Just dawdling after a safe and happy return home from the trip. As you can tell, dispatches stopped abruptly after Slovenia. The reason: (imagine this) travel is tiring. After weeks of all-day driving and all-night partying, free time routinely transformed into nap time. Fear not! All my notes, photos, and videos are compiled and I'll be completing the rest of the story over the holiday break.
Cheers,
Evin
Sunday, December 23
Saturday, November 10
Fastvenia / Guitars, Gaidas, Ganjas & Ghosts
The sun went down on our brittle, little plan. We’d left Pazin on Saturday morning with the understanding that we had a host in the nearby city of Trieste, Italy, so we slept late and set a leisurely pace. Upon reaching the outskirts in the late afternoon, Italy’s fabled undrivability proved to be fact. Where previously our modest sedan had been on par with Eastern Europe’s larger automobiles, here it was a juggernaut, squeezing breathless through the clogged arterial alleys and wearing each parking space like a wet, shrunken sweater. To add to the stress, we had no real contact information, and our hour-long, labyrinthine search for wireless signal was fruitless.
Our hope in tatters, we stopped into a downtown hotel to ask for directions. To our surprise, the receptionist spoke English (the first of two dozen I’d asked) and signed us in to the hotel’s private network. Score! However, waiting for us was a message from our host, explaining that she’d left the country that day to tend to an emergency. All circumstances indicated that, unless we found a substitute host, we’d be car sleeping again.
So we ran through the dregs of our Couchsurfing contacts in a desperate search for nearby profiles. Of the hundred screennames we scanned, only one was online – a stern-faced Andrej Curk of Sezana, Slovenia. It seemed counterintuitive to travel East again, but a glimpse at Google maps revealed that he lived only twenty kilometers away. We reached out and he immediately responded; within ten minutes we were out of Trieste’s grip and into the peaceful dark of the countryside.
* * * * *
We met up with Andrej at the bus station in Sezana, where he was eager to show us the local kebabs. If there’s one thing we’ve learned on this trip, it’s that quality kebabs (and ridiculous petrol prices) are the only true constant between each country. If it isn’t the European Union’s founding principle, it ought to be.
Andrej soon asked us the question that any traveler unknowingly longs to hear: “Want to come to a death metal tent party in the woods?” A Slovenian death metal tent party, you mean – yes, absolutely we do. And the only proper precursor to such an event is narrowly missing a 500-lb boar on the drive there. I apologize for the lack of evidence on this claim; my shutterfingers were busy guarding my face from a potentially painful and unkosher collision.
The tent party rocked at least three or four Casbahs. I’m not partial to metal of any sort, but the hair-whipping, shirt-ripping performance more than captivated my interest. With three bass guitars, an umpteen-piece drum kit, and the wattage of a football stadium, the band had nowhere to go in that tent but through our ears – almost literally. Their opening act, a flammably ironic Guns ‘N Roses tribute band, weren’t bad either. I can forgive them for botching the mimicked English lyrics, considering the source material. Here’s a taste:
* * * * *
We awoke the next morning in a silent chill. After a hefty breakfast of ham, toast, and wine (!), Kyle told me that he hadn’t slept very well. I asked him what was wrong. “I think this place is haunted,” he answered, proceeding to reveal that he’d suffered some highly unusual night terrors. This was news to me. I’d seen and heard nothing during the course of my blank sleep. The conditions, though, seemed ripe for anxiety; we were, after all, not sleeping in Andrej’s house with he and his mother, but in the nearly empty WWII military base they owned across the street.
Our end of the structure was unheated and unfurnished, save for the twin beds we slept in, and at the other end, up another flight of echoing, concrete stairs, lived Andrej’s father, though we never once saw him indoors. The yard held the property’s only functioning restroom, as well as a blind, stiff-legged German shepherd. It seemed plausible that we were the first people to stay there since the Italian forces occupied the area some sixty years ago.
Our afternoon was spent ping-ponging between the local attractions, all of which being refreshingly unlike those of our previous destinations. Among the noteworthy stops were the castle gardens, designed by an ex-professor of Adolf Hitler, a fresh honey stand where we sampled what I both lovingly and accurately referred to as “bee booze,” and a breathtaking observation point above this subterranean river:
* * * * *
That night we found ourselves sharing stories, drinks, and joints with Andrej and friends in their nearby recording bunker (which, as if to top our lodgings, was formerly a train station during communist reign). They’d cleaned out the old rubble, repainted the walls in psychedelic orange, brought in a few couches, and stocked the cupboards with snacks and beer. In an adjacent room, two guys were syncing loops out of a funk session they’d recorded earlier. In ours, Kyle proceeded to bury the locals in strange stories from his travels – most involving sharks, mortal danger, or both. “Any friend of Andrej is welcome in Hawaii; I’ll hook you up!” he offered, but the room was either too stoned or too conscious of their remoteness to believe him. We wasted away the early hours and left them smoldering in a pile of empties and cigarette butts.
On our drive out of town, we stopped at the house of a different Andrej – a friend who’d promised us tea before we left. There, he and his sister Alenka gave us a sample from their garden, as well as a quick demonstration of the exotic instruments that Andrej had either collected or constructed during his career as a street performer. I realized that I’d mistaken their shyness the night before for contempt; however divergent our lifestyles might have seemed, everyone was friendly and generous to the two dumb Americans. As we headed out to the car, Andrej handed me a small reed-like bundle of duct tape and straws. “It’s a Mad Max instrument,” he admitted with a proud smile. “I was bored one day.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Photos: 10/27-10/28: Slovenia
Overheard dialogue: “I could get paid $1000/mo. to dream about Dr. Pepper” [Kyle]
Listening to: The Weakerthans, Reunion Tour
Our hope in tatters, we stopped into a downtown hotel to ask for directions. To our surprise, the receptionist spoke English (the first of two dozen I’d asked) and signed us in to the hotel’s private network. Score! However, waiting for us was a message from our host, explaining that she’d left the country that day to tend to an emergency. All circumstances indicated that, unless we found a substitute host, we’d be car sleeping again.
So we ran through the dregs of our Couchsurfing contacts in a desperate search for nearby profiles. Of the hundred screennames we scanned, only one was online – a stern-faced Andrej Curk of Sezana, Slovenia. It seemed counterintuitive to travel East again, but a glimpse at Google maps revealed that he lived only twenty kilometers away. We reached out and he immediately responded; within ten minutes we were out of Trieste’s grip and into the peaceful dark of the countryside.
* * * * *
We met up with Andrej at the bus station in Sezana, where he was eager to show us the local kebabs. If there’s one thing we’ve learned on this trip, it’s that quality kebabs (and ridiculous petrol prices) are the only true constant between each country. If it isn’t the European Union’s founding principle, it ought to be.
Andrej soon asked us the question that any traveler unknowingly longs to hear: “Want to come to a death metal tent party in the woods?” A Slovenian death metal tent party, you mean – yes, absolutely we do. And the only proper precursor to such an event is narrowly missing a 500-lb boar on the drive there. I apologize for the lack of evidence on this claim; my shutterfingers were busy guarding my face from a potentially painful and unkosher collision.The tent party rocked at least three or four Casbahs. I’m not partial to metal of any sort, but the hair-whipping, shirt-ripping performance more than captivated my interest. With three bass guitars, an umpteen-piece drum kit, and the wattage of a football stadium, the band had nowhere to go in that tent but through our ears – almost literally. Their opening act, a flammably ironic Guns ‘N Roses tribute band, weren’t bad either. I can forgive them for botching the mimicked English lyrics, considering the source material. Here’s a taste:
* * * * *
We awoke the next morning in a silent chill. After a hefty breakfast of ham, toast, and wine (!), Kyle told me that he hadn’t slept very well. I asked him what was wrong. “I think this place is haunted,” he answered, proceeding to reveal that he’d suffered some highly unusual night terrors. This was news to me. I’d seen and heard nothing during the course of my blank sleep. The conditions, though, seemed ripe for anxiety; we were, after all, not sleeping in Andrej’s house with he and his mother, but in the nearly empty WWII military base they owned across the street.
Our end of the structure was unheated and unfurnished, save for the twin beds we slept in, and at the other end, up another flight of echoing, concrete stairs, lived Andrej’s father, though we never once saw him indoors. The yard held the property’s only functioning restroom, as well as a blind, stiff-legged German shepherd. It seemed plausible that we were the first people to stay there since the Italian forces occupied the area some sixty years ago. Our afternoon was spent ping-ponging between the local attractions, all of which being refreshingly unlike those of our previous destinations. Among the noteworthy stops were the castle gardens, designed by an ex-professor of Adolf Hitler, a fresh honey stand where we sampled what I both lovingly and accurately referred to as “bee booze,” and a breathtaking observation point above this subterranean river:
* * * * *
That night we found ourselves sharing stories, drinks, and joints with Andrej and friends in their nearby recording bunker (which, as if to top our lodgings, was formerly a train station during communist reign). They’d cleaned out the old rubble, repainted the walls in psychedelic orange, brought in a few couches, and stocked the cupboards with snacks and beer. In an adjacent room, two guys were syncing loops out of a funk session they’d recorded earlier. In ours, Kyle proceeded to bury the locals in strange stories from his travels – most involving sharks, mortal danger, or both. “Any friend of Andrej is welcome in Hawaii; I’ll hook you up!” he offered, but the room was either too stoned or too conscious of their remoteness to believe him. We wasted away the early hours and left them smoldering in a pile of empties and cigarette butts. On our drive out of town, we stopped at the house of a different Andrej – a friend who’d promised us tea before we left. There, he and his sister Alenka gave us a sample from their garden, as well as a quick demonstration of the exotic instruments that Andrej had either collected or constructed during his career as a street performer. I realized that I’d mistaken their shyness the night before for contempt; however divergent our lifestyles might have seemed, everyone was friendly and generous to the two dumb Americans. As we headed out to the car, Andrej handed me a small reed-like bundle of duct tape and straws. “It’s a Mad Max instrument,” he admitted with a proud smile. “I was bored one day.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Photos: 10/27-10/28: Slovenia
Overheard dialogue: “I could get paid $1000/mo. to dream about Dr. Pepper” [Kyle]
Listening to: The Weakerthans, Reunion Tour
Wednesday, November 7
Posts Incoming
Needless to say, I'm behind on my writing. Slovenia, Italy, and France stories coming soon! We'll be on a bus heading toward Prague tonight.
Sunday, October 28
The Land That Geography Class Forgot / Pleasantville / Pivo Til You Heave-o
After a very comfortable stay in Bratislava, Kyle and I left Tina’s nest on Tuesday morning to become fledgling Europeans. Traveling South by farming roads, which conveniently avoided both the Austrian policia and speeds unsafe for our homely Gypsybox, we made our way through Hungary and Slovenia. After bisecting about two dozen highway towns and cresting an unexpectedly weathery pass (as you’ll see below), we were rewarded with a brilliant view of the sun setting over the glassy Mediterranean. My words and photographs are next to useless when it comes to distinguishing such a moment. If the Pacific is Poseidon’s workshop, this is his bedroom. We descended into Istria by first funneling through the beachside city of Rjevnik, which looks and feels like Santa Barbara’s Riviera magnified about tenfold. Being that night was approaching and our hosts had been neglected an arrival time, we pushed along, hugging the curves of the mountain tightly and piercing its cavernous belly. Ask the Evin of last month to estimate the highlights of Croatian landscape, and his guesses would be laughably wrong. Also, ask that same Evin to identify Montenegro on a map and he’d have pointed at the wrong continent. Ask the Kyle of today, and he’ll correct you: “You mean Micronesia?”
* * * * *
In the precipitous heart of the Istrian peninsula lie the cobblestone streets of Pazin. Toni, Jana, and their two young sons now occupy the flat that Toni was raised in by his grandparents. He recounts the history of each living room wall – where he practiced his free throws, his spikes, his high jumps, and his teenage punkster sloganeering. Over a few bowls of manestra (‘everything soup’), we exchange stories of our origins. Walking through town later, Toni greets every passerby – each a friendly member of the town’s balanced social web – and tours us through the cramped gymnasium of his youth and the field where he trained a now-professional goalkeeper. Flickering candles and blinking red beacons faintly light the steps through the graveyard. Each headstone is crowned with wreathes, photographs, and freshly soaked bouquets. It’s been raining all day, but still it seems as though the townspeople have come to pay respects to nearly everyone. The yard’s four terraces reach successively lower and more darkly into the canyon, leaving nothing but the idea of a black, bottomless gulch beyond. As distant sounds of teenage carousal echo through the stonework, we walk the aisles and softly discuss history. Toni tells us of Croatia’s suffering during the Yugoslavian conflicts – about the shock of war, the reaction of the populace, and their slow recovery after years of political and social erosion. I say my silent thanks for having been born in a fortunate place and time.
Toni’s youngest son, Jacob, is a dervish of a child. Bullying his older brother, making fountains out of meals, and exercising every small, violent whim of possessiveness, he has mastered at an early age the art of self-celebration. Perhaps because of the brevity of our stay or the preciousness that foreign babyspeak cultivates, we found Jacob to be as captivating as any of the surrounding landmarks. Here are a couple of choice moments from our time with him:
* * * * *
The days in Istria are filled with sightseeing, much of which is too brief or episodic to warrant much commentary here. Of the places we visit, Greznon, Porec, and Pula are the most memorable – and for very different reasons: Greznon for its dizzying heights, Porec for its bristling waters, and Pula for its raging nightlife. If there’s a common theme to our adventures here, it’s the consistent reminder that we are both nationally and personally very young, and very alive.
A word on the waters of Porec: mere months ago, our swim would have some guise of normalcy, given that tourists from around the world “plague” the seaside here to the point of gridlock from May to September. But because of the sudden change of season and our decision to swim clear across the harbor (twice) instead of dawdle in the shallows, we were met with wonderment both in and out of the water. Trolling fishermen and stroller-clad mothers shouted exclamations our way – some confoundedly amused, some solemn and humorless. During the shivering, blue-handed walk back through downtown, a Scandinavian family stopped us for a posed picture and requested, as an encore, that we jump off the docks again for the camera. Wiping a fresh sheet of dew from our clenched brows, we politely declined and proceeded to the dry towels waiting in our trunk.Audio Chat: Adventures In Istria (19:52)
* * * * *
Oftentimes it’s easier to overextend an adventure than to allow its natural conclusion. This was our experience after crossing the Porec harbor; the bar was set and pleading to be raised. Instead of returning to Pazin for a decent meal and well-earned rest, we drove South to Pula. A visit earlier in the week had oriented us to the city’s layout, so our efforts were consolidated toward two familiar goals: pivo (‘beer’) and partying. After a cursory survey of the student demographic, we found a place that would supply both in excess: discotheque Uljanik.
We arrived two and a half hours before the club was to open. With big, dumb, American smiles and a little Aloha factor, we convinced them to let us stay and drink while they set up. The subject of Hawaii is of particular interest wherever we go; its name is so deeply steeped in hyperbole and syrupy, utopian legend that Kyle may as well be traveling from the Moon. As he worked his island magic at the bar, I nestled into the corner for a nap.
I’ll be glad someday to recall that this happened only once in my life: I awoke to the sensation of my tailbone being sanded down by the bassline of a Jennifer Lopez song. I took the stool next to Kyle, where he and a vacationing Finnish soldier were discussing Bosnian and Serbian conflicts. Their drink coasters had become geographic diagrams, arranged in a progressively illegible row. Together, we compared stories and drank our dance lessons as the crowds gathered. At eleven, there were thirty drowsy dudes loitering about the patio with pivos and cigarettes. At one, the roughly 150-person dancefloor – as well as all surrounding bathrooms and barrooms – were functioning at double capacity in an absolute frenzy. Uljanik had transformed into a euphoric whirlpool of strobelights, broken glass, and foreign body odors. There in the middle of it all, I danced my little, pale heart out like it was junior high all over again.
International fact: there is no more unifying, rabble-rousing sound outside perhaps the new years countdown than the first fifteen seconds of Dr. Dre’s “The Next Episode” on a dancefloor.
About the same time that my energy ran out, Kyle’s courage showed up like a drunken supernova. I found him on a balcony with an armful of beers, shouting at a circle of local girls in pigeon.
“Kyle, remember that crazy lady we saw here on the street yesterday who was yelling to herself for three blocks about Serbs?” I warned him. “You’re being that lady.”
He peered at me knowingly, briefly parting the deep space that separated us. “Let me be that lady.” I returned to the car, wrapped myself in our towels, and fell asleep to the patter of heavy rain.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Photos: 10/23-10/26: Hungary, Croatia
Overheard dialogue: “Buying you a drink is not a prerequisite to conversation” [Me, Uljanik]
Listening to: Blonde Redhead, 23
Sunday, October 21
It Begins / Culture Shock / Our Slovakian Education
It’s been a day. Three of them, in fact, but it could easily have been ten. I’m sitting on the couch next to Kyle as he and our friend Martin watch an overdubbed vampire movie. We’re eating his grandparents’ cookies in a bulletproof house. But already I digress – there are so many things to write about that I can’t focus on any one of them for long. I’m a dog in a donut factory.
I was picked up yesterday morning by Kyle, Tina and Katka (our hosts) in Austria. Customs basically shooed me through after I found my luggage hiding in a staff closet. We left immediately for Vienna square – Stephansplatz, to be exact – where it became apparent that the European public has much keener fashion sense than ours. Three summarizing adjectives: cold (about 7 C), old (250 ft. churches and marble statues, anyone?), and bold (salesmen followed us for 2 blocks trying to sell Mozart tickets).
Tina & Katka went shopping while Kyle and I wandered around town looking for a pub. We finally found one, a dark, empty place called “Budweiser,” which is exactly what we were served. Budweiser varies drastically from region to region, both in quality and in price. Here, it was heralded as “the finest.” Nazdravie! [Slovak: cheers!]
We met up with Tina & Katka, ate some Turkish kabob sandwiches, and scrambled for the metro as it began to rain.
Driving into Slovakia, the reality of our international displacement was still unpronounced; the roads look and operate very similarly, and the farmy countryside is the spitting image of Iowa. However, upon entering the city of Bratislava – with its miles of uniform apartment complexes and herculean smokestacks – the residue of communism was distinctly foreign.
We arrived at Tina’s house in the heights of Bratislava, where we were met by gracious relatives, lavish accommodations, and a beautiful view. Kyle and I shared a room next to the gaming office of Miro (Tina’s brother) and Martin (her cousin), where techno music and Warcraft foley echoed loudly. Noteworthy bathroom differences: curtainless showers, radiator / towel rack, and the infamous biday.
We took a cab to a nearby bar called Flame. The place is small, stylish, and inexpensive. I could hear everyone at the table, all of whom were extremely friendly, and most drinks were half the price of what I’d pay in America. I was impressed, and quickly at home.
Tina and Katka are great girls. They’ve been accommodating above and beyond my expectations (okay, so I expected to be a social and linguistic pariah, but still). Both are smart, kind, and helpful in the process of “integrating” us into – or at least exposing us to – the culture.
The Slovakian gene pool is amazing; everyone here is beautiful, a fact undisputed by the arrival of Tina’s cousins Martina and Louisa. Kyle and I are a little overwhelmed. If there is a God, the Slovaks were his final draft.
Later that night...
Audio Chat: Rude Awakenings / General Observations (19:14)
Having spent so much time in the countryside, I've fallen behind on my writing. Instead, I'll have to supplement with the occasional audio chat and video clip. On some subjects, it's much easier and efficient to simply show or tell.
Audio Chat: Slovakian Idol (13:22)
Driving In Bratislava
Hillside Castle
(Note: It has been clarified that “Pozor” is not a place, but a common traffic sign which translates to “attention”)
That's all for now, folks. I wish that we could update more frequently, but our adventure knobs are cranked to 11. I'll likely have to rely on audio and video more and more as sleep deprivation sets in.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Photos: 10/19-10/21: Austria, Slovakia
Overheard dialogue: "You turned from a pretty boy into a three-headed dragon!" [SK Idol judge]
Listening to: Apparat, Walls
I was picked up yesterday morning by Kyle, Tina and Katka (our hosts) in Austria. Customs basically shooed me through after I found my luggage hiding in a staff closet. We left immediately for Vienna square – Stephansplatz, to be exact – where it became apparent that the European public has much keener fashion sense than ours. Three summarizing adjectives: cold (about 7 C), old (250 ft. churches and marble statues, anyone?), and bold (salesmen followed us for 2 blocks trying to sell Mozart tickets). Tina & Katka went shopping while Kyle and I wandered around town looking for a pub. We finally found one, a dark, empty place called “Budweiser,” which is exactly what we were served. Budweiser varies drastically from region to region, both in quality and in price. Here, it was heralded as “the finest.” Nazdravie! [Slovak: cheers!]
We met up with Tina & Katka, ate some Turkish kabob sandwiches, and scrambled for the metro as it began to rain.
Driving into Slovakia, the reality of our international displacement was still unpronounced; the roads look and operate very similarly, and the farmy countryside is the spitting image of Iowa. However, upon entering the city of Bratislava – with its miles of uniform apartment complexes and herculean smokestacks – the residue of communism was distinctly foreign.
We arrived at Tina’s house in the heights of Bratislava, where we were met by gracious relatives, lavish accommodations, and a beautiful view. Kyle and I shared a room next to the gaming office of Miro (Tina’s brother) and Martin (her cousin), where techno music and Warcraft foley echoed loudly. Noteworthy bathroom differences: curtainless showers, radiator / towel rack, and the infamous biday.
* * * * *
We took a cab to a nearby bar called Flame. The place is small, stylish, and inexpensive. I could hear everyone at the table, all of whom were extremely friendly, and most drinks were half the price of what I’d pay in America. I was impressed, and quickly at home.Tina and Katka are great girls. They’ve been accommodating above and beyond my expectations (okay, so I expected to be a social and linguistic pariah, but still). Both are smart, kind, and helpful in the process of “integrating” us into – or at least exposing us to – the culture.
The Slovakian gene pool is amazing; everyone here is beautiful, a fact undisputed by the arrival of Tina’s cousins Martina and Louisa. Kyle and I are a little overwhelmed. If there is a God, the Slovaks were his final draft.
Later that night...
Audio Chat: Rude Awakenings / General Observations (19:14)
* * * * *
Having spent so much time in the countryside, I've fallen behind on my writing. Instead, I'll have to supplement with the occasional audio chat and video clip. On some subjects, it's much easier and efficient to simply show or tell.
Audio Chat: Slovakian Idol (13:22)
Driving In Bratislava
Hillside Castle
(Note: It has been clarified that “Pozor” is not a place, but a common traffic sign which translates to “attention”)
That's all for now, folks. I wish that we could update more frequently, but our adventure knobs are cranked to 11. I'll likely have to rely on audio and video more and more as sleep deprivation sets in.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Photos: 10/19-10/21: Austria, Slovakia
Overheard dialogue: "You turned from a pretty boy into a three-headed dragon!" [SK Idol judge]
Listening to: Apparat, Walls
Wednesday, October 17
Today / Tentative Itinerary / A Brief Forward
Two years and a Sunday ago, I found myself walking to the Sponslers’ house on a sunny afternoon. Ray had invited a number of family friends to stop by and enjoy a drink or two in his backyard bar. Among the people fraternizing around the spigot was an unlikely guest: my long-time friend and icon of mischief, Kyle Eckstrom. He was taller than when I left him last, and deeply tanned by the Hawaiian sun, but smiled with familiar, glowing excitement. He had an idea to share.
“Europe – for a few months. We get one-way tickets, bring backpacks, and figure it out.”
I smiled vacuously at him. He couldn’t be serious, could he?
“People are always willing to help you out. Especially if you’re an American. There’s always food to eat and someplace to sleep.”
I thought about it all afternoon. The idea was immediately charming, but could resourceless travel be possible just because he projected it to be so? I was doing well in school and at my now steady job, and had only begun to collect some modest savings for myself. Grateful for the inclusion, I still had to turn him down. I was stung for the remainder of the afternoon by the missed opportunity, but as days passed, so did my enthusiasm. Soon, I had all but forgotten about it.
Fast forward two years exactly: I’m walking to the Sponslers’ again, without any recollection that I do so around this time every Fall. The door opens, and around the dining table are Paula, Ray, Chelsey, assorted cousins, and (somewhat conspicuously) an even taller, tanner Kyle Eckstrom. Well, what do you know; he’s already grinning.
“I’m leaving on Wednesday for Austria,” he announces to me, divulging little else than an earnest afterthought: “Want to come?” I shyly scratch my head. Within an instant, my life’s details align into a list of simple logistics: savings, job, friends, family, girlfriend. The spectre of obligation – my still, small, objectionary voice – is oddly silent, cowering in the shadow of a glorious, childlike thought:
I can do it.
We talk over the specifics, wide-eyed and electrified, and exchange a hug and high fives. If ever there’s a time to drop my responsibilities for that once-in-a-lifetime adventure, it’s now. Today, not tomorrow.
Kyle is the proud new owner of a bright purple Slovakian Hyundai Accent, which we'll be using to get from place to place. For the most part, our waypoint dates have been dictated by the availability of our hosts. Our tentative itinerary, which will eventually extend to Christmas, is as follows:
Oct 19 - 22 : Bratislava, Slovakia (partying, visiting mountain village, attending "Slovakian Idol")
Oct 23 - 25 : Pazin, Croatia
Oct 25 - 29 : Split, Croatia
Oct 30 - 31 : Bratislava, Slovakia (Halloween) *or* Porec, Croatia
Nov 01 - 04 : Florence, Italy
Nov 05 - 09 : Lyon, France *or* Paris, France
Nov 10 - 12 : Prague, Czech Republic (Jason Richard's wedding)
Nov 13 - 17 : Berlin, Germany
Nov 18 - 20 : Cologne, Germany
Nov 20 - 22 : Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Nov 23 - 25 : Brighton, UK
Nov 26 - ?? : London, UK
You can expect fairly regular updates from Kyle and I here, which I hope will consist of stories, photos, and the occasional drunken podcast. In the interest of keeping current and in the moment, I won't be revising, fact checking or spell checking my writing until the new year. I'll change the stock template blandness when downtime overflows. Tell your friends, and don't hesitate to comment, write, or call. In the wise words of Michelangelo (the turtle, not the artist), "Cowabunga, dude."
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Overheard dialogue: “Mommy, why do you talk like a robot?” [On flight from YPR to YVR]
Listening to: Andy McKee, Dreamcatcher
“Europe – for a few months. We get one-way tickets, bring backpacks, and figure it out.”
I smiled vacuously at him. He couldn’t be serious, could he?
“People are always willing to help you out. Especially if you’re an American. There’s always food to eat and someplace to sleep.”
I thought about it all afternoon. The idea was immediately charming, but could resourceless travel be possible just because he projected it to be so? I was doing well in school and at my now steady job, and had only begun to collect some modest savings for myself. Grateful for the inclusion, I still had to turn him down. I was stung for the remainder of the afternoon by the missed opportunity, but as days passed, so did my enthusiasm. Soon, I had all but forgotten about it.
Fast forward two years exactly: I’m walking to the Sponslers’ again, without any recollection that I do so around this time every Fall. The door opens, and around the dining table are Paula, Ray, Chelsey, assorted cousins, and (somewhat conspicuously) an even taller, tanner Kyle Eckstrom. Well, what do you know; he’s already grinning.
“I’m leaving on Wednesday for Austria,” he announces to me, divulging little else than an earnest afterthought: “Want to come?” I shyly scratch my head. Within an instant, my life’s details align into a list of simple logistics: savings, job, friends, family, girlfriend. The spectre of obligation – my still, small, objectionary voice – is oddly silent, cowering in the shadow of a glorious, childlike thought:
I can do it.
We talk over the specifics, wide-eyed and electrified, and exchange a hug and high fives. If ever there’s a time to drop my responsibilities for that once-in-a-lifetime adventure, it’s now. Today, not tomorrow.
* * * * *
Kyle is the proud new owner of a bright purple Slovakian Hyundai Accent, which we'll be using to get from place to place. For the most part, our waypoint dates have been dictated by the availability of our hosts. Our tentative itinerary, which will eventually extend to Christmas, is as follows:
Oct 19 - 22 : Bratislava, Slovakia (partying, visiting mountain village, attending "Slovakian Idol")
Oct 23 - 25 : Pazin, Croatia
Oct 25 - 29 : Split, Croatia
Oct 30 - 31 : Bratislava, Slovakia (Halloween) *or* Porec, Croatia
Nov 01 - 04 : Florence, Italy
Nov 05 - 09 : Lyon, France *or* Paris, France
Nov 10 - 12 : Prague, Czech Republic (Jason Richard's wedding)
Nov 13 - 17 : Berlin, Germany
Nov 18 - 20 : Cologne, Germany
Nov 20 - 22 : Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Nov 23 - 25 : Brighton, UK
Nov 26 - ?? : London, UK
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You can expect fairly regular updates from Kyle and I here, which I hope will consist of stories, photos, and the occasional drunken podcast. In the interest of keeping current and in the moment, I won't be revising, fact checking or spell checking my writing until the new year. I'll change the stock template blandness when downtime overflows. Tell your friends, and don't hesitate to comment, write, or call. In the wise words of Michelangelo (the turtle, not the artist), "Cowabunga, dude."
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Overheard dialogue: “Mommy, why do you talk like a robot?” [On flight from YPR to YVR]
Listening to: Andy McKee, Dreamcatcher
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