Between The Ditches

Woe!

2007-11-29T21:41:00.000-06:00

We were back in Berlin. Keith's days in Europe were numbered as his three week escapade was drawing to a close. I knew I'd miss his company and that I would be sad to see him go. Some part of me however was relived when he left. I had been hanging around the Potsdam area because I liked it, but also because I knew Keith's time here was limited and I didn't want to stray to far for fear of getting stranded in some place like Montenegro. At least, I told myself this.

After Keith took off I stuck around Germany for a few weeks more, traveling with Kris to Chemnitz, then to Dresden where I met her mother. Strange feelings for Kris started to develop and I wasn't sure what to do with them. So rather then complicate things I decided to fly to England where I had some family.

I participated in the riot in Kreuzberg on May first. I spent a maddening three days in Hamburg with a drunken hooligan on the Reeperbahn...

On my last night in Germany I had gone to the Nil with Kris. I had had my chair of cheap beer that night so when Kris suggested that we climb a palace in Sanssouci park I was down for sure. It didn't even seem like a good idea at the time but for some reason we did it. We made it to the roof top when I shot some photos of the ground below. Things seemed to be going all right as our minds were free from worry when on our decent we were greeted by a handful of polizei and a couple park staff.

The incident landed me in jail. They kept me there from five a.m. till around noon, when a translator was located. My flight was leaving at six pm that night. But to be honest I wasn't too concerned about it. They were asking 150 Euro to bail me out. Weather or not Kris came up with the money or not was of little concern to me. At the time jail seemed to be a suitable place to rest my weary mind and perhaps a good place to find some focus. Perhaps another reason I found myself in Germany for so long was because I wasn't much driven to really go anywhere else. Ennui

Kris did end up having 150 Euro to exchange for my freedom. And so now had a feeling of disappointment that I'd be traveling to England. We were both real tired from lack of sleep as we ate our breakfast. She had school that morning. We parted that day with a passing goodbye. I didn't know how long I intended to be in England but I was sure for some reason that when I left that place I would find my way back to Germany, and back to Potsdam.

I had to jump through a few hoops to get past East Midlands immigration. I was a bit forthcoming with my personal information and financial status. I told everything, short of me coming to look for work. He was dead set on not letting me into the country, if I hadn't radioed ahead to my cousin, she wouldn't have been at the airport, and she wouldn't have been there to corroborate my story. Who knows where I would be then. I thought about that for a few days after it happened. I wondered if I hadn't missed out of a free ticket to somewhere, or if I would have just been trading a German jail for an English one.

It had been a while since I had seen my cousin Kaydee. 8 years. She hadn't changed a bit. She made a giggly scene when she saw me coming out of the terminal, greeting me with an excitement that made me feel a little embarrassed. I don't even remember how we're related exactly. The Carters in England are a result of my mother's family's rich curiosity of their genealogy. Kaydee's grandfather and mine were cousins, I later learned, and that was the loose tie that bound us together.

Kaydee didn't live alone, but with her aunt and nan. She shared a room with her boyfriend and 3 year old daughter Rachel. Her brother Dale often slept on the couch. They had kindly set aside what was Rachel's room for me. The room was decked to the nines with Tesco depictions of Disney beauties, pink walls and plastic palaces complete with a Little Mermaid television/DVD combo. The room made me a little uncomfortable; not just for the décor, but because I had unwittingly hijacked a little girls bed and room for an indefinite period of time.

I was out of money. I had maybe 300 bucks which wouldn't get me too far in England. The Pound cut my dollar in half and everything was still kind of expensive. I was grateful for my extended family's outstretched arms. However consuming the massive amount of hospitality they were feeding me wasn't good for my conscience. Chris, another cousin I met for the first time, found me a job washing cars at a dealership where he had once worked as a miner getting paid cash-in-hand. The job was low-tech and simple. Two watering cans, sponge, a bucket, and a big piece of sheep skin. I didn't last too long though. The rain came often leaving me to do busy work till it stopped again. Even though I was skint I couldn't bring myself to keep it up.

Kaydee was unemployed, or rather, a full time mom. I spent a good deal of time hanging out with her and her mate Julie, who was also a full time mom. It was strange to feel anchored here. I knew I could leave Bedford and hitch England, Scotland and Whales, but I didn't want to. I found myself paralyzed with a depression I had seen coming from a ways off. It had been hovering in a distant corner of my mind like a rain cloud being pushed by the wind.

I adopted Kaydee's sleeping schedule. We woke up between 3 and 5pm and went to bed around 9am. During this time I watched the entire series of friends in two weeks. I started to dream in Friends. When I had finished season 10 I felt both satisfied and an intense longing for more. I spent hours watching television.

Some of the family members outside of Kaydee's house noticed this behavior and suggested that I stay with Chris and his girlfriend on the other side of Bedford. Chris seemed pretty pumped to have me around so I thought I would give it a go. Chris worked during the day, and he didn't have cable. I spent a good deal of time wandering aimlessly around Bedford listing to sad songs on repeat. I made a mental note all the streets so that the next time I came here I could associate them with a memory. So that I could look at these melon collie times with a fondness in the future. “How long am I going to be here?” I asked myself this repeatedly.

I packed three t-shirts when I set to Europe. One: a Life is Good shirt that had an image of a glass half full. Two: a shirt designed by strk3 of a bomber dropping heart symbols. The third, a shirt I designed myself, topographic Antarctica. I gave the Antarctica shirt a good long look as I pulled it out of the dryer one day. Antarctica. I want to go there so bad, and I wasn't getting any closer to this goal festering in the late English spring.

Weather or not I ever find my to the bottom of the world doesn't really mater. The idea though was a strong one. It was a goal. It taught me a little about myself. It may be important for some to reach their destinations, but it does me just fine to have one on the horizon. The moment I stop thinking about the future and star dwelling on the moment is when i get in trouble. “the adventure is in the journy” they say and in my case it's true. I can't say if this is a positive theme in my life or a negative one, but I suppose the time will tell.

My money situation was still tight. Though it killed me to do it, I called my pops and had him deposit a hunk of change into my bank account. It was a loan I had to pay back timely, which probably meant going back to Omaha for a little while. I was half hoping he'd say no. “Sorry son, I just don't have it.” Maybe I would have shaped right up. Maybe I would have crawled out of my hole and found some peace in work. Maybe.

I had come to Europe with some idea that I would hitchhike all around, focus on the east, maybe find my way to Georgia, Cyprus, Africa or the Middle East. I ended up looking for love, friends, and getting utterly depressed. I squandered my money and my days. I found a weak, weary little man who gets sick when he doesn't know what he's doing. When he doesn't know where he's going.

My two months in England ended June 28^th. I spent three days in Dublin reflecting. I walked all around the city in the rain, not worrying about a thing. I was on my way to Chicago, and it felt good to be on the way.

Find your place in Europe your place in Europe.

2007-06-01T19:02:00.000-05:00

Half way between Prague and Kraków is Olomouc. We're here mostly because I heard from reliable sources that the city reflects “true” Czech far more accurately than Prague. This is what I heard from Shea anyway. I hadn't properly met Shea prior to this day. She's friends with my friends so I'd seen her on a number of occasions occupying space in the mass of party goers. Thanks to the wonder of Myspace I was able to contact her to arrange this stopover.

Shea, from Omaha, had been in Olomouc since September studying at the university. She was passionate about her city for reasons she tried to explain, but I couldn't quite grasp. Olomouc was nice and clean with a beautiful square. At this point I'm starting to get the feeling that if you see a handful of European cities you've seen most of them. Traveling throughout the states gave me the same feeling. The value of any given place, I feel, is more dependent on the quality of the individuals you meet, rather than the sights you see. It's the people in Olomouc that give it the flavor. Unfortunately for Keith and I, we didn't get to interact with many native Czech during our eleven hour stay. I think even the guy who sold us our smažený sýr was Turkish.

Our next train to Kraków departed at midnight-O' five. We spent a few hours before then in a pretty sweet basement pub with Shea and her German friend Moritz who, as a general rule, doesn't like Americans. At the pub I tried dearly to rid myself of my last Korun, but I only managed to drink two beers. On the way to the train station we missed the last tram of the night. We were able to flag down a cab with easy and make our train with oodles of time to spare.

Keith and Shea, somewhere in Olomouc.
By a stroke of luck we walked into a train car filled with youths getting pissed. A multicultural group of English speakers, the first cabin we entered was occupied by a Brazilian on his way to see “the evils of humanity” at Auschwitz. We didn't stay with this cat for too long, after the next stop a cabin freed up and Keith and I were able to have a bench each to ourselves. Though the benches were comfy, the howls of drunkards could be heard throughout the night. We were roused once at the Polish border, and again to check our tickets.
We hit the Kraków station at the ridiculous hour of 5:30am. No zloty, no language skills, not even a phrase book. We walked around in the cold and in the rain trying to orchestrate the days events. Keith suggested we follow our Brazilian friend to Auschwitz. We acted on that idea but decided against it once we saw the grim looking brochure. The day with it's grey sky and rain was depressing enough, we didn't want to spend the next six hours thinking about “the gravest mass murder in the history of humanity.”

I had been told by a Warszawa native that Kraków was the most beautiful city in all of Poland. It was indeed a beautiful city, But we didn't know anybody. We made the most of it. We checked our bags in a train station locker, then took to the city like tourist. We lost a little momentum around noon. Fortunately around this time the sun burnt through most of the clouds. The hot sun offset the cold wind as we took a nap on the embankment next to the castle.
At an internet café I read about a train ticket similar to Germany's happy weekend pass. Except it works all weekend, and is only about 30 bucks. This got us excited. The day was Friday and the ticket took effect that evening at six. We made grand plans to spent the next 42 hours in motion. We could sleep on the train, walk around the cities, then repeat the process when we please. Our first destination: Gdańsk, on the Baltic Sea.

Me. Kraków.
We bought our tickets with the first class upgrade, figuring we had carte blanche on any PKP train. We got on the first train we saw heading to Gdynia then entered the first class car where we had our pick of any of the vacant first class seats. Gleefully we cheered, satisfied with our upgrade. We cracked open two cans of Tyskie to celebrate.
We weren't long out of the station before a conductor spotted us. He looked at our tickets with disapproval. We couldn't understand a word but it was clear we made some kind of mistake. After a lot of pointing at the ticket, words we didn't understand repeated and enunciated, the conductor walked off, but we didn't get the feeling we were in the clear just yet. He returned a few moments later with a fair young lady. She spoke English. Apparently we were on the wrong train. This was an express to Warsaw and was not covered by our pass. The conductors solution to this problem was that we pay the fare to Warszawa, something like $40. Keith and I weren't having it. We demanded an alternative solution. We suggested we get off at the next stop and take a train back to Kraków so we can figure out how to get to Gdańsk from there. The conductor seemed to like this idea.

They let us our at Miechów. We made it back to Kraków with little fuss. We had to wait till 23:30 for the next train, a slower regional IC with no first class. If we wanted a more comfortable train we'd have to wait till 6:00. We found a few empty seats among the many filled. The train was crowded. The only seat I could find was wedged between two people and I don't do well sleeping in middle seats for some reason. I tried sneaking a wink in an empty sleeper car but I was discovered and escorted back to my seat. I got a few more moments of rest in the bar car, then some more on the toilet. By the time we made Warsaw in the wee hours of morning both Keith and I had been expelled from our seats by elderly reserved ticket passengers. If we wanted to continue to Gdańsk like planned we'd have to stand for an indefinite period of time.

In a one decision, we decided to get off the train. We grabbed our bags as fast as we could. The doors were shut. We had to pry them open. On the platform with our bags on our backs Keith notices a crucial buckle was missing from his pack. The two dollar piece of plastic had been a headache for Keith this whole trip. He had to go back and get it or his wait belt wouldn't work properly. I watched the door and did my best to make sure no one shut it. Two polish guards approached me. I told them my friend just needed to get something and he'd be right out. They laughed, shut the door and the train started moving. I pounded on the glass like mad to get Keith's attention. He found his buckle, then booked to the back of the car, pushing old Polish ladies out of his way. He opened the door with speed, hesitated, then jumped. The forward momentum knocked him off his feet and he rolled onto his back. Keith held up his buckle in the air victoriously and together we laughed on the empty platform.

Now in Warszawa we wondered what to do. The station's WC's were locked up and Keith and to pee really bad. He went on his search for a restroom, while I looked at the train schedules. The lady at international ticket counter seemed rude, and not particularly helpful when I enquired about the next train to Gdańsk. Keith came back, with still a full bladder, telling a story of rude police men who refused to give him directions to a toaleta, but instead laughed at it face.

Shea warned us that the Polish are generally rude to non-Polish speakers, But I shrugged it off, taking her experience in Poland as an isolated event. Surely the Polish would be kind to us. They did a fine job making us feel unwanted. I began to wonder if Poland was such a good country to spend the weekend traveling. I could see Keith had is doubts and frustrations as well.
I was still tired due to a lack of sleep on the train. If all I could look forward to was a weekend of crowded trains, cold days, crappy food, and rotting feet. I didn't want any of it. I just wanted to go home, to Berlin, to Potsdam.

Our stupid weekend pass couldn't even get us a train to the German border, let alone Berlin. We sank another 150 zloty into an express ticket back to Berlin. We had about four hours to do our worst in Warsaw. We did what we could with the hours still early...

Chtěla Bych Trvalou!

2007-05-31T17:56:00.000-05:00

Keith and I spent two more days in Berlin after the Tilly and the Wall show. We like Berlin, However Keith had but only two short weeks before he left for the States. We wanted to make the most of it by hitching to Prague, and if we had time, Kraków.

Using Hitchbase.com as our guide, and Julia as our translator we found a decent hitching post for traveling in the direction of Dresden. The spot was a Jet gas station. Keith and I were both a little reluctant to approach people to ask them for a ride. Though I've quite a history of hitchhiking, I've never liked asking people directly for rides, let alone people of a different native tongue. Keith got a coffee. We stood by the sliding doors of the entrance, waiting for a set of plates reading “DD”. We were stalling.

We weren't there very long when a bearded Polish man came up to us with a ride offer. He was heading a different direction than us, but he could take us to a raststätte where most the traffic would be heading to Dresden. At the raststätte a few cars would pass every few minuets and it seemed at first we might have been there all day. As luck would have it though, within a half hour we got a lift. ”Fahren sie nach Dresden? ” Keith asked, enunciating every word. “Fahren sie nach Dresden? ?” the driver repeated than asked, “What are you American?”

It turns out our ride, Ralph, was himself an American. Though he spent mostly all his life in Germany. He commented on how odd he thought it was to see two Americans hitching their way to Praha. Ralph was nice. He was quick to offer us accommodations in his home. We accepted. He fed us a nice meal consisting of eggs, bread, and sausage for Keith. He told us many stories including one about the flood of the Elbe in 2002. He gave us a map, told us how to get to the center of the city. He put a mattress on the back porch for us to sleep on, told us we could come home anytime we like, but we had to be up by 7am the next day. He gave us a ride to the autobahn the next morning. Keith's first day hitchhiking was hitchhiking at its finest!

Ralph's House.
Waiting on the ramp of the A17 wasn't so fine. Car after car of what seemed to be the same old man with a mustache, and a graying old lady gave us nothing but rejection. For hours we waited. Anxious, we tried walking to the next exit, but after 3 or 4 Kilometers of nothing we turned around. Finally after waiting a bit longer, we got a ride from that old couple that must have passed us a hundred times. They took us to an exit two kilometers from the Czech border.
Rather than wait any longer we took it upon our selves to cross the border. Walking on the shoulder of the Autobahn, A big no-no, we entered the customs check point. We were stopped almost instantly.

The zoll ran our passports; after they cleared us they scolded us for walking on the freeway, and then told us we were not allowed to proceed on foot. Which was fine with us, it wasn't our intention to walk any further, our hope was to flag down the slow moving cars as they passed.
One of the officials offered to ask the truckers if they'd take us as passengers. A kind gesture I didn't expect. We declined, opted to move over to the section where the cars and vans had to stop to pay the toll. Keith, who was fed up with waiting, musted the courage to ask each and every person who stopped their car to pay the toll. Within ten minutes we got our ride. Keith and I didn't say much to our driver, his girlfriend, or each other as we rolled through the Czech countryside. We sat in the back of the hot van, our seats facing each other, and repeatedly dozed off.

“You're Five Kilometers from Prague!” our ride went on to tell us we might be able to take the bus into the city. As our ride drove off to god knows where It dawned on us that we were in the middle of the Czech Republic. We didn't have any cash, didn't know the language, didn't know how to get a hold of my friend Marc , our contact in Praha.
We wondered around for a minute, a little overwhelmed. Before we could get on a bus we needed to find an ATM. Of course if this was the states we'd be able to fine a cash machine at the Shell station, but this isn't the states. We asked the guy pumping gas if he knew where one was. He didn't understand. Keith got out his bank card and played a quick gave of charades. “Ah, Bankomat!” then he point us in the direction of a McDonald's.

We got to our bankomat. But we didn't have any idea what a Koruna was worth. We looked at some receipts that were left about to see what others had withdrawn, decided 200 Korun would do. We were at the top of a great hill. Praha sat in the valley. We were making our decent when we came upon a tram stop. The line ran to the center. The trams in Praha are like the trams in Berlin, in fact, I was told that after the collapse of the GDR, Czech inherited all of East Germany's old train cars. The trams work on a sort of an honor system. It's assumed that if you're riding, you paid. This was never the case with Keith and I. We figured if we got busted, we'd play dumb American tourist, essentially what we are.

We got off the tram in what seemed to be a very central location, next to the river, loads of tourists. Our first mission was to locate Marc but all I had was an address and a cell number. Like when I was in Amsterdam, I encountered only pay phones that took phone cards, very annoying, as I had no clue where to get these cards. We found an internet café, I tried calling Marc from here but there was no answer. I punched in his address on the Google maps, I got nothing. However, I was able to find the street he lived on just by hunting with my eyes. It was a short street, not more than two kilometers from where we were.

Using landmarks such as rivers and train tracks we walked in the direction of where we thought Marc lived. The day was sunny, hot, and dry. The two kilometers seemed to take an eternity with our heavy backpacks. We rested in the shade in a spot void of tourist and ate the last of our German bread. On hot days such as these, there is nothing more satisfying that thick dark bread.

We found Marc's apartment with little difficulty. As we rang the buzzed marked with his name we discovered he wasn't home. Luckily there was a bar close by, the Bar Fontana. We bought half liters of beer at 17 Korun a piece. Killed a couple hours, then set out to try the door once again.

I was in the middle of some kind bizarre anecdote when I noticed Marc talking, sitting on a bench outside his home, with Ashly, a girl from western Nebraska, whom I've met on one or two occasions.

“Salami!” I shouted some 50 meters off... I know Marc from High School. We were all right friends back then but we lost touch for about six years. I ran into him at a Hot Shops art opening in Omaha February last year. He had a lot of stories. During those six years he married, divorces, studied medicine, dropped out, came out, then re-enrolled at UNL with a thirst for literature.

I was surprised to learn that Marc got married to his friend Ashly. At first for political reasons, but first comes marriage then comes love in some cases. They had planed to stay here in Praha for a while at first, but their hearts have wondered back to the United States. They had fresh ideas about opening up a bar back in Omaha, and so were headed there at the end of the month.
We took in sights of Prague with Marc and Ashly as our guides. We fit in nicely amidst the crowds of tourists. The castle on the hill was small and blocky. To me it looked like just another building, dwarfed by the majesty of the decedent cathedral just beside it. From the castle you can see the Praha TV tower, the sweetest piece of architecture in the whole city. Designed in the 80's to look from 2K, the Televizní Vysílač provides a stunning view of the city at 90 some odd meters. I dig seeing cities from such vantage points. For people like me there is a “VIP” pass offered by the World Federation of Great Towers that give you unlimited access to 30 or so towers from around the world. Only 500 Korun.

Marc, Ash, Keith, and thats the Castle behind them.
We noticing a great cemetery with catacombs from the tower, we made our way there just before dark. Hopped a wall, landed on someones tomb, then lasted only a few minutes before being discovered by an unamused officer. Marc speaks a little Czech, though I'm not sure it was his wealth or lack of skill that got us out of trouble. We took the tram to a little library bar called Shakespeare's place, or something to this effect. We enjoyed a late night talking, drinking Absinthe.

We spent four days with Marc and Ash in Praha. Keith and I had been talking much about getting a trvalá, perm, not realizing how difficult it would be to find a stylist willing to do it same day. Had we known, we might not have waited till our last day in town. Marc was a good sport about asking around with/for us. We hit up 4-5 salons before we got an appointment.
We learned a good lesson about perms that day. Our stylist, it because clear, had never done a perm before, that made two of us. She didn't speak English, it was the many consultations with her superior, the tone in her voice, and the frustration on her face that had me worried. I was relieved when we finished an hour and a half after we started to find that my hair looked smashingly good. I struggled desperately to hold back my laughter but it was useless. I had a perm.

She started Keith while I was in treatment but because he had so much more hair than I, it took a bit longer. Our poor Stylist was with us for three hours. I had never felt more sympathy for a hair dresser in all my life. We looked like assholes grinning ear-to-ear, taking pictures. Keith's perm didn't look as good as mine. You could see the disappointment in our lady's nervous smile.
The four of us celebrated that night at the Bar Fontana. Things are so inexpensive in this country, we went all out. 22 half liter beers, 2 sprites to fashion radlers, 4 meals and a bag of crisps totaled to what would be 50 American dollars. We felt like kings.
The next day we left boarding a train to Krakow via Olomouc.

Permed.

Trampen

2007-05-21T17:40:00.000-05:00

Lauf an der Pegnitz

I had to be in Berlin by Thursday. Being Tuesday, I felt I had ample time. I said goodbye to Keith, Theresa and all her friends while they were waiting at the station for their train to Köln. It turned out to be a seven kilometer hike from Langenlonsheim to the autobahn. A long but lovely walk on a cool humid morning. My first ride of the day was from three youthful teens and their dog. All with dreads, listening to reggae music. We talked about the differences in our culture (By this I mean the differences between Americans and Germans, not travelers and Rastafarians.)

The three dropped me off in Mainz next to a bridge crossing the Rhein. They offered to show me around the town but were disappointed to learn that Mainz was not my final destination. I crossed the river alone. I followed the signs pointing back to the autobahn. It was another long walk, but another short wait once I stuck out my thumb. I wasn't expecting a ride so soon, what with an exit this dodgy, but there it was.

I had trouble communicating with the guy. Naturally I assumed it was our different language that was the barrier, but I soon learned this wasn't the case. We sat there on the shoulder, as cars wizzed by, trying to figure where the other was headed, but after a minute or so I just threw my bag in his back seat then got in. He shrugged his shoulders then took off. A few kilometers later we pulled over to a rest stop to look at a map. On the way there I learned that he was def, but could read lips in German, as well as English. We pointed at the map of Frankfurt together, came to an agreement on where I should be dropped.

I waited for my final ride at a limited access service station, or “raststätte” for German, for only a few minutes. I grabbed some cardboard from Deutschland's wonderfully separated recycling bins, then squeezed the last bit of life out of a permanent marker I purchased at a mall in Albany NY on July 10^th of 2005 to make a sign that read: “Wü” meaning Würzburg, the next city after Frankfurt am Main on the A3. Germany uses a code on the license plate to identify the originating city of an auto. B, Berlin, HH, Hamburg, DD, Dresden, etc. Most drivers know these code.

A couple in their early thirties with a two year old in the backseat of one of the few SUVs in Europe were beautiful and excited to practice their English. Like most the Germans I run into, they were humble and apologetic about their “poor” English. In most cases there English was well beyond an intermediate level, and their apologies were met with by me with a reassurance that there skills were fine. The Couple were on there way to München traveling from Bonn. A perfect ride that set me in Nürnberg on the A3/A9 junction.

Nürnberg was a beautiful city by night. I explored a little of the area around the hauptbahnhof. I considered checking into a hostel, as I have yet to do this in Europe. I found some punks spanging in front of the train station. I gave one a few coins and asked for directions to a cheap place to sleep. I went where he instructed but found myself a few hundred meters off in the redlight district. I didn't see a hostel. I couldn't help but wonder if the misdirection wasn't deliberate, and maybe I was on the butt end of a lame joke.

I shrugged, forgot the hostel idea, then hopped on an S-bahn to Lauf an der Pegnitz, walked to Neunkirchen am Sand, a quiet village near the A9. I took a sleep near the tracks and near the autobahn. I woke up early with the sun, found my exit, stuck out my thumb. “Trampen” the Germans call it. Trampen, or at least trying. I waited for an hour, then another, and another.

With the sun a bit higher and my spirits a little lower I didn't feel like Hitching anymore. I really don't like when I get this way but sometimes I do. I get tired, I doubt myself. I walked feeling defeated by the road. I walked back to the Station. I bought a ticket back to Berlin.

You have to travel by the regional trains if you don't want to pay an arm and a leg, but even the regionals are kind of expensive as far as trains go, 55 euro. Nürnberg to Berlin. Tired and willing, I got a wink of sleep here and there on the seven hour ride back to the city.

I didn't know where Keith was. Neither one of us have cell phones. Worst case scenario we'll meet up tomorrow at the Maria am Ostbahnhof, where my friends band, Tilly and the Wall, will be opening up for CSS.

I checked my e-mail at one of the many pay-by-the-hour internet café. you'll see in or around train stations. I got three myspace messages from a very flustered Keith, who took one of the fast trains from Frankfurt and had been waiting at the Berlin Hauptbahnhof for some hours. I messaged him back hoping he was still hanging round the station. I told him to meet me in Potsdam.

Soon after a sent the message I saw Keith sitting in the grass facing the river outside the Potsdam Hbf righting in his journal. “How long have you been here?” I asked before he saw me. A relieved Keith replied with laughter. Our meeting was purely coincidental.

The Strohs

2007-05-07T10:51:00.000-05:00

Theresa showed up at the train station in the passenger side of her rental car. She jumped out wearing a summer dress she had purchased during our January trip to San Diego. She gave Keith and I our hugs, then introduced us to her host, Karsten, who had drove her to meet us.

It was a nice introduction. We were happy to see Theresa again as we road through Germany's wine country to the near by village of Langenlonsheim, where we would spend Easter Monday with the Strohs. We weren't quite sure how we knew them, or how Theresa knew them. But it didn't seem to really matter. Detlev and Karsten Stroh were pleased to have us as guests.

Theresa only has nine days here in Europe. This is the reason why scheduling a reunion had been so difficult. Her time-line was very tender, as it was primarily controlled by Ariel, and friend Emily, her two traveling partners. The three tore up Strasbourg, Heidelberg, BK before we met up with them and they would go on to “do” Köln, and Praha before they flew back to New York. So we were happy to slip in when we could.

I was in bad need of a shower by the time we arrived at the Stroh residents. I cleaned up in the thoroughly modern bathroom built by Detlev himself. By the time I was done the group of seven were at the dining room table chatting around a bottle of the area's finest Riesling. I joined and listened to Detlev talk for hours as he brought out bottle after bottle of Rieslings from different vineyards in the area. The man loved his wine, and he loved to share it with others. He loved to talk about wine. I could see he was pleased to have an audience so captive, so eager to listen. It was wonderful to listen to Detlev. His English wasn't perfect, but he taught it to himself. He could explain many aspects of the wine making process to us without stumbling over words. He was an impressive man.

After the wine was gone and our cheeks were rosy, Detlev asked us almost ominously, “Do you like scotch?” Keith said yes and I said no. I was feeling fine from the wine. The master of the house disappeared into the cellar then returned a few moments later with some bottles of scotch. He poured me a snifter full even though I wasn't interested. As a result I would take a sip, then pass the rest to Keith, which he drank, plus his own.

I thought that night about the extraordinary events that had to occur to make this saucy night with Detlev possible. I went back, event after event. The more I went back the more fun I had thinking about this. Theresa smiles whenever someone asks us how Keith and I know each other. “Oh, it's such a sweet story.” she would say with a touch of mockery. It's a good story I think, any story that lands you in Langenlonsheim at the end of the day with two very kind and generous hosts is a good story.

Keith woke up later than the rest of us the next day. The girls were off to Köln. Keith forgot the details of that days plan to hitchhike back to Berlin. He awoke confused. He wasn't ready to leave Theresa so soon. So he felt conflicted. Hastefully he made a choice to stay with the girls rather than hitch his way back with me. Tired, we failed to plan any further as we said our good byes and I went out on my own.

The Mist of Bad Kreuznach

2007-05-02T08:53:00.000-05:00

We wanted to Hitchhike, or at least we thought we did. When we awoke Easter morning we thought it better to take advantage of the “happy weekend” ticket offered by Deutsch Bahn. The ticket allows up to five passengers to travel throughout Germany all day using only one ticket. It costs about 40 Euro and you have to travel via regional trains, which means we'll be spending the better part of the day getting to Bad Kreuznach, but thats ok, It's Sunday.

We had an itinerary printed up at the Chemnitz Hbf Ticket office. It was seven trains long with and hour here and forty-five minutes there. This destroyed Keith's dream of a long and healthy nap. But I don't mind the transferring so much, It's nice to spend a half hour in train stations in towns you have no reason to see.

Chemnitz, Leipzig, Weißenfels, Eisenach, Bebra, Fulda, Frankfurt, and we were in Bad Kreuznach a couple hours before sunset. Unfortunately though, we really hadn't worked out where we were gonna sleep that night. It was assumed that our friend Theresa was still in France, and wouldn't be back till Monday, when we would meet her at the main train station at five. We had a good day to wander 'round this strange little place.

We had very little knowledge of Bad Kreuznach before arriving. I pictured a small wooded village. I imagined it would be quiet, we could tuck ourselves away in a grove of tall trees and go unnoticed until the morning. Imagine our surprise when we found ourselves mingling through the streets among hundreds of spry seniors. All dressed in their finest Sunday walking cloaths as they sat in the shade on an unexpectedly warm day licking cones of gelato. It wasn't what we expected at all.

The streets looked like something out of Disney's Beauty & the Beast. Keith and I watched a woman shout something down to a child playing in the street from a third story window while she stroked the head of a cat. I remarked to Keith how picturesque the town seemed. Too quaint to be true.

After our pizza we consulted a map of the village. It's too convenient that most all towns I've been to here have had some kind of area map in the city centers. We spotted a park on the North-West side and so agreed to check it out before the sun went down. We made our way on the hill side covered with empty grape vines. At the top of the hill stood a modest observation deck made of stone. We climbed the hill all the way lugging our oversized packs. The sun set as we looked at the town, it looked as though we could see the lights from the entire village, we could hear the water from the river below.

At the top of the tower we got a curious look from a girl a little younger than us. It was no thing, we had been getting looks all day. I guess it's not too often a town a geriatrics see the sight of two backpackers wandering about Bad Kreuznach. The girl, who was with a boy, approached Keith, asked him a question in German. We didn't understand, so she repeated in English, “Do you need a place to sleep tonight?” Of coarse we did need a place to sleep. She informed us that right below our feet on this hill was a cave of sorts, and that it is a popular spot among travelers. We thanked her from the information, which happened to be worth its salt.

The nights sleep was awesome. The view was delightful. It was tempting to snicker at all the fools below paying top Euro for their sleep that was just as good as ours. We slept in till about ten in the morning. The towner above us was buzzing with tourists, so was the river below. It was Easter Monday, and still only restaurants were open. “Who ya gotta know to get a loaf of bread around here!?” Was my lament of the day.

Keith and I had developed a taste for German bread. We made locating a loaf our daily objective. We tried for a couple hours but our efforts proved unsuccessful. At any rate it passed the time. The day was a tad warm just like the day before. I introduced Keith to the Radler, a drink the Germans introduced me to. It's half beer, have lemon/lime soda. On a day like today it's delicious.

In the sun we watched the old folks gather, zombie-like, to these massive things that look like radiators. They sat gathered in a circle around a fountain of mist. They sat motionless for hours for reasons we didn't understand at the time. It was a sight to behold, though we were ready for it to be over...

Keith with giant radiator

Chemnitz ist die Scheiße

2007-05-01T10:21:00.000-05:00

Keith and I rolled down the Autobahn with Sebastian and Alex in the front two seats. They were the DJs at a Club we went to the night before. Both living in Chemnitz and on their way home. This is Keith's first full day in Germany. He landed here not knowing what to expect exactly. He had just a vague idea. Whatever he had in mind, I'm sure it didn't involve two complete strangers driving him to a strange, and relatively unknown town like Chemnitz.

Alex knows a little English, Sebastian knows a little more. Keith spent a year in college studying the German language, but that was three years ago. The only German I know is the stuff i picked up watching Indiana Jones. The four of us talked a little as the trip got started but as the drive went on the conversation couldn't keep up with our limited knowledge of each others language. Keith slept, I looked on at green and gold counrty side. The hills bright with canola.

If you hear about Chimnitz it's probably in reference to the giant stone Karl Marx head in the town zentrum. Sebastian drove us right passed it once we pulled into town. Behind the bust is a massive half vacant building from the GDR. “Working Men of the World, Unite!” it repeated in English, German, and Russian. The city looked almost abandoned. Covered with uninspired graffiti and rows of efficient socialist quarters. The place was empty, but of coarse it was Good Friday.

Sebastian parked in front of a house not far from the center. Alex told us that this is where we would be staying. After they showed us inside, we met one of the folks who lived there. He didn't really talk to us, neither did Sebastian or Alex. We were a bit confused to say the least, we didn't really know how we knew our new DJ friends. Julia just kinda shuffled us into their car in hast that morning. We didn't have any idea who's house this was, but the guy painting his room from blue back to white seemed pleasant enough.

Quick to get out of the house, we wandered down to the square. We had an hour to kill before Julia would meet us back at the flat. So we killed it in front of Karl Marx. How massive and proud it was. It helped me realize how far removed I am from socialism, and the ideas of Karl Marx. If you stand in front of the sculpture, you'll be in the shadow of the towering Hotel Mercury. If you visit at night you'll feel the brilliant glow of the well watted Golden Arches. Or you may here the music from the trendy bar across the street, Flower Power. If the expression on Marx' face didn't look so angry I might say this statue is out of place.

After Julia found us we ended up at Flower Power. A long narrow space outfitted with 1960's USA décor and a double bar. Serving up cocktails and local beers, we drank as we looked at tapestries of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and musicians of the like. We could look, but we couldn't listen. Good Friday is also a day when Bars don't play music. Strange, I know. I wasn't clear if it was law or just the policy of management. The crowd was drinking, waiting for the stroke of midnight. The DJ's request queue must have been a kilometer long...

We all went to Atomics around 1am. The thing that can get you in trouble in Germany is that bars don't have to close. It's happed that we've found our way into all night bars without any windows or clocks, we would end up hissing at the sun when we opened the door to leave. Of course it doesn't help that our music loving hosts aren't afraid of the sun.

We stayed in Chemnitz two nights. We went back to Atomics to see Julia's little brother's band, The Neon Blocks, open up for local legend, The High Kites. The High Kites were described to us as German Brit-pop, and i guess thats what they were. Keith and I weren't diggin' it, not nearly and much as the Neon Blocks, who had a funky original sound. The kids at the show were great. Though Chemnitz isn't really that small of a town, it's the friendly folk make you feel like it was. Fun loving and curious.

Easter Sunday we needed to go. We had a friend to meet in Bad Kreuznach.

schwip schwap

2007-04-23T15:37:00.000-05:00

I met Kris the week before Christmas in 2005. She had contacted me through Hospitality Club in hopes to secure accommodations during her stay in Omaha. I wasn't really living anywhere at the time. I had a tent setup in the yard behind a house occupied by 7 of my friends. It was a nice situation really, they let me suck on their electricity and they didn't feel compelled to charge me rent. Most the residents of this house seemed to love the idea of couchsurfing as much as I did, so it was never a problem when a random German girl showed up on the couch for a week or so.

I had a pretty intense time with Kris that week. Her only purpose in Omaha was to see a Good Life show at Sokol Underground. But she stuck around, celebrated Christmas with my family, and when she took off to Denver, I went with. I returned to Omaha four days later with an e-mail address and a crush.

That was over a year ago now. I hadn't really talked to Kris since then until about two months before flying to Germany. Though she seemed excited to meet up with me, I didn't really know what to expect. I'd been in Europe maybe a week and I think I had experienced every emotion in the book. When I met Kris at Potsdam (Hbf) I was just relieve to see a friend.

“Now what am I gonna do?”, was the steady question I didn't have an answer to. While I stayed with Kris at her friend Julia's I thought as I could. I tried to absorb all my options. I tried to solidify some kind of plan that would push me forward. Some goals.

I wasn't in Potsdam for more than three or four days when I got a myspace message from Keith saying he was back in Binghamton New York and had three weeks to kill. He wanted to come out to Berlin and do some traveling. As excited as I was to see Keith here in Europe, it of course complicated things, at least it delayed my search for a job. I had a couple weeks to kill before Keith arrived in Berlin, but I didn't feel compelled to leave Potsdam even though the housing situation was volatile.

Kris was staying at her friend Julia's, who was back home in Chemnitz during holiday. Kris was here because she was in between apartments. Her new space didn't open up for another eight days, and Julia would be back home in three. Fortunately Kris' friend Ari was leaving for Israel and had a bed open for us. Or at least a bed open for Kris. Somehow, in a complicated turn of events I rubbed Ari's roommate Sasha the wrong way, and she didn't want me in her flat. The situation made me a little uneasy and I was about to high-tail it out of there to Braunschweig when Julia offered me a spot at her place.

In these weeks in Potsdam I wandered with Kris and/or Julia eating bread in the city's many parks. We drank beer and ate chocolates along the river and took in the many castles and old parts of the city. It was in many ways a vacation. A retreat from adventure. I felt much like just another unemployed ex-pat and I suppose that is what I am.

Until Keith arrived I was hanging out with either Kris or Julia exclusively. So the night Keith landed we shacked up with a Couchsurfer by the name of Simon who was living in the west side of Berlin. Simon was a cool chap. He gave us the keys to his flat and we hit the town with the girls while Simon slept.

The four of us ended up at the birthday party of a friend of Julia. Most of these kids are from Chemnitz a nice sized town about 45 minutes south-west of Dresden by Autobahn. Julia was headed there the next day so she invited Keith and I to come along.

So after the party we went back to Simon, who had to get up to work at McDonald's at 6am. He let us sleep though. We woke up around noon packed our bags then met back up with Julia on the east side. She introduced us to two of her friends that would be driving us to Chemnitz, Sebastian and Alex.

Standing still in the Berlin metro had been fun, but I was ready to see some more of Germany...

This Old World is a New World and a Bold World, for Me

2007-03-30T09:08:00.000-05:00

My flight back to the States left without me. I was in an apartment in Berlin when I realized I was going to miss my flight to Philadelphia from Frankfurt. I had completely spaced it or rather, I got confused, mixed up some dates.

I came to Europe without any plan, map, phone, or time piece. I hovered over my basic needs for food and shelter, that was about it. I stuck around Frankfurt for my first few days, partly because Lufthansa left my backpack in Washington DC, and partly because I didn't know where else to go. So I was content enough just hanging around Bockenheim with my host while I looked for inspiration.

Cornelius Jensen was a nice enough guy. A student, really into electronica. He showed me around Frankfurt am Main while I thought about my next few steps. We were in a pub called Klapper 33. We drank some apple wine when we talked about Amsterdam. This conversation gave me some motivation to move, but not much. Rather than risk overstaying my welcome I pushed off for the Netherlands the following day.

Cornelius suggested I stand outside the pump station next to the junction that pretty much everyone takes to get out of town. By his map I thought it looked too central for my tastes, I knew Cornelius knew little about hitchhiking, but I got directions just to be sure. I also got directions to Niedernhausen, which was my preferred plan to get out of Frankfurt. It was an easy ride on the S2 and just far enough out of town for people to care.

On my way to the gas station I got lost maybe three or four times. The streets never seemed to stay straight for very long, every time I looked at a map kindly posted on the bus and tram shelters I was in a completely different place than I thought I would be. I knew exactly where I had to be on the map but finding the right streets to get there seemed like an impossible task. Luckily I found an S-Bahn stop by chance. I shrugged and figured this filling station I couldn't get to just wasn't in the cards.

My first train ride in Europe was a slow regional that dropped me off in a small suburb called Niedernhausen. I could see the Autobahn from the train station but had no clue which way to go to find the access. I took a risk and asked a young stranger with a shaved head and a North Face jacket if he knew how I could get there. I was relieved when he answered me without hesitation in English. I had kind of a hard time getting directions to Mt. Fuji last summer in Japan. I always find it a little embarrassing when I don't know the native language, so I try to avoid asking questions on the street when possible.

It took a little time to get to the autobahn access a ways off and up the hill but when I got there I knew exactly what to do. It felt good to be back on the roadside again. The sun was out and warm while I waited patiently for my first ride. New kind of cars I had never seen before passed by at wonderfully fast speed. I could have watched the stream of cars all day, and I was prepared to do so when an old-school Land Rover stopped with me in mind. I climbed in on the left side and threw my bag next to the old Triumph in the back. My hitchin' sign read Coln so the driver if asked me if that was my final destination. He was heading to Rotterdam, on his way back home to Whales, which explains why he was driving in the passenger seat. Keith, was in his early 60s I'd guess. He had some ambiguous job managing security for companies in the Middle East and Africa. It was because of this job that he lived in Frankfurt. It afforded him the luxury of driving such a huge vehicle throughout Europe.

We continued up A3, Keith with his kaffee and I with my Messo Mix, till we hit the A2 junction in the Netherlands. He dropped me off in front of a McDonald's 28 kilometers south of Utrecht. I didn't bother making another sign, it was pretty obvious I was on my way to Amsterdam. I got some fries and ate them while sitting on the guardrail next to my exit. I looked at the Holland countryside, tried to take it in Golden Arches and all. Two Moroccan gents rolled by, said they'd give me a lift to Utrecht so long as I didn't kill them. After learning I was an American that played an array of pop songs and asked me if I recognized them. “Riding Dirty” was the only tune I could pick out, more of a sign that I'm loosing touch with youth than anything else.

I asked them to drop me off at the train station once we got to Utrecht. It was getting kinda late. I got a late start as a result of wandering around Frankfurt earlier that day. I wanted to get to my Couchsurfer's at a decent hour. The train to Amsterdam was an easy 6 euro.

I don't have a phone and the only pay phones I could find didn't take money, but used some kind of phone card instead. So I couldn't call my host to get directions. I did my best with the address and the directions she e-mailed the previous night. Amsterdam's small, so finding the place was surprisingly easy. Still she only had a vague notion that I would arrive today, I knocked on her door and hoped all would be well.

Heidi was napping. I woke her up. She stood at the threshold sleepy eyed and confused for a moment before remembering she had a surfer on the way. She let me in and we did the usual “what are you doing, where are you going, where have you been” conversation over some tea in her surprisingly large living room. Her roommate Marc was on the couch participating in conversation as well. The two were both graphic designers from souther Germany working in Amsterdam working as... graphic designers. They had been living there for a little over a year, they had been members of Couchsurfing for five day.

Once I got to Amsterdam I was amazed I actually found a couch. The place is so busy, I got rejected from ten CSers each saying they already had someone on their couch, or they had been hosting for 3 weeks straight and needed a break. Even though the city was cold and wet, it was still St. Patrick's day weekend. Heidi and Marc had never heard of the holiday, so we went to Leidseplein to an Irish pub. We celebrated modestly over a beer, then road the bikes back to the apartment in the rain and snow.

Death in Amsterdam

I stayed in Amsterdam for two short days. On the Monday of my departure I checked my email, but had no response from the Couchsurfers in Hannover, where I had hoped to spend the night. I learned that CeBIT just happened to be going on the day I would be in Hannover, so even a hostel would be hard to come by.

I stood on the A10 ramp on the east side of Amsterdam for maybe five minutes before getting a short ride to one of the island like gas stations on the freeway. These stations kinda suck only cause if you can't get a ride, it's a long walk to anywhere, but the idea is, you always get a ride.

I got a couple rides, right to the German border. It had been snowing and raining all morning in Holland. By the time I got to the border I was wet, irritable, and now it was hailing like crazy. The problem so far with me and Europe was how convenient it was to take the train, it seemed every town large or small had a depot. My last ride dropped me in Hengelo where it was an 80 euro ride to Berlin. I bit the bullet, rode the tracks right through Hannover, Wolfsburg, and straight on through to Berlin.

I arrived a night before I thought I would, leaving me with no accommodations. I set out to look for a hostel, but called my CS host for tomorrow to see if I could crash a night earlier. To my surprise, he had no problem with the idea. He gave me directions to his place, a massive monolith from the days of socialistic east Berlin.

Patryk handed me a fine hefeweizen that I drank while he told me of his wild St. Patrick's day party complete with photos. We talked some more while eating spreads over bread. He asked me about my plans in Europe, He was surprised by how much they lacked overall enthusiasm, how dreadful and lost I seemed. “I have a flight back to the States on the 26^th” I told him, “I'm thinking I'm gonna take it, maybe move to Chicago.” I'd been tossing this idea around on the train ride here. I felt kind of foolish coming all this way just to return a week later, but I also felt foolish coming all this way with hardly any money, with the idea of “just making it.” Something so easy for me to do in the United States, where I can work legally. I was developing something the Germans call weltschmerz.

I was probably being too heavy, having only known Patryk for a couple hours. He didn't seem to mind. Patryk was gearing up for bike tour to Warsaw the next Friday. He had 7 complete bikes lying around his small two bedroom apartment, not to mention the many components scattered about. He was pleased to share his knowledge of bicycles with me. He loaned me one of his bike and we road down to the Coop where he replaces his gear hub. We road a little further, picked up some bread, then returned to Patryks complex.

The Bike COOP, Berlin

The next day as I was about to leave to visit my friend Kris in Potsdam I checked an e-mail I had saved containing all my flight information. I looked at the information then looked at the clock on my computer. Somehow I miscalculated, somehow I thought my flight was leaving on the 26^th, when in fact it was leaving on the 20^th, in an hour.

Well there was no way I was gonna make it to Frankfurt in an hour. Which was fine I guess. I didn't want to go back to the States anyway. Part of me was relieved, I didn't have to think about whether I was going use that return or not. The other part of me was trying not to thinking about anything. The reality now is, if I wanna get back to the States, it's gonna cost me 500 euro, half of what I have. How long I'm here depends on how far I can stretch it. Unless of coarse, I can find a job.

Easy

2007-03-16T11:16:00.000-05:00

I couldn't help but feel like I was leaving Buffalo prematurely. Yet I also felt as though a huge burden had been lifted from my back. It was just as easy for me to love working at Pano's at it was for me to hate it. Chopping day in and out was grand, but I could feel contempt creeping in, though it was still a ways off when I left. Things at the house were getting thick as well. I almost burned down Jon's home one night when I turned on the wrong burner when attempting to boil water for some tea. I left the room, started reading a book, and returned a few minutes later to find a plastic cutting board fueling a four foot flame. I lost a bit of Jon's trust after that. I could have stayed in Buffalo according to plan and things would have been fine. I would have stayed in Buffalo had anyone but Keith Hessian invited me to leave.

I reckon that for everything you notice, there are a countless amount of things you miss. The problem with television is that while there are 150 channels, you can only watch one at a time. This makes choosing between two shows of the same caliber, which air at the same time, difficult. In the end you settle on the program that seems to be richer in content, or perhaps more entertaining. The programing in Buffalo New York was indeed rich and stable, with opportunity galore. However I don't think I need to mention my attraction to the road. A trans-American voyage is too great for me to resist.

I met Keith on a fateful day back in June of '05, the same day I met Jon Simon and Big Worm. That was the week I crashed on his couch in Buffalo. With Jon and Big Worm we rode in Keith's Plymouth Voyager to a Rainbow Gathering near Richwood Virginia. Keith and Jon continued south and left Big Worm and I to the Gathering. I ended up hitching back to Buffalo, after about five days in the woods, in time for the forth of July.

Keith is one of those unique individuals difficult to squeeze into stereotypes and generalizations. Wherever we went Keith seemed to be a magnet for bizarre and interesting people who were often the catalyst for adventure and mayhem. I'd been on road trips before, but I've never had the same travel partner for so long. I was a little concerned that towards the end I might get on Keith's nerves, or maybe vice-versa.

On a cold and gray Buffalo morning Keith filled up with gas, added a quart of oil, checked the radiator fluid, and got a cup of coffee. He started the trip nervously. He just bought the Celica a few days before the trip and already had to sink 400$ in a new radiator. The check engine light just came on and the gas tank leaks for the first quarter tank. There was some concern over the engines fluctuating idling speed as well. Even if we didn't have all these imperfections to face, we would still have a 17 year old car to drive for the next 4000 miles. And with cars nothing is certain, and with the road anything can happen.

Our first short leg of the trip was to Binghamton, NY. We were all but settled in as we listened to the car for sounds of defiance, looked at the gauges, waited for something to go wrong. It was a four hour trip that ended without a hitch in the driveway of Keith's parents home. Keith's parents were nice and warm. They offered a more holistic perspective on a man I knew little of but admired. Keith had phoned ahead to alert his mother preparing dinner that a vegan would be at the supper table and to request that she cook accordingly. As a result I enjoyed a plate of boiled cabbage with a hint of margarine accompanied by a few slices of tasty bread. The family dined on a form of marinated stake and we all drank Ommegang and talked as families do when a guest is present. We watched Indianapolis fight there way into the Super Bowl then retired at a decent hour.

In the morning we stuffed the Celica with most of Keith's things leaving hardly any room at all for the two of us. Going cross country with a compacts coup seemed more comical than practical at that point, but after Keith's calculations we couldn't ignore the fact that we were getting 29 miles to the gallon, even with a leaky gas tank.

Our second day of travel got us as far as Washington DC, or Alexandria VA where we met up with a friends of Keith's from UB, currently residing in the DC metro. He was a little surprised to see that Keith had a companion although Keith had mentioned this over the phone several times. I guess my name “Alexander” is similar enough to the city “Alexandria” to warrant confusion. The situation didn't make me too comfortable but fortunately the situation worked in everyones favor. While Matt Bruce and Keith lit up the town, I hopped on the VRE and went to visit my older sister in Fredericksburg. Melanie, husband Ray, and my niece Kinsey are like my embassy on the east coast, my satellite family. This is usually an excursion that requires at least a weeks worth of time, but as I'm on someone else's schedule I'll be pleased to spent one night playing sloppy ping-pong with my sister, and discuss panhandling with Ray.

The next morning Keith picked me up at Vu' Deli on Kings Highway outside my sisters house. We road forever on the two lane highways of Virgina, the 3 to the 20 to the 231 to 22 then to I64, I81 and I77 before we broke through the North Carolina border without stopping. Once west of Statesville I revisited Troy's 50's Restaurant. I spent a tired night here once before and told Keith all about it. Troy's is most definitely a road side dive where the food is terribly gross but we were hungry and I couldn't be the only one I know who knew about this place.

When we got to Asheville the weather was cool but by no means cold. We had been in touch with a total of four different couchsurfing hosts. We wandered around the town while we tried to workout some kind of arrangement with at least one of them. We ended up going with Kelly based on the fact that she was located downtown and the fact that her profile stated that she was a bartender. I could tell right away through our phone conversations that she would be a character but I really had no clue. When we met up with her at her place we found that she really did have just a room. It was one of those pay by the week living situations, each floor had a bathroom and there was a kitchen on the main floor. Kelly had just lost her job as a bartender and was broke, so Keith picked up a couple twelve packs that we drank in her room. Kelly was 35, had just moved to Asheville from Columbia and was relying on her British ex-husband for a couple bucks here-and-there for grocery's.

Kelly joined us at the bar for a drink but then went back to her room well before we did. Keith and I met up with one of his friends living in the area. We hit another bar or two, Rosetta's Kitchen, then met back up with Kelly at Jack of the Woods. Kelly could talk us in circles but not only that, she talked with such energy and would often stand up and use her whole body to describe actions and event. One conversation that started at the bar continued down the street and into her rented room. She was an open book that took hours to read. Long into the night and Keith and I were drowsy, it was a battle for the floor as Kelly vociferously insisted that we take the futon and let her sleep on the floor. But neither Keith or I would see of it.

In the morning Kelly promised us breakfast to repay Keith for the beer she drank, “I make the best stir-fry” she claimed. With her ex's endowment she bought the necessaries for stir-fry, a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper and proceeded to make a breakfast for champions, essentially boiling fresh veggies in teriyaki sauce with a side of not-quite-cooked rice. Delicious. Before leaving Asheville Keith and I checked out the Vanderbilt's Biltmore Estate, probably the most decadent piece of architecture in North America.

Our attempt to find a couch same-day in Savannah proved to be unsuccessful so I had to call my friend Cory Lundquist, who used to live there, to see if he had friends who might put us up for the night. Turns out he did, and we were able to crash on his old band mates couch/floor. But before we did that we had to go to this drag queen bar I went to last time I was here that I had been telling Keith about. Club One. There weren't any queens out that night and it looked more like your run of the mill gay bar on a Wednesday night. The night would have been a bust had it not been for the Old black blind man, who went by the name “Preacher”, drunkenly singing Karaoke, who just wouldn't get off the stage. This night in Savannah existed only because we got a late start on the road after leaving the Biltmore Estate. Our goal was Brunswick Georgia, a goal we made for the Following day.

We had heard about a hostel in the woods somewhere in Georgia and after a quick Google search we found it. Just to the west of Brunswick, The Hostel in the Forest is tucked away about a half mile off the highway and nicely hidden by thick vegetation. We arrived after making reservations the night before but it seemed our arrival was still unexpected by the sleepy staff laying about around 2pm. We got the grand tour by a sweetish girl who had been living there for the past few months. She showed us the Facilities, an open air shower, the sawdust filled toilets, then to our rooms, both of which were tree houses.

That night was a little chilly so Keith, I and the many staff members hung out in the main lodge where it was warm. It was here Keith fell in love with a puppy, enough so that he considered taking it with us and to have it as a pet. Though I knew it probably wasn't the best of ideas I encouraged him. Also it was here that we met a girl from Florida who needed a ride to Gainesville. Though we had no qualms with giving her a ride, we didn't think she could fit in the Celica with all her stuff.

The next morning I awoke with my body warm in the sleeping bag but with my face freezing from the outside temperature. Though this tree house was neat in design, the screen door and windows made it more appropriate for spring and fall dwelling. It took a lot of will to get out of bed that morning but when I did I found the girl from Florida had rearranged the Celica to accommodate her self as well as her things. Anxious to get a move on the three of us high-tailed out before eating breakfast. Once in Gainesville the girls dad bought us hoagies for lunch and gave Keith 20 bucks for the trouble.

Soon after leaving Gainesville we arrived in Tampa. Keith's friend Dan hosted us for a couple nights as we all attended the Gasparilla Pirate Festival, a parade celebrating the Spanish pirate José Gaspar. What must have been a hundred floats traveling down Bayshore Boulevard flinging beads at a mass of more than 400,000 people getting drunk from dawn to well beyond dusk was a spectacular event to partake in. But what was most spectacular was the devastation the crowd had left behind on the boulevard, trash as far as the eye could see. Drunkenly I rounded up full 2 liter bottles of soda, and there were enough 20 gallon coolers left behind for all five of us in our party to carry. After we got tired of walking we sat at an intersection and watched the cops direct traffic why we drank some more beer. Keith randomly ran into some people he knew in college, and I struck up conversation with a young man from Trinidad and Tobago.

As the others in our group tired of walking they got a cab, but Keith and I pressed on back to the car on foot. At some point we both stopped to take a leak and as I did I noticed what I thought was an apple tree bearing fruit. I called over to Keith and we started picking the fruit from the tree and tossed them into one of the coolers. In the dark, and in our drunken state we failed to notice that we were in fact picking grapefruit, a funny, but welcomed surprise.

The next morning I cooked stir-fry for breakfast and Dan went and got some bagels. We left Tampa around noon. We tried to secure a couch in Mobile Alabama, no luck, so we just drove through. We got to New Orleans around 12 or 1 am, we drank a beer in the French Quarter then decided to press on. Keith finely got too tired to drive about the time we reached Lafayette. I had been reluctant to drive because I'm not too familiar with standard transmissions. Luckily we spotted a motel under construction and as it was not yet completely built, we checked ourselves in. The time was about 2am, we figured the construction workers would be in around 6am so we planned to be out by then. The temperature was slightly below freezing so sleeping for only four hours wasn't difficult. On little sleep we continued west, looking at the thick blanket of smog covering Houston Texas we reconsidered stopping and continued strait on to Austin arriving around 2pm.

Searching for a place with free wireless internet was first priority once we got there, taking a nap was a close second. We got in touch with Keith's friend Katie and stayed at her place for four nights while Keith got his finances squared away. One of the many reasons for the whole road trip was so Keith could inherit some money from his grandma with a softer tax burden. Something his tax man advised him to do. It was a complex ordeal that would have been simple had one article of mail showed up like it was suppose to. Because it didn't, Keith found himself a little stressed out. Thats not to say Austin wasn't a blast for both of us. Katie's many friends, namely Nichol, were around to show us a good time. The cathedral of Junk is just that, a massive erection of junk that a quirky Austin local built in is back yard. We rented Edward Penis Hands and giggled like little kids. The highlight of Austin for me was driving around late at night with Katie and Nichol dumpster diving in all the right places and discovering bags of bread, boxes of pizza, sushi, and not so fresh produce. Nichol was amazingly talented at dumpstering, she was able to find wonderful food by just jumping in and digging with out any reluctance.

We left Austin with Keith getting only a few things resolved. Our feet were itching however we really didn't know where we wanted to go, we flirted with the ideas of driving to El Paso, Santa Fe, and the Dr. Pepper museum in Dublin Texas but ultimately decided on a leisurely drive to Dallas/Fort Worth.
Our contact was Dyan, a Friend of Keith and an acquaintance of mine. She was living in Dallas finishing up her masters in lighting design, a grad-student with a lot on her plate. This work load didn't stop her from helping us polish off a fresh box of wine, nor did it inhibit her from attending a party comprised mostly of theater actors.

Our original plan when leaving Austin was to spend one night in Dallas, then press on to San Diego. This plan changed dramatically when our friend Theresa called us at 3am. With Keith's pink Razr phone the three of us in Dallas had a conference call with Theresa in Buffalo. It was an intense two hour conversation that climaxed when Keith purchased a one-way flight for Theresa to fly to Dallas at 10am that morning. It was a $250 drunken impulse buy that made everyones morning more surreal.

On our way to pick her up at DFW there were some doubts in our minds about whether or not she actually got on the plane. Theresa is one of those people with a real job, with real responsibility. The thought of Theresa calling in sick for a week didn't seen likely. In fact it seemed absurd. So it was amazing to see Theresa before our eyes in front of the baggage claim. And even though we had just seen her maybe two weeks prior, it felt like a much needed reunion.

Theresa's arrival kept us in Dallas a couple days more. We filled the nights with loads of air hockey at the pub down the street from Dyan's apartment. We stayed for Super Bowl Sunday, ate our weight in chips and dip, then took off for the west coast the next day. We had found a cheap flight on Kayak.com for Theresa's return home, $108 from LAX, so we took her with us to San Diego.

The drive was an endurance test for the three of us, 20 hours nonstop driving, 10 of which was in Texas. Thanks to the engineering of our drifter from Florida, Theresa had a cozy nook behind the passenger seat. Keith and I took turns driving, switching every 300 miles. I'm no good at driving a stick so getting to and from the exit ramps was always a hair raising experience. We got to San Diego just in time for rush hour traffic. We finely got to Keith's old roommates in Ocean Beach and crashed out almost instantly, except Theresa who had spent almost the entire road trip sleeping, curled up in a ball in the back seat.

We spent a week in San Diego, save a night spent in Las Vegas with Keith's brother Scott, the same night we dropped Theresa off at the LA Airport. I have a difficult time accounting for the days spent in Ocean Beach, but as we filled Keith's Plymouth Voyager with all his belongings I thought about what a great place this was, and how perfect it felt to be walking barefoot on the beach in the middle of January.

Leaving San Diego Keith and I drove separate vehicles, Keith with his Celica, and I in his Voyager. We drove up the coast to San Francisco communicating through cell phone, organizing stops. We made it to San Francisco with little fuss after we accidentally took the 99 instead of I-5. We parked the van in the neighborhood where we were staying. We drove the Celica around and I proceeded to exhaust my knowledge of the city in one night.

It took us a couple days to get back on the road and when we did we only made it as far as Arcada. We spent our evening there at the Humboldt Brewing Co. and drank a couple pitchers of Hemp Beer. We talked with the locals about their pot culture, then got directions to a beach where we could sleep. That night was a little cold and a little wet. I wish I could say I slept soundly but this wasn't the case.

In the morning we were both excited and reluctant to move on to Portland. It had been almost a month on the road and Portland marked the end of our journey. Heading out from Mad River Beach in the Voyager we attempted to make our way back into town to get the Celica. As I drove through the giant puddles of water I felt the van loose it's power steering. Apparently we lost the serpentine belt. I called AAA and within an hour we had our tow truck driver take us to Redwood Auto in Arcadia where they put the belt back on for $15.

It was a nice days drive through the Redwoods and onward to Portland. Keith found his friends, Kurt and Ali, on the south east side. I stayed with them as well, while i killed the days before my flight to Omaha. Munching on vegan donuts and playing air hockey at wonderland, I thought about the hazy drunken month I had just spent on the road with a friend I had only spent maybe 15 days with prior. How amazing and childlike the world seems when traveling with a friend such as Keith. Every night was a party wrapped with inside jokes and subject to a spontaneous itinerary. Our candy was beer and wine and it made the world glow accordingly. It was a month long trip that could have created the bitterest of friend, but instead we walked away like kids from recess. Energized and fresh.

Pano's: A Restaurant Review

2007-02-12T19:16:00.000-06:00

1081 Elmwood ave. It's an institutional gray building with a blue neon sign that reads “Pano's”. On the roof stands a hideously painted blue and white statue of a Buffalo. If you were to walk past this place without hearing about it first, you may be reluctant to enter. I was, until I saw the “help wanted” sign in the front window.

Inside the place however, things look rather inviting. I would liken it to a Perkin's maybe, but with dim lights and a full bar. I'm tempted to call it a Greek restaurant, but this might be misleading. Aside from the owner, Panagiotis Georgiadis being from Greece, and a few Greek staples on the menu, Pano's is really more of a stake and eggs and sea food kind of place. Americana meets Mediterranean.

Pano's has been around for 30 years now. Over the years it has built up a strong reputation for being one of the best restaurants in Buffalo. Ask just about any local who has been there and they'll more than likely tell you it's a good, if not great place to eat.

In the middle of November this is where I found myself. Working as a prep cook in a remote prep room at Pano's Restaurant along side a colorful cast of characters. Eric, the manager, was the first person I met at Pano's. He was my interviewer. One of the things he said to me wile reviewing my application was this, “I know a lot of people use Pano's as a stepping stone. They get a job here then they move on. I'm not naive to that fact. It'd be nice if they stayed longer than a few months, but most people don't.” When he said this I remember feeling puzzled, wondering what he saw in my application that might provoke such a statement. Eric was a thin guy with rectangular rimmed glasses, closely cropped dark hair and he always wore a shirt and tie. His wit was keener than most but unfortunately it had a sharp bite. Even the most innocent question or comment pointed in his direction was met with at least a hint of sarcasm or ridicule. It seamed the only common ground I could find with Eric was music. He spoke fondly of his ten years as a DJ and was able to recommend to me music I enjoyed.

Pano's is a good sized restaurant, seating about 95 and staffing roughly 75 employees. Things get busy on the line, the dishwashers get backed up and the servers get overwhelmed. Things in the prep room however, stay pretty much the same no matter what the conditions are up front. This makes working in the back delightful, a virtual stress free zone. It's a place where the tasks of the day are laid out before you, and you simply chip away at them at your leisure while listening to the radio and participating in banter.

When cutting up veggies I'm caught smiling at nothing. Eric looks at me with distrust, and thinks I'm up to something. The truth is the whole scene in the prep room is one of comedy. To my right works Joe Caccamise, the head chef. He goes about his day stuffing chickens with various concoctions that he comes up with on the fly. He rolls meat balls as he tells Roseanne what heterogeneous dishes he has in mind for the daily special. Joe talks a lot of trash and razzes just about everyone. He isn't shy about his sexual history, which he is quite proud of, and often complains about the shackles of his long-term relationship, half jokingly of course. Even though I find most the stuff that comes out of Joe's mouth to be sophomoric, and reminiscent of my high school locker room, I have learned a bit about cooking by simply watching and asking him questions.

To my Left you will find either Che, Aaron, or Roy Bell, depending on what day of the week it is. Che is an aspiring writer, a recently retired marijuana dealer, and a self proclaimed cave man. Not quite as boastful as Joe but twice as loud. Che has the remarkable ability to rant about nothing to a def audience for hours. Che Juxtapose with Joe becomes the catalyst for low productivity and is often a humorous exchange.

Aaron, another prep-cook was perhaps my favorite for no other reason than I met him at a party about a week before he started working. Aaron enjoyed his music and often brought it to work, bringing his Mp3 player to work with our shoddy boom-box.

Roy Bell has been employed by Pano for more than ten years now. Without benefits, holiday bonus, or vacation pay, I'm not sure why he does it. Perhaps it's because he'd have a difficult time finding another employer willing to put up with his habitual tardiness, and chronic drunkenness. “There's only room for one Roy Bell here.” Eric said to me after Roy showed up two-and-a-half hours late, “Remember that.”

Outside the prep room I memorized few names. Jeremy, one of the dishwashers, was the person I singled out as my friend, and was the only one I really hung out with outside of work. I didn't much care for him at first. He came into the prep-room my first week there bragging to Joe and Che, showing us the wounds from the four times he got shot in Austin. Like myself Jeremy fancied himself a traveler. We had both arrived in buffalo late autumn, found a job within a week, and had many parallels in our personal history.

From the right is Che, Mark, Jeremy, Ashley, and Joe. Che is sharing the details of a brawl he got into the previous night. Joe is all ears.

In the background, always busy, running around, is 61 year old Pano. In his modest shirt and tie which is sometimes accompanied by a wool jacket he streaks from one part of the store to the other. He's always stressed out it seems yelling about something or someone. How he has been able to run a business for thirty years with such high tension is mind boggling to me. I would think that maybe after the first ten years of business he might have realized that his constant yelling and rebuking employees was ineffectual. That maybe there was a better way to train people. A more efficient way to do things. His loss was our gain I suppose. We pretty much ran the kitchen the way we wanted. We made recipes the way we pleased. Pano would make his way through the prep room on occasion, he'd scold one of us for doing something wrong, or chastise whoever screwed up the Tarantino order.

Despite Pano's abrasiveness I, like most employees, did my best to get in his good books. In passing I took interest in his home country, Greece. I downloaded some audio tutorials on the Greek language and learned and memorized some sentences relevant to work. This was in a effort to spark his interest in my interest in his culture. But unfortunately when I applied the sum of my knowledge it didn't seam to faze him. When I spoke to him in Greek he made no mention of this fact and continued instructing me as he would had I been speaking English. Naturally, this was a disappointment.

A few months of working there and I was still contented chopping veggies and marinating meats. My goal was to hold this job from November through March and at the rate I was going this goal was a reasonable one. However there are always certain variables, unforeseeable environmental conditions that can change or complicate any plan. While you can't always predict these kind of events you can always expect them. So when my friend Keith Hessian came back to Buffalo for the holidays with an adventurous propositions, I knew my career at Pano's was in serious trouble.

In the middle of January I packed my bag. I said goodbye to Jon Simon and Jessica Coleman. I got in Keith's Celica and set out on what was to be an epic road trip across the USA. A winter plan to save money for the summer months was in shambles, how I planned to muster up enough cash for tomorrow wasn't for me to know. But for tomorrow.

Happy Trails

2007-01-10T19:49:00.000-06:00

Through the windshield of my rental car I watched the fields and dried up vineyards whip by at eighty miles an hour. I was traveling down a stretch of interstate that has become familiar to me over the last couple of years. Being in the driver seat, however, is new. Having control over when and where I stop, moving down the road without a companion, listening to my choice of music, and traveling from Buffalo to Chicago in less than nine hours, are all experiences to be savored. I seldom rent cars, but when I do I take great pleasure in the novelty of solitary driving. I have, for the moment, traded my freedoms in for new ones.

After I got off the Tollway east of the Pennsylvania Line I stopped at the Colonial Squire. An abandoned motel I slept in front of only six months ago. Now that day seemed so much like the distant past. I continued down route 20 where even more happy, lonely memories came flooding. The miles I had spent days walking zipped passed me in minutes. Crossing the bridge over 20 mile river I remember how tired I was when I took a rest and washed my feet in the waters below. I felt like a pilgrim then, a self reliant wandering island, cut off from the modern world.

I stopped for gas in Cleveland, but I didn't stray too far from the freeway. I stopped once more in South Bend before I got to Chicago in the early evening. Right away I got in touch with Stephen, a friend from Omaha. He was working at a restaurant in a health food store off Dearborn and Maple. He gave me some soup as he closed the store. Traveling with a car in the city of Chicago definitely has its pros and cons. Parking and congested streets are a problem, but I did enjoy moving independent of the CTA. Stephen and I picked up Dana Weiss from work. Then we proceeded to our friends house with a case of beer, polishing off the night.

Before I left Buffalo I posted a ride offer on Craigslist.org. I've posted rides in the past but have never got a response until now. Riding with me from Chicago to Omaha would be Cristy. And from Chicago to Des Moines would be Matt, who I actually got in touch with through my cousin after hearing about my road trip, nevertheless, I had never met him before. After speaking with the two over the phone, we arranged a meeting the day of departure at Swank Frank on the corner of North and Milwaukee. Cristy showed up first.

The three of us were well traveled travelers traveling to our home towns for the Christmas holiday. Our conversations reflected this fact. What I learned about Cristy is that she had returned to the USA just six months ago from a year in Guinea, teaching French and psychology to the locals. She got the job through the Peace Corps I believe. Her stories were fascinating, her accomplishments very impressive. I caught myself, in a few instances, feeling envious of her time spent in Africa. I started brainstorming ways I could somehow implant myself into an overseas teaching position. As I've seen so many of my peers do in the past.

Like Cristy, Matt grew up in Des Moines and now resides is Chicago. Matt's travels were less exciting as Cristy's. He handed us a few anecdotes from his obligatory months in Europe, and I didn't get the feeling he was trying to impress anyone. What I liked most about him was how easy he was to listen to, his observations were sharp, but nonjudgmental.

We dropped Matt off at his folks then continued to Omaha on I-80. I was getting a little sleepy from driving all day but Cristy did a fine job of keeping me inquisitive, thereby alert. Once we got in sight of the Omaha skyline I was no longer drowsy, being close to home was exciting. Ants found their way into my pants and I greatly anticipated the company of my family and friends.

The three or four days I spent back home made me feel a bit like Dorothy of the Wizard of Oz. At the end when she wakes up to find all the people from her adventure right there at home. Emily, Salina, and Marisa were back from Boston. Cat from San Francisco. Teal from Corvallis. Jackie and Cris Stool from Chicago. And many others from all over. It was great to see everyone so happy and so busy with family affairs. I crammed in as much as I could at the expense of a good amount of sleep. Well worth it I'd say.

When it came time to leave home I did so with little fuss. I'm in and out of Omaha so much these days that goodbyes have lost their impact. Not only on me, but my loved ones as well. I tight embrace with my father, hugs from my brothers and sister, all seemed to be simple and almost passive, as if I was just going down the street to my apartment, the worry and longing caused by physical distance didn't seem to be here as it had been once upon a time. Over the last few years the ease of transportation of the self has been realized by my associates and I. It's as easy as renting a car, buying a ticket, sticking out a thumb, or clicking your heels.

In this age of information I seem to be well connected with my friends, family, and everyone else. When I read the works of old time wanderers like Hermann Hesse I'm in awe of solitude he endures, how disconnected he remains from his source, and how easy it is to wander aimlessly with no identity, no money, and no friends. There are days when I long for this way of life. A life so carefree, simple, and self serving.

Cristy had found her way back to Des Moines. I could just pick her up when I picked up Matt. Evelyn was another girl who responded to my posting on Craigslist. She needed a ride back to Chicago. Other than a lunch stop at the Red Avocado in Iowa City the ride was relatively quit. Books that weren't around during our first trip, were now in the hands of every passenger.

I had a good feeling when I reached Buffalo again. It was the feeling of homecoming. I knew my couch, the one I've been sleeping on, would be waiting for me. Jon would be coming home from work, and Trouble, the dog, would be excited as she heard the turning of the front door lock. My job, my friends, my city were just as I had left them.

Something to show for it.

2006-12-17T21:26:00.000-06:00

Have I been here for a month already? The days are flying by. The days are tranquil, simple, and routine. My job is stress free, my friends are few and good. Why did I travel to Buffalo for the winter? Any questions or doubts I had when I first arrived have been answered or expunged. Winter for me is, or is becoming, a time for me to both reflect on the past summer months and to plan for the coming spring. This city of friendly neighbors had proven an ideal place for such exercises. I was able to find a job within walking distance from where I'm staying quickly and with little effort. I've been laying low. Filling as many hours as they'll let me at work. Coming home, I watch a few movies, interact with Jon Simon and Jessica Coleman for a time, then I go to bed. Saving money is a simple task when living in this manner. Each day is filled with few surprises and each day is very much like the last. Inside however, I can feel myself changing. My thoughts continue to move forward, growing as my days double digit down to departure.

Uprooted On Route

2006-11-09T16:48:00.000-06:00

In a coffee house in Chicago I reflect on the last few months. I remember mostly my last day in the desert. I woke up from under a bridge the color of turquoise outside the town of Belen New Mexico . I found that I had made my nest in the dark next to a carcass of a bird, and next to it, a smaller featherless chick, lying dead as well. I didn't know how these creatures came to there end, but seeing them at their end brought me sadness.

I hitched a ride to Albuquerque after that. I was tired of being on the road. I bought an Amtrak ticket back to Omaha. I tented up in mid-town for most of September and all of October in my friend Lizzie's Backyard. Things come easy for me in Omaha. A reason why it's a good place to call home. Within a few days of returning, my friend PK offered Brent LaRue and I a job presorting mail at Printco graphics Inc. The job was repetitive, steady, and just what I needed after months of travel. A mindless job is perfect when you have a lot on your mind. The Summer months fly by fast then stop abruptly with the first chill. I like the changing of the leaves, and the farmer reaping the fruits of spring.

“It was good to be with old friends during this season.” I thought this while looking out the window of this coffee shop on Damon and Iowa. I'll be in Chicago for a few more days before I board my flight to Buffalo New York. I will relocate there for the winter months. I am enjoying this transition. Often when I travel I wander, with a destination unknown. Wandering is a fine way to travel, however for me it is much different than traveling to relocate. I feel no anxiety, no sadness, and I do not long for anything that I do not have. I am comfortable.

PK and Brent at Prentco.

Desert Scar

2006-09-07T12:43:00.000-05:00

That night in Kingman I fell asleep under a bridge that stretched I-40 over a couple pair of rail road tracks. Cockroach and silverfish were feasting on the rubbage left by the hundreds of travelers who took shelter under this bridge before me. I counted four black widow spiders in four corners above me. The biggest one, in the middle of it's web, waited three feet above my head and shook each time a semi-truck screamed above. I closed my eyes and thought about tomorrow. What surprises it may bring. By now I can sleep soundly beside the hum of the highway and the wail of the trains. I didn't hear when an engine stopped 60 feet from me. I think it was the exhaust trapped by the bridge, causing me to choke, that woke me.

A train! My heart started racing. I looked around to see if anyone was watching as I quickly put my shoes on and gathered my things. I ran along the shadows looking for a ribbed 48'. about ten cars back I found it and hopped in the bucket. So excited. I couldn't sleep, at first.

I had a pretty good idea where this train was headed. I'd been watching the tracks as they've been following historic route 66. If I was lucky I could ride this train all the way to Chicago.

I woke up just before the sun. We were zipping along side of I-40 so I could read the signs. We were 48 miles passed flagstaff by day break.

This train didn't stop as often as I thought it would. By noon the sun was cooking me. When I got on the train I was half asleep and forgot to consider food and water, two things I had little of. On my water I sipped sparingly. Around dusk I consumed my one and only granola bar.

As you can imagine there isn't much to do on a freight train, except look around, which I had to do cautiously. I doubt anyone would stop a train on my account, but I played it safe and slept most the day.

Around eight we creped into a massive rail yard. I could hear the sputtering of propane powered vehicles moving around my now parked train. We must have been there for an hour. I sat petrified the entire time. When the train finally took off I let out an almost ecstatic sigh of relief. When I thought we had cleared the yard I got up to stretch my legs. I don't know how you miss a parked train, but I did.

I saw a worker out of the corner of my eye, and before I knew it, I was hit in the head with a rock, I turned to see the thrower in a flannel shirt and an orange trucker cap yelling at me in anger shaking his fist.

My train stopped shortly after that little incident. I didn't think much of it. Trains stop just outside of yards all the time. I sat back down and checked my voice mail while I waited to get moving again. By now it's dark and I see some headlights and here the crunching of gravel getting closer. Now that seemed a little unusual. When I heard the slam of a car door I knew I was done for, but I continued to hide, just delaying the inevitable at this point.

Lowrance tapped on my car with his flashlight and ordered me to come on out. Which I did. Once I got off the train Lowrance Williams, the BNSF employed railroad officer, took more of a concerned roll than he did a disciplinary roll. I tried to act like I was lost, which was kinda true, to invoke a little sympathy. “Look man, I'm just trying to got home” I pleaded. He looked at my ID, “A Corn Husker eh? Well what the hell are ya doing way the fuck out here? This is dangerous business. We got bandits coming through here you know?” Apparently BNSF has been having problems with Mexican gangs breaking into containers and steeling the contents. Lowrance was surprised that I still had all my gear and even more surprised that he's the first person I've seen on over twenty four hours.

“Now I'm not gonna take you to jail, or write you a ticket, thought I should probably at least do that. How bout I write you a warning?” he asked rhetorically. I hopped into the passenger seat of his SUV as wrote the warning ticket. After I signed it he drove me to the interstate and we talked about trains.

Turns out I was a bit off coarse, I was 30 miles south of I-40 in Belen, New Mexico. Off I-25. I was right though, that train I was on was bound for Chicago, and if I didn't mind not eating for two more days I could have made it. Truth is I'm a little glad he nabbed me. I'm not sure if I wouldn't have been crazy enough to stick it out.

Lowrance dropped me off in a Wal-Mart parking lot a quarter mile from the interstate. We stood leaned against the hood of his car and talked for a few minutes more, continuing our conversation about trains and bandits, how it ain't like the old day. But what is?

Roadside Sage

2006-09-01T00:27:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure where I'm going exactly but I've been in a hurry to get there. Since I took off south from Delano I've been spending the entire light of day on the shoulder, and the dark of night in the ditches close by. I've been needlessly stressing out, wearing myself down. I've been pushing toward Flagstaff for no reason other than to get there.

I landed in Kingman Arizona to find my exit occupied by an old tramp. I can't stand being in the queue behind an old timer, they take forever to get rides. I'm just 150 miles from Flagstaff and I still have five hours of light left. I can't do anything but wait. I hustled into a hotel to use their free wi-fi to kill time. Then I went to Burger King, sipped on a soda for about an hour. After about two hours I went to the ramp to talk to him. Usually when I try to talk to a tramp on an exit they're short and cold. The first thing Randy yelled to me when I was in shouting distance was “ It's not how much traffic, but who's in the traffic!” then he slapped his knees with both his hands. He was referring to the high volume of vehicles passing us as I walked up the ramp. You don't need a lot of cars to get a ride, just one.

Randy had been on the exit for about three hours. He didn't mind my company on the ramp, he wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. He said he was going to Flagstaff, or maybe Albuquerque. He didn't know. “I'm a Bum!” he exclaimed with pride. He mustered up fifty bucks yesterday panhandling. Spent it on a motel room the previous night, a forty of malt liquor, some tobacco, a lottery ticket, and a soda. “Now I'm broke again!” and he laughs. We talked for a short while before I hand him his ramp back. I went over to panhandle at the off-ramp while keeping an I on the on-ramp.

While I stood collecting donations it dawned on me that I had no reason to push myself so hard to Flagstaff. Randy was taking it easy, “one day at a time”. Kingman, might as well be my goal for the day. I should chill out, maybe even spend an extra day here, bumming as it were. I not sure where I went wrong. Why I got myself into such a rush.

On the ramp sat Randy . If he didn't get a ride, he wasn't out anything. He could sit and wait till he got the ride he needed, the ride to Flagstaff. Hitching sometimes requires the patience of a shramana. The patience of a tramp.

Free Enterprise

2006-08-30T00:10:00.000-05:00

Keith and I

I justified purchasing a Greyhound ticket to Sacramento from San Francisco because it was a mere $16.50. Hitchhiking out of a big city and into another in such close proximity can take hours upon hours. I was feeling lazy.

Once in Sacramento I called my long time friend from high school, Ben Harvey. Ben had been relocated from San Jose to Sacramento for the purpose of opening a new store for the company he works for. He sells and repairs watches at the Arden Fair Mall in North Sac. He was working when I arrived.

Also in Sacramento was Keith Lowell. I had never met Keith in person. Our only interaction had been through Myspace. I first learned of Keith's work last summer when I did a Google search for “pan handling” or something to the same effect. He has made a name for himself, both on the internet and in the Sacramento area, by dressing up in a variety of costumes and standing on freeway off-ramps panhandling with quirky signs. One of the more memorable is the Banana suit with a sign that reads, “I'm a Banana, Give me Money” in smaller print below you and read the quintessential “God Bless”.

Keith started the project to test the popular myth that suggests panhandlers are, or can be, scam artists raking in a sizable income. Whether or not he has come to any solid conclusions about the myth I don't know. What I do know, is that he has a mountain of DV tapes filled with action footage and interviews. When Ben and I visited Keith at is downtown apartment he, and his friend John, were in the process of weeding out undesirable tape. A documentary about the project has been in the works since June of 05'. It's been slow going mostly because Keith has himself spread thinly over about nine projects, which include: a couple of books he's been writing, a comedy act, and a full time job.

Because of obligations I have in Omaha I have only a practical month left on the road before I need to buckle down for a month or two. Having to be back in Nebraska has created some unanticipated internal tension. Staying with Ben in his two bedroom apartment has been a blast. I would have loved to stay in Sacramento quite a bit longer, but I still have friends I would like to visit in LA and San Diego before the summer is over. I was seriously considering hanging around for the rest of the month. I even picked up and filled out a job application for a Greek restaurant at the mall, “Cafe Europa.” A month is a short time if you really think about it.

I took a local bus down to Laguna and planted a spot next to the Apple Computer call center next to I-5. I eventually decided that four days of Sacramento was enough. So to So-Cal I go. I caught my first ride a lot sooner than I expected, it was a good chunk of road to boot. By days end I was struggling to get to Bakersfield at an exit in Delano. The kid who dropped me off was sporting a pistol in his lap the entire 30 miles we rode. The gun, the kilo of coke in the back seat, and the gangster rap made Hector one of my more intimidating drivers.

At the Pioneer road side diner of exit 54, I made some phone calls. I called my friend Keith, from Buffalo now residing in San Diego, to let him know I was still on my way and I'll be arriving in two days. Keith had Myspaced me early that day, but unfortunately I was on the road and unable to check my messages. Turns out he was on his way to Portland, somewhat spur-of-the-moment. So he obviously wasn't going to be in town. So went out the window the only plan I had conceived at this point.

Over a plate of overpriced home fries I studied a map of the states looking for the best way to get anywhere from Delano, which is situated in the middle of route 99. 142 miles north east of LA.

Ben

Big Road, Lots of Signs

2006-08-26T16:45:00.000-05:00

Jim

I spent about four nights in Seattle at my Uncle Jim's on the hill in Queen Anne. I stopped by to visit him in May last year on my way to Montana. His place hadn't changed a bit since last I passed. With Jim things were relatively low key, relaxed, cool. I'd like to consider him my link to a time when things were just that. That's not to say the man is living in the past, but he embodies the spirit I wish more people had today. You won't find a microwave in his kitchen, or anything but condiments in his fridge. He took me down to The Shanty, a little breakfast place where everyone knows his name and his credit's good.

When it came time to leave He drove me to a ramp where my luck wasn't so good, Well, so good as far as hitching goes. I was standing on the ramp when a man who I assume was homeless approached me with some “inside information” about the bus systems. Apparently right in front of where I was hitching was the stop for the 511, which goes downtown, where I can take the 594, which goes to Tacoma, which stops at a park-and-ride where I can take the 620 to Olympia. Collectively the ride costs $4 and takes a little over two hours on a Sunday.

The bus let me off right next to the Capital building, which isn't too far of a walk to I-5. The exit where I stood was a little precarious. There was plenty of room to pull over, but i wondered if they could see me as they rounded the corner. I prepared myself for a long wait, half expecting to spend the night in Olympia.

I was only standing before the sparse, high speed traffic for a little over an hour when an 06' Jetta picked me up and took me to Portland. I didn't catch the driver's name. He was effeminate and talkative. His head was filled with liberal ideas I've herd a thousand times before, and I'm sure they were ideas he had expressed many times before, but he talked to me as though they were revelations, or as if he had been waiting so long for an ear to listen to them. People call him a yuppie, but he didn't understand why. It seemed obvious to me why one might confuse him as such, what with his frosted hair, North Face Jacket and fancy V-Dub. “Oh my god! Look at their little train station. Oh that's quaint, it has awnings. It kinda looks like a country club. Doesn't that look like a country club?”

Audio Clip

He dropped me off in Downtown, then went to look for a hotel room for the night. I called a couch surfer I had e-mailed wile I was in Seattle. Fortunately for me he answered, and was able to host.

Benjamin gave me fairly good directions to his house, within a half hour I was on his door step ringing the bell. Up stairs Ben was cooking sausages in a frying pan with some apples, a German dish with a German name. As a Chef, Ben is one of the few and fortunate people who love their job. He's 29 and has been in the kitchen for 12 years.

Zoey, his girlfriend and house mate, was waiting tables at an Italian restaurant in Oswego Lake. We waited for her at, The Nest, a bar up the street on NE Alberta. I was, for whatever reason fascinated by the fact Benjamin was a chef. I asked lot's of questions to keep him talking. There was something great about the way he articulated. Ben's been playing Dungeons and Dragons all his life. A game that, if you're good, can fine tune your imagination I suppose. He was quick, sharp, and very descriptive.

After Zoey Arrived at the bar we took off for the Kennedy Night School, an old elementary school that had been converted to a bar, restaurant, movie theater, and to a certain degree, a hotel. The three of us chatted some more over a basket of tots before retiring back at the apartment. My plan called simply for one night in Portland. However, Ben insisted that I stay at least a full day.

Ben had to work early the next morning. Zoey and I walked up the street to a place called Vita Cafe, A lovely little Cafe where you can find vegan mac and cheese. Zoey was small and full of zip. She had recently been at the receiving end of work related drama and didn't want to concern me with the details, but couldn't resist. I don't mind hearing the trivial pains of others. It makes me feel fortunate that my worries are few.

Self, Zoey, Ben

My way out of Portland was similar to my way out of Seattle. Take the 8 to the 10 to the 19 to the MAX to the 76, The free bus to Wilsonville to the dollar bus to Salem. I was riding on the Salem transit to the south side of town when I struck up a conversation with a middle aged woman, I wanted to confirm I was on the right bus. She was warm and inquisitive. She was headed to the Wal-Mart where she parks her car before commuting to work. It's the end of the work day and she's on her way home about 12 miles south on Ankeny Hill rd. I took her ride offer.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm not a masochist. Wearing flip-flops I set out for the next exit about two miles away. I have about two or three hours of daylight left and I would like to get to Corvallis by days end. My shoes are thin and offer little protection from the sharp gravel biting at my heal.

Looking at the pending sunset I gave up hope of a ride for the night. I was walking to a freeway rest stop a mile up the road looking forward to a relaxing night by the vending machine lights. Sometimes it seems a little hopelessness is all it takes to get a ride, just as I had settled into my thoughts, a rusty VW rabbit pickup came to a rapid halt just as he passed me.

Josh was a 27 year old veteran convinced that 9-11 was an inside job. He seemed obsessed with the idea. He was on his way to Eugene but was kind enough to take me twenty miles out of his way to Corvallis.

Once there, I called my friend Teal. Teal Lived in Omaha up until late July when she left to go work on her aunt and uncle's farm 15 miles outside Corvallis. I stayed with Teal for a couple nights on the secluded farm helping out a little with chores. Teal for the most part has been living in complete solitude. For the past week she had been clearing sticks and branches from a seemingly infinite hazelnut grove all by herself. She maintains that the time alone and away has been good for her wellbeing. I'm tempted to agree, she certainly seemed well.

Teal

Cam, Teal's uncle, drove me to Albany and left me on the exit as he was on his way to work. San Francisco was 570 miles from where I stood. I remembered last summer when I hitched from SF to Seattle in two days. I remembered that, hoping to get to my friend Cat's by the end of the day, but this didn't happen. A string of short rides led me to Cottage Grove, just south of Eugene. It was here I got a ride from an early Honda Accord hatchback stuffed with four crusty gutter kids returning to Garberville CA from Mutant Fest, which I guess is somewhere in Oregon.

I took this ride for my lucky break and called my friends in San Francisco to alert them to my arrival. I expected to be there that night. I forgot, however, to take into account that I was riding with gutters. In all my experience traveling, gutter punks are some of the least motivated drivers, and seldom have money for gas. The frequent stopping to panhandle and window shop at head-shops started to wear on me. They stopped in Arcata to sell or trade some of their AMT for weed or cash. They expected the pit stop to last about two hours, which to me mint we were probably there for the remainder of day light.

I was hell bent on getting to the city tonight, so I grabbed my gear, said my goodbyes and headed for the highway, 101. At the 101 freeway on-ramp I had some competition, a hitcher who looked in his late thirties was sitting on his bag waving his thumb in the air like a madman. “great” I thought to myself, “ this guy's gonna be here all night if he continues to carry himself in this way”

Some people just don't know how to hitch. If you ask me presentability is key to scoring a ride. Sitting on your bag with your long hair spilling out of your tattered baseball cap, waving your thumb like an angry fist is just bad form.

I sat across the intersection watching and waiting. As he got up to leave i figured he'd given up, so I walked toward the ramp and met him halfway with a conversation. I wasn't surprised to learn he had been there all day. I would have given him some friendly advice on how to carry yourself on the ramp if I didn't think he'd be offended. Within ten minutes of standing straight, making eye contact, and thinking of fond memories that made me smile I got a lift from a couple of medical potheads on their way to Eureka, shortly after that I got a ride to Rio Dell.

The sun had sunk behind the hills, darkness was about an hour away. I didn't leave the highway, but I started looking for a cozy place in the ditches to lay my head. Nothing was around, except for redwoods and a lumber yard. I had my thumb in the air, but I was so lost in the clouds I didn't notice, at first, the Xterra that had pulled over, and came to a complete stop, about two hundred feet in front of me.

The Asian guy at the wheel introduced himself as Sammy. He was on his way back home to Phoenix. He had just spent a week hiking around Mt. Shasta, and recommended that I go there sometime. On this section of 101, the highway moves inland a little, away from the coast. Sammy was hell bent on seeing the sunset over the ocean. When 101 splits with 1, we took route 1, a shoulderless road, well shaded by the giant redwoods. Sammy took to bends in the road with speed. The wheels of his truck squealed as we moved up and down the mountains. I got car sick, which I don't think has ever happened to me before. All the anxious driving didn't pay off, by the time we got to the coast the sun had set. We pulled over for a moment. When we returned to the road Sammy slowed his speed. I was glad, I wasn't sure how much more of his driving I could take. By the time we got to Fort Bragg we stopped for the night to sleep. I left my gear in his SUV and jogged about a mile up the road to a Denny's where I made a few phone calls. I was finishing up my second refill of Dr. Pepper when it dawned on me that everything I owned was in a car with a complete stranger. Sammy talked about many philosophies that I associate with Buddhism. This is probably why i felt comfortable enough to leave all my possessions in his care. I was relieved to find his vehicle still parked at the beach.

I was sleeping in the passenger seat when I heard a tapping and awoke to a blinding eye-full of flood lights. It was the cops with a late night wake up call. Sleeping on the beach is prohibited in Fort Bragg so we moved down the line about ten miles where we found an inflated section of shoulder next to the water where we finished out the night.

I woke up in the morning to see Sammy balancing himself on a pile of boulders in front of the car. I assume he was practicing Tai Chi or something of the like. When he got back in he was energized and ready to hit the road. We moved down route 1 eating these cubes Sammy said were made out of date paste and nuts. They were delicious.

After we crossed the Golden Gate I had my eyes pealed for a good place to get dropped off. I had some general directions to get to my friend Cat's house. By chance I saw Geary Street. And had Sammy drop me there at 14^th ave. At last, San Francisco.

A Solid Foundation

2006-08-11T22:36:00.000-05:00

Click here to hear an audio clip of Keith

I got dropped off in Spokane by a lumberjack on his way to Portland Oregon to pick up some new saws. He was preaching doom and gloom the whole eighty miles we rolled together. An intelligent old timer, He's been preparing for the end times for about thirty years now. He expects the fall of western civilization within five years, give or take a few.

I wandered the streets of Spokane aimlessly, I didn't really know why I was here, why I didn't continue on to Seattle. I made a phone call to Chris, a kid who, last year, gave me a ride from Colfax to here. He was in the middle of band practice out in the valley when I called, he didn't expect to be in Spokane anytime that night.

I wandered over to the sound of drum and bass coming from a well lit park. Hippies were dancing, buying and selling Pipes, bongs, and Bob Marley tapestries in celebration of Hemp Fest 06'. It was at Hemp Fest where I received a call from Anastasia. She just got my note and was disappointed that she missed me by a few short hours. She was excited to tell me the details of her progress on her book, but her cell reception in the mountains is terrible, so I had a time understanding.

I found an Econo Lodge with free wi-fi. Most the time if you walk into a Hotel/Motel and ask them to use their wireless for a few minutes they'll let you sit in there lobby and plug away. Beats the hell out of squatting outside behind the dumpster draining the life out of your battery.

I couldn't get ahold of any Spokanians, couch surfers or otherwise. Around 11 I investigated further some viable roof tops I spotted as I wandered earlier. Fire escapes with roof access are my favorites, easy to climb once you grab hold of the levitating staircase. Not too difficult. I found a building being renovated, on the second floor an entire section where a chimney used to be was exposed, I crawled inside and fell asleep on the dusty floor.

I woke up later than I expected, luckily no one had come in to work on the renovation on this fine Monday morning. I didn't feel like crawling back out the hole and down the fire escape in the light of day with all the traffic around. So I just used the front door and walked out with confidence. I assumed some one would be by later to work on the place, so leaving the door unlocked behind me wouldn't be a big deal, at least thats how I justified it. It was probably a bad deal, karmatically speaking.

When I was here last year the city's on-ramps were under heaving construction so I had to walk a grip to find a decent hitching post. Same scenario this time. I walked west along what I thought was I-90 but turned out to be route 2, which was also a limited access highway. This set me back a few hours, and about 3 miles. When I finally found I-90 it was at exit 276. I rested my backpack on a light post littered with warning signs from hitchhikers past. “this ramp sucks the fat out of my ass” or “this ramp fucking blows, been here 6 hours, I'm outta here” were among the many. I stood there for about two and a half hours before I took the advice. Exit 272 was of course, four miles away. I walked down Sunset road, which ran parallel to 90, with hopes of better luck.

I walked down the hot, shoulderless, asphalt road in my three dollar flip-flops singing a song I was making up as I looked around at the golden, rolling landscape. I didn't even hear the Aerostar creep up next to me. It showed up out of the corner of my eye and startled me. I jumped in with the understanding that the goofy guy at the wheel was only headed to exit 272, which now was only a mile or so away. We did a lot of talking in that short distance. The first thing he commented on was my foot ware. I had a pair of shoes in my backpack, but I didn't tell him that, I just said I was broke. He was just coming from Home Depot. He's on his way to build some rebar cages for some footings. He's remodeling his house and offered to pay me for a couple days work. I declined with out giving the offer much thought as I got out of the van and headed for the exit. I watched the van pull into the shell station. “Why not take the job?” I thought to myself. After that subway sandwich I just had for lunch I'm down to $15. I walked over to the van and waited for the guy. He walked out with a case of Budweiser and a brick of ice. “I've reconsidered your offer” I told him.

His name was Keith. When we got to his place a couple miles away It wasn't what I expected. The house was old and run down. The out side was covered with tar paper, no siding. Inside was void of drywall and insulation, the floor was concrete and tools were all over the place. Keith took pride in the fact that it looked like a pawn shop, to him, there was something comforting about it.

We didn't get to work right away, “It's too hot out there” Keith said as he opened a beer. He liked to work a half hour at a time, then take a half hour break. He sat down on one of two chairs in the house then picked up a pair of surgical scissors with a roach at the end. He set in to explain his vision for the house. He trailed off a few times as things around the house grabbed his attention, but always came back to what he intended to do with the place. He must have repeated each point about 3-4 times.

Along the side of the house he showed me how to tie rebar then left me alone as he built the forms for the posts we were making. When were were done with that we when back inside for another beer and I listened to whatever was on his mind. Keith was a hard guy to group into any one category. At first the word conservative comes to mind because he uses the word “liberal” to describe anyone he doesn't like. He hates George Bush, Hunters (as in people who kill animals), Blacks, Liberals, gays, women (loves his girlfriend), and Seattle, where he was born and raised along side his brother Kert, who is not a racest.

It's hard to hate a guy for hating everyone, when he's so hospitable to you. I find myself in these situations a lot these days, and it's never easy. Later in the day as the sun went down I was feeling chummier so I engaged in a friendly debate, but my arguments were wasted. Keith is forty five and proudly set in his ways. It seemed, at times, that this drunkard had the mind of a child. I might have thought him a complete idiot if he wasn't such a skilled carpenter. Keith was really into mathematics, and loved to apply his math skills to the job at hand, or at least he did while I was in front of him.

After two days of work Keith had me drive him to Bellingham on the west side of Washington. He would have drove himself but the idea of being sober for that long didn't agree with him, and I was heading that way anyway. We left Medical Lake around noon. Keith was a big fan of geology and wanted to take the North Cascade Loop through the mountains, he gave me the lowdown on what was what concerning the rocks.

What was said to be a six hour drive turned out to be an all day event on the loop. We hit Bellingham around 11. Keith wanted to go to the bars so I drove him from one to the other and watched him embarrass himself as he tried to pick up college girls half his age. It was fun to watch for a little bit but then I realized how sad it was and decided to sit in the car with the dog, boots, and surf the net.

He came out to the van about an hour after I, pissed, hating liberal dikes. We parked the van by the docks where the ferry leaves for Alaska. I slept in the back while Keith finished his six pack of tall boys. I woke four hours later to see him still drinking. I drove him to a coffee shop and we got some coffee. The reason we're here is because his grandma is on her last leg of life. He wanted to see her before she kicks it.

I waited in the van while at the nursing home. He was inside showing his grandma photos of boots and pictures of the various chunks of land He and Kert have around the state of Washington. They have a goal of getting land with every kind of rock under it. Keith could talk for days so there was no telling how long I'd be waiting out here. I thought about driving to the Am/pm to get a soda. I pictured the look Keith would have on his face if he came out and saw that I had taken off with his van and dog. I thought about it, but he was back within the hour. I drove down to Seattle. Keith handed me a hundred bucks, thanked me for my work, told me he'd call me when he had more work.

I walked away and let out a sigh of relief. It's hard sometimes to listen to someone so deliberately ignorant for three days without losing my composure. I think I fared rather well. I'm in Seattle and $100 richer.

What Goes Around...

2006-08-10T02:10:00.000-05:00

I woke up in Shelby, on the roof of an H&R Block, Freezing. The temperature had dropped to forty degrees that night, somewhat unexpectedly. It was a Saturday morn, about 5:30, and the town was still very much asleep. I walked with my arms folded trying to stay warm. By the time I got to the north 15 ramp there were still few cars on the road and even fewer heading north. I'm only 34 miles from Canada so I feel a little anxious. I'm ready to be there.

No one is coming, so I start to walk. I don't know why I continue to do this. Every time I end up waring myself out. I walked about 1 mile, got a ride 15, walked 10, and by the time I got to Sunburst at 6pm I was bushed. Luckily a trucker from Sylvania felt sorry for me and took me the rest of the way to the border, then told me he would wait for me on the other side of customs.

I approached the immigration counter. As usual behind that counter I found the usual officers armed with their pompous attitudes ready to criticize and poke fun at my manner of travel. They asked their usual questions and I answered truthfully, which turned out to be a mistake. According to the border guard 25 dollars isn't enough to make it to Alaska on. He signed a few papers then sent me back to the US. When I come to the border on foot it's a 50-50 chance I'm gonna get turned away. Really it's a roll of the dice as to whether or not I'll get through. I wasn't too surprised by his decision. What sucks now is I've got no real way to get to Alaska. This changes my summer plans completely. I hitched back to the Country Skillet in Shelby to think things over. On the way I got a ride from a young buck who gave me boarder hopping advice, told me he'd be willing to help me get across illegally if I'd like. I thought about it hard, but by the time he dropped me off back at Sunburst I decided against boarder jumping. The adventure was there, but so was the risk of incarceration, and nothing bums me out more that incarceration.

From Sunburst I got a ride from a recovered alcoholic on his way to an AA meeting. We talked about work in the area. He offered me a job herding sheep. It sounded like an interesting enough job so I jotted down his number. I had a lot to think about over my plate of hash browns, 10pm and my first meal of the day.

By the time I finished my food the only real conclusion I had come to was that I needed not a decision, just a direction. West. I haven't been out west yet this year. I remember feeling disappointed that I wasn't going to make it out to San Fransisco, or San Diego this year. I'll leave in the morning.

I found a boarded up hotel once called “The Rainbow” near downtown next to the train tracks. I climbed up the gas line until I could reach the escape latter then got on the roof. I think this might be the tallest building in Shelby at three stories. I unrolled my sleeping bag and slept heavy in the cool on the fire damaged, extra crispy roof.

I slept in on sleepy Sunday. Waking up at 7am I didn't get on the road till about 8. My first ride of the day just happened to be my waitress at the Country Skillet the night before. She's on her way home to Cut Bank about 20 miles west. From here I got a ride a grip from Tim. A toothless man about to go fishing in Big Fork, He dropped me off near Kalispell. Tim's truck was out of control on the way we lost a muffler, and had to stop twice to refill the radiator with water. He didn't seem to mind the extra love his truck required, he had the quirks and the “special touches” down pat He should, he's only had the thing for 30 years.

A sweet hippie guy took me from once side of Kalispell to the other, where I drew my map to gather my bearings in a country store parking lot. It was here where Brian saw me and asked me where I was going. He was still in the intersection when I hopped in his big ol' pickup. On the way to Lakeside I learned a bit about the guy. Brian was in the area for the rodeo. He competed a couple of days ago and had a couple of days to kill before he competed again. He was the most depressed Cowboy I'd ever seen. He got kicked off a bronco in 2 seconds recently. “I'm getting too old for this shit” he confided. Brian's Fifty, he had a slow and deliberate way of speaking, like he just woke up. “Go get some food” he commanded to me as we walked into a gas station. I gathered up some chips and a Dr. Pepper. Brian was just wandering around Montana that morning, He took me about 9 miles down the road to Lakeside a town that just clears the sprawl of the growing town of Kalispell. I got out of his truck and he met me at the tailgate where I had my stuff. I thanked him for the ride, followed by a “sir”. He smiled, hit me on the shoulder... “The name's Brian, not sir”

My next ride was from a well maintained thirty-something mother in an 06 Jetta with a 7 year old sitting shotgun. I was honored to be the first hitchhiker she'd ever picked up but a little frightened by her driving as she pushed 110mph through the mountainous terrain.

I get four more rides and I'm Finally at St. Regis, the I-90 junction. I've been hitching two-lane's all day and I'm ready for the express. I looked at my map to get a grip on things once I got to the on ramp and I see that I was less than 20 miles east of Saltese Montana, home of Anastasia Romanov. I wondered what she was up too. My next ride was traveling to Coeur D' Alene but I had him drop me off on the Saltese exit.

I walked up to Ana's home and knocked on the door. I never thought I'd see this place again. I took a look around on the porch as I waited. To my surprise I saw my baseball cap, and my canteen that I had left here over a year ago were waiting for me on a coat hook next to the door. It was as if she was expecting me. A few minutes pass and I knocked on the door once more. She wasn't home. I grabbed a sheet from my note pad and left her a message taped to her door. I headed back to the highway and caught a ride to Spokane.

Down by the Train

2006-08-05T21:50:00.000-05:00

I spent the bulk of July roaming around the Midwest, Time is a wasting so I decided to head north while the weather's still good.

I took off from Omaha on I-29 on August 2^nd. Jane, my step mother took me as far north as she could, about 70 miles south of Sioux Falls. After that I got a quick and easy ride all the way to Fargo from an AKC lab breeder, who was also a used car dealer on his way to both an auto auction, and to the airport to fly a puppy to Portland Maine.

Danial, his name, Dropped me off at the crossroads of 29 and 94. From here I cut west, but not until the morning. I noticed a building under construction near my selected exit. I went over to check it out and found a semitrailer open and empty, It was here I spent the night.

I didn't sleep well, I got up around 5:30 to avoid running into any construction workers. I walked directly to the exit from there and stood for about three hours before anything worth mentioning happened. Walking from the west in my direction was a fellow hiker. He looked about my age and as he past I asked him if he knew the time. He stopped, then answered with a question, “why?”

I didn't answer, moving on to the next question, I asked where he was heading.

Minot, a place I've never herd of. I explained to him that I had been at this exit all day, and if my experience in North Dakota is similar to the experience I had last year, I was going to be here a while.

He continued on his way to the truck stop but returned again about a half hour later. He proposed that we hitch together to Minot, he and his friend billy have plans to ketch a train out to Glacier national park from there. I was invited to come along.

Dan and I chatted for a bit, got to know each other a little before we got our first ride as a team. They took us about 20 miles west, letting us out at a gas station. As we unloaded our gear Dan realized he made the mistake of leaving his tent at the ramp in Fargo. He had to go back and get it.

I got a ride by myself to Bismarck from an openly gay trucker who, during the whole stretch, tried to convince me to come home with him. Harmless, but annoying. In Bismarck I waited for Dan. I killed time by panhandling, then soaking up the cool grocery store air.

Four hours pass and Dan Finally shows. We walk to the edge of town next to Wal-Mart. Hitching with two makes the time go faster, which is good because the waits can be longer. We sat for about 2 hours, taking turns thumbing while we talked.

Two rides later we make it to Minot, Billy picks us up from the gas station next to the Wal-Mart and takes us to his house where he lives with his mother and her boyfriend.

Billy Grew up in this house located across the street from famous Hi-Line railroad. As a result he has an extensive knowledge of the schedules and routes, and has become a frequent train rider. At his house I ate some Boca and soy ice cream, I watched as Billy ran around collecting his things for the trip to Glacier park. The train was coming soon.

You could hear the train coming from a mile away, blowing it's loud and lonesome whistle. We hid behind a steel building waiting for the train to make a complete stop. The train was loaded with 48 foot intermodal's. We ran towards the cars with all our gear, a six pack of PBR, and a box of wine, climbed in to the one closest to us and not long after the train picked up speed.

This was the start of my first train hopping adventure. It felt amazing. I sat in awe as the light pollution faded away to unveil a blanket of stars. If I had seen brighter stars, I couldn't remember when.

Eventually we got tired of sitting out in the open, and the car we were on didn't have a bucket. Billy when over to the container to see if we could get in it, and we could. The unit was completely empty. We stashed our gear in side, and I took an 8 hour nap. I woke up at eight in the morn to find myself in Glasgow, Montana. Here we got out to explore, and find some food. Behind the Albertson's Billy located plenty of grub in the dumpster out back. 3 pineapples, 6 tomatoes, 3 white peaches, peppers and a sack of potatoes. We ate the pineapples and peaches, then saved the rest for later.

While we ate we missed our train, but it wasn't long before we found another that would take us all to Havre. This train was less comfortable than the first, but thats was alright seeing how we didn't need to sleep. By this time we're all sunburned and exhausted. The day was hot and the train was so loud, after about 15 hours on a train I was about done.

Once we got to Havre a switch man saw us get off the train. He called the cop's and a sheriff came as we were cooking up some taters and corn. She was a nice enough lady and I could see she empathized with our dilemma, but still insisted that the law's the law and if we trespassed on BNSF's property again she'll half to send us to jail.

I'm not sure what happened to Dan and Billy after that. I didn't stick around to eat the potato's. I simply told them there's no way 3 gutter looking kids like our selfs are gonna find a ride together, and sense we were parting ways in a hundred miles anyway, goodbyes are in order. We passed around high fives agreed to keep in touch then I walked towards the highway.

I didn't even make it to the edge of town before I caught a lift to Shelby by another guy named Dan. He was going to a town called Sunburst 8 miles from the Canadian border. I would have gone with him if it was earlier in the day but I was hungry and there's no food in Sunburst. Shelby's only 250 miles from Calgary and shouldn't be too hard to hitch. (knock on wood).

Billy and Dan cooking taters

I Like Giants.

2006-07-02T19:33:00.000-05:00

Once I got to Chicago I met up with Dana Weiss. She just moved from Omaha a little less than a month prior to my visit. She's rooming with a good friend of ours, Jackie Kilmer who has been living here for many years now. Dana and I dated for about six years, we broke up over the phone a few months after I took off to hitch the country last year. I was in Lansing Michigan when she called me. The reality of the break up didn't sink in until I settled in Omaha over the winter months. Occupying the same city and the same group of friends turned out to be a bigger challenge than I anticipated. I spent this time in a rather pathetic state of depression. I didn't start recovering till the turn of the new year. Then, I started to consider the value of a vagabonding life style. A relationship such as the one Dana and I had would crumble, as it did, if I were to continue wander-lusting. The reason our partnership failed in the first place was because neither one of us were happy with our lives as they were.

I consider Dana to be my closest friend. Seeing her in Chicago was wonderful. The foundation we had spent years building together was still there. Never an awkward moment of silence, we sat, we walked around old Chicago like good friends and I felt as though things were as they should be. For the first time we got drunk together. We stayed up all night and listened to each other, and each other's music. It was a hell of a time.

Rarely to lovers maintain this kind of harmony after their relationships end. I feel privileged to have a friendship such as this. This was the bulk of my thought while in the biggest of the little cities.

Dana by the Chicago River

Road House

2006-06-24T19:13:00.000-05:00

My previous day of exertion caught up with me when I awoke the next morning. I was thoroughly exhausted. I was on I-90 a mile away from the PA line and my exit was empty. I mean empty. I waited for three hours and saw about ten big trucks and five cars. It was depressing. I walked back the way I came from the previous night, back to 20. I walked over the state border and a mile into Pennsylvania I got to another I-90 junction and waited. I was tired. I looked around and remember this exit. This is the exit where Jon Simon and Keith Hessian bought the fireworks they used to blow up their piano last year. I remember this tree where I sat with Big Worm while she smoked a smoke. We were on our way to the Rainbow Gathering then, just as I am now. I guess there are only so many places you can get off the interstate in this country. How amazing it is that I find the same ones.

This exit was good. I soon got a ride to Erie, then a ride to Ohio, and before I knew it I was in Cleveland. A lawyer frustrated with his life, and the judicial system, dropped me off at Euclid and Ford, next to Little Italy. I contacted a house of couch surfers when I was in Buffalo. I called them once I arrived and waited at the Falafel cafe right on the corner there.

The two members of the house I spent the most time with were Yaya and Nathan. Both were students of Case Western Reserve University. Yaya was a Chinese citizen who grew up in Des Moines, IA. Nathan grew up just outside Cleveland in a small, quiet suburb. They just moved to the city a year ago and will be starting their sophomore year. They were young.

We walked to a cafe, the three of us, and got to know one another a bit more. As we drank our soda we were joined by Xenia. Xenia was reading a book, Programing The Universe, she invited us to dinner. She was preparing a delicious curry vegetable dish. We provided the sticky rice and half of the fruit salad to be joined with Xenia's half once we finished preparing the rice. We finished dinner then socialized while watching “Road House” starring Patrick Swayze.

I slept at “Ford”, Yaya and Nathan's home. I woke up at six the next morning to catch a Mega Bus. Everyone was still sleeping, so I exited quietly.

The Mega Bus is a relatively inexpensive way to get to, and from, Chicago from neighboring cities such as Cleveland. The bus stop is a simple sign fastened to a light post that reads “megabus.com”. I arrived at the stop at 8, the bus leaves at 8:30. Now I thought, because they don't really have any human occupied depots, I could buy a ticket from the driver as you can with a city bus. I found when the bus arrived that this wasn't the case. The only way to get a Mega Bus ticket is to buy one with a credit card online at least two hours before the bus is scheduled. This is frustrating. Here I am standing outside a bus thats going where I need to go with only five passengers on board, I have money in hand ready to pay the fare. I'm communicating my desires to the bus driver effectively, but he refuses to take my money in exchange for a ride. The more I thought about it the more frustrated I became. It breaks down to a lack of trust really, and that makes me sad.

I sat in Tower City, which is an amazing place. They have free Internet there so I went online and got a Mega Bus ticket to Chicago for five o'clock. They wanted you to print out the ticket, but I just wrote down the verification number and crossed my fingers.

Tower City had a cinema so to kill time I checked out Nacho Libre. I enjoyed the movie thoroughly and considered it a fine choice over The Lake House.

Tower City shoots into the sky and is one of the more distinct pieces of architecture in Cleveland, complete with lodging, dining, entertainment, and offices. It's feasible to live out your days in such a place, and I fantasized about just that. A trick of the road it to make wherever you are your new home. It helps in times of waiting to look around, as if you're in the wilderness, and see what you can use to build a new life. “I once was lost, but now I'm home.”

I was relieved when the bus came and I got on with little difficulty. I enjoyed Cleveland but I was so looking forward to Chicago.

Where The Buffalonians Roam

2006-06-23T17:50:00.000-05:00

Brian, Jon's roommate, is a seventh grade teacher. The house gathers 'round a stack of final exams on an exciting Sunday night.

Buffalo New York. I was here last year. I took a Greyhound from Cleveland because I'd been walking all day, the day before, and had blisters on my feet. I was sore. I had no intention of staying in Buffalo longer than it took to find a hospitable on ramp. I remember going to the library directly after getting off the bus to look up some events on Myspace. There was some band, I don't remember the name, playing at a pub called Merlin's on Elmwood ave. They sounded all right, but what interested me was that they were headed to Maryland directly after they left Buffalo. I've only ever asked a traveling musician for a ride once before. It ended in rejection so I've been reluctant to try again. I hoped they're as modest as there music sounded. I proceeded to Elmwood by mass transit.

I found Merlin's right quick but the show didn't start till late and it was still early. I walked up the street and thats when a curly hared girl who's fashion didn't seem to fit comfortably into any stereotype, at least not at first glance, shouted at me from her porch. That shout led into conversation, and within an hour I had a couch to sleep on. The rest is history.

Jon Simon is one of the four people who took me in last year. Today he's the only one still in Buffalo. Keith moved down to San Diego, Big worm is presumed mother and wife to a guy she met in Texas, and Brad, well I don't know what happened to Brad.

Jon's reception was as good as I could have hoped for. He was doing a video project for a band called Lazlo at a bar in downtown Buffalo. After we went back to his new place, which was next door to the place he lived last summer, we caught up on the year passed.

I feel comfortable in Buffalo. A feeling a contribute souly to the Elmwood residents. I've only really known Jon Simon for a total of twelve days, but I felt reunited with an old chum from way back when. Thats how I feel about being back in the old neighborhood as well. It's a feeling of home.

Home is a big word to someone like myself. When you're stationary, you seldom think about the word conceptually. What home is seems to be evident. On the road I think about home, the word, quite often.

I don't much care for houses, nor do I feel at home in them. I much prefer to think of home as a feeling. When you're on the road side, a feeling makes more since than an actual place. When I was a kid with my family on road trips I remember seeing the Woodman Tower of Omaha as we came into town. I remember getting excited and warm when I saw the skyline, I still get excited and warm when I see it. Back then this was a feeling unique to my home town. Now I find this feeling in most places where I've made connections. Buffalo, Fort Dodge, Gatherings, and even the road itself feel like home to me.

Unfortunately my time is tight this time around. I have a wedding to attend on the eighth of July and I still have many friends and many miles to get on to before then. I would like to hang around this town for much longer to sit on Jon's porch and listen to music in the shade while the many interesting people walk or ride their bikes by on the warm sunny days, but there just isn't enough time.

After two nights stay Jon drove me an hour south west of the city about 30 miles from the Pennsylvania border. We ate lunch at a Taco Bell before he turned back around and headed for work.

I-90 is the New York Thruway at Dunkirk, where Jon dropped me off. I don't like toll ways because Drivers going both east and west enter through the same road. I have to make a sign and signs can be confusing to drivers. If I write “Cleveland” people may think I'm only interested in a ride all the way to Cleveland and wont pick me up as a result. Usually I write my direction of travel, “West” in this case. I waited at the entrance for about three hours before I sought out another route. I hopped the barrier by the overpass then proceeded to walk down the thruway. This, as you may know, is illegal, but I'm not worried about it. I didn't bother sticking out my thumb cause I found the walk enjoyable. I walked about 6 miles before the fuzz showed up. A state trooper. He was a huge black guy who was as kind as could be, and seemed more concerned about my welfare than my being on the freeway illegally. He took me back 6 miles to the exit I started from and I watched in agony as my hard walking proved in vane.

I walked down to Route 5 a couple of miles down the road. I caught a ride soon after from a couple of landscapers on there way home, only about 5 miles away. They thought I'd have better luck catching a ride off Route 20, so they took me that way, then dropped me off. On 20 I got a ride from a thug life youngster in a teal cavalier heading ten miles up the road, he was on his way home from work, where he cleans carpet. That ride put me about 15 miles from the PA border. I started walking towards west down 20 and did so until it got dark. I covered about 12 miles on foot. Route 20 runs parallel with I-90 and when I got to the state line I walked over to it. Ripley's state line 24 Truck stop was equipped with a family restaurant where I got a huge basket of fries for 1.60 while I watched Carolina take the Stanly Cup on TV.

I was a little disappointed by my lack of mileage but I couldn't be too upset. I saw some beautiful country as I walked through land rich in vineyards, resting under cherry trees and eating their fruit. I felt free. My foot pain was real and had to be respected. What miles I did make, felt earned, and truly mine.

I slept sheltered by a porte-cochere of an abandoned road side motel called The Colonial Squire. I slept like a baby in the cool damp air that night.

Vacancy

2:1

2006-06-18T08:54:00.000-05:00

Three solid rides got me to Toronto from Montreal. I hadn't planed on spending the night in Toronto. I was hoping I would not quite make it, or perhaps, get a little further down the road. My last ride, two sketchy electronic sales men, dropped me off at a metro station on the east side of Toronto. The time was about 18:00 and even though I know I had enough time to get to the west side of the city I decided to stay. I got on the subway and headed towards what looked like the center of town. There was no ryme or reason to which stop I got off, so I picked a name I thought sounded good then got off. There were a bunch of little stores on this stop, one of which was a Asian vegetarian restaurant called the Happy Buddha. I was hungry so I stopped. The food was expensive but I didn't mind. I whipped out my computer and to my surprise was able to connect to the Internet. I called Casey in Montreal, Julie said she knew some folks in Toronto and said I could call if I needed a place to stay. I did. Casey gave me the name and phone number of one Ryan Pinder. I called him and he gave me his coordinates. He was having a drink with another couch surfer from Amsterdam, his mother, and his sister at The Drake Hotel on Queen. I took a street car in that direction and arrive in no time. Ryan was cool, he was loud, but not obnoxious. Whatever I offered up for conversation he took and ran with. He knew a couple things about Omaha, where I'm from, and that was enough to bridge the conversation back to something he understood, and understood well. Pat Van Hoof was the fellow from the Netherlands, He's passing through Toronto as he continues his circumnavigation of the northern hemisphere. Pat was a joy to talk with. Ryan's mother and sister were in town for a couple days visit from Calgary and were staying at a hotel. After drinks Ryan's family vanished leaving the three of us to explore the night.

Ryan has a friend who's name I never learned from Russia who was hosting three surfers from Great Britain. We met up with her at a martini bar where I was the recipient of a Heineken compliments of Ryan. In loud places such as this I tent to prefer sitting inside and think about the situation at hand, rather than shout over the music and the chatter around me, which probably makes me look a little shy or antisocial. Pat gave me nudged and attempted to include me in the conversation.

After the bar we went a falafel joint and got some 3.50 wraps. They were delicious. We continued to walk around absorbing the night. I still had my pack, heavy, and I was getting tired. Eventually we when to Ryan's place to plan the rest of the night but just ended up staying in and passed the hat around the back yard.

Next day we went to a bar to watch Netherlands beat Côte d'Ivoire 2:1 with Mom and Sis. I took off shortly after on a commuter bus to Hamilton. I chilled in Hamilton for a short while, I was trying to decide weather I should hitch east or west from here. I went back and fourth for two hours. I needed to make a decision quick, I didn't have too much day left. I tried to get a hold of my friend, Jon Simon, in Buffalo, that didn't work so I grabbed a local bus ticket to the west end of town and got on the 403 on ramp. As soon as I got to the ramp my phone started buzzing in my pocket. Jon Simon. He's still in Buffalo and would be please to have me as a guest.

I had twenty minutes to get back to the train station to catch a bus to Niagara.

Pat and Ryan watching the game.

The CSC

2006-06-16T19:41:00.000-05:00

I was in Boston recently visiting my friend Emily when I received an automated email from the administration of Couchsurfing.com. The email was a request for supporting donations for the Couch Surfing Collective. I read the email and found myself interested. I've been a huge fan of the project sense I learned about it from a ride last year in Port Smith New Hampshire. Now that Couch Surfing has a temporary headquarters in Montreal I decided to pay them a visit. I replied to the email requesting permission to stop by, they replied back with an invitation.

I hitched my way up the coast of New England then cut west on route 2 once I reached Waterville Maine. Then I headed north to Quebec on I-91 and crossed the border at the Derby Line. Now, I wouldn't say I was a bad kid growing up but I did walked a line of mischief that kept me close to the eyes of the law. This type of youthful and carefree behavior doesn't make for a clean record and has given me trouble while crossing the border in the past. Last time I attempted to cross was last summer in Sault Ste. Marie. I was denied admission because of an undisclosed criminal offense, that I was in fact found not to be guilty of. I returned to Omaha later that year and sorted things out with the Douglas County Court House, or so i thought. It seems I also have an undeclared third degree assault charge on my record. At the border you are guilty until proven innocent, I was told this by the immigration officer standing in front of me. I pleaded with her to let me into the country in a rather pathetic display of humility. I remembered at that moment every cop I had ever given a hard time for trying to talk me out of my fourth and fifth. “This is what I get” I thought to myself, “I've been a nice enough guy but not to the right people”. After an hour of discussing what I entered to to in Canada I started to get the feeling that she, the immigration officer, didn't want to turn me away, and was simply trying to assure herself that I wasn't going to make a fuss in the great white north. She finally let me across on the condition that I get my paper work sorted out before I attempt to cross again, because I will be denied.

I took my first steps in Quebec feeling both excited and upset. I'm 300 kilometers from Montreal and it's 14:00, I have an excellent chance of making it tonight. About a hour rolls by and I get my ride. A Romanian trucker on his way to Montreal. His English was great and I took him for a Quebecois. He dropped me off and I hunted for a metro stop so I could get a grip on the city. I called my CS Host to get directions to her house, she had to go rock climbing that night so she wouldn't be home till 22:00. This gave me plenty of time to check out the collective.

I only expected to spend about twenty minutes at the collective. I pictured a bunch of people enveloped in their work, huddled around computers, to busy for much more than a cup of joe. The Metro was really easy to figure out and I got to Saint-Denis st. in no time. I knocked on the door and was greeted by a busy Casey Fenton. He greeted me with a nod then continued talking on the phone. The door way opened into a flight of stares, I climb thinking my preconceptions had been confirmed but one I reached the top I was warmly greeted by table of six gathered around some raisin bagels and hummus. A couple more people sat on a couch and a few more were wandering about. I was introduced to everyone and invited to partake of the bagel.

The group seemed to be genuinely interested in my presence, that is to say, I didn't get the feeling they were simply trying to generate small talk in a effort to humor me, or make me feel welcomed. It seemed I had walked into a house, an apartment actually, of good-willed explorers, each seemed well traveled, but none seemed to be arrogant about it. I instantly picked up the good vibe they were throwing down. I felt good here.

I soon found out that all who were there when I arrived weren't all residents of the collective but other surfers who live in, or are visiting Montreal. After a couple of hours most the people left and I was in the company of the four core residents of the collective, Julienne Lottering, Jim Stone, Alex Goodman, and Casey Fenton.

Until now the admins of the Couch Surfing Project have been scattered across the globe. The function of the collective is to bring those admins, and others to one place to work on Couchsurfing.com 2.0, A more advanced upgraded version of the site. Of course this is all volunteer work, and the only funds supporting this project are from member donations. They were two weeks into the collective when I dropped in and had raised just under two grand, still pretty far from there eight thousand goal.

I spent the day at 5556 Saint Denis enjoying conversations with my new friends. I didn't notice the time and before I knew it, it was 22:00. I took the metro over to Andree's who was hosting me for the night. She spoke with a thick French accent that sounded wonderful over the phone. I arrived at her condo a little after 23:00. Andree had three cats, two with bizarre hair cuts that make them look cute and ridiculous. She lived alone, we talked for about a hour while she unfolded her couch, then made a salad for the next day. She was into rock climbing, so we talked about that. Recently I've developed a passion for buildering, but I'm a novice.

By the time I got to her place I was dead tired, I felt kinda bad that I passed out so soon after I showed up, then I woke up about a half hour before she went to work. I walked around Montreal, I ran into so American Gutters spanging downtown, on there way to Alaska. It's always good to see a few pucks in my opinion. I left my pack at the collective so I made my way back that way.

My plan was to leave Montreal that day, but the kids at the collective convinced me to stay another, which wasn't hard by any means. My second day gave me a better feel for their project and the people behind it. They were excited, which made me excited, something good was happening, a web site designed to bring people together was working, and it's about to get better. That was the vibe.

I left the next morning feeling good. I was on my way to Toronto.

Alex, Jim, Casey (on the computer), and Julie

Far from Graceland

2006-06-14T11:57:00.000-05:00

I had hitchhiked through Gorham, New Hampshire before but I barely remember it. last year I was here and a man with a boat on his roof dropped me off on the east end of town, I was on my way to Maine then. Hitching around Gorham is really easy. Because it's so close to the White Mountains a lot of people assume you're walking the trail and on your way to or from a trail. I was standing out side a trail entrance about fifteen miles outside of Gorham in Maine when an old lady in a brand new Avalanche gave me a ride there. I walked from one end of town to the other. I had barely got my pack off my shoulder when someone stopped. He could only take me to the top of the hill but he seemed to think I'd have better luck, so I hopped in. Getting in I got a strange sense of deja vu. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something about this guy, and the car was familiar. I looked around and thats when I saw it; Elvis Presley: The Patriot Saint of Rock and Roll, on his dashboard. Everything clicked and I exclaimed, “Holy Cow! you gave me a ride to Augusta last year!” He was a bit startled because I interrupted his anecdote. He paused for a moment then laughed, “oh yeah, you were the guy who wanted to hitchhike to all the capitals.” I forgot that I told him this, but quickly remember the conversation we had a year ago. As he dropped me off I was reeling in the magic of coincidence. I couldn't stop thinking about that plastic Elvis figure dressed up like a Catholic Saint, if he wouldn't have had that I probably wouldn't have remembered him. I tried to share my excitement with my next ride, a scholarly elder with his wife and son, but they didn't seem to share the same wonderment as I.

I spent all day hitching from Portland. I was trying to hitch from downtown Lunenburg in Vermont. Downtown consisted of a park with a gazebo, a fueling station and an Episcopalian church. The town was probably only about a thousand large so I worried not about walking to the edge of town. Most the traffic was local and the sun was setting soon. I made my goal for the day St. Johnsbury, just twenty miles away. I was standing on the shoulder watching the town do it's thing. At the gas station many locals were chatting with one another, an occasional glance in my direction. Kids road bicycles around me with looks of wonderment and curiosity. A young girl about the age of eight or nine approached me with a “hi”, then follow with a “why do you hold your thumb in the air?”

I'm not very good at explaining things to children so rather than running the risk of patronizing her I explained to her the magic of hitchhiking very matter-of-factly. As I did, two boys joined her in listening to my explanation. It has been my experience with kids that no answer to any question will result in quenching their curiosity, rather answers tend to feed them.

A beat up pickup truck hauling a recked intrepid stopped in the lane of traffic to converse with me. The two men inside were only going up the hill but invited me to cruse alone with them. I declined, so they handed me a beer then moved on. They returned again in a few hours without the car in tow. Honked and shouted. The day is getting late so I start to eye the gazebo in the town square as a potential spot to squat. The guys in the truck return to me again, this time with a dodge neon behind them. I could tell they were a little sauced but I didn't feel threatened. I hopped in the cab then Mike, the driver, shot down the road. The twelve pack of beer that was full a couple of hours ago was now empty. Mike veered off the highway two onto a dirt road called Old Baptist Hill, then, after a few miles, we moved down his muddy driveway.
Mikes place consisted of two trailer homes, three campers, and thirty six cars, thirty seven including the Neon. On the property was Miles mother, two sons, a brother, and a handful of nephews and there girlfriends. Mike had been smoking crack that day and was wound up, jumping from one thought to the next as he tried to get the car unloaded. I stayed at his place while they went out to get another. Mike was trying to collect one hundred cars because the man at the scrap yard agreed to pay him ten thousand if he could do it. I spent some time talking to his brother who just moved back to town from Haight Ashbury. He was an old school hippie who loved his weed, he was boasting about his son who just got his California medical marijuana growers license in Humboldt County. He was living in one of the campers out front and told me he intended to move further back into the woods.

Mike fried up some white potatoes a can of green beens for me and fed the others and himself venison. He came home with another case of beer, a couple of rocks, and an AMC Eagle. Mike had a lot of energy to joke around, but I'd been up since 4:30 that morning and was ready for bed by sun down.

I crashed on the couch in one of the mobile homes. I awoke the next morning to sounds of angry yelling, Mike was late for work and his ride got into some kind of conflict with his brother so he took off with out him. Mike was upset because of this, now he had to drive is own truck to work. It worked out good for me because Mike could now drop be off up the road a little ways.

Mike gave me his phone number and address, then told me if I ever needed anything in the future I could call him for help, He had my back.

Mike on the right, me on the left. Bros 4 life

Barriers: None.

2006-06-13T17:15:00.000-05:00

For fifteen bucks on a Greyhound you can get from Boston to Portland, Maine in two hours. I had no real reason for going to Portland but I find myself drawn to this place for some odd reason. I came here last year from Concord, New Hampshire on a one day hitch. Surprisingly I remembered where everything I saw last time was and I knew how to get around. I stuck around the Old Port district and tried to stay dry. I had kept in touch with a ride I got last year from Portsmith to Harrisburg who now lives just outside Portland. I gave Keith a call but he was on his way to Bangor for a date and didn't expect to be back in the area that night. He said he'd give me a call the next day and we could meet up.

That was cool with me. I didn't have much night left so I walked over to the city run shelter and grabbed a mat. The guy who did my intake was really cool, we ended up chatting for about an hour about his travels and mine. The intake form is long and almost pointless for someone who really doesn't need help from the system. As we talked he didn't even ask me the questions written down, but just said them out loud then filled them in with his own slightly humorous answers. Strengths: Living the good life. Barriers: None. And so on.

I don't really mind homeless shelters, in fact I think I enjoy them in a small way. This shelter didn't have any kind of anti drunk policy like some, so you get some stragglers that come in late and make a ruckus. It doesn't make for a good nights sleep but you do get your moneys worth.

Just a few blocks down is a soup kitchen that serves up three squares a day. I attended breakfast the next morning and drank my fill of orange juice from concentrate, some baked potato and a pile of succotash. I had my eye on a rowdy young dreaded anarchist who was throwing Bagel chucks and people who, I assume, were his friends. He showed up with some other brightly dressed kids who weren't as disruptive.

After breakfast I meandered up to one of the many squares in Portland and sat, watching people and waiting for Keith to give me a call. I wasn't in the Square for long before I saw the same Kids at the kitchen. They sat on the bench next to mine then engaged me in conversation. They were all locals in there late teens who claimed to be Anarchists. They were loud and obnoxious and were doing ridiculous activities in the name of chaos such as getting drunk and steeling bricks out of the side walk then hiding them in the bushes. The Bagel chucker, Eric, seemed to be the most attention starved. At one time a choir assembled in the Square to sing hymns. Eric, in the name of chaos, made a scene by shouting about Jesus being a fool or something, which prompted one of the choir members to stand on a rock and shout fire and brimstone at Eric and the rest of us. Eric then started pushing people and running around like a child. His green haired girlfriend Evangeline grabbed him by the hand and ran off, concerned the cops might show.

Here is a link to an audio clip of this. listen to the end.

I wandered around Portland some more and ran into some Gutter Kids with there packs on. They had only been in town for about 30 minutes when I saw them. Ryan and Max were their names and they had been ridding the trains, as Gutters often do. I shared a bag a miso soup with the two. They were just at Punk Fest in St. Louis on 6-6-06 and were riding up to Canada for reasons unknown.

Ryan and Max

I ended up hanging with the two until night fall, they were relatively low key and easier to talk to than the more rowdy anarchy party up the street. Ryan and Max had been drinking in the park for most of the day and I started to get the feeling Keith was never going to call me back. I ran to a general store up the street to get a 40 of Milwaukee's Best. I didn't have any cash on me so I had to use my card. I noticed more and more lately minimum purchase orders on credit card transactions at various merchants around. I found once at the counter that I needed to spend at least five dollars, I looked around and noticed the guy in line behind me also had a 40 oz. I grabbed the bottle out of his hand and said to the clerk “I'll get his beer too”. The total was now 3.84 but the clerk made the transaction anyway. The guy behind me was a little drunk and didn't realize I bought his beer for him and moved up in the queue as I walked out the door, leaving his drink on the counter. The clerk must have explained things to him because he ran after me when I was half a block up the street. He thanked me then offered me a place to drink my beer with he and his girl. We walked down the street some more then turned into an narrow alley way with only one entrance that opened up to a large square contained by the back end of buildings. Back there we sat and drank with a few others who live in one of the buildings. Most the conversation was about a “peoples free space” they were trying to organize for the kids in the Old Port community.

The kid I bought the beer for and his girlfriend.

Around 23:00 the beers were done so the party out back ended and everyone went there separate ways for the night. I stuck around the alley, I had been looking at the structures around me and thought I had found a fantastic spot to sleep for the night. I went over to an escape latter that was adjacent to some exposed natural gas piping leading to the roof next to it. I climbed them and was able to access about 4 buildings from there. I found a nice dry spot next to some air conditioner units with a good view of the port to unroll my bed.

View of Portland from my roof.

Coalification

2006-06-09T11:40:00.000-05:00

Hazleton

Commuter trains are relaxing, fast and are a relatively cheap way to travel. Leaving Fredericksburg I took the VRE to Washington at $8.35 for a one way. Once in DC I took the MARC to BWI for $6.00. I then took the Baltimore light rail from BWI to the northern most point, Hunt Vally for a $1.10. This put me about 50 miles south of Harrisburg PA which I was able to hitch successfully in less than two hours. This same distance on Amtrak is about $80. Just saying.

I didn't stop at Harrisburg though it was my goal for the day. I didn't expect to get there so soon. By the time I arrived it was only 16:00, leaving me plenty of light to continue a little further. If I had any luck I just might make it to Scranton.

Jeff, a heating and air man, just off work, was yielding to flowing traffic on the ramp when he caught a glimpse of me. He squinted at me, and I gave him a nod of a hello. With that he drove down the shoulder and waved for be to get in. When I opened the door Jeff made it clear that he didn't want any trouble. He had never picked up a hitchhiker before, “you had an honest face” he said when I asked why he made an exception.

Jeff dropped me off at his exit about twenty miles north of where he picked me up. It was a busy exit, with two truck stops and a travel plaza. Within 5 minutes I had another ride. This guy was a 70 something listing to the blue collar comedy on his Sirius radio. He was coming up from his winter home in Florida, on his way to his summer home in Pennsylvania. He had been years out of long island but you could tell thats where he was from by his heavy accent and the way he cussed like a sailor. His exit wasn't a particularly good one, but he warned me about that when he picked me up. I opted for the 30 miles over any hardship I may encounter due to a dry exit. This road was by no means a major highway and there were no facilities to drive in passing motorists. Traffic was light, but that doesn't mean my fate was sealed. There are times when it doesn't seem to matter what traffic is like. You could sit for hours on some of the busier exits. You could assume that there is too much noised fighting for drivers attention. They just don't have time to calculate, once they've decided they can give you a ride, they're well on there way down the interstate. Then again I've had excellent luck on busy ramps.

I've also had good luck on dead ramps as well. Ramps with only one car an hour. So when someone tells me their exit's not the best I usually pay no mind.

I'm about an hour on the exit when a jeep with two less that idea occupants roll down there window and tell me they can take me to Hazleton. I'd never heard of the town, but assumed it was just up the road on I-81. The two lived in Hazleton, they just got off work at the mill they were employed at through Labor Ready, a temping agency, known throwout the land for there same day paychecks, or cash if you prefer. They were on there way to the Labor Ready office, which is, incidentally, next to the Salvation Army emergency shelter for the homeless. They offered to take me there if I wished. After looking at my map I gathered that Hazleton was off the interstate a bit, about 5 miles. I wasn't looking forward to walking 5 in the morning to get back to it. I told them if the exit had no facilities I was take there offer and ride into town.

Of course there was nothing on the exit so they dropped me off in front of the shelter as they said.

The time was 19:00 and the shelter didn't open the doors till 20:00. I walked across the street to a Giant , and picked up a can of cut green beans. I sat on a bench outside the store eating them with my mess fork when a lady approached me and asked me where I was from and where I was headed.

I guess she must have felt sorry form me cause she handed me twelve dollars out of her purse then offered to buy me grocery's from inside the Giant. I declined the purchase of grocery's, telling her I was satisfied with the meal in front of me, but thanked her for the money as she went inside.

I went back to the shelter but it still looked closed even though it was after the posted opening time. I noticed the door was slightly ajar so I opened it and cautiously stepped in. behind a glass window I saw a man lit up by the glow of a TV set. I rapped on the glass and got his attention. He turned on the lights, he looked confused to see me, so I just stated the purpose of my visit.

This shelter was like none I had seen before. All the lights were off, and I appeared to be the only one there other than the guy working. He informed me after much questioning that the shelter was closing down in less than two weeks, most the homeless in Hazleton had been relocated. It looked like it was just me an one other guy staying there.

Because There weren't many people there the rules were pretty lax. Gery, the other resident, and I stayed up eating cans of Lentil soup while he tried to figure out where is life went wrong. It seem people in homeless shelters often have delusions of grandeur. I never know what is fact and what is not when I'm talking to the homeless. Gery was working on his second masters degree when his wife left him and took everything, leaving him only with a drinking problem and a mortgage he couldn't afford.

I was informed that in order for the salvation army to receive funding for my stay I had to go to an organization called CEO and tell them I used the shelter. CEO was only a few blocks away, making it an easy walk. I arrived at CEO will all my gear a half hour before they officially opened. Their office was located in the basement of an old shopping center in downtown Hazleton. Downtown was pretty run down and made Hazleton look like it was on it's last leg, but then again, this could just be downtown. As I was walking around I noticed a bus making a run to the mall, which could be on the edge of town where things are thriving.

The offices of CEO were small but with a really tall ceiling and no windows. When I arrived I was the only client there. The receptionist had me sign in, then I waited about ten minutes for my name to be called. An agent, a middle age woman with a friendly face wearing pooh scrub bottoms and a maroon sweatshirt, had a kind, motherly face.

I sat down across from her in her cubical and simply told her that I had been directed here by the salvation army. She nodded affirmatively then started typing my information provided by my Id into a database. She probed a little. I eventually told her I was on my way to Boston and that my means of conveyance was hitchhiking. On that she gasped, told me that it was well within CEO's capability to get me a bus ticket to Boston an no charge to me. I pondered the offer for a moment or two then accepted the ticket. The lady seemed pleased that I accepted, then went into a food pantry and grabbed for me some snacks for the voyage.

The bus didn't leave till 17:30 and it was barely 9. I had some time to kill so I wandered around. I went to the drop in kitchen to see what they were serving. Not much I could eat as they were serving up chicken and gravy with a side of steamed carrots so I sipped on a cup of grape juice and had a discussion with an 84 year old woman about her husbands painful death in the 70's due to black lung.

Hazleton was a collapsing coal mining town that hasn't seen any action in a while. After I took off from the drop in I found myself eating a can of peaches on a huge mound of coal growing birch trees. Coal was part of the landscape here, I didn't notice before, but the stuff was everywhere. I continued to walk around town while I waited. I'd see to occasional large chunk of coal, then I'd pick it up and smash it to the ground, watching the it break into little pieces. I looked at the chunks and thought about Pennsylvania and what it must have looked like millions of years ago, before when all this rock was organic mush at the bottom of some stagnant pond . A tropical swamp with hundred foot trees and giant ferns. Not a mountain, or a cold night to be found.

Off The Road

2006-06-06T12:25:00.000-05:00

It's Been over two years since I've owned a car. Over a year since I've paid anyone rent, and almost a year since I've paid my sister Melanie a visit.

Melanie lives with her husband Ray in a two story country house off highway 3 in King George County just outside of Fredericksburg Virginia. Their place is set way back off the road. It's completely engulfed by trees, and wile you don't need four wheel drive to get up their driveway, it helps. You can hear the hum of the highway from the porch, but it's by no means loud. It's peaceful. Ray has a collection of vehicular devices scattered about the yard that really give me the feeling I get when I'm in the country. You have more space out here to do with as you please.

Ray is a Mulch man. He has a company he's spent years building on. In previous summers I've come out here to spread mulch for the man, which is no joke of a job. The scenario is usually me, and two immigrants from Mexico running circles around me. Ray's constantly giving me shit, talking in Spanish about my ability to spread mulch with the Mexicans. I know Ray is throwing me a bone, I'm by no means cut out for landscaping in the Virginia heat, and I typically only last a week before I give up.

I was only in town for a few days last week and I wasn't particularly interested in busting my hump. Melanie Commutes down to Richmond where she holds a state job. Fortunately I arrived just before the weekend and was able to spend a good deal of time with the both of them outside of the work experience.

I get plenty of time to think on the shoulder of the road. However the thoughts that come to me off the road are of a different nature. Thoughts and ideas are just reflections of the faces I see in the cars that pass by me. These feelings are reactionary and tend to be of the “why” nature. In the garage at my sisters I got the opportunity to take apart a motorcycle engine with Ray and his son. “how” thoughts are thoughts I can grapple with much ease and seem to come to me more often when I'm with family and friends.

I value my time with my sister and her family a great deal: Nevertheless when the weekend is over I will continue on down the road. Leaving loved ones is a common occurrence among drifters. It's no longer viewed as a sorrowful exchange. The saying, “every goodbye is another hello” couldn't be any more accurate in the eyes of a hitchhiker.

Southern Hospitality

2006-06-04T11:54:00.000-05:00

My first ride out of Black Mountain wasn't the best. A hotel manager from Bombay stopped off in a brand new Honda Odyssey. He only took me about 6 miles east on I-40. As I was grabbing my gear, about to head to the shoulder, he asked me if I'd be interested in making a little money. I knew what he was asking for by the way he raised his eyebrows and licked his lips. I kinda laughed and said, “No thanks.”

As I walked to the exit I didn't know how to feel about the proposition. My first reaction was to be offended. But the more I thought about it the more I felt sorry for the poor guy. He must be suffocating is this small southern town. I'd be surprised if same sex partnerships were easy to come by and if they were, I couldn't imagine they would be widely excepted. I remembered his comment about how he hated Black Mountain, “there's nothing here for me”. I guess I just wish his sole motivation for picking me up wasn't sexual gratification.

I didn't start on the shoulder till about 16:00 so I didn't expect to get so many miles in. The day was hot, so I didn't stress myself by walking the highway. The mountains were as green as could be. The slight overcast help at this. It looked like it might rain.

A little over sixty miles of hitching yielded eight rides. Eight rides is quite a lot for such a short distance in my opinion. One of the more memorable rides of the day was a Nissan pick up truck packed with six Hispanic men and a truck bed stocked full with tools. It makes me feel good when a group of guys who, by anyone else's standards, have no room in there vehicle for one more, stop to give me a lift. I threw my pack in the bed and moved a stack of Makita saw blades. As I sat in the truck bed with all the hazardous equipment around me I couldn't help but imagine my end.

By days end I found myself at an exit bearing four fueling stations and a baptist church ten miles west of Statesville, NC. I hadn't eaten since I scarfed down that food bar at 6:00. I stepped into one of the gas stations and grabbed a bag of chips and a fitness water...and a beer. I then went over to the play set at the church and consumed my goods.

I must have passed out, I woke up around 02:00 and realize this wasn't the best place to be busted with greasy chips and an open can of beer. I moved back over to the gas station which was now closed and took a nap in the shadows.

I woke up at 5:30 and paced around for a bit before heading over to Troys 50's Diner for a plate morning tots. The diner was a dive at best, confederate flags were strewn out among the cardboard cutouts of Elves Presley, General Lee figurines, and posters of Marylin Monroe. While I was almost positive these tots were heated in the microwave, it's hard to complain at 99 cents a plate.

Refreshed but far from rejuvenated I went back to the shoulder that I failed to get a ride at the previous night. A guy about my age pulled up in a Mitsubishi tuner car. As I stepped into his vehicle he cringed as my feet missed the floor mat. He lived just off I-77, which is where I was headed. He offered me a drink and asked me if I wanted to chill for a bit. I was off to an early start so I went back to his apartment where his girlfriend and girlfriends friend were still sleeping. Ryan, his name, pured me a Diet Pepsi then offered up his shower, use of his computer, and a nap, if I was so inclined. I took the Pepsi but declined all other offers. Outside it started raining so I stayed for a little longer. We talked about the black dog he found wandering the interstate last week who, as Ryan pointed out, had a fondness for me. “Must be the smell of the road” Ryan concluded jokingly.

Once the rain stopped Ryan took me back to the freeway where I received a string of pleasant rides from a number(10) of kind individuals. At 22:00 I landed in Richmond Virginia, it was a long 16 hours between that first hitch of the day and when I called my sister, who lived about 45 minutes north of Richmond in Fredericksburg, to ask her for some assistants with a ride to her house. We arrived in Fredericksburg around midnight, bringing a delightful end to a long day.

Ryan and his family.

Tokyo Drift

2006-06-03T08:36:00.000-05:00

“This road looks familiar” I thought, though I know it couldn't be the road I was thinking of. That road was some 10,000 miles away. But all the same elements were there. It was hot, humid, green, and I was tired from too much walking.

I took off my pack and sat down next to it. I looked around this Appalachian Mountain I was on thinking about Mt. Fuji, a Mountain I spent two days on early this month. I had hitchhiked to the park entrance, which was simply a toll road leading up to the foot path to the summit. I started walking up the road thinking I'd get a ride by and by, but the traffic was primarily charter bus and park staff. The weather wasn't the best. Some of the locals warned me about the impending weather, but I paid no mind. Wile the sky's weren't clear, I didn't see any ominous cumulonimbus's lurking overhead.

It's about a 12 mile walk up this windy road before you get to climb the actual foot trail. I'd guess I walked about 6 before the sun fell behind the peaks and the wind and rain picked up. Fortunately for me this park had several public toilets along the road. I ducked into one and watched the rain fall with increasing intensity. I looked around at the damp floor of the room. “This will have to do” I said to myself. I don't pack a tent when I travel, this was one of the few times I wish I did. As you would expect of a toilet house in the middle of the woods, it reeked of waste.

I laid the tarp Brent LaRue gave me over a spot that looked to be the least offensive. I rolled out my bed roll and decompressed my sleeping bag. I positioned myself so I had a good view of the showers. I watched the water roll down the slope of the mountain and hugged my sleeping bag, I felt comfortable.

I was all settled in when a park ranger (I guess thats what he was) popped in. He looked startled to see me. “What are you doing here?!” he exclaimed in English. “I'm Camping” was all I could think to say.

“Oh, Park is closed. What are you going to do?”, “Is it all right that I sleep here?”, “Ok, big Storm, you be safe!” after that he let me be.

After the sun set the air got chilly, and the rain continued through the night. I think I was enjoying myself. The smell of urine was thick. The occasional gust of wind gave me a brisk whiff of fresh air that I reveled in.

By the time I awoke in the morning the rain had stopped. The air was still very thick with moisture, fog. I continued to climb the shoulderless road hoping to ketch a ride from a passing vehicle, but there were none. I once read that the first rule of hitchhiking is that, it doesn't mater what road you are on, someone will pick you up eventually. While this may be a true statement, today didn't seem to be a good day to visit Fuji. I had been walking for hours and have yet to see a break in the fog. My backpack was heavy, about 50 pounds, I was considering stashing it in the brush and continuing the assent without it.

Somewhere along this walk I lost my motivation. I lost interest in the mountain. I didn't care. I stopped dead in my tracks. I looked around and listened to the wind in the trees, a gust shook the leaves of the trees and made a sound comparable to that of an approaching motor. I smiled because I knew I was about to turn around and head back to Tokyo.

I walked the easy walk down hill kicking myself for what I was doing. I had been here for two days and I had yet to see Mt. Fuji. These weather conditions were, to a small degree, disappointing.

Once outside the park the toll booth man gave me a bottle of water, “arigato” I said, about the only work of Japanese I know. I caught a ride with a trucker heading to Fujiyoshida, a town at the base.

I didn't bring any food with me to the Mountain so I went to a restaurant called Royal host, sort of a country kitchen style place with American breakfast food. On any other day of the week I'm a vegan but I ordered up a stack of pancakes with little regard of there content. I was hungry. The sky's were starting to clear up and I could see the bottom half of Fiji from my window seat, the top was still covered in cloud.

I ate my food when it came and the feeling of regret started to fade. I could look forward to another week of drifting around Tokyo. It's what I truly longed to do anyway. As much as I love Nature. I've been too much accustomed to the hustle of human infrastructure. I love the traffic of the highways and the bustle of the cities.

Of core I say that now, but give me a week.

Mt. Fuji. A view from Royal Host.

Quote the Raven

2006-06-01T11:21:00.000-05:00

I Hitchhiked to Asheville North Carolina from Augusta Georgia on the Memorial Day. I got off to a late start, around noon. Whether or not I made it to Asheville that day was of little concern to me. Today was about being in the sun, I moved lazily through the hilly country side, sticking to the back roads and taking what rides I could get. I didn't have much reason for going to Asheville. I was talking to John at a bar called “Somewhere in Augusta” when I mentioned I was interested in checking the place out because I had heard from the kids I met in Buffalo last summer, that it was a neat place. John just happened to have a friend at the bar who was from Asheville. He was excited that I was interested in the town, and offered to give me a lift there. This guy was fairly easy to read, and I could tell his offer was empty, so I didn't hold much hope for a ride from this guy, but he did make Asheville seem that much more appealing to me.

After John dropped me off on South Carolina 25 I made my way down the road in 7 short rides. I landed downtown at about 20:30. The man who dropped me off was a Hypnotherapist who specializes in past life regression. I found his work interesting. He was headed up the road about 10 more miles north and I was tempted to ride it out just to listen to his stories a little longer.

I probably walked less than two blocks before I came across two gutter punks with two dogs sitting on a park bench asking passerby's for there leftover meals as they left the restaurant across the street.
As I walked by one of the dogs made eye contact with me, so I stopped to pet it, as I did I asked the gentleman closest to me if he knew of any decent parks around. Honestly, I wasn't looking for a park, just looking for a way to engage them in conversation. “Not really” they both responded, “if you stick around I can show you a good squat” One continued.

There was room enough on the bench for one more, I sat down. The two continued to beg for food as I chilled. Eventually the punk with the two dogs took off with little leave-talking, leaving me and the man who I now know as Raven alone to converse. Raven was a boastful guy, about as tall as me and of the same age. From our conversation I gathered he has an interest in Celtic history. He also put a lot of stock in the symbolism of spiritual animals, hence his name. He revered the raven for its shape shifting ability, It's mystery and Cunningness.

Raven showed me a well hidden spot under a bridge that looked like a well established drinking spot for underage graffiti artists. I trusted this spot was good and hid my pack in some poorly lit brush. Raven and I grabbed a couple tall cans of beer and headed to his favorite roof top in all of Asheville where we drank. Raven continued to tell me about his life as a drifter. How his parent's left him when he was twelve and how he gets money from the government for being “crazy”. He was fun to listen to but I couldn't shake the feeling he was feeding me his dreams. Perhaps he was trying to empress me. If his times were so rough, how did he scrape up enough cash to purchase that $400 ipaq he was using as a boom box. He looked gutter enough, but his demeanor was consistent with one from a loving home. He wasn't hard.

The next morning around 6:00 I wandered over to a food Co-op I noticed the night before. I sat outside eating a food bar and drinking a juice when I saw Raven by chance. He was poking his stylus at his PDA with his shirt off and over his shoulder. I called his attention to me but he didn't seem interested in talking to me. It was about that time that I noticed the shirt over his shoulder was of the same color an material of the rest of the staff at the co-op. I assumed he was about to go to work and didn't want me to notice, so I just let him be.

I spent the day in Asheville wandering around lugging my massive pack around. I love this pack, but it certainly draws me out, which sometimes can be helpful, but in some situations it can be most inconvenient.

I passed by the childhood home of author Thomas Wolfe. Who I assumed was the same man as contemporary author Tom Wolfe, who's books I've actually read. So I was a little embarrassed when I brought up The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test to the man at the admission desk. He was polite when correcting me, but I still couldn't help but feel like a dumb hippie in this very blue town. Ah, us vagabond are a dime a dozen here.

Around 14:00 I made a decision to make my way out of town. I read on digihitch that the #29 bus runs out to Black Mountain which is next to I-40 east. So I headed towards the bus depot. I passed by a little building called “The Body” when I heard my name being yelled. It was Raven.

The Body was a nondenominational Christian group that provided a mid-day drop-in for the less fortunate. Serving up coffee, water, and “vegan cookies”. I sat next to Raven on a surprisingly comfortable couch and chatted about P2P programs until I had to leave.

Raven Fallowed me to the Depot as he was on his way to Staples to get is Ipaq fixed. It was still under warranty and some piece responsible for syncing had been damaged. I shook his had and thanked him for his guidance.

I always enjoy encounters such as these. I will probably never see Raven again in my life, but his mack it there and deep. Experiences shared in travel are some of the most profound experiences I've found.

Photo of the spot under the bridge.

Something Isn't Wrong

2006-05-30T09:28:00.000-05:00

Matthew

I arrived in Atlanta with arrangements to stay at a couch surfers house. Matthew Cole had a place in buckhead that wasn't the easiest place for a stranger to find. My flight from Tokyo landed around 15:30, I finally found my way to his door at 21:00 to find a note telling me Matthew was at the Twisted Taco and I should call him at the number given.

Matthew picked me up and took me to the Leopard Lounge, which is next door to the Twisted Taco. Both places were your typical meat markets. Matthew seemed to fit right in. I took a certain amount of curious joy from watching him carry on with the young lady's he had just met. ÂgameÂ is what he called it. He encouraged me to get mine on as well. This sort of bar wasn't my thing. I politely refused any advancements from the opposite sex and just kept my eyes open.

The next morning Matthew took me to an Indian restaurant in Little Five Points. I intended to leave Atlanta that day. I asked Matthew if he would be kind enough to take me to the car rental place I had reserved a car with a few hours earlier. He didn't have a problem with it.

I had just spent two weeks in Japan, most of that time in Tokyo. The idea of renting an automobile pleased me. I pictured a day alone in a vehicle exploring the Georgia country side. I had just fallen in love with a country that wasn't mine. Like someone in love, I had a playful attitude. A one way rental was $80. $80 was easy to justify, the images I had created in my mind were sublime, and well worth the money.

I was on my way to Augusta to visit a good friend of mine, John Cristy. John has been living in Augusta with his lovely lady Nicole. Both have been studying as dietary interns. John has always been one of my favorite human beings. He seems to me to have one of the most pure interpretations of the world around him. I've never talked of philosophy with Mr. Cristy and I hope I never will. In his presents I almost feel like a child. Things like depression seemed so far removed from anything that is real. Knowing I'm on my way to see my good friend makes my ride on the back roads that much more enjoyable. I stop often and take in my surroundings.

I stopped at a Dollar General to stretch my legs and pick up a sports drink. I stood outside sipping on the blue refreshment looking at the Chevy Cobalt they gave me at the rental house. I reflected on the events of my life that led me to this small Georgia town. I didn't come to any dramatic conclusions or revelations, but just thinking about this string of events gave me a feeling of peace. As if all was as it should be.

I took off my shoes, got behind the wheel, and continued down Georgia 12.

Soul-Sick Traveler Junction

2006-05-16T01:06:00.000-05:00

My close friend Brent LaRue flew into Chicago's O'hare after an intense four month trip around Western Europe. Brent looked well traveled when I met him at the international terminal. I delightfully received his tales of adventure as we made our way to Wicker Park on the el. I was excited to see Brent pleased with his journey. I couldn't help but wonder what avenues of life these foreign experiences would lead him down. He seemed enthusiastic about being back in the states.

Brent and I held up with some familiar faces from Omaha. My friends Andy Berkly, Chris Fischer, were living in the same apartment house I stayed at last summer. My friends Ciera and Stephen, were no longer living there and had been replaced by an inquisitive Russian art student, Alex, and a young lady named Sarah from Vegas, who, during my week in town, was scarce. Another friend of mine, Cristian Stoll, who I will be traveling with in the near future, was also crashing in the same residence, along with Grant Brownyard from Lincoln Nebraska, visiting friends on vacation. Alex's kin, Demetri also stopped by one night for a sleepover because of a Job interview he had the next day. Needless to say, this usually quiet house of four was temporarily overwhelmed.

I spent a great deal of time with Brent, we had a lot to catch up on and I knew it could be some time before I saw him again. Alex was full of interesting questions about our various philosophies on traveling and the almost perpetual states of inebriation among the house mates kept the opinions flowing, to the point, at times, where the conversations got too abstract to clearly understand points.

But then again points weren't always the point of our conversation. I'm sure I've had more fun rapping philosophy, but I can't remember when.

I can't remember a time when I had more fun shopping either. Cris Stoll was in the market for a new backpack, and Brent and I, being the backpack enthusiasts we are, were eager to help.

I arrived in Chicago on the 5^th of May and departed on the early morning of the 10^th.

On the day of Cris and I's departure we didn't sleep. We spent the night Drinking courtesy of Brent, who had been working that day. Most the People in the flat are unemployed so Brent got a little flack for popping into town for a week and getting a job his third day in. The drinks, Red Stripe and Purple Haze, were tasty. Things were going great, I felt comfortable. Around 3am, Cris called a cab to take us to the airport. Around 330 the cab arrived.

On the way to Midway I stared out the cab window. Chicago had a wonderful glow to it I never noticed before, perhaps it was the alcohol in my system. I looked around and wondered when I would see these city lights again, and if I did, would they look the same.

Left: Stoll sleeping. Right: LaRue waking at the crack of noon.

Making Our Way To The Ordinary

2006-05-07T12:00:00.000-05:00

I arrived at the Denver Airport refreshed and plenty early for my flight to Atlanta. AirTran is based out of Atlanta, it seems all their flights connect from there. I checked in and found my way to my terminal before wandering around. If I had thought about it before hand, I would have picked up something to eat on the way. I forget sometimes how over priced Airport food can be.

I'm not strapped for cash right now, but I know if I keep spending money like this I will be. The hundred dollar ticket to Milwaukee looms heavy over me, but I find instant justification for the purchase when I think about how annoying I found Chris, the trucker. I find comfort in the fact that I am able, at the moment, to buy such things as plane tickets when I find myself in "emergencies". The truth is I could have easily made it to Chicago by the 9th if I hitchhiked.

Terminal C didn't have much to offer by way of conventional entertainment so I pulled out Siddhartha, a book I find relaxing. I read till Siddhartha wakes up to find Govinda watching over him as he sleeps by the river when I was called to board.

My plane arrived in Atlanta behind schedule so I had to book. My plane docked at terminal C and my plane to Milwaukee left from terminal D, I had ten minutes to get there.

I thought I made it to the gate with time to spare but as it turned out the flight left ten minutes earlier than scheduled. I wasn't the only one who missed the flight, when I arrived at the gate there were four other colorful individuals standing at the counter with a customer service representative. I got in line behind them and patiently waited wile I observed the other travel arrangements being made. The next flight to Milwaukee wasn't until nine a.m. The next morning. For most, this delay was unacceptable. The other alternative proposed by the collected Airtran Rep. was a flight to Midway Airport in Chicago same night at eleven p.m. This idea was more agreeable by all, including myself, seeing how I intended to hitch directly to Chicago from Milwaukee anyway.

Jay Anderson, a Drill Sargent coming from a Military base down south, was on a four day pass. He was one of the more vocal distressed passengers. Jay made it clear to the terminal he was on a limited schedule, and needed to get home as soon as possible to see his wife and kid. Jay grew up in Milwaukee where all they do is drink beer and eat cheese, according to Sgt. Anderson. At on of the many airport bars Jay treated me, and two other's now on there way to Chicago to a few beers.

Jay

Amy was a well baked woman on her way home to Madison from a week alone in the Tampa area. Amy showed signs of perturbation, but was still well mannered. Mostly I think she was just tired from a long day of travel.

Amy

I didn't retain the name of the other man drinking with us. He seemed more distressed about the flight mishap than the rest of us. I think in his case he would have been better off waiting in Atlanta for the flight to Milwaukee in the morning. He was returning home from a vacation in Vegas and must have lost everything because he didn't have a dime. I fell sympathetic to his woes. With no communication with home, because his cell phone was dead, no money in his pocket, he didn't have way of getting to Wisconsin. I assured the man I would help him get home if needed. I have a decent understanding of where things are in Chicago, so I was confident I could get him to the Greyhound station and put him on a bus home.

"Mr. Vegas"

Sitting in the bar (more like a Don & Millie's) with these three individuals gave me a funny feeling of comradeship I've felt before. Only these types of experiences it seems can bring such a wide range of personality around one table. Veterinarians, Military Officers, Thug-Life-Gangsters, and Hitchhikers don't unite everyday.

By the time we boarded the plane to Chicago we each had a few beers in us, and what we didn't drink we stuffed in our bags and smuggled on the aircraft.

Our seats were assigned, but the plane was so empty the entire back half was unoccupied by passengers. Amy was in fact the only one back there so Jay sat next to her the guy coming from Vegas sat in front of Jay, and I sat across the isle with a row to myself.

The chatting continued from take off to landing. I felt as if I could have been in one of my new friends living rooms, the walls of flying just melted away as we made ourselves comfortable.

As you can see the jet is practically empty. Here we are joined by a flight attendant, talking to Mr. Vegas, and A Gentleman from Business Class who was also heading to Milwaukee by Midway.

It was one in the morning when we landed. I wasn't sure exactly where my backpack was, though I had a good idea it was in Milwaukee I checked the baggage carousel just in case. No luck. As I walked around midway trying to find the baggage claim booth I had Mr. Vegas in tow. He walked with me to the Orange line to find it stopped running at 12:51 and would run again till 4 am. Hailed a taxi to see how much a ride to the greyhound station would run. I wasn't at all surprised when the driver told us it would cost about thirty bucks.

I refused to pay that kind of money and said I preferred to walk. This Idea sent him into a panic, he asked to use my cell phone, then talked to his sweetheart at great lengths about the nights events. It looked as though she was going to come down to Chicago to get him so I was relieved to find myself off the hook.

I found a bus that intersected with the blue line, which runs twenty four hours a day, then took that to my good friends Jackie's. When I slept heavily.

Just Outside of Everywhere.

2006-05-03T12:00:00.000-05:00

Because Grand Island is so far from the Interstate I decided not to strain myself by walking such a great distance. Last summer I repeatedly made the mistake of walking tens of miles, only to find myself fatigued, when I could have simply waited in the place I was for, at times, the same ride.

I was on route 281 anyway and the edge of the north side of town wasn't far from where I was staying. I figured I'd take this road to 92, where I would head east just south of Saint Paul Nebraska. That would, with any luck, put me in Omaha by sun down. I could stay with family and head out toward Chicago on I-80 in the morning. I felt this was a solid plan, and all I had to do now was stick out my thumb.

Stick out my thumb I did, for about two hours without any luck. No bother, I thought. I've waited longer for rides, I just had to be patient. Directly after I had this thought a state trooper graced me with his presents and asked the usual questions, where was I going, why was I here, any drugs or weapons.
He ran my I.D. Then told me Hitchhiking within the city limits of Grand Island is prohibited by Law and if I would permit a search of my person he would gladly drive me to the northern city limits.

I responded with a counter offer. I would agree to a search if the officer would be kind enough to drive me to the south side and place me on an I-80 east on-ramp. The officer repeated my offer back to me to both confirm that he understood, and to consider it. I nodded, then he agreed to take me.

I wasn't long on the ramp before a computer network technician on his way to Lincoln gave me a ride.
Jeff noticed me on 281 early that day wile on his way to St. Paul. He was a little confused to see me hitching in a near opposite direction.

Jeff was a good conversationalist but unfortunately I was tired and couldn't keep up with him. When we arrived to the Lincoln junction on route 77 Jeff went south toward the capital and I stayed on the ramp. By now I was looking forward to a night in Omaha, confident I would get there tonight. It was only 4:30 pm and there is a massive amount of commuting traffic around this time.

A driver of a Swift 18 wheeler pulls directly off the off ramp and onto the on ramp. He looks me in the eyes as he hits his breaks and waives me over as he passes and slows down. I run over to the cab and climb in. The trucker asks be where I'm headed and I answer with Chicago, hoping he would be going at least that far. As I sit in the truck I notice a peculiar oder I recognize from my time spent in many public restrooms. Chris, the trucker, told me he would be able to get me to Chicago, I just had to be patient. There was a stop just out west a piece that he had to drop a load off at then we would be on our way. He had a thick souther accent, so I wasn't at all surprised when he told me he was from Alabama.
The oder from Chris would intensify every time he shifted in his seat, the smell got so bad at one point I had to crack a window for fear of gagging.

Chris talked constantly without pause. By the time we got to York Nebraska I started to wonder just how far “up the road” was. I had to interrupt him, he was telling me about his days as an employee for Halliburton hauling crude oil. The load we were hauling was apparently scheduled to be dropped off at the Lowe's distribution center just outside Cheyenne Wyoming. After Chris told me this he feverishly tried to assure me he would have me in Chicago by Friday.

I've learned a few things about riding with truckers from past experiences. One thing I've learned is that dispatchers are unpredictable. I can't remember a time when a trucker knew for certain where he was going before he dropped off the load from the previous run. Another thing I've learned is that truckers are lonely, all most every one I've been picked up by begged me to continue on with them after I reached my destination. They also tend to talk more than the average person, and there stories are generally larger than life. I usually find myself uncomfortable in the presence of truckers and don't consider them a preferred host, though they can provide you with greater distances of travel.

Chris stopped at a truck stop after I interrupted his monologue for the second time to express my desire to urinate. Once stopped he asked me to climb into the sleeper and grab a shew box. I flipped on the light and wile grabbing the box couldn't help but notice his collection of homosexual pornographic magazines laid out on the bed. Initially this didn't alarm me, but now that I'm aware of his sexual orientation it opens up the idea of another possible motive for picking up a hitchhiker.

I handed Chris the shoe box and watched him open it, inside was a stack of twenties. He handed me one and told me to get a twelve pack of Mountain Dew and anything else I wanted. Early and often in the ride Chris would brag about how well off he was, he explained to me how well Halliburton paid truckers and also let me in on a secret project he was working on, selling sand rails to Kuwait. As I mentioned before Chris talked, literally non stop, and by the time we got to the panhandle I started nodding off. I think Chris noticed this and pulled into a rest area, which was nothing more that a gravel circle.

Chris pulled the curtains over the windshield and started working on his log book. I wasn't sure if we were parked for the night or not so I grabbed a Dew out of the cooler and waited. Chris was still talking but I wasn't listening. He took off his shoes, creating a new and equally unpleasant oder that mixed well with the already existing smells of feces, urine, and sweat.

I took this as a sign that we were in for the night and took off my shew as well. Chris went back to the sleeper, turned on the television and watched the news, he encouraged me to sit in the drivers seat and watch with him. I looked at the moist condition of the captain chair, looked at Chris, who had now removed his shirt, then politely refused, telling him I was quite comfortable where I was. That was a lie.
In fact I was uncomfortable. Realizing I was in the middle of nowhere with a trucker who's intention, to me, are still very unclear, made me very uncomfortable. I stayed in the passenger seat and closed my eyes. Chris mumbled something in his southern drawl. I looked up to see he had removed all his clothes and was now standing naked, shifting items around in a cabinet by his bed.

I put my shoes back on my feet, as I was tying them Chris asked if my feet were cold. I shook my head from side to side, as you would do if disgusted, I replied kind of facetiously, “yeah, Chris, my feet are cold.”

He sat down on his bed, still naked, and opened the side display monitor of a DV camcorder then said.
“I know man, sometimes it gets a little cold up there on the feet, just let me know if it gets too cold for you and I'll turn it down.”

After he said that he pushed play on the camcorder. I couldn't see the screen but could hear the symphony of moaning quite clearly. I immediately stood up and reached for my pack. Chris said flustered “what are you doing man.” as he sat up.

“look man, you're freaking me out. I just can't handle your unpredictable behavior.” I said as empathetically as possible.
Chris said pleadingly “Don't worry Andrew,” he called me Andrew, “I'm not after you. Just relax man, I'll get you where you want to go, you just got to be patient.”

I wasn't really afraid of Chris, I just didn't want to have to deal with his eccentricities, and bad smells. I calmed down, and told him I couldn't sleep in the passenger seat. He cleared off a space on the top bunk, while apologizing for freaking me out.

Finally I fell asleep. In the middle of the night, closer to morning, I felt, what felt like a hand, touching the lower portion of my back. I rolled over to find Chris's dimly lit silhouette in front of me.
“what are you doing?” I asked sounding somewhat annoyed.
Chris appeared to fumble for an excuse for his actions and said, “Hey man, is there a bug in here?” he paused waiting for a response, but I gave him none. “Like a mosquito or something? Maybe it came in with your bag?” I didn't understand what he was getting at. Stupefied I answered his questions, “No Chris, there's no bug.” I watched him disappear back into his sleeper located under mine. I fell back asleep.

The next morning I found myself scheming for a way to slip away with out him noticing. This opportunity arose once we arrived at the Anheuser-Busch plant in Fort Collins Colorado. The trailer he needed to load wouldn't be ready until 3pm the next day, so he settled in next to a Ramada inn.
I grabbed my day pack containing my computer, and left my Carson pack in the truck.
I sat down at the lounge adjacent to the lobby of the Ramada and logged online. I booked an Airtran flight to Milwaukee for the next day at $99.

Coincidentally, my stepmother, Sharon, happened to be on a business trip to the Denver area. I called her asking for a ride to Denver from Fort Collins.

I went back out to the truck and told Chris I had family I hadn't seen in a while in Denver, I would stay the night with them. Chris showed signs in his face of anger and hurt. As I collected my things he added, “Well they've got me picking up a load going to Miami anyway.”
“I guess this worked out for the best then.” I replied. “Take care Chris,” I extended my hand for a hand shake. Chris gave my hand a firm, hard shake, then quickly let go. He put his truck in reverse gear. “Good luck in Tokyo man.”

I wound down in downtown Denver with Sharon over a good Falafel Sandwich. I slept well at the Marriott Courtyard that night.

Mastifay, Mastifay.

2006-05-01T23:00:00.000-05:00

It was raining when I started hitchhiking to Grand Island from Millard Saturday afternoon. The rain wasn't so heavy that it was unbearable, but it still soaked my hoodie causing a slight chill in my bones. I was in good spirits. I had been waiting for this day for months now. Being on the west bound on-ramp opened a flood of Hitchhiking memory's. It's safe to say I was excited for my first ride of the season. Waiting on the shoulder gives you plenty of time to think, and the past months have given be plenty to think about. At the moment, I thought mostly about Grand Island, and the girl I was on my way to visit.

Amy had joined a traveling carnival for the summer. She and I had been spending a good amount of energy getting to know one another over the winter and I thought she might appreciate a visit from me.
I didn't feel our goodbye, just days ago, had a sufficient enough impact to carry us through our summers alone. I thought about that, and I wondered if this rain was going to let up as I continued west.

I was preparing myself for a long wait, these hitches out of Omaha are notorious for rides few, and far between. I had some good tracks in my mp3 player to keep me entertained, at least for an hour or two.
I turned on the music, traveling music. I barely finished the first track when an Avalanche creped up off the road. A Gentleman dressed up in full Nebraska apparel offed to take me as far as Lincoln. Naturally I accepted, generally it's not in my nature to decline a ride. If fact, I can't recall a time I had. I climbed in and it seemed in no time we were in Lincoln. My ride dropped me off on the an interstate intersection, 180 & 80. Hitchhiking on the Freeways is illegal in the state of Nebraska, as it is in most states. So I didn't feel too comfortable hanging out on this precarious junction. So I headed up the ramp to the highway with my thumb extended.

I didn't get to the top of the ramp before an elderly man saw me and offered a ride, he wasn't going far, about 5 miles, but I accepted anyway. I got a little concerned when we reached his exit and he continued on by. He told me that he didn't have anything to do that day, other than visit some friend at a retirement village, so he figured he'd help me out by driving all the way to Grand Island.

Round trip for this guy will be about two hundred miles out of his way, to go so far out just didn't seem reasonable to me. So I told the man that his offer, although kind, was unnecessary, as many people traveling on I-80 are surly headed in my direction. He dismissed my concerns as politeness and continued west.

The man, Wes, was hard of hearing and did make for good conversation, which I felt was a shame. After looking around his Toyota I noticed a far about of bike parts. I tried to strike of a conversation about bicycling with him, but having to repeat myself multiple times grew tiresome. So until we got close to Grand Island I simply thought about the rising gas prices and attempted to guesstimate the cost of this particular ride.

Grand Island is North of the interstate. Further North than I expected. Wes didn't seem to mind the drive and added on occasion, “It's a good thing I picked you up!”

Wes Dropped me off on the front door of the carnival. I thanked him for his extra effort and wished him luck on his solo journey home.

Walking through the Carnival, located in a Hastings music store parking lot, I stuck out like a sore thumb (no pun intended) with my over sized backpack. I scoured the various gaming booths in search of Amy. When I found her working behind a row of plastic ducks she didn't notice me. I walked slowly and waited for her to see me. She was, at that moment, helping a child pick out a prize he had just won. When she finally looked up, her face emitted a bright smile and what seemed to be a silent scream. She seemed happy to see me.

Amy's hours were long, working from 10 am to midnight. I tried to avoid being a nuisance so I spent only a few moments at a time at the carnival while she was working. The area we were in was typical American Sprawl, Wal-Mart, hotels, Mall, and chain Restaurants were excellent places to kill time.

By the time Amy's shift was over she was tired, as you would expect, but still pleasant to converses with. Amy isn't one for idle chatter, which is one of the many thing I appreciate about her. It felt nice to be in her presence because I almost always felt we were on similar, if not the same wavelengths.

My two night's in Grand Island passed quickly. I found myself bidding farewell once again on the morning of May first as I packed my bag.