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I was out at first light and headed toward Bologna. While standing in the train station in front of an electronic schedule I noticed three young ladies behind me looking over my shoulder. They were three young Americans also looking for the train to Florence, so I introduced myself. Since the four of us had three hours to burn until our train departed, I accompanied one of the young ladies through the streets in search of a sweater. Her mother had purchased her father a sweater from Bologna years ago that he had always enjoyed. …
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Over the years I’d met so many people that believe, believe in their personal God. When I would seek answers, ask questions, express an opposing opinion or different view, or anything that might contradict their belief system, they would jump into a defensive or offensive position, a position of judgment. …
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I darted around from one small town to another and eventually followed a young lady into Kuopio. She explained that she had been traveling in Germany for the past few weeks and was reuniting with her boyfriend that evening. We kinda hit it off and she went out of her way to call a few of her friends to see if they could accommodate me with a room. She found me a beautiful cottage alongside one of the many lakes. I understood the cottage was her parents or an Aunt but they, like most the folks this time of year, were away on holiday. …
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It was an early arrival into Rome. I had in my pocket a few phone numbers and a couple of addresses handed to me along the way. After two attempts at one of these addresses there still was no answer so I obtained a map and began walking towards Saint Peter’s square. I jumped on to the subway surprised to see all the graffiti. Unnecessary scars. As I entered the St. Peter’s courtyard I heard whispers, like the voices of the past that never really left. Each pillar that surrounded me gave me the impression they were watching my every step. …
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We were up early, followed advice we received during the last night socializing and joined the “Club Innsbruck” for a day hike. A young Belgium woman had crossed our path searching for the same location. It was early in the morning and we were the first to arrive, so there was nobody gathered outside to identify if we had found our destination. She seemed very nice but didn’t say much. It was apparent she was very shy. They began handing out daypacks and boots if needed. …
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The train station was a short walk outside of town but after only about fifty yards or so Jim began complaining. I was at the point where I didn’t even hear him anymore. He threatened to pack his shit up, fly home and didn’t like my “Go or stay but just stop complaining because you’re giving me a headache” response. My thumb attracted a truck that had also picked up a pair of French girls who, like us, got off at the campsite. …
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Alongside the darkness we walked the city streets. It was a different feel since the majority of the shops were boarded up for the night. It gave the streets a maze like feel. We came upon a community of water pipes where I sat across from an elderly blind man and a few of his companions. We shared a pot of spearmint tea and a conversation. I had a picture taken but it was very dark and without a flash I wasn’t sure if it would come out. …
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She had circled a small hostel up along the west cost of Northern Ireland in the little travel guide she carried. It was a gorgeous drive and well worth going out of our way. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she first saw her hostel. It was in the middle of nowhere and when the young men came out of the house to greet her, all the sheep ran for the hills. She had the look of a newborn, clinging to our car as if it was her mother. …
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I situated myself behind a cup of coffee in the middle of Oslo’s train station. It was early and I was in clear view of all the entrances and exits, so there would be no chance of Jim missing me. I had already gathered up the necessary supplies to prepare that night’s dinner for Solsberg. After about eight-hours of waiting, I was getting fidgety, actually angry, but assumed Jim probably had a bad connection and was on his way, so I held tight and caught up on my journal. …
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With the birth of a new day we began to head back to fetch our bags from the hotel. Beyond all odds we managed to fit all of us and all the baggage into one cab. Two of us had to lie across laps in the back seat. Our taxi driver slid in an eight-track and we were off to the airport. I found it odd that the stewardess confiscated only the US passports and then forced us to sit in specific seats, “the American” section. I guess in case of hijacking that would better protect the locals. I believed my eyes closed for just a second but when they opened we were landing in Crete. …
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We came to an unplanned stop at the border between France and Spain where it appeared the French weren’t about to share their trains with Spanish rails. We had come to a complete stop and it was obvious they were ushering us through customs. Well there was no way I would attempt carrying our hash through customs. It just wasn’t worth the risk. …
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I woke up in the middle of a desert of reddish clay painted orange by the rising sun. As the ride wore on the sun converted our compartment from a cozy bed into practically an oven. Each hill looked the same as the one before it rolling one after another past my window. If one didn’t know any better it could be assumed that my window was the backdrop to a movie set. …
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I woke with that taste of too many cigarettes and one too many beers and wandered toward a morning coffee before it was back on the road again. We started down the coast searching for another room, kind of back tracking over the previous day’s plans but we ended up in Monte Carlo instead. It had just begun raining as we headed up one of the steep hills looking for shelter and a cup of coffee. We sat down alongside a window and while we sipped our coffee I noticed a motorcyclist get hit from behind. …
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We divided up the day between Rembrandt and Van Gough. Sadness is Van Gough’s greatness and without his blood and wed of failures, such masterpieces perhaps would have never been put to canvas. I can relate to the color and texture of his turmoil and find myself too at times walking around in a daze. In contract his colors were bright and unique. …
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We had planned on seeing Urgup and the Goreme Valley and headed out into the streets in search for the tourist office. It was still very cold but it was like a reversed microwave, my bones were colder than my skin. We located what we believed was the tourist office but there were no brochures or posters to confirm that we had found the right place. Everybody inside was huddled around a small stove trying to keep warm. They explained there were no buses or organized tours this late in the year and suggested we find ourselves a taxi driver. …
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