trunk connected with my chest, I felt like Mike Tyson was throwing punches. I stumbled back a few feet as everyone laughed. I still don’t know if Yo knew that would happen. Part of me thinks he did.

I was fatigued. We were hitting the last few kilometers on the ride back of the 11-hour trip when my gas ran out. I had visions of kicking my legs up at the guesthouse, telling Jo and Ilias my stories. It appeared I would have to wait awhile. I sat on the side of the road, waiting for Yo to notice I was not behind him and head back my direction. After several minutes, he appeared, put my bike in neutral, and pushed my dead motorcycle with his leg all the way to the gas station.

None of the setbacks fazed me. Nothing could take away from the experience of riding a motorcycle by myself for the first time in the jungles of Thailand. In fact, the cuts and rips and elephant punches and soaking wet clothes all added to the adventure.

When we arrived back at the WaLai House, I told Yo he didn’t know how much the day meant to me. He seemed really proud, like he taught his own son to drive for the first time.

“You’re a great teacher man,” I said. “Soon enough you’ll be teaching little Leo to ride.”

I took a much-needed shower and headed back to the lounge area in hopes of meeting up with Jo and Ilias. They were there waiting for me, and had already heard from Chris about all my tales.

“I heard you got beat up by and elephant and flew off your bike three times,” Jo said. “Nice work.”

“Yeah, but I’m still alive to tell about it.”

We had a good group at the WaLai House. I didn’t want to leave Chiang Mai the next day. I sent my travel agent an e-mail asking if I could change my flight the next morning and extend my time there a few more days. I didn’t hear back from him. I didn’t sleep well that night. I wanted more time with Yo and Chris and Jo and Ilias. I woke up, thinking I had overslept, but the clock informed me it was only the middle of the night. I checked my e-mail.

“Brian, it’s done. You’re flight leaves at the same time in two days,” the message read.

I left a note at the desk telling them to cancel my taxi to the airport. I slipped a note under Jo’s door telling her to wake me the next morning because I had good news.

I managed to sleep until 11. I had a knock on my door. It was Jo. She seemed excited when she heard I wasn’t leaving. She invited me to join her to check out the temples around town. A group of six of us shared two scooters up the mountain to what was supposed to be the most famous temple in the area. Jo drove while I sat on the back with Ilias in the middle. Halfway up the hill, we noticed we had a flat tire. We pulled over, not knowing what to do. A family piled into a truck pulled over to help. Although there were already four kids in the truck bed, they managed to squeeze in three more people and a scooter. Jo and Ilias climbed inside while I shared the back with four Thai teenagers. Three remained silent. One asked more questions than Ilias. The problem was, I understood one out of every ten. His English was poor, but his questioning was relentless.

“What is name?”

“Brian”

He pointed through the truck window at Jo, and then I assume made a mistake with his pronouns.

“And my girlfriend’s name?”

I hid my laughter. “Her name is Jo.”

We made it to the temple just in time to see the sun set. Ilias bowed in front of the statues as I snapped pictures of the setting sun weaving its view in and out of the temple windows.

***

I spent my last day in Chiang Mai relaxing. I got a highly-recommended, hour-long massage from a guy at the school for the blind for the equivalent of less than $3. I winced like a baby the entire hour, but made little noise to give no hint of my inability to take the pain. My body was beat up from launching off the motorcycle, so I needed a little repair work done.

Later that night we gathered in Jo, Chris, and Ilias’ room for a movie. I went to take a seat on the floor.

“There’s room up here on the bed,” Jo said.

I laid down behind her, paying half attention to "Walk the Line" as she weaved her legs in with mine. The movie ended. Chris and Ilias were sound asleep. Jo asked for a hug. I gave her one along with a kiss on the cheek. I stood up, said goodnight, closed the door behind me, and slowly headed to my room. I couldn't fall asleep, hoping Jo would knock on my door. She never did.

The next day my taxi arrived early. Everyone was still asleep, so I told the driver to wait as I ran upstairs. Ilias had made me promise the night before that I would say goodbye before I left.

“Thanks for a great time,” I told everyone. Ilias hugged me, not wanting to let go. Jo hugged me, but she was only half awake. I walked out the door, not sure if I’d ever see any of them again.

I left a painting I had bought for Yo as a gift on the front desk. I hopped in with the taxi driver, leaving a teacher, a little brother, a crush, and Thailand behind.

Mind readers and missing cab drivers

2007-04-03T20:34:00.000-06:00

I was on a mission to get drunk. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe because I was feeling a bit of anxiety as I waited to fly to Thailand last night. Maybe because I fasted the day before -- I do this once a week now -- and I felt like being a bit unhealthy. Whatever the reason, I headed to the nearest bar in the Singapore airport, which, by the way, is actually more exciting and interesting than the city itself.

I took a seat in the most comfortable chair ever found in an airport in the lounge near my gate and began consuming my beer at a rate one notch below chugging. I eyed three guys about my age strolling into the bar. I was craving conversation, so I hoped they would sit near me. They did.

Typically, I've found that conversations exchanging travel stories can sound like a broken record, but this one was particularly interesting. The path the three British guys were following -- Cambodia, Thailand, Singapore, Indonesia, Australia, New Zealand, Fiji, Los Angeles. The route I was on -- Los Angeles, Fiji, New Zealand, Australia, Indonesia, Singapore, Thailand, Cambodia. So we did what travelers do -- exchanged advice. Every place they were going, I had been, and vice versa. "Stay here, avoid this place, take this bus, go to this bar."

Traveling is sometimes entirely too easy. I don't have a cell phone. I don't wear a watch. I don't own any guidebooks. I don't book anything in advance. I just talk to people. People are all I need to survive. We jotted down notes and e-mail addresses, exchanged handshakes, cheersed our beers, and headed opposite ways. Literally.

The flight was less than half full, so the flight attendant told me I could move to an open row to spread out a bit. I climbed over the kid next to me who I hoped would keep me company on the two-hour flight from Singapore to Koh Samui. Instead, when I went to spark the conversation, something like, "It's nice that we have these exit rows, you know, because of all the leg room," his eyes were already shut. I looked out the window, pretending I didn't say anything, hoping I didn't wake someone who apparently had little interest in partying on the plane with me.

So I chose an open row, folded up the armrests to create an in-flight couch, threw on my Ipod, and patiently waited for the beer cart, excuse me, beverage cart, to reach my row. I considered doing something unprecedented -- ordering two beers at the same time. I backed out at the last second, deciding I didn't want to risk starting off on the wrong foot with this woman. I recalled the time my friend Nate and I were cut off on a plane in Fargo North Dakota at 8:30 in the morning.

Luckily for me, this particular flight attendant could read minds. Not more than 30 seconds after handing me my beer, she wandered back to my row, holding yet another full, open beer can. I'm not sure why this was, aside from fate. There must have been 50 people on the flight, including several beer drinkers from my vantage point, and for whatever reason, she came to my row and asked if I was interested in an extra beer. I gladly accepted. I bobbed my head to the music, laughing and appreciating the little things in life. There's nothing bigger.

***

I arrived at the Koh Samui airport, which looks like a jungle with computers, feeling pretty good. As people stood frustrated in the customs line, waiting for their honeymoons to begin, I continued to listen to my music and pulled out a book. I don't know why I do this, but sometimes I think it's funny to pretend to be a speed reader just to liven up the moment a bit. I don't know if anyone noticed me flipping through the pages every couple seconds, but I was amused at myself nonetheless.

I told the taxi driver I wanted to head to Maenam, a part of the island close to the ferry I would catch in the morning to a smaller island.

"Which hotel?" He asked.

"Um, I don't really have one yet." It was 9:30 at night on an island I knew nothing about. I guess I get some sense of adventure out of risking having nowhere to stay.

Earlier in the day, I had lunch with three girls from Norway I had met in Sydney who coincidentally were in Singapore. They had been in Koh Samui and recommended a place called Maenam Village Bungalows. So I threw that name out at the driver.

I had a good chat with the driver. He was also 22 and taught me a bit of Thai. His English was not perfect, so a few times I just said, "yeah" without knowing what he said. A half hour later, we arrived at a hotel that had either the word "village" or "bungalows" in it, but not both. They had a room available, so I didn't ask questions. But they didn't accept credit cards, so my driver took me to the 7-11 up the road to use the ATM.

I never let my small backpack -- the one with my tickets, computer, etc. -- leave my site, but I'm typically pretty carefree with my large backpack that contains all my clothes. So I left it in the cab and crossed the street to get some money. When I turned around, the driver was gone. I stared down the street in both directions.

"You looking for a cab?" two Australian guys asked.

"No. I'm pretty sure my cab driver just took off with all my stuff."

"Holy shit," the two said simultaneously.

I wasn't too rattled by the loss of my entire wardrobe. It made for a good story at least. Material things are not important to me, right?

After several seconds of deep reflection about what I value, I saw my driver heading into the 7-11. He had parked the cab around the corner. He waved at me, held up one finger informing me he would just be a second, walked in the store, and then emerged with a beer in hand. I decided to follow in his footsteps.

As he drove me back to my hotel, we toasted our unopened beers. I asked if he was heading back to the airport. He said he was off for the night. I asked if he wanted to have a beer with me on the porch of the hotel.

"My girlfriend would be mad at me," he said.

He drove off as I cracked my beer open. I was alone again, craving conversation.

Singabore

2007-04-02T22:32:00.000-06:00

I've been in Singapore for 36 hours, and I'm ready to get out. I don't have a whole lot to report, but I don't feel right leaving a country without writing something.

What I've seen here:

Starbucks, Toys R Us, California Pizza Kitchen, Starbucks, Coffee Bean, Burger King, McDonalds, Taco Bell, KFC, Subway, Starbucks.

It more American than America. Plus it's expensive, especially for southeast Asia.

I will say it's very clean, safe, and nice-looking, but not even the locals can suggest an exciting activity other than the zoo.

I went to see the movie "300" yesterday, and then followed it up by watching a poor-quality copy of "Blood Diamond" that I bought for 90 cents in Indonesia. I then clipped my toenails, did some pushups, and tried hard to fall asleep around 9 p.m.

I'm catching a flight to Thailand tonight. It's one of my 11 flights in 24 days. Hopefully I can find a bit more excitement there.

Indo-need-ya

2007-03-30T23:51:00.000-06:00

I've never lied so much in my life.

"I don't have any money with me."

"I'm in a hurry."

"I don't need a massage."

Walking through the streets of Bali was never a relaxing stroll. Taxis would honk as if I didn't know they existed. Store merchants would inform me they were selling things in the shops. Girls would ask my name, shake my hand and not let go as they desperately attempted to give me a massage. Everyone called me "boss".

One woman wanted to do something to my fingernails. "I do one for free," she offered.

"I like my fingernails just the way they are." This was no lie.

The word "no" went in one ear and out the other. I didn't know what else to do other than be rude and completely ignore them or lie. I felt guilty in a way not buying anything. I felt bad lying. It was a lose-lose situation. Yesterday, I made the mistake of walking back to my hotel carrying my freshly-done laundry. I walked by the same people who I told minutes earlier I did not come to Bali to shop. Conveniently, my laundry was folded up in perfect order and was given to me in a shopping bag. However, my onlookers' eyes widened as they saw the American kid walking through the streets with what looked like the result of a shopping spree. It seemed as if all I came to do in Bali was shop.

"Buy one more!" the merchants shouted. "I give you better deal in my store!"

I started off as a giant target, and now I had painted myself bright red. I finally made it back to home base unharmed, but mentally stressed.

I suppose I asked for it, wandering around such a huge tourist destination. The people are friendly, but a bit too relentless. When I need a taxi, I will flag one down. When I want to buy silver, I will come to the silver store. Really, their tactics hurt them more than helped them. I was afraid to even look in the windows so I wouldn't spark added interest in the store owners. I stopped shaking the girls' hands. I stopped telling people my name. I wore my sunglasses and looked straight ahead whenever heading to the beach or to grab a snack. Bali made me a temporary introvert.

Before heading to Bali, I spent four days in Yogyakarta -- a city in between Jakarta and Bali. The same flight I took from Jakarta to Yogya on the same airline had crashed on landing a few weeks earlier, killing several people. The woman on the plane next to me decided to bring this up just as we were landing. Not the best timing.

A nonfiction writing teacher of mine from college is currently living in Yogyakarta to work on his writing, and he gave me a place to crash for a few days. I did normal things, and it was very refreshing. We played tennis every day. I read, played guitar, and slept a lot. I cruised the streets on the back of his motorcycle and learned what the heck a guy from Minnesota was doing in a town I had never heard of in Indonesia. One night we went to his friend from Ohio's house. I couldn't stop thinking how odd it was that three Midwesterners were hanging out in Java together.

Ben paid for a few of my meals, so I decided to buy a round. The total for two filling lunches including drinks -- $1.80. I thought there was a mistake, but as it turned out, they were basically giving food away. Since the screen on my camera has been broken for three months, I finally caved and bought a new one. I also bought three pirated DVDs for 90 cents a piece. One afternoon was dedicated to watching Rocky VI. It was the best 90 cents I ever spent.

I fell in love with the food. Half the time I had no idea what I was eating. I saw cooked chicken heads, pigeon eggs, and was asked if I would like to try dog meat. I like to do things in the name of culture, but I declined the offer.

Part of me wanted to stay for a while longer, lounging and talking to Ben about writing and life. Another part of me craved to get back on the road, meeting travelers and seeing new places. I almost didn't make it to Bali. Without my knowledge, the hour-long flight made a pitstop in another city. Since I slept throughout the entire trip, I failed to hear any important announcements, like the one saying "this isn't Bali". I found it a bit odd that half of the people on the plane remained seated, but regardless I gathered my things, deplaned, and headed into the airport in a town I've never heard of and wasn't supposed to ever set foot in.

I began talking with an American guy as we walked toward baggage claim. He had been living in Indonesia for almost 20 years. I asked him what was a good taxi company to take and what were some good things to see in Bali.

"You are aware that you aren't in Bali," he said.

I was not aware of this.

I looked out the window to see my plane still sitting on the ground. The man handled the translation for me and got me back on the plane I was never supposed to get off of. I felt like a little kid. I guess we all need a little help here and there.

Tall, white, popular, vulnerable, and afraid

2007-03-26T03:59:00.000-06:00

My palms started to sweat and my bare feet went cold as the plane began its descent toward Jakarta last night. Cliche signs of nervousness, I know, but these reactions actually took place as I headed towad a city I've never been, by myself, late at night, in a foreign country with no plans and nowhere to stay.

I wished the Indonesian studies professor who originally sat next to me before switching seats so a family could sit together was still by my side. The woman to my right seemed friendly, but she spoke zero English, and I had some questions.

I was a bit worried about accessing the country, but the new Visa upon arrival process was a breeze, for the most part. I found it strange that they asked the $25 be paid in U.S. dollars. Ironically, all this American had were Australian dollars, and not enough of them. I held up the line digging for change until the woman informed me I could pay for my Visa with my Visa.

Aside from the long line, customs was also nothing to worry about. As I inched up in line, however, I found myself staring at the ATM, hoping the nightmare of my card not working in Australia would not happen again. Had I not learned my lesson the first time? I had too much time to think about it, and it began to haunt me. I tried to take my mind off it by looking around at the advertisements. The sign directly to my right read something like, "Drug trafficking equals execution in Indonesia." Even this heightened my nerves, and I wouldn't know how to traffic drugs if I wanted to.

I declared no drugs, weapons, and DVDs (I don't know why this was a concern, but when I read this on the customs sheet I decided to leave the handful of movies I had in my bag in the seat pocket in front of me on the plane. I don't recalling reading anything about DVDS leading to the death penalty, but I wasn't about to take any risks).

I dashed toward the ATM, which inhaled my card on the first try. So I decided to take out $300,000. If this seems like a high figure and more than I should have in my account, that's because it is -- 300,000 rupiah equates to $34 the woman at the exchange counter informed me. It appeared I would be playing with Monopoly money. It was time to exit the airport and enter Indonesia.

For the following 15 minutes, I was in hell. Part of me felt like a celebrity for the attention I got. Part of me felt like a new prisoner entering the yard for the first time. I was Timothy Robbins, and the Jakarta taxi drivers were Morgan Freeman and company chanting "fresh fish" as the tall, vulnerable white kid with his whole life in his bags walked down cab row.

"Where you go?"...."I give you good deal."...."150,000 to Jalan Jaksa." (As if I had any clue how much that was. Could 150,000 buy me Baltic? Park Place?)

I don't intend to be racist, but it should be noted that I was the only white person in sight and I was at least six inches taller than anyone around. Apparantly the other half dozen Europeans and Australians on my flight had done something stupid like make prior arrangements as they cruised away in their hotel shuttle buses and rental cars.

To keep the prison analogy going, one relentless driver tried to make me his bitch. He walked at my side, telling me anything he thought I might want to hear. I was asking for nothing. I hadn't even made it out of the airport, and I felt like the most popular guy in the country of 220,000,000 people.

I mumbled my excuses. "I, ah, uh, just need to make some phone calls first."

"Calls are cheaper outside. I show you."

"I, um, was thinking of just getting some food first."

"I show you good place. Airport food too expensive."

Finally I just turned a cold shoulder, heading toward the A&W and Dunkin Donuts, pretending to read their menus. My stalker went away, but not far. I saw him out of the corner of my eye waiting for round two. To my discomfort, the layout of the airport forced me to pass back by the driver.

"I'm sorry sir, but I do not want a ride. I was told by a friend to take Blue Bird taxi only, and that's what I'm going to do."

Apparently honestly is the best policy, because this was my first true answer, and the man unattached himself from my hip.

But the game of fending off evil taxi drivers was only just beginning. To be fair, they were just doing their job. It was my ignorance and lack of confidence that made me vulnerable and defensive. It wasn't their fault. It was mine in a way.

Had I not been told by a former university professor of mine who now lives in Indonesia, along with the guide books and even an informational video on the Qantas flight that took me to Jakarta to use Blue Bird taxis, I think I would have hopped in with any cab driver. They just wanted my money. Right? What else could happen? I was intimidated enough not to find out.

"You need ride?" the voices continued. Yes I did, but no I didn't.

"Going to Jalan Jaksa?" Yes I was, but not with you.

For some of the rookie drivers, a head shake was enough of a deterrent. For some of the veterans, I had to use more clever tactics. I could feel my mental toughness thickening. Drivers were coming at me and bouncing off from me right and left. All I wanted to do was get the hell away from the people who were trying their best to get me the hell away. Confusing, I know.

I felt like an attractive girl wearing a skimpy outfit in a towny bar. I felt like I should be signing autographs with all the attention I was receiving. But no one bought me a drink or handed me a pen.

One driver managed to break through my shield. I pulled the, "I only take Blue Bird when I come to Indonesia" card (A twist of the truth since I have never been to Indonesia). He fired back with, "Ahh, yes, Blue Bird."

This did not confirm he represented the company, but I followed him to a counter anyway. "You see, Blue Bird," he said as six of his partners in crime looked on. There were no other customers at the counter. No signs read Blue Bird.

"It doesn't say Blue Bird anywhere. All you have is a blue sign," I said.

"Similar," he said.

True. The man had a point. His company's sign was blue, and the company I was looking for had the word 'blue' in its name. I shook my head, laughing at this point, and walked back outside to the looks of seven defeated faces. As I walked away, I cracked my knuckles and clenched my fists, preparing for the worst. I felt like I had already offended half the country before really even getting anywhere. Of course, nothing happened, and finally, I saw a Blue Bird taxi backing up into its nest.

I tried to act confident, asking the driver how much to Jalan Jaksa, as if I wasn't going with him no matter what figure he threw out, and as if I knew how many thousands of rupiah equalled a rip off. He said he had a meter to count the way, but likely 110,000. As he handed me a business card and a complaint card (something discomforting to receive prior to starting the ride) another man began to put my big bag into the trunk. I don't dare let go of my smaller bag, which contains the essentials. A few seconds into the drive, I realized I hadn't actually witnessed my backpack make it safely into the taxi. It would be another half hour before I could confirm its presence.

My driver spoke a bit of broken English, just enough to have a few minutes of conversation before entering awkward silence. He taught me a few lines of Indonesian, and said he really liked the signer Bryan Adams after learning my name.

"Yeah, Summer of '69" I said.

"Huh?"

"A song....Bryan Ad....nevermind."

I didn't see anything out the window that made me want to hop on a flight back home, nor did I see anything that convinced me to buy a house in Jakarta. It looked like, well, a city. Cars, lights, businesses, American fast food chains. Before my trip, I told people I didn't know what to expect of Indonesia, and here I was, looking at the to-be-expected.

Jakarta did not hide the fact that Indonesia is the world's fourth most populated country. Couples on motorcycles squeezed through thick traffic. Street vendors dotted the sides of the roads, dangerously close to the moving vehicles.

The driver had heard of the hostel I was looking for, but he had to roll down his window to ask an 11-year-old kid where it was. Ironically, after trying my hardest to avoid taxi drivers, I was not ready to leave the comfort of the cab as we pulled up to my destination. As I went to pay the driver, I recalled the meter reading only 90,000, but when he asked for 110,000, I gladly whipped out my Monopoly money. I tried to do the conversion in my head. It was a bit more than $11 for the half-hour ride. Not bad.

As I walked toward the hostel, no one hassled me like I imagined they might. I walked undisturbed into the Hotel Tator lobby. I hadn't seen a white face since customs. There were cats roaming around everywhere and the smell of unfamiliar foods dancing through the air. I was officially on the other side of the world.

The unfriendly man at the counter said he had a room for the exact same price I paid for my cab ride. I asked to see the room first, and he agreed, tossing the key to room 301 to another 11-year-old boy who raced up the stairs ahead of me. With 100-plus pounds of bags strapped to me, I couldn't keep up, but eventually met him two flights up. Upon turning on the light, I saw something dark and quick dart under the bed across the tiled floor. I assumed it was a cockroach. The boy appeared unfazed by this, so I acted as if I was also fine with the presence of my potential tiny roommate.

I noticed that two beds were placed together. I asked the boy if there would be someone else sleeping in the room (rule number one when staying in hostels: never assume anything). He nodded his head yes, but I was not convinced any owner in his right mind would expect two strangers to sleep side-by-side. Luckily, it turned out the boy didn't know English anyway, and I would be staying by myself. When I confirmed with the man at the counter that the door to my room locked, I signed up for one night, tossed him a wad of monopoly money and headed back upstairs. I found it a bit strange that I hadn't seen any other guests yet.

I threw my stuff down, washed my face, and tried to hide my smelly armpits with some body spray (it must have been about 90 degrees in the air-conditioned room I paid 20,000 extra for).

My room did not include hot water. Just a showerhead in the middle of the bathroom with no tub or enclosed area. There was, however, a bucket. I turned down a chance to take my first bucket shower, deciding it was highly unlikely I would meet my future wife on a street supposedly crawling with transvestites according to my brief research. Why Jalan Jaksa is known as the backpackers district of Jakarta is beyond me, but it has been recommended as the place to be for young travelers.

I roamed the street for 20 minutes. I did not meet my future wife, or future half wife, half husband, and I saw no sign of any other backpackers. A few happy locals waved in my direction, but I remained an introvert for the time being. I was content with keeping to myself for the remainder of the evening. Since I didn't want to leave my valuables in the room, I was carrying my small backpack with me. With tired shoulders, drooping eyelids, and a lack of amusement with anything going on around me, I headed back to my room to call it a night.

Arriving in unfamiliar destinations at night is something I would prefer to avoid. I would give the city a fair chance in the morning. I crossed my fingers that nothing would crawl on me in my sleep, and that I would fall into a deep slumber without trouble. I just wanted it to be morning. A few car horns and a bit of laughter fought to keep me awake, but I eventually won the battle.

The fact that I was in a plain, hot, bug-infested hotel room in Jakarta, Indonesia, by myself made me feel alive. This is a word I use to describe a mixture between excited and scared as hell. I thought of Leonardo DiCaprio's character in The Beach and the scene in the Bangkok hostel when the crazy guy breaks through the screen next door to talk to him, telling him about an unimaginable paradise island.

This did not happen to me. No one broke into my room. Not even a cockroach made its presence known. The next thing I remembered was waking naturally to a hot Jakarta morning. It was time to explore.

Dingo aware on Fraser Island

2007-03-20T04:05:00.000-06:00

I couldn't keep a straight face as the dingo awareness video rolled on. "Don't feed the dingoes. Don't look at the dingoes. Don't touch the dingoes." A dingo is basically a medium-sized dog that can be found in its most wild form on Fraser Island -- the place I was to camp with 10 strangers for three days. As we prepared to board the ferry over to the island off the east coast of Australia, I wasn't sure what to expect on the trip, but after a pair of extremely redundant dingo safety videos, I was officially dingo aware.

Our group was comprised of sisters from London -- Anabell and Rosie, best friends from Sweden -- Jutta and Viktoria, best friends from somewhere in England -- Alex and Aaron, an English threesome of friends -- Anrdea, Kayle, and Claire, Jodie from Canada, and finally, me.

"It's a hit or miss trip," the tour guide told me when I considered a camping trip to Fraser Island -- a trip either spoken very highly of or very lowly of from the travelers I've met. It all depends on the group.

There is no guide on the trip, just 11 strangers in a 4x4 driving on the beach -- the only form of road on the island. Since I can't drive a stickshift, I was forced to sit in the back with seven girls and drink boxed wine and Australian beer. We had no choice but to get to know one another, our knees smashed against one another's and our drinks constantly spilling on our neighbor's after every bump.

The group clicked right away. The Swedish girls taught us songs that made no sense to us, but we shouted them out anyway. Jutta kept us entertained with her never-ending game of "would you rather."

"Would you rather eat only coconut the rest of your life or be a dingo?" was one example that sticks out in my mind.

We stayed up talking on the beach until our eyes couldn't stay open, and awoke around sunrise to make breakfast each morning. It was a family in a way, everyone chipping in one way or another, washing dishes, setting up the tents, working the grill.

We swam in crystal clear lakes and climbed on steep cliffs to get a good view of the shark fins sticking out of the sea below. One afternoon was spent at the champagne pools -- natural swimming pools and hot tubs made from the ocean water splashing over the rocks. I told everyone I planned on building a house there someday. We agreed it could be the site of our reunion.

Clicking with strangers has been the foundation of my trip. I don't look at the other travelers as strangers anymore. I look at them as friends I haven't spoken to yet. I'm afraid when I arrive back home I will continue to invite people I don't know to eat dinner and watch sunsets, and they will look at me like I'm crazy. Travelers make up an amazing community, everyone is in the same boat, always looking to reach out to people a bit different then them, but similar in spirit.

Our group was known as the "Ay team" since Jodie spoke with a thick Canadian accent and we were group A according to the company we went with. At the beginning of the trip we were just 11 dingo-aware strangers. By the end of three days some of us had chosen to be dingoes, and others were destined to eat coconut the rest of their lives.

On the move

2007-03-19T04:16:00.000-06:00

I don't know if this is strange, but I look forward to bus rides. A lot. I explored nearly the entire country of New Zealand by bus, and I've spent the last two weeks on a Greyhound heading north up the east coast of Australia.

I mentioned this to Jutta, a girl from Sweden who was part of my three-day, 11-person camping trip on Fraser Island. She explained it perfectly.

"It's because sometimes you just need time to yourself, and you get that on the bus."

She was right. Moving from hostel to hostel, city to city, I meet dozens of new people every day. The conversations are often the same. Where are you going, where have you been? I answer them, never putting much thought into my response, which has now become robotic. Don't get me wrong, meeting people is what has made this trip what it is. But sometimes I'm in need of another busride to spend some time reflecting on what I've been doing.

Today, for example, I stared out the window at the wild kangaroos and the setting sun as I counted the number of cities I've slept in over the past 79 days.

Somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania

Lynbrook, New York

Manhattan, New York

Washington D.C.

Memphis, Tennessee

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Springville, Utah

Las Vegas, Nevada

Salt Lake City, Utah

Park City, Utah

Phoenix, Arizona

San Diego, California

Los Angeles, California

Pomona, California

Riverside, California

Manhattan Beach, California

Encino, California

Nadi, Fiji

Auckland, New Zealand

Rotorua, New Zealand

Lake Taupo, New Zealand

Wellington, New Zealand

Christchurch, New Zealand

Greymouth, New Zealand

Franz Josef, New Zealand

Queenstown, New Zealand

Dunedin, New Zealand

Lake Tekapo, New Zealand

Sydney, Australia

Byron Bay, Australia

Noosa Heads, Australia

Brisbane, Australia

Hervey Bay, Australia

Fraser Island, Australia

1770, Australia

Total: 35 cities between December 31 and March 19. I'll let you know what I come up with on the next bus ride.

The Ki to victory

2007-03-09T18:18:00.000-06:00

After four quality hours of sleep on a bench in the Auckland international terminal, I untied my bags from my wrists, threw my heavier backpack over my back and my lighter one over my chest and began roaming around the airport as the blurry clock informed me it was a bit after 5 a.m.

I can't decide which backpack I hate more. The heavier one of course threatens to give me permanent back problems. (I frequently find myself rubbing my back up against corners of chairs to work the knots out like an animal taking care of an itch.) But the lighter one I wear in front makes me feel like I'm experimenting on what it feels like to be pregnant. Wandering around with my added 100 lbs. is never comfortable, but I have no other choice.

The roaming was very aimless. As if airports aren't unpleasant enough, airports at 5 a.m. are extremely uneventful. I made a few laps and then decided to drop my bags, charge my computer and lie across the floor.

"Brian," someone called out.

I looked up. It was Ki. Ki and I shared the same eight-bunk hostel in Queenstown, New Zealand about five days prior. We had a few nice chats, but never exchanged e-mail address or phone numbers. It's very typical to connect with a person for a day while traveling only to never see them again. Ki, a 29-year-old Korean from Toronto, was on track to be one of these people. But here we were, both waiting to hop a plane to Sydney.

We were booked on different flights that were to leave a half hour apart. Ki had already booked a hostel. I agreed that once I landed I would go to the nearest phone, book a room in his hostel, catch a shuttle from the airport, and meet up with him by lunch time. We parted ways, looking forward to becoming travel companions once we crossed the Tasman Sea. It's really impossible to be completely lonely as a single traveler. Somehow you always connect with someone. Everything feels like a random act of fate when you try to analyze it, but really it's just life.

My flight was delayed two hours, then another half hour once on the runway. I wondered about Ki and how this would affect our plans. Upon my arrival in Sydney, my stomach cramped up, and continued to get worse. The first thing I did in the airport was not a phone call to the hostel.

I tried Pepto Bismol, took a few deep breaths, and ate some peppermints like my grandma always advises in situations like this. Other than that, I was out of ideas, and nothing seemed to be easing my discomfort.

I needed money for a shuttle ride, so I went to the nearest ATM.

"Cannot read card," the message read.

I put the equivalent of a 1st grader on my back and my soon-to-be-born over my stomach and marched to the next ATM. I threw my kids on the floor again.

"Cannot read card," the message read.

I put my kids back on.

There was one final ATM in the airport. The third time was not a charm. There was a scratch on the stripe on the back of my card that was causing this problem. I was in Australia with no money and some sort of stomach virus. I went to call Andrea, who had been settled in Coogee Beach in Sydney for two weeks by now. The payphone could not read my credit card. I kicked my bag and hit my head against the giant glass window in front of me. A security guard stared but said nothing.

I wanted nothing more than for this to be a dream. I wanted to wake up and be in Iowa with my family and friends, laughing, not having to run to a public toilet every 15 minutes. For the first time on my travels, I did not want to be in another country. For the first time, I hated traveling.

But I couldn't just curl up into a ball or tap my shoes and wake up in Iowa. I had to do something.

I came up with a great plan to have someone at the convenience store punch in my ATM number and give me cash back. They informed me they did not have this capability, but that McDonalds did. I grabbed my kids and marched directly to the golden arches. After waiting in line for 10 minutes, I ordered a cheeseburger and asked for the maximum $100 in cash back.

"The machine won't read your card," the kid at the counter informed me.

"I know. I've been having trouble with it. You just have to punch in the numbers and then the expiration date."

"Oh, we can't do that here," he said.

"Are you sure? I think you can do it anywhere."

"Yes, but not here. Why don't you go to an ATM?"

"Because the ATM is not reading my card."

"Yeah, this isn't either."

"I understand that. That's why you have to type it in."

"We can't do that."

It appeared I was hopeless.

"Okay, thanks."

"Do you still want the cheeseburger."

I didn't want the cheeseburger in the first place, and now I couldn't pay for it if I did want it.

"No thanks."

I went to the bank in the airport to see if I had any options. Upon showing the lady my ATM card, she informed me that they did not do withdrawals and that I should go to the nearest ATM. I told her why that was not a good plan, and neither was McDonalds, and that I was now officially "desperate" on the alert level.

She said they don't normally do this for customers, but she could use my credit card to take out money. I don't know how this works, but I didn't ask questions. I thanked her, took out a big chunk, not knowing if I would be able to do this again, and thanked her a few more times.

I asked her for some coins for the payphone.

"I'm sorry, we don't give out coins here, but the convenient store should be able to help you."

Of course. Why would the bank have coins? At least she didn't direct me to McDonalds.

I called Ki's hostel. No rooms. The guy on the phone suggested another one nearby. I called it. No vacancy. He recommended a third place. This time the third time was the charm.

I checked into the Pink House. My stomach was still trying its best to ruin my day. I walked to Ki's hostel, but the guy at the front desk told me he had gone out for the day. I decided to walk to the famous Opera House. Upon reaching it, I took a few pictures, then my stomach decided it was a fitting time to act up again. The walk back to the hostel seemed to take much, much longer. I decided it was best to stay at my home base for the remainder of the day.

Staying in my room were three Norwegian girls, a couple from Germany and two guys from Denmark. They invited me downstairs to play cards and drink beers, but I had to decline, apologizing and explaining to them, in as little detail as possible, that I was not feeling well.

Every half hour or so I would have to run across the hall to the bathroom. And if you can't come to this conclusion on your own, hostel bathrooms are not the most fun places to hang out. By that evening, I had the graffiti on the wall in the stall memorized. It was nothing special. The typical curse words and "so and so was here" and then an arrow pointing to "so and so" claiming that he is gay. It was something to look at nonetheless.

On one of my trips back to the room, Ki appeared. I explained to him what took me so long to reach downtown, and that I was not feeling well. I attempted to help him cook a pasta dinner, but spent most of the time curled up on the couch in the lounge, wondering when the next stomach cramp would become too much again.

I agreed to meet Ki in the morning and went to bed around 10 o'clock. I wondered how much my roommates hated the guy who kept getting up for some reason every 45 minutes or so. Finally, around 6 a.m. I felt so guilty for continuing to open and close the door of the bedroom that I dragged my weak body to the lounge.

There was a girl in there who couldn't sleep either. I opted not to tell her why I was so restless.

She was watching Oprah. The show featured the cast of Brokeback Mountain. This happened to be my first glimpse of TV in 2007. I wanted anything to occupy my mind. I didn't care that it was Heath Ledger talking about making out with a guy.

I gave in and went to the doctor down the street around 9 a.m. He told me it was a common stomach virus and that I should do nothing about it but wait it out. I was $50 down with advice I didn't want to hear. I spent the rainy day lying in bed reading and thinking. It was nice, however, to have a bit of time to do nothing but reflect. This did lead to me becoming very homesick. I wanted my family and friends to march through the door. They did not. I hadn't actually taken a good chunk of time to think about my trip since I left. I convinced myself that afternoon that I hated traveling.

***

The next day Ki and I booked a Greyhound bus north from Sydney to Cairns with unlimited stops along the way. The doctor had been right. It only took about 24 hours for the virus to pass. Aside from being a bit dehydrated, I was feeling good again.

The next night Ki and I hopped the 9:45 p.m. bus to Byron Bay. It was a 13-hour ride. Luckily I had a row of four seats to myself, and I slept most of the way. All the bus rides and multiple-person hostels have gotten me used to sleeping under any conditions. I was worried that my stomach issues would resurface, but it appeared I was fully healthy.

I found that ATMs that suck in the card opposed to swiping it through quickly can read my card and give me money to buy cheeseburgers or anything else I might want.

I planned on staying in Byron Bay for a couple days. Ki and I checked into a hostel a block from the beach. Staying in our room was an 18-year-old from Belgium named Jerome and a 28-year-old from Switzerland named Phil among a few others who passed in and out. Each day was sunny and hot. Phil, who is on a one-year surfing trip around the world, said that life begins when your feet are tan. I looked at my feet. They were tan. Life was good.

Ki, Phil, Jerome, and I instantly became friends. We did everything together - went for a run to the lighthouse, rented bikes, hung out at the beach, drank boxed wine at night. Each night a group of people would gather outside our room, grabbing chairs and flipping over garbage cans to take a seat. I can't remember whose idea it was, but someone suggested we go around and say where we came from. The answers created a moment I won't forget:

Japan, Israel, Canada, the states, Switzerland, Belgium, Sweden. There were no repeats. Everyone shared his or her travel plans. We all had different stories, but we were all doing the same thing in a way. Exploring.

I ended up staying in Byron Bay for five days. Each night I told the guys I was going to leave the next morning, but I never did. I couldn't. They told me they didn't want me to go. "Why would you leave when life is so good?" Ki asked. Jerome told me that sometimes it was a good idea to stop and smell the roses. I learned that was true.

I left the guys this morning. We exchanged information and gave each other guy hugs. At that moment I realized how much I loved traveling.

New Zealand

2007-03-07T03:28:00.000-06:00

New Zealand was not an easy place to say goodbye to. The people were affable, the travelers plentiful, the cities clean, the way of life peaceful. With glaciers, mountains, volcanoes, fjords, caves, and just about any landscape imaginable, New Zealand is the closest I've ever felt to being in another world. Yet at the same time, I felt so welcomed in this faraway land.

It's always difficult to fairly judge a place after only having been there once. There is a risk of stereotyping or overlooking certain aspects. But I feel comfortable enough saying New Zealand is the most incredible place I've ever been. Next to Iowa that is.

Small world

2007-03-01T20:27:00.000-06:00

I had been fighting a cold for a few days, so trying to swallow my pasta while sitting down for a late dinner in the hostel kitchen in Dunedin was a bit of a struggle. This was my fourth straight pasta dinner. It's incredibly filling for the price, and it doesn't get too old, especially if you switch the sauces. However, the sauce didn't matter this night because I couldn't taste anything.

Across from me was a map of the world with New Zealand at the center. I found it difficult to look at. My mind was automatically thrown off by the states not being at the center. Sometimes I see why other travelers give me grief when they find out I'm American. Whether it's conscious or not, sometimes we do think we're the center of the universe.

Guests at the hostel were encouraged to place pins through their home towns on the map. I was mesmerized at by the total area hidden by the tiny tips of the pins. There were pins in places I didn't even know people lived, like north of Russia toward the North Pole.

"Put one in Iowa for me," I told Helen, noticing there wasn't a pin within 200 miles of the state.

"I have no idea where Iowa is," she predictably responded. I wouldn't expect someone from Sweden to find the Hawkeye state when I've met people from my own country who assume it must be by Idaho and Ohio since they sound similar.

Then, a familiar accent from the the table next to us interupted.

"Are you from Iowa?" a girl asked.

"Yeah, I am."

"Oh wow, I'm from California, but my friend here (points to friend in kitchen) went to the University of Iowa."

"So did I," I said, no longer feeling 8,000 miles away and 19 hours ahead of my home.

I chatted with her friend for a few minutes. We knew all the same bars, the same streets, a few of the same people. We really didn't have much to say other than listing things we both knew. We then parted ways, agreeing it's a small world. I didn't really mean it when I said it though. I like to think of the world as a big place.

Making Swedish pancakes and friends: A story of being alone but never being alone

2007-02-25T00:04:00.000-06:00

As I sat at a table for one at an outdoor café in Greymouth -- a town of 13,000 on the west coast of New Zealand’s south island -- an unfamiliar woman sitting at a table nearby offered me some garlic bread.

“I can’t possibly finish all of it,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, already shoveling the leftover snack from the stranger into my mouth. “Where are you from?”

Nine times out of ten this is my opening line when meeting anyone in this country since “New Zealand” is never the answer, and some sort of story or connection usually follows.

“From Sweden,” she said.

Now that I thought about it, I did recognize the accent. “Oh really, I’ve been traveling with two Swedish girls all week and I’m just waiting for their bus to pull into town.”

For not knowing Helen and Madeleine at the time we booked our cross-country tours out of Auckland, we had nearly identical itineraries, with the exception of the leg to Greymouth that morning. I had come via train from Christchurch. They were heading south from Nelson and would be here any minute. For only knowing them for a few days, I was growing anxious for their arrival, trying to find anything to do to occupy my time like laundry and eating other people’s food.

“I have a great idea,” I said to the leftover garlic bread woman. “I’ve been practicing Swedish, and I think it would be fun to say something to my friends that they haven’t taught me yet.”

She liked the idea and wanted to be part of the plan. We came up with, “It’s so great to see you again.” The woman wrote it down on my notepad in Swedish, and I butchered the words to make them look like words I knew in English. I recited the line back to her a half dozen times before she told me it was perfect. I thanked her for the bread and the language lesson and headed back to the Neptune hostel located right off the Tasman sea just in time to greet my newest friends.

After hugging Helen and asking her how her trip was, I dropped the bomb.

“Huh?” Helen said with a confused look on her face.

I repeated the line, which I had been practicing aloud, flawlessly to the best of my knowledge, for the past 10 minutes.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to say,” she said.

“Yeah, is that Latin?” Madeleine asked.

It appeared I had failed miserably. They had mastered my language, and I couldn’t tell them it was good to see them again. It was so far off that they couldn’t even guess what I was attempting to say.

I cut my losses, folded some laundry, had a quick shower, and picked up right where I had left off with my friends as we headed to the local brewery tour we had signed up for that evening. The temperature was a perfect 70 degrees. There was a nice breeze in the air. I could smell the beer as we neared the Monteiths brewery. I was happy to see everyone again.

***

Helen and I had clicked right away. I met the 19-year-old Swedish girl and her 20-year cousin Madeleine on a black-water rafting trip through a chain of caves on the northern island a few days back. Madeleine assigned me to the duty of protecting Helen since she apparently had every phobia you can name, all of which were an element of this trip at one point. Heights, dark, insects/creatures. Now that I think about it, I’m not really sure why she signed up for this particular excursion in the first place. But I’m glad she did. My job of protecting her basically ended up entailing discussing the fact that we should hang out later that night.

After a successful cave rafting trip, we hopped back on the bus to continue our journey across the incredible country. I had been sitting with Tom and Jim, a couple of guys from England who I met at my hostel in Auckland, and a guy named Joep from Holland. With the addition of the Swedish cousins, we decided it was time to throw a party in the back of the bus, buying two cases of Tui and putting down as many as we could before reaching Rotorua.

It was about midnight when we decided to gather around a table at our hostel to host an international drinking games convention. The British guys taught us a game called Save the Queen – the objective being to throw a coin with the Queen of England on it into someone else’s beer when they’re not looking. The victim then has the responsibility of chugging their beer to, you guessed it, save the Queen from drowning.

Next it was team Sweden’s turn. Their game simply involved telling us to start drinking. They then sang a Swedish song and when the song was finished, whatever beer was left in our bottles was poured onto our head. I’ve learned this is something Helen likes to do quite often. So far I’ve had three beers poured on my head this trip. Two of them had nothing to do with the game.

The game I seriously injured myself during consisted of bending over to pick a cardboard box up with our teeth without using our hands or touching our knees to the ground. Instead of taking it slowly, I lunged for my target, hyperextending my knee. When I woke the next morning and couldn’t put pressure on my left leg, I considered obtaining some crutches or seeing a doctor. Instead, I went skydiving. I can almost walk normally.

***

I can’t say I’ve met anyone quite like Helen. She is a sweetheart and a brat mixed into one charming personality. She likes to bite my arm when I fall asleep on the bus, but when she apologizes in her Swedish accent, claiming she didn’t mean to do it, I can’t help but smile. She makes every situation more exciting than it’s supposed to be. This morning at breakfast, she cracked open her hard-boiled eggs by hitting them against her head. This afternoon, as we walked through Queenstown, she convinced the guys at the fire station to give us a ride around town on the fire truck.

I will have to say goodbye again in a few days as I leave New Zealand and Helen heads for Thailand. It’s a reoccurring situation that no matter how much I do it, I will never get used to. I have met some great people in each city I travel through, always having to part in the middle of getting to know them. It’s a strange kind of lonely.

I am sure to meet new people each place I go, but that doesn't mean I want to replace anyone's company. Really, I have no choice if I want to continue traveling around the world. Traveling does not allow for any sort of comfort zone. My time with Andrea in Fiji seems like months ago. My skin has finished peeling from the sunburn I got there.

***

I arrived in Christchurch around 9 p.m. a few nights ago, and it appeared I would have to sleep in the train station since there was zero availability anywhere in town. This may appear to be an ignorant strategy - to arrive into a town with no place to stay - but it had worked fine ever since Auckland. Luckily, there was one other guy in the station in the same boat as me, calling every place in the phone book with no sign of hope. We exchanged names and the fact that it appeared we were both screwed, and failed to come up with a plan. Then an angel disguised as a cab driver named Mike appeared and said he had heard about a cancellation at a nice place in town.

Now it might seem unusual to split a hotel with a guy from England I had met just minutes earlier, and it may have seemed odd to me prior to heading to New Zealand, but let me assure you that this is perfectly normal behavior in this country. I basically have gotten to the point in which I assume everyone is traveling the world and everyone is looking for a cheap way to get by and to help each other out whenever possible. So Jonathan asked me if I was an ax murderer. I said no. And I caught up on some much-needed sleep that night. All I could think about as I lay in bed was meeting back up with my group. I had only known them for half a week, but traveling with someone seems to speed up the progress of the relationship.

***

Prior to meeting the garlic bread woman at the café, two girls walked toward the entrance and I heard a familiar accent.

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but where are you from?” I asked.

I assumed she was from the states, and I was right. New York to be exact. I can't recall her name since we only chatted briefly, but I remember the conversation in which we agreed we haven’t seen many Americans during our time in New Zealand, and that it’s a shame our culture doesn’t inspire young people to travel more at a young age. In the past week I’ve had conversations with young travelers from Ireland, Northern Ireland, Wales, England, Austria, Canada, Chile, South Africa, Holland, Sweden, Australia, New Zealand, Fiji, Denmark, Finland, Spain and a few other places I’m sure I’m forgetting. But this was only the second American I had met since I arrived in Auckland last Sunday. And with the unbelievable amount of travelers wandering New Zealand, I’ve met a lot of people. Everyone has a story, and everyone is envious of what everyone else is doing, no matter how amazing our agendas are.

Meeting an American was a unique encounter, especially in such a small, secluded town, but I didn’t jump at the chance to hang out with her despite the rareness of the sighting. It just didn’t thrill me to meet someone from home like you might think it would.

Seeing how people from the other side of the world live is stimulating. To eat their food and learn their languages makes me feel alive. It’s also interesting to see how independent some people can be and how others struggle to survive. Yesterday, I gave Joep the rundown on how to do laundry before Helen, Madeleine and I went to explore a glacier. Stuff as much in as you can. Set it to cold. Wait. He seemed ready to take on the challenge. Upon our arrival an hour later, we noticed that Joep had put the washing powder and his clothes in the dryer. I haven't laughed that hard in 2007.

A few nights ago Helen and Madeleine made a special kind of pancake for Joep and I. It’s a recipe from their Swedish grandmother. The kitchen in the hostel was full of different smells and spices and people from all around the world. It was such a normal thing – people making dinner – but seeing so much culture in one tiny kitchen was a moment I can't forget. I wasn’t allowed to flip a pancake, but Helen let me get in a few pictures to make it look like I was participating. Mostly I just drank New Zealand beer and watched the sun set over Lake Taupo.

I don't want to leave New Zealand. I don't want to say goodbye again.

Honeymoon with a stranger

2007-02-18T15:54:00.000-06:00

The alarm clock, set for 6:30, never went off. Luckily, due to the heat and the unfamiliar environment, I wasn’t sleeping too well, so my eyes opened on their own at 7:15. I woke Andrea, and we scurried around the hotel room to put on our swimsuits and stuff our belongings into our bags.

We were told the night before to see Rosie at the front desk of the Tokatoka hotel at 7 to plan some sort of day trip around the Fijian islands. I did one final room check, stepped out into the outdoor sauna, and dragged our bags to the counter as fast as I could, breaking a sweat after 50 feet. We picked the first tour we saw and signed our credit card receipts seven minutes before the bus was to arrive. As Rosie finalized the itinerary, I ran to the bar to borrow a beach towel for the day while Andrea stored our bags and checked out of the room. When I arrived back at the desk to pick up our tickets, Rosie informed me, “Your wife has them.”

I had met Andrea three days earlier, or four if you incorporate the fact that crossing the international dateline bumped us 20 hours ahead of Los Angeles. After learning last Tuesday that my flight from L.A. to Fiji had been canceled for two days since a bird flew into the engine of our plane, I took an open chair in a row of seats placed there only for, I assume, people who learn their flights have been cancelled. To my left was a blonde girl, frantically talking to her mom on the phone and crying her eyes out. I tried not to stare but wondered if I could be of any help. I pulled out my itinerary, trying to figure out how the change in plans would affect my trip. I wasn’t too bothered by the cancellation and remained fairly calm given the fact that I was leaving the country by myself for an extended period of time. Plus, they were putting us up in a hotel for two nights and giving us meal vouchers, so since I hadn’t slept on a bed in quite a while, and I was pretty hungry, that sounded like a pretty good deal. All the bird in the engine really meant was two less days in Fiji.

The sad girl to my left pointed to my itinerary and then back at herself. Her eyes got wide and she hung up the phone.

The conversation, to outline it, went something like this:

“You were on the flight that was cancelled, too?”

“Yep. I’m Brian. How can we help each other?”

“Andrea. Nice to meet you. I don’t know. I don’t know anyone in L.A., I’m going to Sydney by myself to study abroad. I don’t know what to do. I hate this."

“We’ll be okay. I have lots of friends here. We can just hang out here for a couple days. I can show you around. We can be in this together.”

“Promise?”

It was the beginning to a cheesy romantic comedy movie. Twist of fate (dead bird) causes change of plans (stuck in L.A.) causing guy (me) to meet girl (Andrea). What’s next? The two main characters decide to vacation together in Fiji? Whoops, I just gave away the ending. Oh, and did I mention we were supposed to miss Valentine's Day completely since we would miss a day on our flight, but now we would spend it together?

As we roamed around L.A. for the next day and a half, we got to know each other pretty well, deciding that we could trust each other and that we were no longer strangers. Originally, Andrea was to stop over in Fiji just to connect to her next flight to Sydney. After some research and a bit of spontaneity, she decided to bump her flight back a day so she had some time to see the country.

The 10-hour flight across the Pacific surprising flew by very quickly. Fijians were voted the friendliest people in the world according the travel guide I keep with me. And the flight crew proved it. Fay drew a map of the island for me and wrote down some simple Fijian words I should learn. Jeffrey continued to bring us more beers even when we didn’t ask for them, and he would high-five or fist-pound me every time I walked past to go to the bathroom. We met an 18-year-old Australian kid named Tim in the airport, and he joined our row for a couple hours to join in on the festivities, saying he’d had “heaps of beers” already. While Andrea fell off to sleep, I began chatting with a priest from Fiji who sat in the row behind me. He pointed out that Fiji's best rugby player was the big guy standing in the aisle.

"I think he's pretty drunk," the priest said as he laughed.

The big rugby player then decided I needed another drink, so he went into the flight attendant area, broke out the best Fijian rum, and poured me a drink that I could hardly put down.

We had left Los Angeles at 3 in the afternoon on Thursday, and touched down in Fiji around 10 p.m. Friday night. Due to the flight cancellation, they gave Andrea a free room in a five-star hotel with a waterslide in Nadi, so we decided to ignore our reservation at the Horizon Backpacker’s hostel.

After four hours of sleep and no breakfast, we hopped on the bus for the all-day cruise around the islands. We saw the island where the latest series of Survivor was filmed, and snorkeled to the island where the movie Cast Away was shot. The tour guide cleverly announced that no one should go looking for Wilson. We visited a village of 700 Fijians, participating in their ritual of drinking kava, a tasteless liquid made from a root which numbs your mouth. On the boat ride back we listened to the locals play songs like “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” and “In the Jungle” on their guitars as we sipped our beers and chatted with other travelers from Australia and England. I didn’t want to the boat to dock, knowing that meant the end of our fun in Fiji.

Andrea and I had spent four straight days together, so I wasn’t sure what to think when we had to part ways at the Nadi airport yesterday morning. She had her plans in Australia and I had my ticket to New Zealand. We said our goodbyes and promised to meet up if I make it to Sydney. I asked a man in the airport to take a picture of us. When I bumped into him again as I boarded my plane he asked, “Did you lose your girlfriend?”

“Actually, I just met her a few days ago,” I said. “And I’m not sure when I’ll see her again.”

A few thousand words: A collection of photos from my time in the U.S.

2007-02-08T03:15:00.000-06:00

Home in Iowa

Central Park

D.C.

Crossing the Mississippi

Ice storm in Oklahoma

Somewhere in Arizona

Somewhere in Arizona

Grand Canyon

Zion National Park

Somewhere in Arizona

Somewhere in California

San Diego

Manhattan Beach

The Pacific

Offering a hand: A tribute to the important stuff

2007-02-07T13:38:00.001-06:00

A couple mornings ago, I woke naturally -- the best way to begin a day in my opinion. After my eyes adjusted to the sunlight bursting through the window, I checked the time on the unfamiliar clock on the wall across from me -- 8:30. I peeled my skin from a maroon leather sofa, sat up, took a drink of room-temperature water and tried hard to figure out where the hell I was.

It only took five seconds or so, but that's a significant amount of time to be completely oblivious of your whereabouts. I hadn't gone home with a stranger the night before, nor was I hung over. In fact, I had gotten a full 10 hours of quality sleep, snuggling tightly with enough couch pillows to build a pretty solid fort. The reason behind my temporary confusion was the fact that the sunny room with the maroon sofa was the sixteenth different environment I had awoken to in under 30 days.

My memory slowly gathered information, starting with the vague, leading to the specific. California. Los Angeles. Somewhere in the Valley. A very nice house. Here to spend time with Linda.

Linda runs a foundation in her late husband Jim Murray's honor that gives out scholarships to college journalism students. I was lucky enough to meet her three years ago, and I make certain to contact her whenever I'm on the West Coast.

She had invited me to a sports broadcasting awards banquet that afternoon, so to avoid the wrath of LA traffic, I slept over at her friend's place the night before, which was in close proximity to the country club we were to head to as soon as I showered and gathered my things.

I sat in the bright room in silence for a few minutes, collecting my thoughts. Although I'm fairly adjusted to my lifestyle at this point, my situation, if only for a short time, seems like a brand new concept to me with each new day. It's like piecing together details from a dream in order to determine if the events really happened, only this conclusion is the opposite of fiction, and I see that this is, in fact, my life. I have no car. I have not a single bill in my pocket. I have nothing tangible aside from a small backpack that threatens to burst every time I force it shut. I have no permanent address. I have no consistency, no routine, no specific agenda. And yet, for the time being, I feel like I have everything I need.

I quickly attributed this to my willingness to embrace a simple lifestyle. But then I realized something as I walked into the other room. There was Linda, ironing my dress shirt for the banquet, promising she would finish only if I swore to not tell anyone what she was doing. She then asked me how I slept and if I was ready for an exciting day. Oh, and by the way, there was coffee, fruit and cereal in the kitchen.

I realized I was able to handle this lifestyle because I had the most valuable thing in this world -- people. People I called friends. Friends who cared about my wellbeing. Friends I could rely on. I had journeyed across this great country from coast to coast, seeing tall buildings, vast stretches of open road, breathtaking landscapes, yet I had never been alone. At least not for long.

Having people who care about me makes not having material things okay. Conversation is the best form of entertainment to a traveler. Spending time with friends, old and new, makes not knowing how to get from point A to B hardly a concern.

As obsessed as I can get with soul-searching and finding the meaning of life, it's important for me to take the necessary time to show appreciation for those who help me carve my path along the way. I'm certain to feel far less comfortable once I leave the country, which will be valuable as well as intimidating. I suppose being lonely is part of a traveler's life, which makes relationships, including long-distance ones, that much more meaningful.

***

One of the speakers at the banquet was former Major League Baseball pitcher Jim Abbott, a man who overcame the odds by making it to the top of his field despite not being born with a right hand. I went to introduce myself to Jim. As I waited for another guest to finish conversation, I wondered how the handshaking process works with someone without a right hand. I worried I was facing an awkward moment. As I stepped forward, Jim put out his left hand. My left met his firmly for a solid opposite-hand handshake.

Lacking any clue of why a 22-year-old kid from Iowa was in attendance at this banquet, he asked sincere questions about my decision to travel the world. I was amazed that a man with such incredible stories had such an interest in a stranger.

"I'm jealous," he said. "I think you're doing the right thing."

I guess it's important to be curious about your own destiny, but it's equally important to be sincerely interested in the pursuits of people you meet around you on a daily basis. If you are your only teacher, you won't get much learning done.

***

I was recently accused by a good friend for not being myself as we sat at a bar on the Sunset Strip. I explained to him that with the rapid change of environment and the constant questioning of how to get to where I was going next, my mind was divided into thirds. One third still in the past, absorbing what all had happened, and one third in the future, wondering where I would be in a week. This only left one third of my brain capacity to dedicate to the what was right in front of me, which I realized was a couple thirds too short.

The accusation had me feeling guilty and made me a bit defensive at first, but he was right. I had only a few days with him on the West Coast, and here I was, thinking about something else somewhere else in another point in time. I promised myself I would make a conscious effort to dedicate all my energy to the moment. Living for anything else usually equals taking things for granted and forgetting that there's nothing bigger than the little things.

If I worry too much about what I should have done or where I can go, I won't take the time to iron people's clothes or ask questions about their journeys.

I parted ways with Linda at the banquet. After learning I didn't have a dollar in my wallet, she forced a $50 bill into my hand, saying she wanted to help. I said she shouldn't, then thanked her a half dozen times or so after she insisted.

My day yesterday was dedicated to helping her son drive two hours across town to the worst area of LA to drop off an old VW van he was selling. Later that evening, I rushed to catch a cab from the travel agency to Mike's apartment to help the deliverymen move a queen-sized bed into his place.

These are not glamorous adventures. But I've come to realize this journey isn't just about me.

Below is a photo collection of friends, old and new, who have been an important part of my trip.

Tommy and Christina
-central park, manhattan

The Luckerts
-long island

Tommy's niece Brooke
-long island

Denise
-long island

anonymous
-long island

Spencer, Sam, and friends
-chelsea, nyc

Spencer and Melissa
-somewhere between nyc and d.c.

Mary Beth
-d.c.

Cori
-d.c.

Dan and Spencer
-d.c.

Lothar
-somewhere in arizona

Lothar and Andrea
-heber city, utah

Jeff, Lothar and Scott
-park city, utah

Lothar, Jeff, Jeannette, Bob, Trisha, Rocco, Mary, Kirstin, Delores
-deer valley, utah

Uncle Bob
-heber city, utah

Jameson
-heber city, utah

Whitney
-phoenix

Whitney
-somewhere in arizona

sand mermaid
-coronado, california

Scott and Amber
-san diego

Mike, uncle Bob, Rich, Trisha, Brian
-malibu, california

Randon gathering of Iowa boys watching the Super Bowl
-redondo beach, california

Mike and the Pacific
-redondo beach, california

Linda
-encino, california

If you were a part of my cross-country trip, but were not included in the pictures above, think of it this way -- we were probably having too good of a time to worry about taking pictures.

Thanks everyone.

Chapter 1

2007-02-01T20:40:00.000-06:00

I've been on the road for one month now. Here's a summary of my trip thus far:

-I've slept in 15 different places in 13 different cities.

-I've been in 20 states: Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Nevada, California.

-I've spent one fifth of my bank account. I did make $100 when I sold my car in Las Vegas, and I also earned a free lunch when I swallowed an entire chunk of wasabi at a sushi restaurant.

-I've driven 4,000 miles, taken three buses, three trains, a handful of cabs, and one flight.

-I've purchased two material things: A pair of sunglasses to replace the pair that fell off the mountain in Utah, and a pair of gloves for $2.99 at Old Navy that I threw in the garbage after a day of snowboarding because they actually made my hands colder. Also, when I would put them on, it felt like they were on the wrong hand. Good riddance.

-I started off my trip with a carload of stuff. I'm now down to one bursting-at-the-seems suitcase, a backpack with a few books and a computer, and my guitar.

Thanks, and wish me luck on another adventure-filled month.

I can only imagine

2007-01-29T12:28:00.000-06:00

First, I'd like to apologize for not writing in a while. I've been hanging out in a cabin in the mountains of Utah. To be honest, I haven't felt like writing recently. Sometimes it's nice to relax on this journey without the pressure of constantly thinking I need to be doing interesting things that will generate stories. I don't want to force stories. I want life to just simply happen. And if I'm going to be doing this for a while, I'm going to need a brief escape from thinking like a writer here and there. Sometimes I forget to take deep breaths and reflect a bit. That's all I needed to do. So continue checking my blog on an hourly basis. I promise to always come back to you.

So, I left you hanging with the story of selling my car for $100 in Vegas just over a week ago. Since then I have taken an overnight Greyhound bus to Salt Lake City, driven with my uncle to Park City, Utah, for the Sundance Film Festival, caught a cheap flight to Phoenix, and driven to San Diego with a friend from high school.

Going Greyhound doesn't beat being behind the wheel of my own vehicle, but since I no longer have that luxury, it was a decent enough alternative. I sat next to a girl with a mustache and a guy with an eye patch, and in front of a kid who liked to make beats with his hands on the window, ignoring the fact that my head was resting on it. But luckily, I was exhausted from my night out in Vegas, so I slept like a baby for seven out of the eight hours it took to get to northern Utah.

Lothar offered to accompany me to Salt Lake. Like me, he had no agenda, and he figured it must be a decent enough place since he had heard about it from movies back home in Germany. I shipped a couple bags by themselves from the Greyhound station in Vegas to my hometown in Iowa. I was unaware you could do this, but when I discovered it, I found it to be very convenient. This left me with a small suitcase, a backpack, and my guitar.

My uncle Bob from Chicago was to arrive in Salt Lake that night to spend a week learning the ropes of film making at the Sundance Film Festival as he pursues the production of his first movie. Knowing that I am a homeless kid looking to go any and everywhere, he offered to have Lothar and I crash with him at his hotel for a night, and for me to accompany him to Park City for the festivities the following day.

Since Lothar and I arrived in Salt Lake at sunrise, we were the first to check into the hotel. After a brief nap, I took my German friend to a bar to watch the NFL playoff games, which were the first and second football games he ever saw. He watched closely, asking questions about the rules of the sport that I realized only Americans seem to care about. He said he continued to enjoy it more and more. That, however, may have been related to the increase in alcohol consumption throughout the afternoon.

Later that night, Lothar fell victim to the Marriott's cozy beds. I sat at the hotel bar, waiting for my uncle to arrive into town. I began chatting with a man and woman who were on their way to see a movie in the Sundance Festival. I said I would love to tag along if they didn't mind since my uncle wouldn't be arriving for another couple hours. They said they didn't mind, and the three of us hopped in a shuttle to the theater.

Upon our arrival, the woman mentioned I should be aware the film dealt with a "unique" topic. I didn't mind. I had just met some new people, ridden 20 minutes with them to a part of town I was unfamiliar with, and bought a ticket. So I wasn't going to let a "unique" topic turn me back.

Ninety minutes later, I was speechless.

Drum roll. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A documentary (this means true story) about guys who like to have sex with horses. Absorb what I just wrote, and let us never speak of this again.

I arrived back to the hotel at the same time my uncle Bob was walking into the lobby. He asked where my German friend was. I told him he was sleeping up in the room. I realized it was a bit strange that a kid I had known for less than a week was sleeping in my uncle's hotel room. He didn't seem to mind and suggested we go wake him up. Ten minutes after he met Lothar, he decided he liked him so much that he invited him to stay with us at the cabin in Park City. It seemed our cross-country journey would have yet another chapter.

I went snowboarding, caught another flick, and went out to some nice dinners with my uncle and a few other people who were involved in the film project. But mostly I spent the week in Park City hanging out at the cabin. I cared more about the shooting stars we'd see in the sky at night than the movie stars roaming main street. I would make breakfast around noon, shower around 4, and stay up until the sun threatened to rise. After driving 40 hours in two-and-a-half days, losing my car and saying goodbye to half my belongings, I needed to shut my mind off for a while.

But my mind was stimulated at times as well. Lothar and I had some great late-night conversations while looking for shooting stars from the hot tub. One night, as he was buzzing very hard off the chewing tobacco he tried for the first time, he began a series of great thoughts. He wondered why people cared so much about the celebrities roaming the town and so little about the universe and all its mysteriousness. "All the writers in the world couldn't describe what we're seeing," he said so fittingly as we watched the dozenth shooting star soar across the black sky that night.

He analyzed what he was doing with his life. He was heading back to Germany soon to finish his degree in product engineering. He analyzed what I am doing with my life. I am traveling the world with no agenda. He wondered if we will ever know if we are making the right decisions. "Maybe we will know soon, but I don't think we'll know until our very last days," he said.

It was deep. It may have had something to do with the beers and the chew and the sitting in the hot tub for several hours in 5-degree temperatures, but I felt a tear form in my right eye. My first cry of 2007 had nothing to do with sadness and didn't stem from joy. It simply happened out of wonderment -- from imagining where life can lead and what will become of us. Imagination is a powerful thing. It's the only other thing we have aside from what's going on right in front of us. In my position, imagining can be a scary thing or a beautiful thing. As a lone traveler, there are so many fates that lie on so many different paths. I have absolutely no idea where I will be in a week and who I will be with and what I will be doing. And I really think that is amazing. All I can do is imagine.

I parted ways with my uncle, Lothar, and my other companions at the cabin. I boarded a plane a a few days ago to Phoenix to visit Whitney, a friend I promised I would visit while I was in the Southwest. She and I drove five hours to the west coast, where I met up with Scott, a friend of mine from college. I'm sitting on a couch in Scott's apartment in San Diego, feeling good about writing for the first time in a while. Whitney left this morning. Tomorrow morning, Scott and I will head up to Los Angeles to make some cash by playing extras in a movie -- something a friend of mine, Mike, who works in the movie business, arranged for us.

I've felt strange the last couple days. I think since I finally took the time to realize what I'm doing, where I've been, and where I might go, I'm feeling a little overwhelmed. Aside from a few changes of clothes, a camera, a computer, and a guitar, imagination is all I have right now. A few hours ago, I got the word "imagine" tattooed on my lower right abdomen. Unless I decide to go streaking, no one can see it but me. I guess I just wanted it as a reminder of the most important thing to do on this often lonely but incredible journey.

I don't know my next step. I will likely leave the country within a couple weeks, but nothing is ever set in stone. I never give my ideas enough time to become plans.

Sundance Film Festival, Park City, Utah

2007-01-28T12:59:00.000-06:00

Driving in the mountains of Utah

Cruising on Main Street

Napping in the cabin with Jameson, a lost dog who liked to hang out

A toast in the cabin to my uncle Bob's movie project

Snowboarding

Karaoke with an actor from the Fast and the Furious

Looking for shooting stars

Less is more

2007-01-20T22:17:00.001-06:00

Eight miles away from Las Vegas, I exited interstate 15 and cruised in to the parking lot of the Jack and the Box that caught my eye from the road. That was the last healthy turn my car would ever make.

I tried to drive the 1994 Nissan Altima in reverse. Nothing. I tried to drive it forward. A bit of hope for a few feet until the sound of metal hitting metal became too much for my ears to take.

"Pretty sure your transmission just gave out," Lothar said.

My German friend knew a lot about cars. I didn't question him, certain that our cross-country road trip had seen its last stop.

It was a valiant effort -- 2,951 miles out of the 2,959 it takes to get from New York City to Vegas. It passed out just before the finish line, but it was still a winner in my heart.

I've had the car for five years. It's taken me a lot of wonderful places from coast to coast. So when I sold it for $100 this morning outside the Holiday Inn Express parking lot in North Las Vegas to a guy with a tow truck and no more than seven teeth, a little piece of me died.

And, as if selling your most expensive possession for $100 isn't hilarious enough, there are two other details that add to the story. First, the payment didn't come in the form of a check. It wasn't a crisp $100 bill either. No, Cliff handed me three greasy twenties and four waded up tens. The second detail is that my new fortune is exactly the amount I lost in Vegas last night.

Lothar and I have spent the day hanging out on the patio of the HIE, ordering pizza and chicken wings, drinking Bud Light, and playing guitar. We went through all my possessions, throwing the less important half into the dumpster outside since I cannot carry everything that was in my car on to my future destinations. In my opinion there is nothing to do but laugh in a situation like this, and that's exactly what we've done all day as we wait for the Greyhound bus to take us to Salt Lake City.

As he grabbed another slice of pizza, Lothar analyzed the situation. "We don't know where your car is and half of your possessions are in a dumpster," he said, in his matter-of-fact tone with a smile on his face. I'm going to miss the guy.

Lothar and I will part ways tomorrow. He says he can't wait to tell this story back to his friends in Germany. The story of a kid from Iowa who agreed to drive him across the country from New York to Las Vegas. The story of a kid traveling, homeless, planless, and on the final day of the journey, carless.

2007-01-20T21:30:00.000-06:00

Breaking bread with mountain friends: A journey to the top of the world

2007-01-20T18:17:00.000-06:00

Zion - An imaginary place considered to be perfect or ideal.

Although the photos below need no explanation, the writer in me wants to attempt to describe what I saw yesterday.

Never before in my life have I been so caught off guard by beauty. Upon entering the Grand Canyon, the mind prepares itself for what the eyes are about to see -- something truly grand. But what hit me on my hike through Zion National Park yesterday, I never saw coming.

It's a relatively small park located on the edge of Springdale, Utah -- a town packed with character and friendly faces. My new German friend Lothar and I split the $25 entrance fee, figuring to snap a couple pictures before heading to Vegas for some real excitement. The ranger told us we couldn't have chosen a more perfect day to come. We said that was nice and drove in.

Two hours later, our legs sore from the 1,500-foot climb, our eyes sore from all the staring, we sat on the edge of the world and agreed we could die that day and be okay with it.

And that fate wasn't out of the question. With tennis shoes and one water bottle per person, we didn't exactly come prepared. On a handful of occasions, our legs slipped out from beneath us on the ice patches that dotted the path up the mountain. I heard Lothar trip behind me. When I asked if he was okay, he was too stunned to comment for a few seconds.

We inched along the 500 feet of steel chain that would be necessary support during any weather conditions. Our tight grip on the metal was the only thing that kept us from falling at times. I could do nothing but watch as my sunglasses slipped out of my sweatshirt pocket, falling five football fields toward the earth.

"I can't believe they let anyone come up and here and do this," I said to Lothar. Bold or just plain ignorant, our doubts didn't make us turn back.

We hadn't seen another person since halfway up the mountain. And he was heading toward the parking lot.

I was breathing heavy and had to leave my water bottle behind in order to grip the steel with both hands. But I felt we were getting close to our destination -- Angel's Landing -- a place where, according to the bartender from the night before, one person dies each year.

Then I heard a voice.

"Hello there!" said a man with a French accent.

I lifted my head up to see a young couple standing 100 feet higher than us, looking very content on the snowy peak. For the next five minutes, we lost sight of them. When we finally reached them, they were sitting on a rock beneath a tree, snacking on bread and salami.

We introduced ourselves and chatted about the view. For meeting someone for the first time on the top of a mountain with no other sign of life for what seemed like miles, they acted like it was perfectly normal. I don't typically make friends on top of mountains, so I thought otherwise. I thought, this story just keeps getting better.

Sabastian was from France. Eleanor came from Russia. They both spoke pretty good English, and asked very sincere questions about our travels. They shared their buffet of salami and bread, handing us pieces well after we said we needed no more.

Sebastian gave me his business card, saying if I ever wanted to visit France, Russia, or San Francisco -- where he was currently living -- to get a hold of him.

We thanked our mountain friends for the food, then stared out at the horizon one last time. It was getting dark, so we had to begin our descent down from the place that made my heart beat fast from fear and exhaustion, but mostly from beauty.

A new horizon

2007-01-19T12:03:00.000-06:00

Rootbeer and magnets: A cultural experience within my own country

2007-01-19T11:45:00.000-06:00

After the second-straight meal at Waffle House, I let out a loud burp, stared at my car for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and hopped back in. The 38-hour, 2,500-mile drive from New York City to the Grand Canyon is not for the impatient. And to do it in two-and-a-half days is not the best thing for the body. My back began hurting around Little Rock. My right knee began throbbing around Amarillo. But at least I had a new friend to keep me company. So what if we speak different languages?

Somewhere in New Mexico, I blared Kenny Chesney on the stereo, singing along about the sun going down, sun-tanned toes tickling the sand, and other things about the sun. I didn't notice right away that Lothar had pulled out his camera and began videotaping me from the passenger seat. After catching me in my natural habitat, he turned the camera back on himself and swirled his finger in a circular motion, pointing out that the stranger he decided to drive across the country with might in fact be crazy.

"This is the stuff my friends back in Germany will love," he said, in perfect English, but with no hope of hiding his accent.

With nearly 40 hours of nothing but open road and a few CDs that performed several encores, my German was coming along well. Every two hours or so we would do another lesson. I know the basics -- thanks, see you later, one beer please, but I'm now able to have first-grade level conversations with my German friend. Luckily, he has studied English for nine years, so the language barrier has hardly been a problem. Sometimes he might mention that he has quarters in his bag, so I ask for one because I'm very thirsty. He will stare at me until I figure out he didn't say waters.

For only knowing him in person for five minutes prior to picking him up at the train station in Lynbrook, New York, we are now good "buddies" as he likes to say. I suppose a long road trip will speed up the progress in a relationship, for better or for worse. In our case it's the former. We've talked about how people might think it is odd for two strangers to hop in a car together. But we decided we like to assume people are genuine until proven otherwise. We are in similar situations in our lives. We both feel we need to do some exploring. Now, we are exploring together.

"I think curious people are like magnets," he said.

I told him all I knew about the towns we drove through -- Nashville, Memphis, Oklahoma City. We watched the weather channel each night from our Motel 6 rooms, laughing at our luck as we continued to barely avoid the terrible storms sweeping the nation.

I asked him what he knew about America. Surprisingly, it was a lot. He had heard of most of the bigger cities we saw. He sang along to Jack Johnson. He knew more than me about the meteor crater we saw in Arizona. I felt ignorant that I knew so little about the rest of the world.

We talked about girls, told our favorite drunk stories, and compared similarities and differences between our countries and cultures. When I treated him to a fine meal at Taco Bell, I did not believe him at first when he asked me what root beer was.

"You're joking," I said.

"Is it like regular beer?" he asked.

Holy shit. He's 21 years old and he honestly does not know what root beer is. I have so much to learn, I thought.

We also talked about the fate that paired us together on a journey to the west. When my friend Spencer and I missed the 9:30 a.m. bus from Washington D.C. to New York last week, it forced us to drink Sangria and wait for the 1 o'clock departure. I picked a random seat in front of a nice-looking couple about my age, and 10 minutes into the trip began chatting with them.

"So where are you from?" was my first question.

"Germany," said Lothar (pronounced Low-tar) and his girlfriend Annette simultaneously. Lothar told me Annette had to head back to Germany in a few days, but that he still had a few weeks in the states before it was time to go home to continue his studies as a product engineer. He said he wanted so badly to see the west. Until that day he had only seen the bustle of Boston, Manhattan, and D.C.

He told me how it had always been a dream of his to see the Grand Canyon. I explained how I was traveling with no plans, and that I had a car, and a trip west might be good for me.

So we exchanged e-mail addresses, promising to get in touch in a few days as I ironed out a few things, like when I would say goodbye to Tommy and Christina in New York and what direction I wanted to circle the globe.

I spent a few days thinking about the situation. As open-minded as I like to consider myself, I'll admit, at first, like many people might react, I was skeptical. It wasn't that Lothar didn't seem nice or that he didn't have good intentions. It wasn't like it didn't make sense to split the cost of the trip. It wasn't like it wouldn't be an amazing cultural experience, and a great story for that matter, to be a tour guide for a kid from Germany across the entire stretch of my country.

Really, I had no excuse not to. What did I have to be skeptical about? That he was going to kill me? That really wouldn't help out his dream of reaching the Grand Canyon, would it? I decided I had no reason to throw away an opportunity created only by a missed bus and a randomly chosen seat. Two days after meeting Lothar, I called him, and agreed to pick him up at the train station at 8:40 on a Tuesday morning.

We drove 1,200 miles the first day. New York to Memphis. And by "we" I mean me since Lothar cannot legally drive in the U.S. The second day, after 1,000 miles, we reached Albuquerque. On day three, a dream came true for my new friend. As he stared down into the Grand Canyon, not knowing exactly where to focus his eyes, he was silent.

"Das ist schoen," I said. Lothar had taught me earlier to tell a girl she was beautiful. I switched it up a bit to describe what we were seeing. Typically he would commend my efforts, but he said nothing at this moment. He then said something in German.

"You have some word like this in English," he said. "I think it's, breathtaking."

"Yes," I said. "Breathtaking."

Then, he said something I will never forget. "It's so beautiful it hurts."

As I write this, I'm sitting on a patio on a clear day in Springdale, Utah. Lothar is sitting quietly in a wooden rocking chair, looking out at another breathtaking view. I keep apologizing for taking so long. He said he does not mind.

"I am considering giving up everything for this place," he said. It makes me look up for a few minutes, not wanting to leave either.

I have seen the southwest before. Though, seeing it this time was different. I am seeing it through someone else's eyes. Someone from a place where they have nothing like this. Someone who has seen the Louvre in Paris, saying prior to the trip that he would trade that and all other experiences for a chance to see this incredible landscape. Someone who has invited to show me his world and all the beauty it has to offer if I make it to Germany.

Somone who has taught me a lot in three days. Someone I introduced root beer to.

2007-01-19T11:43:00.000-06:00

2007-01-19T11:39:00.000-06:00

2007-01-19T11:38:00.000-06:00

2007-01-19T11:36:00.000-06:00

2007-01-19T11:35:00.000-06:00

2007-01-19T11:32:00.000-06:00

2007-01-19T11:24:00.000-06:00

Leaving New York

2007-01-15T21:23:00.002-06:00

Adversity, thanks, and one great question

2007-01-15T17:13:00.000-06:00

I'm sitting patiently at an Apple computer store, writing to announce that both my laptop and digital camera have decided to fail me. I've spent the last six hours of my life driving to Best Buys and computer stores around New York, attempting to solve my dilemma. Keep your fingers crossed for me, otherwise I may be the only one who knows what I'm up to for a while. If you don't see a new post for a couple days, please don't lose faith or interest. I will make it up to you.

On a brighter note, I'm leaving New York in the morning in search of new thrills. I believe New York City is a town that could not be fully explored in a lifetime, but I'm also curious to see what else is out there. I have a few ideas in mind for the next step (although I hate to plan), but I think I'll keep them to myself for now, especially since ideas that don't work out the way they were supposed to often make for the best adventures. So chapter two is about to begin. Stay tuned.

I want to say thank you to all the people who showed me an amazing time in New York City and Washington D.C. A special thanks to Tommy, Christina and the Luckert family for letting me take over their living room (temporarily renamed "my bedroom") for a couple weeks. Hopefully the indentation I made while sleeping on the couch will act as a permanent reminder of my time here.

Meeting some great people I'm certain to keep in contact with (you know who you are) and catching up with old friends made the first adventure of 2007 completely worth my spur-of-the-moment, 16-hour-drive out east. Even if two of the most expensive cities in the country threatened to bankrupt me.

I realize it make take some time to clearly analyze what I learned about myself out east. I can point to a few moments that particularly moved me, but I won't try to overthink anything too prematurely. I did take notice to a strange paradox that occurred recently. And that is, when I realized I felt completely comfortable in New York, with my surroundings, with my new friends, that's when I realized it was time to go -- time to leave my comfort zone in search of new horizons. It was a strange moment, but one I think will often reappear along my journey, so I'd better get used to saying goodbye to good people and beautiful places.

When Tommy and Christina were at work a few nights ago, Tommy's sister, Denise, took me to see the ocean. To stereotype a bit, most people I've met from New York so far don't seem to be geography experts, so I wasn't too surprised when she asked me if there were any oceans by Iowa. When I told her there were not, she asked me, "Well, then how do you see the ocean?"

I paused for a few seconds, thinking about the question's innocence and also how it reflected my current ambitions.

"Well, I have to go places," I said.

Relaxing on the bus from D.C. to NYC

2007-01-13T17:46:00.001-06:00

Bad luck equals good times

2007-01-13T15:36:00.000-06:00

Somehow, I was very cozy sleeping on the floor in Spencer's friend Dan's apartment in the Foggy Bottom district of DC. But unfortunately, we had a 9:45 bus to catch in Chinatown, so it was time to start the day. I slowly peeled myself off the floor and gathered my things.

Our 48 hours in DC seemed to go by quickly. My low expectations of the tourist trail had not been exceeded. We had time to see a few of the popular sights -- the Lincoln Memorial, the reflecting pool -- but none of it gave me goosebumps, especially knowing that so many people had been there, done that. The most amazing thing I saw was a swooping hawk attack a group of ugly pigeons in front of the White House. The chaos was so much that Spencer and I had to take cover.

When I visit I knew place, I'm more curious about the way of life, the people, the vibe, the neighborhoods. We had a little bit of time for that, but not enough for me to give a fair opinion of the city. We saw a great bluegrass band at a tiny bar one night, and the other night drank at a place known for its spot in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most beers.

But now it was time to head back to New York.

Spencer's old buddies, and now my new friends, Dan and Jesse, took a cab with us to the bus station. Jesse downed the remainder of a bottle Jack Daniel's for breakfast at Dan's apartment, so talking to him was the bulk of our entertainment.

We arrived at the station a half hour early, so we had some time to kill. We saw our bus, which didn't look very crowded, so we decided to wait until the last minute to board. We thanked Dan for his generous hospitality as he headed for work, and then Spencer, Jesse, and I walked to the nearest Starbucks to hang out.

I chatted with Jesse about his band, These United States, which is pretty popular around the DC area. I listened to a copy of his CD and haven't stopped listening to it since. I asked him how his breakfast buzz was treating him. He said, "I feel like a winner." We laughed and decided it was time to hit the road.

We arrived at the station at 9:36, but the bus was gone. We didn't panic, figuring that must have been an earlier bus and that ours was on its way. We went into the station office to ask the guy running the show if our bus was running behind.

"Next bus, 11:45," he said.

"What about the 9:45?" I asked.

"You mean 9:30? That leave six minutes ago," he said very calmly.

We dealt with the news and the fact that we were idiots for not getting on the bus when we first saw it, and headed back to Starbucks. Jesse had a confused look on his face when we reappeared, and then just laughed at us when he heard the story. I didn't mind the delay. I didn't have an agenda for the day, or for life for that matter. It gave me some time to think and write about my trip thus far. Spencer had to be back for dinner in Manhattan with his brother, so he had a bit more riding on the departure than I did.

This time around, we were a bit more careful. We arrived at the station at 11 with no bus in sight. We crossed the street to sit on a bench in a grassy area, making sure to keep an eye out for our ride. Spencer talked about taking Dan up on his offer to let him live with him for free for six months. Being an advocate of spontaneity, I encouraged him to do it. I asked Spencer his thoughts on my trip. We agreed I need to leave my comfort zone and leave the country sooner than later.

Finally, around 11:30, the bus appeared. We were the first ones to board. The driver, who spoke very little English, asked us what bus we were looking for. We of course told him the 11:45.

"Bus leave at 1," he said.

This seemed like a joke. The guy from the office appeared. We pointed to the schedule he gave us, proving that a bus was to depart from DC to NY at 11:45.

"Oh, sorry. That next month schedule," he said, again, very calmly.

We stood there waiting for better news as the men argued in Chinese for the next 10 minutes. It seemed to be getting heated. Spencer mentioned looking into hopping another bus somewhere. I convinced him it wouldn't be worth it. We made the men promise that we would be able to leave by 1. We were frustrated, but not defeated.

We roamed around the town and found a Spanish Tapas restaurant for lunch. We looked at the list of daily specials. The only day that didn't have a food special happened to be Thursday. The Thursday special, however, was half-priced pitchers of sangria. We looked at each other, smiled, said nothing, and walked in.

We called Dan to meet us for lunch. We purposely acted like nothing was wrong, making him extra confused about why we were still in town. When he showed up, we were downing the last of our pitcher. He just shook his head and laughed at the sight of two guys with purple teeth sitting by themselves with their backpacks at the bar.

We headed next door to Ruby Tuesdays for lunch. Our food took a while to come out, so we again were flirting with disaster.

"We absolutely have to catch this bus," Spencer said.

By the time I got done slamming my beer, Spencer was a block away. I chased after him. He turned back, not slowing down, and motioned for me to hurry up. It was difficult to sprint on a full stomach with a 50-pound backpack on, but I gave it my all. Spencer squeezed through a pair of cars heading east on a busy street. What he didn't take into account was the fact that there might be cars coming from the west that we couldn't see. Sure enough, a pair of cars had to slam on their brakes as two idiots dashed in front of their bumpers. I yelled at Spencer for guiding me into near tragedy.

We made it to the station with three minutes to spare. The bus was there. They let us on. It was, in fact, leaving for New York.

It wasn't half as crowded as it was on the trip down. Spencer and I each got a pair of seats to ourselves, making the ride much more comfortable.

Behind me was a young couple from Germany visiting the states for the first time. We exchanged information in case we could ever help each other out with travel arrangements. Spencer began chatting with a girl ahead of him who is an actress in New York.

I put on my headphones, flipped to the page bookmarked in my book, and treated myself to a mini bottle of Southern Comfort that was in my bag for a reason I can't remember. Although, I am convinced I put it there for this moment.

Sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial

2007-01-10T17:14:00.000-06:00

New friends, new destination

2007-01-10T08:54:00.000-06:00

A good friend of mine, Spencer, showed up in New York for a couple weeks to visit his brother. He had spent the past six months in Spain teaching English. After catching up for a few days in Manhattan, he mentioned he wanted to head to Washington DC, and that he knew about a cheap bus ticket we could snag. So, yesterday we hopped a cab to Chinatown, bought a couple strange pork sandwiches from an overenthusiastic street vendor, and purchased a pair of $35 roundtrip bus tickets to DC.

The bus was crowded, forcing Spencer and I to separate, although we remained in the same row. I didn't expect much from my first charter bus trip with complete strangers. Spencer sat next to an 18-year-old girl with a green mohawk. I sat next down to a woman in her late 20s who didn't look pleased when I asked if I could sit next to her, since she had all her things comfortably placed in the seat beside her.

We apologized to our new friends for the sandwiches we were about to consume, knowing they didn't have the most attractive look or smell. We proceeded to chat with our rowmates for the next four and half hours. We seemed to be the only people with voices on the bus. Tonya and Melissa seemed to get a kick out of our energy, like nobody should be this talkative on the Chinatown bus. We talked about nearly everything we could from relationships to life plans to Spencer's eye patch that he put on halfway through the trip as a "social experiment". We decided that everyone else on the bus hated us for being loud, but there was no law against it, so we continued on.

We rolled into DC around 6 p.m. Tonya said her mother's house was open for us if we had no place to stay. It was a very kind offer, but we already had plans to stay with Spencer's college friend. I hugged her goodbye and we exchanged email addresses, promising to stay in touch. She was a lawyer, so we joked that if we got arrested in DC we would call her.

Melissa, the 18-year-old with the green mohawk, knew her way around town and led us to the correct Metro terminal, showing us the route to take to our destination.

I just woke up to a cold but sunny DC morning. We plan to catch the bus back tomorrow, so our time for exploring is limited. I've never been to DC before. I always figured everyone had been there and seen the memorials and the statues, so I wouldn't be doing anything too unique by visiting. But I'm still curious about the town, and if anything, we made some new friends on the way down.

Mariachi band on the subway

2007-01-09T17:19:00.000-06:00

Central Park

2007-01-06T03:16:00.000-06:00

2007-01-06T03:14:00.000-06:00

2007-01-05T18:40:00.000-06:00