Charles Bridge after Midnight
About the only time the bridge isn’t packed with people and souvenir sellers is right before they shut off the lights for the night — 2 AM.
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Escaping the Pull
Trapped. Even before heading to the port, I realized the Aegean Sea was choppy. Things aren’t helped by the enclosed decks and assigned seats of the high-speed ferries. But over the span of four hours, that rough ride would mean the people in the seats in front, to my right and behind me all needed multiple uses of their seasickness bags.
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Back to Basics
I awake to long blasts of the ship’s horn. Figuring the ferry is pulling into one of the first stops, I grab my camera and head above deck. Expecting to see Ios or Naxos, I instead recognize the rock walls and caldera of Santorini, the last stop. Passengers are pulling luggage through the halls and toward their cars on the vehicle deck. A family is applying suncreen at the stairs to the exit. It’s not yet 8 am but I’m not the only one salivating for gyros on shore.
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“Orange Juice, Coca Cola, Yes, Please!”
The internal debate over the precise details of my Athens itinerary continues right through the airplane’s descent into the city. Stay a night, see the sights then move over the horizon to the islands? Or pack in a days’ worth of photography and hyperaggrivation and take an overnight ferry to gyros paradise?
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Rainy Relief
By noon, the gears of travel finally begin to grind. I head to the airport, but with a brief stop at the FedEx terminal to retrieve the new camera lens that had arrived this morning. With an uncharacteristic smoothness in my travel plans, I arrive at gate C8. I think – maybe – that I might even have brought everything I intended. It hasn’t happened yet in eight years, but without any glaring packing errors, I consider the possibility.
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This kind of thing was not supposed to happen
I [dropcap]I[/dropcap] was shopping. After years of abuse, I finally retired some much-loved and oft-abused travel clothes. Pants that had climbed (and slid down) a Moroccan mountain. A shirt whose longevity was inversely proportional to its 8 dollar price tag. Shoes that had seen more than a dozen countries on four continents. And while this gear was like my travel family, its best days were behind me.
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All Good Things…
Swimming a few hundred metres from the shore of Perivolous beach, I pause to look back to shore. The early evening sun is still warm and bright and soaking everything in a luxurious, golden hue. The water is calm and exquisitely refreshing after a day spent lounging on the sand.
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Still Lucky(‘s)
The glistening Aegean Sea is smooth as glass and on the approach to land in Santorini, the plane skims Kamari beach with its tavernas and cliffs and umbrellas and volcanic rocks. Home, sweet home.
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Breakfast in Tunis, Lunch in Milan, Dinner in Athens
A monstrous day of travel brought me from the Sahara desert oasis town of Tozeur back to the Mediterranean’s capital of apathy and pissedoffedness: Athens, Greece.
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Magic Carpet Ride
In the interest of space and internet cafe time, I’m going to leave this one out. But suffice to say that a train ride aboard a beast called The Red Lizard, into a place where there are no roads, was one of the most amazing rail trips I’ve ever taken.
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The Cookie Monster
As I settled in for the four hour bus trip from the Mediterranean coastal city of Sfax eastward to Tozeur, I couldn’t help but notice I was being watched from across the isle. While I tore into my massive roasted chicken sandwich, a boy of about seven wouldn’t stop staring at me.
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Tunisian Idol
In my first few days in this country, I am perplexed by what appears to be a vast one-dimensionality to contemporary Tunisian music: the people all watch and listen to the same stuff. I’m not new to Arabic music. But with eerie similarity, it’s like The Big Game is on every channel, all day, all night, every day, every night. I don’t get it. I must be missing something.
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Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!
The speaker blares to life and startles me back to consciousness. It has been just under a year since traveling in a Muslim country and being woken by one of the five daily calls to prayer.
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Futurama
Sleek chrome toasters that evoked speeding transcontinental trains. Vacuum cleaners and radios and power tools and water pitchers all so sculpted for speed they practically had wings. Magazine advertisements, brochures and newspaper articles of the day touted the materials of the wondrous and revolutionary future: magnesium alloys!
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What this trip needs is MORE COWBELL
June 24th had slipped my mind. Across France, towns explode with the sound of music in the streets. And there are few accordions to be found. Last year on this date, I was in the southern town of Perpignan, where stages dotted block after city block, filling the city with rock, rap, jazz and curious performances best classified as “Noise.” But throughout Paris’ Latin Quarter this year, straight-ahead rock rules the day. Indie kids bang out Police covers with mangled English lyrics, others offer rambling guitar scenes conjuring the best and worst of Jerry Garcia and on other stages, serious, extended riff sessions abound, transcending all the languages spoken in the audience: everyone present understands loud. Including those of us lucky to have a hotel window within earshot of a stage. Or three stages
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A Numbers Game
I was due, I suppose. All these miles, all these countries, all these flights to all these airports over all these years and my luggage had always managed to travel with me.
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Because the Slacking Universe Needs a Center
I am selflessly volunteering. It starts with some kind of twitch, I think, and from what I can gather, most of you are afflicted with some form of this thing, too: After going some while without being on a plane across an ocean, without having another stamp in the passport, without the struggle of a strange language in a strange land, without the gastrointestinal chaos that inevitably comes from cuisine found just the other side of one’s sphere of microbial familiarity, the twitch metastasizes.
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Epilogue: The Longest Summer
I ride a school bus every morning now. Again. A big yellow one. With green vinyl seats you peel yourself off of in hot weather. With the fold-out STOP sign. With the flashing lights. With the windows that only slide halfway down, enough to only tease riders about relief from the stifling environs. But my lunch hasn’t been stolen (yet), so things are still good.
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You’ve got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em…
Things have been, surprisingly, rather free from catastrophe as of late. But there will be much less to say after this email — I’m packing it in and heading home early. Plans for the Czech Republic and Italy have been abandoned and Poland had to be curtailed.
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Arbeit Macht Frei
There are no smiles here. There are no families with strollers and balloons and ice cream for the kids. There is nobody selling ornamental models of monuments. No souvenir key chains or fold-out postcard sets or coffee mugs or t-shirts. There are no smiles here. There is horror. There is anguish. There is silence. And death.
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