Travel writing is a gas, but I haven't been abroad in a while and I feel like pulling back from the Memoria (name of a Russian novel sitting on my shelf at home that I've never read but bought because it looks ancient and I thought it would lend an humbling tone to my literary collection to have a grim tome of the steppes) and talking a bit about life in general, with perhaps a few asides here and there to the adventures I didn't mention from the UK. So, we really must press on...
Exam season has fallen upon North Carolina State University like it wasn't even exam season. I'm not afraid of my classes; I'm afraid of my research. I can't tell whether it was a mistake to join a $25 million grant project doing computational modeling of cellulose spinning transmembrane proteins because it seems that whenever I hit some roadblock trying to convince our modeling program that it should do something other than fill me with the intense desire to leap from Dr. Irving's tiny window or headbutt a couple of vertical pencils, some kind of breakthrough will occur, and fill me with an orgasmic satisfaction. Then, it happens all over again. Is that what stress is? Mood swings like Kirby in Supersmash bros.? I really screwed myself over taking it for credit though; it puts me on a deadline that isn't fixed but lives in an evil flux that just makes me want to do the work less. I should be getting paid, but I'm afraid to demand anything while a grade hangs by a poorly tied noose. I need to go see my chem professor from last year; wonderful guy, world traveler. Also, does all of his theoretical work by hand; no joke, he writes everything out. It's nuts, and I want to be able to do that. I need to either do something experimental with human tissue engineering, which would be choice, or get on hand written work. If anyone knows someone who is calculating protein folding on paper, let me know.
One thing that I do have to benefit form working with my current mentor is the possibility of a position in a Denmark lab over the end of the summer doing DNA films again. This work was mildly interesting and they say Denmark is pleasant, but more importantly, it puts me close to Scotland for a few weeks after summer school and before the programs starts, which is where I am planning my next, potentially disastrous adventure.
You see, I have this friend who is also a lover of the outdoors and we made a pact in the Park Scholar lounge (A pact that thus can't be broken) to apply for a National Geographic Young Explorer's Grant before we both turn 25 and then become such iconic adventurers that Nat Geo can't help but offer us a TV show. The best chance I think that I have of winning one of these is to apply under the exploration category for "Adventures of an Epic Nature," which means that I have to start building my explorer's resume. That's where Scotland comes in. I love everything there is to mention about this country, from the sheep to the haggis, from the sunrises off Arthur's Seat to the free shows on the strip (I tipped in Kuna), and I want to go back. I saw a Man vs. Wild episode where Bear Grylls stranded himself in the Scottish highlands where weather can go from foggy to blizzard to monsoon within the space of twenty minutes and the terrain is filled with Mordor-like rock formations and unforgiving sinkholes. Obviously, I cannot pass up this opportunity. I'm thinking about having my cousins direct me to a pilot who can drop me off in the middle of nowhere with my pack and a video camera, with the sole intent of making it to Glasgow before my luck runs out. If I make it back, I will have an epic chronicle of dedicated research in one of the world's most hostile environments that I feel would add some weight to my resume.
If anyone has some other suggestions as to how to augment my resume, I'm welcome to your ideas. Open cage diving with the Great Whites of Cape Hope? A trek along the old grizzly trails in Alaska? Trying to island hop the pacific rim in a kayak? All the while taking notes and filming of course. Whatever; throw it out there.
It's eleven O'clock. Bedtime. Go Scotland. You rock.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Iron Fist of the Machine!
A week ago, I was running in the morning, and I was hit by a car. I had not been wearing my contacts and I came up to a guy that was pulling out of an intersecting road with the road I was abutting. I could have sworn that he had given me the conformatory glance and that I would be safe in doing my little jig in front of his beamer, but to my surprise, he began to pull out as I got in front of him. I slammed my fist on the front of his hood as I was thrown out into the street, and I could tell, after I got up, from his blurry expression that he was unnerved in the extreme; I felt bad. So, in strange form I mouthed an apology and kept on running albiet a bit slower as my legs had gotten kind of beat up. I will say though, there is nothing like getting hit by a car to pump you up for a 10 mile run before you've eaten breakfast.
There is a point to this. Getting hit by cars reminded me of the daily experiences of Polish drivers over the summer. While I was in Poznan, I was hit twice by vehicles, one going about 5 mph and the other probably about 15. At crosswalks. This flabbergasted me; I mean seriously? I'm crossing the street, and a car just straight up hits me? The crosswalk is clearly marked, there's no ambiguity here, and the driver felt his time was more important than my life. I was fairly pissed, but this seemed plausible in a country where everyone peels out, whether you are going a mile or 5 feet, in every kind of car you can imagine. One morning, I saw a minivan full of kids take off like a bullet out of a back alley, nearly hitting 12 pedestrians on the sidewalk, all of whom reacted to the sudden appearance of a fast moving 2 ton piece of metal full of screaming children with stoic indifference.
The ridiculousness of Polish driving left me in terible confusion, but I had the whole situation elucidated when I met my man Boris in Zadar. He told me that this kind of behavior on the road is a product of the post communist mentality that pervades eastern Europe. You see, when you are a human crossing the road, you are just an individual; you are essentially nothing. But as soon as you get behind the wheel of the car, you are part of something greater. From behind the turning cranks and blasting valves, seated at the controls of the gleaming, steel machine, you become a god. Who is anyone to cross in front of you when you are so much more powerful? Any fool unwise enough to cross in the crosswalk deserves to have his pitiful form tossed aside.
And perhaps this can represent one of the facets of my enthusiasm with being an American. I step into the road with abandon, for I know that, here, cars must stop. There are many things that Americans take for granted, but I feel like the individual's safety when crossing the street in a designated crossing area is something that everyone deserves. Perhaps it would serve our current administration well to concentrate on this aspect of Foreign relations. Maybe we could be more sucessful in improving our foreign image if America is touted as the land of right-of-way. Chortle.
There is a point to this. Getting hit by cars reminded me of the daily experiences of Polish drivers over the summer. While I was in Poznan, I was hit twice by vehicles, one going about 5 mph and the other probably about 15. At crosswalks. This flabbergasted me; I mean seriously? I'm crossing the street, and a car just straight up hits me? The crosswalk is clearly marked, there's no ambiguity here, and the driver felt his time was more important than my life. I was fairly pissed, but this seemed plausible in a country where everyone peels out, whether you are going a mile or 5 feet, in every kind of car you can imagine. One morning, I saw a minivan full of kids take off like a bullet out of a back alley, nearly hitting 12 pedestrians on the sidewalk, all of whom reacted to the sudden appearance of a fast moving 2 ton piece of metal full of screaming children with stoic indifference.
The ridiculousness of Polish driving left me in terible confusion, but I had the whole situation elucidated when I met my man Boris in Zadar. He told me that this kind of behavior on the road is a product of the post communist mentality that pervades eastern Europe. You see, when you are a human crossing the road, you are just an individual; you are essentially nothing. But as soon as you get behind the wheel of the car, you are part of something greater. From behind the turning cranks and blasting valves, seated at the controls of the gleaming, steel machine, you become a god. Who is anyone to cross in front of you when you are so much more powerful? Any fool unwise enough to cross in the crosswalk deserves to have his pitiful form tossed aside.
And perhaps this can represent one of the facets of my enthusiasm with being an American. I step into the road with abandon, for I know that, here, cars must stop. There are many things that Americans take for granted, but I feel like the individual's safety when crossing the street in a designated crossing area is something that everyone deserves. Perhaps it would serve our current administration well to concentrate on this aspect of Foreign relations. Maybe we could be more sucessful in improving our foreign image if America is touted as the land of right-of-way. Chortle.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Heady Brews
I was asked a couple of weeks back, "If you were a drink, what kind would you be?" If I was a drink, I would be a mix of blended frozen peaches, Croatian red wine, and virgin's tears.
While in Croatia, I drank the wine; it's their thing, and it really is rude to refuse. I came into my hosts town the first night and we were sitting on the stoop watching people go past. He offered me a glass of wine and, reluctant but not wanting to offend my host, I accepted. I must have drank about a sixth of the glass, maybe 25mLs when it started to affect me. Apparently, this is common; Croatian wine is unusually strong and native Hrvatskans take great pride in the local wines. My host had seen many people pass through, and the only ones that could keep up with his wine intake were the Irish.
He was getting hungry so we went to get him a pizza and as soon as I stood up, I was nearly knocked off my feet. Somehow we made it to a hotel where he ordered himself a pizza and a big jug of woda gazowana, which he made fun of me for saying. My host lived an interesting life as far as monetary systems go. Almost all of the interactions we had where money would usually have been exchanged were handled through an invisible tab that he explained to me as, "I help him, and he is my friend. Later, he sees that I need help, and he helps me. We are friends." I thought this was wonderful; I've had success with this in the states as far as becoming everyone's friend, but I have seen little coming back my way. That's ok. I like having friends. In any case, I was apparently gesturing wildly and exhuberently explaining the details of my research while he sat there and ate his pizza. I passed out that night after drinking about 6 liters of water and slept for 11 hours. When I woke up, my host told me that I had been stretched out on the floor like Superman and that it was the funniest reaction anyone has had to the heady fruit of the Croatian vine in his entire life.
I had a lot of misgivings about alcohol this summer, as I don't drink in the states on the principle that I want to have control over my body, but, as I mentioned before, there is a serious rudeness factor that one incurrs simply by refusing an offered alcoholic beverage. And I feel that, because I was young, it was even more expected of me. I refused drinks as much as I could, but there were times when I knew that in order to save myself from cultural suicide, I needed to imbibe. And this process brought me closer to understanding just what the phrase "drinking culture" means and how the stigma that has become associated with alcohol in America is relatively nonexistant in the span of my travels. It is simply what people do as habit, but it is nothing like saying habit in the context of an American. In a social drinking situation, it seems like we tend to rely on the drink as the stress reliever, while the social interactions can be demanding and dramatic. In Croatia, Poland, and especially Scotland, the drink provides background while the social interaction is the prime reason for gathering. Where a Scotsman would say that a football match is a chance to get together with friends and get pissed, an American would say that a football game is an excuse to get wasted with friends. Drink becomes the main focus of the event; people tend to take what and how much they drink more seriously.
And I recognize that my perspective here is that of a college student, and to be honest, I can't imagine that it is very representative of American drinkers as a whole. All I will say is that, where I was comfortable having a beer with my cousins in Scotland, it just feels strange to me when I hear stories from friends about parties they have been to. The first thing they will tell me is how wasted they were, as if there was something they had to prove. Eastern Europeans do drink a lot, don't get me wrong, but there is never anything to prove. It's just something they do.
If you were wondering, the peaches would be something light and delicious, the Croatian wine would be something profoundly affecting, and the virgin tears would be, I don't know, eccentric?Satchel next time. Get stoked.
While in Croatia, I drank the wine; it's their thing, and it really is rude to refuse. I came into my hosts town the first night and we were sitting on the stoop watching people go past. He offered me a glass of wine and, reluctant but not wanting to offend my host, I accepted. I must have drank about a sixth of the glass, maybe 25mLs when it started to affect me. Apparently, this is common; Croatian wine is unusually strong and native Hrvatskans take great pride in the local wines. My host had seen many people pass through, and the only ones that could keep up with his wine intake were the Irish.
He was getting hungry so we went to get him a pizza and as soon as I stood up, I was nearly knocked off my feet. Somehow we made it to a hotel where he ordered himself a pizza and a big jug of woda gazowana, which he made fun of me for saying. My host lived an interesting life as far as monetary systems go. Almost all of the interactions we had where money would usually have been exchanged were handled through an invisible tab that he explained to me as, "I help him, and he is my friend. Later, he sees that I need help, and he helps me. We are friends." I thought this was wonderful; I've had success with this in the states as far as becoming everyone's friend, but I have seen little coming back my way. That's ok. I like having friends. In any case, I was apparently gesturing wildly and exhuberently explaining the details of my research while he sat there and ate his pizza. I passed out that night after drinking about 6 liters of water and slept for 11 hours. When I woke up, my host told me that I had been stretched out on the floor like Superman and that it was the funniest reaction anyone has had to the heady fruit of the Croatian vine in his entire life.
I had a lot of misgivings about alcohol this summer, as I don't drink in the states on the principle that I want to have control over my body, but, as I mentioned before, there is a serious rudeness factor that one incurrs simply by refusing an offered alcoholic beverage. And I feel that, because I was young, it was even more expected of me. I refused drinks as much as I could, but there were times when I knew that in order to save myself from cultural suicide, I needed to imbibe. And this process brought me closer to understanding just what the phrase "drinking culture" means and how the stigma that has become associated with alcohol in America is relatively nonexistant in the span of my travels. It is simply what people do as habit, but it is nothing like saying habit in the context of an American. In a social drinking situation, it seems like we tend to rely on the drink as the stress reliever, while the social interactions can be demanding and dramatic. In Croatia, Poland, and especially Scotland, the drink provides background while the social interaction is the prime reason for gathering. Where a Scotsman would say that a football match is a chance to get together with friends and get pissed, an American would say that a football game is an excuse to get wasted with friends. Drink becomes the main focus of the event; people tend to take what and how much they drink more seriously.
And I recognize that my perspective here is that of a college student, and to be honest, I can't imagine that it is very representative of American drinkers as a whole. All I will say is that, where I was comfortable having a beer with my cousins in Scotland, it just feels strange to me when I hear stories from friends about parties they have been to. The first thing they will tell me is how wasted they were, as if there was something they had to prove. Eastern Europeans do drink a lot, don't get me wrong, but there is never anything to prove. It's just something they do.
If you were wondering, the peaches would be something light and delicious, the Croatian wine would be something profoundly affecting, and the virgin tears would be, I don't know, eccentric?Satchel next time. Get stoked.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The only word I recognized from Harry Potter und der Halb-Blut Prinz was Gluck!
There have only been a few times in my life where the danger that I had exposed myself to was, as judged by a random selection of the people I know, more than enough to leave me dead; perhaps, when there was a 90% or greater chance that I would not make it out alive. Thrice did this happen over my summer adventures, and thrice did I escape my end through great propensity for luck. It's funny; this reminds me of how Harry Potter described fighting dark wizards (I listen to the books on tape to help me get to sleep; I can quote from Rowling without effort. Geeky, I know, but Jim Dale, the narrator, gave me the ability to employ a British accent at will). He says, essentially, that preparation can only get you so far; in the end, it is simply a matter of luck. I don't disagree with this, but I would say that one's will to live is the driving force behind whatever domain in which God chooses to place luck.
I will tell you about one of these instances; the others, those are for me, but the event that I lived through on the morning of August 4th is too proposterous to keep to myself. I may go back and talk about previous adventures in Croatia at some point, but for now, I'll give the basic situation. At that point, I hd been in Croatia for nearly two weeks; I'd done a fair amount of shepherding, traveled to Mostar with two fellow couchsurfers, got off a bus in Sarajevo with no idea what I was doing and spent the two subsequent days smoking hookah with a Sweed and a Canadian on a balcony overlooking the old town, done more shepherding in Dubrovnik, climbed some mountains, and played to my heart's content in the ocean. Now, it was not all fun and games; I had lined up a guy in a small town to couchsurf with while I was in Poland, and had secured a place to sleep at his home for most of the three weeks. Or so I thought; through vrious changes that his life took quite rapidly on him, it transpired that I became a bit of a burden very quickly. After returing to his home from Dubrovnik to find him upset, I had to quickly devise a way to get out of his hair. I had planned on camping along the coast before I got there, and it seemed like the perfect time to get out of that tiny town where everyone knew what was up. My host drove me to a popular place to camp and chill about 20 km south of the town, and I told him that I would be there for about a week, and that I would come through the town and stay with him one more night before I left for the north. I don't think he was even paying attention to that; he drove off and I was left on my own.
After some exploration, I found a small island about a sixth of a mile off land, and was able to bundle up my pack in a convienently discarded tarp and float all of my gear out to the island where I set up my home for the next week. I spent 5 days living off what I could find and catch, most of which consisted of squids and sea urchins. I would not reccommend eating sea urchins; not good for one's health. In my physical journal, I believe that I wrote, "Never, in the history of mankind, has anyone subjected themselves to the appaling sanitary conditions to which I have now sunk." It is because of this that I will never eat squids again. It is also because of this that I have had such little regard for the sanitary protocol of the majority of Americans; things like washing one's hands before eating and using a spoon to get raisins out of a shared bag in order to prevent the spread of swine flu are still taking time for me to get used to. I'm living under the assumption that if I did not die from some horrible disease whilst on the island, there is no germ, virus, or fungus that will ever be able to harm me again.
And so it came to the morning of that 6th day of seclusion, and I woke to a desperate hunger. I had discovered a sun cherry tree on the other side of the island a couple of days back, and was contemplating heding over and grabbing some breakfast. There was also the option of getting into the blackberries, but I had learned fairly quickly that wild blackberries are the most powerful laxitive in existance (I could discribe how I discovered this. Be thankful I am not). I unzipped my tent and stepped out into the little patch of small rocks that I had designated as my cooking area. I did my best to try to shoo away the yellow jackets that had been hanging around since my first meal at the beginning of the week. They got there before the sun rose every morning, and at first I was worried about getting stung, then I was worried about them crawling on my food, then I was worried that I might accidentally eat one that had gotten itself stuck to a piece of food. Then I just didn't worry. The air was crisp and the flies had not yet come, so all I could hear was the crashing of the waves in the bay behind me. (Swich to present tense for dramatic emphasis). I face the sun to the east and let the rays wash over my face so as to ensure that I come back from Croatia with some kind of tan. It feels good to have warmth on my body again; it's incrediblly relaxing after sleeping in a tent pitched over a bed of reeds that is supposed to serve as a rudimentary thermarest. I drink in the glory of a beautiful sunny Croatian day for a few more seconds, and then turn to the West to see a gigantic cyclone heading straight for me.
What followed was almost entirely mechanical. I had no fly on my tent, so my first thought was to stormproof the situation. I attached the goretex material to the half of my tent that was mesh and shifted four 70 pound boulders so that they sat on the corners of my rather flimsy looking shelter. I gathered all of my belongings and spread them out over the floor, adding several more boulders for good measure. After taking one more look towards appoaching doom, I got into the tent, zipped up and layed spread eagle across the pile. There was easily a good 250 lbs in that tent, but when the storm hit a few minutes later, I was nearly blown straight into the ocean. After about 30 minutes of desperately trying to keep the tent from going airborne, the gale winds and hammering rain broke almost instantly, and the sun popped out as if astonished that I wasn't out enjoying it's warmth. I was fairly pissed; my stuff was soaked from rain that had been blown straight under the fly and into the bottom of the tent, and all of the contraptions that I had set up to make life easier were either destroyed or gone. A couple of trees had fallen over, and that scared me. If I had been hit by a tree, I could have been stuck out there with no help and no one who knew where I was. My host knew that I was in the area, but I don't think he cared much about me at that point; I was on my own. I considered myself incredibly lucky to have survived the storm with everything intact, but I did not find out just how lucky I actually was until my return to my hosts town the next day.
After a 20km attempt to hitchhike back (To be fair, a pair of really nice Russians showed up with 1 km left to go), I came back into town to find that nerly everyone was gone. I asked where everyone was and found that they had all gon to insurance claims adjusters. I passed through, I noticed that several homes had large holes, missing windows, and a few that had caved in sections. Cars had plastic over the windows and all of the roofs were peppered with the exact same pattern of stippled dents. It was like I had left a normal town and come back to a war zone.
As it transpired, the cyclone had not hit the bay I was staying in directly, but it had hit my host's town, which was only 2 km north of where I was in costal distance. And this funnel of death wasn't just carrying water; it brought a rain of grapefruit sized ice that had completely destroyed the town; cars, homes, all windows, all destroyed. A guy had gone out to grab something and his arm had been broken by a chunk of ice nearly as large as some of the rocks I had used to weight down my tent. Needless to say, if the cyclone had hit shore even 1 more km south, the ice would have caught me completely unprepared, would have destroyed my tent, and most likely left me paralyzed and beyond the help of anyone. It was Croatia's worst storm in 33 years; 30 minutes of hell on earth.
If you do not have a sense of surprise that I can still count myself among the living, than you have lost touch with life and I would reccommend trying my Croatian Scampi sauce (I'll credit Boris with teaching me how to make that). My own experience was quite scary and frought with enough danger to be lethal, but by some magical stroke of luck, I once again avoided a disaster that would have been certain death. Just to clarify, I did not intentionally put myself in harm's way, but I was really asking for it. And thus, since I am allowed to delude myself into thinking my opinion matters, there are a few lessons here: 1) Be prepared for anything, even a tempest of ice bricks falling from the sky, 2) Make sure someone who cares about you knows where you are, otherwise no one will ever find your humorous journal entries, and 3) Sheep are simple; never leave their sides.
The next day I got on a bus and used my iPod for the first time in a month as I headed north. It was like citric acid was being poured into my crainial cavity; I was amped. By the time I hit Split, I was ready for my mext quest: The Search for the Satch (European Manpurse) of DOOM!
I will tell you about one of these instances; the others, those are for me, but the event that I lived through on the morning of August 4th is too proposterous to keep to myself. I may go back and talk about previous adventures in Croatia at some point, but for now, I'll give the basic situation. At that point, I hd been in Croatia for nearly two weeks; I'd done a fair amount of shepherding, traveled to Mostar with two fellow couchsurfers, got off a bus in Sarajevo with no idea what I was doing and spent the two subsequent days smoking hookah with a Sweed and a Canadian on a balcony overlooking the old town, done more shepherding in Dubrovnik, climbed some mountains, and played to my heart's content in the ocean. Now, it was not all fun and games; I had lined up a guy in a small town to couchsurf with while I was in Poland, and had secured a place to sleep at his home for most of the three weeks. Or so I thought; through vrious changes that his life took quite rapidly on him, it transpired that I became a bit of a burden very quickly. After returing to his home from Dubrovnik to find him upset, I had to quickly devise a way to get out of his hair. I had planned on camping along the coast before I got there, and it seemed like the perfect time to get out of that tiny town where everyone knew what was up. My host drove me to a popular place to camp and chill about 20 km south of the town, and I told him that I would be there for about a week, and that I would come through the town and stay with him one more night before I left for the north. I don't think he was even paying attention to that; he drove off and I was left on my own.
After some exploration, I found a small island about a sixth of a mile off land, and was able to bundle up my pack in a convienently discarded tarp and float all of my gear out to the island where I set up my home for the next week. I spent 5 days living off what I could find and catch, most of which consisted of squids and sea urchins. I would not reccommend eating sea urchins; not good for one's health. In my physical journal, I believe that I wrote, "Never, in the history of mankind, has anyone subjected themselves to the appaling sanitary conditions to which I have now sunk." It is because of this that I will never eat squids again. It is also because of this that I have had such little regard for the sanitary protocol of the majority of Americans; things like washing one's hands before eating and using a spoon to get raisins out of a shared bag in order to prevent the spread of swine flu are still taking time for me to get used to. I'm living under the assumption that if I did not die from some horrible disease whilst on the island, there is no germ, virus, or fungus that will ever be able to harm me again.
And so it came to the morning of that 6th day of seclusion, and I woke to a desperate hunger. I had discovered a sun cherry tree on the other side of the island a couple of days back, and was contemplating heding over and grabbing some breakfast. There was also the option of getting into the blackberries, but I had learned fairly quickly that wild blackberries are the most powerful laxitive in existance (I could discribe how I discovered this. Be thankful I am not). I unzipped my tent and stepped out into the little patch of small rocks that I had designated as my cooking area. I did my best to try to shoo away the yellow jackets that had been hanging around since my first meal at the beginning of the week. They got there before the sun rose every morning, and at first I was worried about getting stung, then I was worried about them crawling on my food, then I was worried that I might accidentally eat one that had gotten itself stuck to a piece of food. Then I just didn't worry. The air was crisp and the flies had not yet come, so all I could hear was the crashing of the waves in the bay behind me. (Swich to present tense for dramatic emphasis). I face the sun to the east and let the rays wash over my face so as to ensure that I come back from Croatia with some kind of tan. It feels good to have warmth on my body again; it's incrediblly relaxing after sleeping in a tent pitched over a bed of reeds that is supposed to serve as a rudimentary thermarest. I drink in the glory of a beautiful sunny Croatian day for a few more seconds, and then turn to the West to see a gigantic cyclone heading straight for me.
What followed was almost entirely mechanical. I had no fly on my tent, so my first thought was to stormproof the situation. I attached the goretex material to the half of my tent that was mesh and shifted four 70 pound boulders so that they sat on the corners of my rather flimsy looking shelter. I gathered all of my belongings and spread them out over the floor, adding several more boulders for good measure. After taking one more look towards appoaching doom, I got into the tent, zipped up and layed spread eagle across the pile. There was easily a good 250 lbs in that tent, but when the storm hit a few minutes later, I was nearly blown straight into the ocean. After about 30 minutes of desperately trying to keep the tent from going airborne, the gale winds and hammering rain broke almost instantly, and the sun popped out as if astonished that I wasn't out enjoying it's warmth. I was fairly pissed; my stuff was soaked from rain that had been blown straight under the fly and into the bottom of the tent, and all of the contraptions that I had set up to make life easier were either destroyed or gone. A couple of trees had fallen over, and that scared me. If I had been hit by a tree, I could have been stuck out there with no help and no one who knew where I was. My host knew that I was in the area, but I don't think he cared much about me at that point; I was on my own. I considered myself incredibly lucky to have survived the storm with everything intact, but I did not find out just how lucky I actually was until my return to my hosts town the next day.
After a 20km attempt to hitchhike back (To be fair, a pair of really nice Russians showed up with 1 km left to go), I came back into town to find that nerly everyone was gone. I asked where everyone was and found that they had all gon to insurance claims adjusters. I passed through, I noticed that several homes had large holes, missing windows, and a few that had caved in sections. Cars had plastic over the windows and all of the roofs were peppered with the exact same pattern of stippled dents. It was like I had left a normal town and come back to a war zone.
As it transpired, the cyclone had not hit the bay I was staying in directly, but it had hit my host's town, which was only 2 km north of where I was in costal distance. And this funnel of death wasn't just carrying water; it brought a rain of grapefruit sized ice that had completely destroyed the town; cars, homes, all windows, all destroyed. A guy had gone out to grab something and his arm had been broken by a chunk of ice nearly as large as some of the rocks I had used to weight down my tent. Needless to say, if the cyclone had hit shore even 1 more km south, the ice would have caught me completely unprepared, would have destroyed my tent, and most likely left me paralyzed and beyond the help of anyone. It was Croatia's worst storm in 33 years; 30 minutes of hell on earth.
If you do not have a sense of surprise that I can still count myself among the living, than you have lost touch with life and I would reccommend trying my Croatian Scampi sauce (I'll credit Boris with teaching me how to make that). My own experience was quite scary and frought with enough danger to be lethal, but by some magical stroke of luck, I once again avoided a disaster that would have been certain death. Just to clarify, I did not intentionally put myself in harm's way, but I was really asking for it. And thus, since I am allowed to delude myself into thinking my opinion matters, there are a few lessons here: 1) Be prepared for anything, even a tempest of ice bricks falling from the sky, 2) Make sure someone who cares about you knows where you are, otherwise no one will ever find your humorous journal entries, and 3) Sheep are simple; never leave their sides.
The next day I got on a bus and used my iPod for the first time in a month as I headed north. It was like citric acid was being poured into my crainial cavity; I was amped. By the time I hit Split, I was ready for my mext quest: The Search for the Satch (European Manpurse) of DOOM!
Thursday, August 20, 2009
A little Appeteaser of Adventure: ZOMBIES!
Well, well, well... thought you'd never hear from me again, did you? Thought that I might succeed in getting myself imprisoned on some minor offense in an obscure region that doesn't appear on google maps? Convinced I might end up eaten by a Great White at the bottom of the world? Believed that I would never leave the fruit groves? Well, you were mistaken. This Time. I still have plenty of life to live.
The last time you heard from me, I was making my way from Poznan towards Croatia, or Hrvatska as they say it, for some mad couchsurfing and spectacular shepherding. Now, I am back in the states, back in school, and back in the same dorm, the same room, same RA, and living with the same roommate. It's like everything around me is shifiting in a constant state of flux, but a small bubble floats from my frame, eternally preserving what works. Thinking back, I could not have possibly predicted the meanderings that my 4 or so weeks on my own forced me to take, and I've told the stories (Though only a few of them; my faithful readers will be treated to much more revealing versions) to many who felt that they would have been unblievable if told by anyone else. Even I don't quite believe all of the things that happened, but, in the words of someone I came across while reading Neil Gaiman, "Always trust the story, never the storyteller."
I think the way I'll handle this is to publish small bits of my adventure, both the ups and the downs, at intermittent intervals in order to keep you all wanting more (and possibly buying my book; you know, the one I'm going to write). I'll start with Germany.
I only spent two days in the land of Wienersnichzel (I have no idea how to spell that), but Frankfurt was so chill and pleasant, for the most part, that even with all the crap that befell my stay, I wish I could have stayed there longer. I parted from JP and Jonathan in the airport after some complex manuvering to get all of Jonathan's weighty baggage home (a move that resulted in them missing their flights) and proceeded to use the S Bhan with a syste of guess and check. Granted, it wasn't very hard to deduce where I was going to; I'm good at figuring out stuff like that and I love the band Rammstein, so I wasn't completely thrown by the Greman language. The advert for the hostel I was staying at mentioned that the location was culturally interesting, but stepping out of the station with a gigantic backpack and finding myself smack in the middle of Frankfurt's red light district was a bit disconcerting. It took me a while to find the street in question and even longer to convince the Russian bouncers that I wasn't interested in a lap dance, but I found my way to the best hostel I think I've ever stayed in. Wish I remembered the name, but I wouldn't really reccommend it simply due to the nature of the surrounding alleyways.
After unpacking, I stepped through the front door of my hostel with the plan to walk along the wide river with some pleasant mood music. I walked right into a hoarde of zombies. A parade of the undead was filing slowly through the streets of Frankfurt, drawing with them a string of tourists with their cameras, wildly snapping photos. Every once in a while, one of the zombies would savage one of them, and the rest would all run excitedly to capture the photo op. At one point, a small group of dead females attempted to "rough me up", but I managed to escape with my life and wallet intact.
I stuck with the parade for a while and split off at the mall to explore, but really, a mall in Germany is just like a mall in the US; just more tourist crap with "Germany" and "Bier" featured prominently. I left the establishment to try to find grocery store to get some eats, but they were few and far between in that part of town. Stumbing into a theatre, I ended up purchasing a ticket for Harry Potter und der Halb Blut Prinz, which I was only able to follow because I had the name of the incantations and potions memorized from my extensive listening to the books on CD, as read by that most magical of vocalist actors, Jim Dale. I retired to my room around 1:00, and you can imagine what I faced trying to get through the local "shops" to my hostel. I was quite pleased to be in a bed that night.
The next day was fairly uneventful. Actually, a very scary thing happened, but I am going to leave that out. Maybe one day. But for the most part, I did what I thought I was going to do earlier, and took a long walk by the riverside. Frankfurt really is a beautiful city, and my Dad tells me that it pales in comparison with the rest of the country. The people are friendly, there are plenty of open air theatres showing alien movies from the 60s, the dark bread is thick and cheap, I assume the bier is good (I didn't actually have any beer in Germany! What a jest!), the smells and sounds of juicy, stomach-vicing saussage pervades the air, and the Chinese resturants are open until 12:00.
I love Ryanair for the prices; I flew for 20 euro, or something like that. But the locations of their airports leave much to be desired. I took a 6:00 bus to the airport that is not actually in Frankfurt, but 2 hours away in a small town famous for it's proximity to something toxic. I really did get what I paid for.
But at least I made it on the plane, and that is where I leave you for now, salivating to hear what happened once I touched down in Zadar, in one of the few airports in the world that actually uses the highway as a taxi surface for the planes. By the way, I really appreciate everyone reading this. It gives me a sense of fulfillment that my chronicles are passing through more than just my own head. Cheers.
The last time you heard from me, I was making my way from Poznan towards Croatia, or Hrvatska as they say it, for some mad couchsurfing and spectacular shepherding. Now, I am back in the states, back in school, and back in the same dorm, the same room, same RA, and living with the same roommate. It's like everything around me is shifiting in a constant state of flux, but a small bubble floats from my frame, eternally preserving what works. Thinking back, I could not have possibly predicted the meanderings that my 4 or so weeks on my own forced me to take, and I've told the stories (Though only a few of them; my faithful readers will be treated to much more revealing versions) to many who felt that they would have been unblievable if told by anyone else. Even I don't quite believe all of the things that happened, but, in the words of someone I came across while reading Neil Gaiman, "Always trust the story, never the storyteller."
I think the way I'll handle this is to publish small bits of my adventure, both the ups and the downs, at intermittent intervals in order to keep you all wanting more (and possibly buying my book; you know, the one I'm going to write). I'll start with Germany.
I only spent two days in the land of Wienersnichzel (I have no idea how to spell that), but Frankfurt was so chill and pleasant, for the most part, that even with all the crap that befell my stay, I wish I could have stayed there longer. I parted from JP and Jonathan in the airport after some complex manuvering to get all of Jonathan's weighty baggage home (a move that resulted in them missing their flights) and proceeded to use the S Bhan with a syste of guess and check. Granted, it wasn't very hard to deduce where I was going to; I'm good at figuring out stuff like that and I love the band Rammstein, so I wasn't completely thrown by the Greman language. The advert for the hostel I was staying at mentioned that the location was culturally interesting, but stepping out of the station with a gigantic backpack and finding myself smack in the middle of Frankfurt's red light district was a bit disconcerting. It took me a while to find the street in question and even longer to convince the Russian bouncers that I wasn't interested in a lap dance, but I found my way to the best hostel I think I've ever stayed in. Wish I remembered the name, but I wouldn't really reccommend it simply due to the nature of the surrounding alleyways.
After unpacking, I stepped through the front door of my hostel with the plan to walk along the wide river with some pleasant mood music. I walked right into a hoarde of zombies. A parade of the undead was filing slowly through the streets of Frankfurt, drawing with them a string of tourists with their cameras, wildly snapping photos. Every once in a while, one of the zombies would savage one of them, and the rest would all run excitedly to capture the photo op. At one point, a small group of dead females attempted to "rough me up", but I managed to escape with my life and wallet intact.
I stuck with the parade for a while and split off at the mall to explore, but really, a mall in Germany is just like a mall in the US; just more tourist crap with "Germany" and "Bier" featured prominently. I left the establishment to try to find grocery store to get some eats, but they were few and far between in that part of town. Stumbing into a theatre, I ended up purchasing a ticket for Harry Potter und der Halb Blut Prinz, which I was only able to follow because I had the name of the incantations and potions memorized from my extensive listening to the books on CD, as read by that most magical of vocalist actors, Jim Dale. I retired to my room around 1:00, and you can imagine what I faced trying to get through the local "shops" to my hostel. I was quite pleased to be in a bed that night.
The next day was fairly uneventful. Actually, a very scary thing happened, but I am going to leave that out. Maybe one day. But for the most part, I did what I thought I was going to do earlier, and took a long walk by the riverside. Frankfurt really is a beautiful city, and my Dad tells me that it pales in comparison with the rest of the country. The people are friendly, there are plenty of open air theatres showing alien movies from the 60s, the dark bread is thick and cheap, I assume the bier is good (I didn't actually have any beer in Germany! What a jest!), the smells and sounds of juicy, stomach-vicing saussage pervades the air, and the Chinese resturants are open until 12:00.
I love Ryanair for the prices; I flew for 20 euro, or something like that. But the locations of their airports leave much to be desired. I took a 6:00 bus to the airport that is not actually in Frankfurt, but 2 hours away in a small town famous for it's proximity to something toxic. I really did get what I paid for.
But at least I made it on the plane, and that is where I leave you for now, salivating to hear what happened once I touched down in Zadar, in one of the few airports in the world that actually uses the highway as a taxi surface for the planes. By the way, I really appreciate everyone reading this. It gives me a sense of fulfillment that my chronicles are passing through more than just my own head. Cheers.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
1000 & 1 Places to Pee on Before You Die
"The last evening in Poznan", the title of the spectacular independent film, coming at the end of the summer 2009, and I am spending my time trying to give away all of my stuff so that my baggage will conform to Ryanair's hellish demands. Our sponsor from the states, Stefan, who has been with us for the past few days, says that people were literally crying when he was taking a Ryanair flight to Poznan. Can't wait. I've planned much less for this lag of the journey than I did for France; I'm just too tired. I'll probably wake up early and try to write down at least the directions to the bus station in Zadar before I walk out into the great unknown, but for the most part, I'm acting almost like I'm going to be winging things, which would usually have me frightened, but I'm so tired from working my butt off for the past three days that my level of personal apathy has risen to unprecedented heights.
Our final week in the lab has been representative of our time here in some ways and in others, this last week has become a kind of farce that has me quite frustrated. I mean, you spend three weeks telling me that you just want to relax and take it easy after the grad student leaves because there's only so much that can be done. You barely come in to work, saying that not everyone needs to be there, and then leaving. You speak condescendingly to me while you are there, but I go along with it because I'm exhausted and I just don't care. And then, all of a sudden, someone who matters shows up, and now, for the last three days, you ensure that all of the projects are yours, you are giving arbitrary directions for the sake of getting face time, and you have suddenly become the most dedicated worker in the lab. Would that not frustrate anyone just a bit?
But I am feeling better about this now, after some good feedback. We've done well and I might have an opportunity to come back, the best of all possible outcomes. It will be nice to have a break from the lab group (Though, honestly, I didn't spend a whole lot of my free time with them, so my parting is not as sweet as it will be when JP and Jonathan return to their respective routines, devoid of each other's company), but don't get me wrong; for the most part, I have enjoyed our moments together; the handshakes and hugs sure to come at the entrance to the S-Bhan in Frankfurt are sure to be a bittersweet thing.
I am sure to get over it though; Croatia, and beaches that face the sunset, await me in less than three days.
It is a sad thing to be leaving Poland, but I go with the knowledge that I have had my fill of the Ziwiec glass, made Hanna ecstatic by urinating on the Palace of Culture in Warszawa, done a plank off in the laser room on the hottest day of the summer thus far, gotten laughed at in the Stary Browar food court for pulling out two bags of frozen plums and tucking in, gotten anxious questions from Poles about whether or not all Americans are obsessed with frozen fruit (I assured them that, in this respect, my behavior is strange in all lands on this green earth), eaten so much I nearly wept with pain (10 apples and a whole chicken breast in the space of 2 hours), spent long hours of the night listening to the whine of hundreds of police cars and ambulans passing directly under my window, learned Polish from Rosetta Stone and drunk guys in equal amounts, danced to lady GaGa in the halls, witnessed a horde of Spaniards (Who are apparently SO cool) douse an entire corridor with the fire extinguisher during a hallway disco at the Jowita at 5 in the morning, explained to the masses of firemen who showed up that I didn't live on that floor, kept my alcohol consumption to a minimum but trying the mulled wine from Germany, eaten so much Polish food that I have the palate memorized for future culinary enterprises, sat on the banks of one of the largest natural lakes in Poznan and watched the sunset, and listened to Joe Dassin with my hallmates, all of us recalling our first time travelling down Les Champs Elysses.
It has been one of the most wonderful periods of my life and has offered much in the way of bolstered courage. I am grateful for the positive feedback that I have received about my portrayal of the American people while here, and I hope that my friends don't take too much stock in Bruno (Well, not them actually; I know they are a bit brighter than that.).
And so, with my last opportunity to give you all a glimpse into the wonderful world of Poland before I start telling you how great fresh fish is while you're herding sheep, I will share with you one thing: if someone is wearing a Poznan Lech scarf, tell them that Poznan Lech is very dear to your heart, and never mention Warszawa. Not even in passing.
Thanks to everyone who supported me with comments and feedback; I truly appreciate it and I hope that you are interested in more than just Poland, for I can find adventure anywhere, even if it is only a dark alley where I can relieve myself.
Croatia Ho!
Our final week in the lab has been representative of our time here in some ways and in others, this last week has become a kind of farce that has me quite frustrated. I mean, you spend three weeks telling me that you just want to relax and take it easy after the grad student leaves because there's only so much that can be done. You barely come in to work, saying that not everyone needs to be there, and then leaving. You speak condescendingly to me while you are there, but I go along with it because I'm exhausted and I just don't care. And then, all of a sudden, someone who matters shows up, and now, for the last three days, you ensure that all of the projects are yours, you are giving arbitrary directions for the sake of getting face time, and you have suddenly become the most dedicated worker in the lab. Would that not frustrate anyone just a bit?
But I am feeling better about this now, after some good feedback. We've done well and I might have an opportunity to come back, the best of all possible outcomes. It will be nice to have a break from the lab group (Though, honestly, I didn't spend a whole lot of my free time with them, so my parting is not as sweet as it will be when JP and Jonathan return to their respective routines, devoid of each other's company), but don't get me wrong; for the most part, I have enjoyed our moments together; the handshakes and hugs sure to come at the entrance to the S-Bhan in Frankfurt are sure to be a bittersweet thing.
I am sure to get over it though; Croatia, and beaches that face the sunset, await me in less than three days.
It is a sad thing to be leaving Poland, but I go with the knowledge that I have had my fill of the Ziwiec glass, made Hanna ecstatic by urinating on the Palace of Culture in Warszawa, done a plank off in the laser room on the hottest day of the summer thus far, gotten laughed at in the Stary Browar food court for pulling out two bags of frozen plums and tucking in, gotten anxious questions from Poles about whether or not all Americans are obsessed with frozen fruit (I assured them that, in this respect, my behavior is strange in all lands on this green earth), eaten so much I nearly wept with pain (10 apples and a whole chicken breast in the space of 2 hours), spent long hours of the night listening to the whine of hundreds of police cars and ambulans passing directly under my window, learned Polish from Rosetta Stone and drunk guys in equal amounts, danced to lady GaGa in the halls, witnessed a horde of Spaniards (Who are apparently SO cool) douse an entire corridor with the fire extinguisher during a hallway disco at the Jowita at 5 in the morning, explained to the masses of firemen who showed up that I didn't live on that floor, kept my alcohol consumption to a minimum but trying the mulled wine from Germany, eaten so much Polish food that I have the palate memorized for future culinary enterprises, sat on the banks of one of the largest natural lakes in Poznan and watched the sunset, and listened to Joe Dassin with my hallmates, all of us recalling our first time travelling down Les Champs Elysses.
It has been one of the most wonderful periods of my life and has offered much in the way of bolstered courage. I am grateful for the positive feedback that I have received about my portrayal of the American people while here, and I hope that my friends don't take too much stock in Bruno (Well, not them actually; I know they are a bit brighter than that.).
And so, with my last opportunity to give you all a glimpse into the wonderful world of Poland before I start telling you how great fresh fish is while you're herding sheep, I will share with you one thing: if someone is wearing a Poznan Lech scarf, tell them that Poznan Lech is very dear to your heart, and never mention Warszawa. Not even in passing.
Thanks to everyone who supported me with comments and feedback; I truly appreciate it and I hope that you are interested in more than just Poland, for I can find adventure anywhere, even if it is only a dark alley where I can relieve myself.
Croatia Ho!
Monday, July 13, 2009
"Bosko!" (I No Ruskie Spy)
Just a quick observation that I had this afternoon when I was eating the Texas Pete that I brought back (I brought back 6 things; Texas Pete, Tostidos Salsa, Cookie Crisp, Kool Aid, extra strength Benedryl, and a bag of resturant chips. One of my carry on bags was a big bag of chips. I got looks, but I managed to get them back to Poland completely intact. You are all in awe, I'm sure):
Polish people love foreigners; the impression I get is that Poland has been insular for so long (By influence of Governmantal Regime, oppression from external powers, lack of investment, a unique and incredibly difficult language, and general absence of knowledge from the rest of the world) that Polish people are tired of each other. My neighbors all want to know me, and they are especially excited to see an American; apparently not too many of those here, as most of the foreigners are EU, most of the students Erasmus. And thus, you don't even have to try to be liked by the general populace of Poland (Excluding the skin heads who wait on the corner outside of the Jowita. Actually, I'm wrong; they think we're British). It's as if just picking Poland as a country to come to is good enough; by choosing Poland, you become family.
And if you go out of your way to learn a bit of Polish history or culture, the Poles will dote on you. I spent 4 hours talking with a guy who conned me into buying him a beer, even though he spoke only Polish and a few words of Espanol. He never seemed to realize that I didn't fully understand, he was just happy that I was a foreigner and that I was listening. But buying him that beer paid off, since I was able to pick up a fair amount of Polish after the 4 hours in the rain and darkening skies (I could have been arrested. I was told last night that drinking in public is illegal, and that it doesn't even matter if you were the one drinking. I mean, seriously?! In Poland?!!). So, when I throw out random words of Polish into conversations with my neighbor, she always seems ecstatic. I can actually string some sentences together now; I wonder how she would react to that.
One guy told me that to know a little bit of Polish is great; people are very appreciative of your interest in the culture and truly value your attempts to learn one of the hardest languages on earth (Possibly the hardest). But if you know too much Polish, people can get suspicious. This is why, if you become fluent in Polish, you should be living here so that your abilities to navigate social customs are up to speed with your lengual skills and Poles assume that you are one of them, and not a Ruskie spy. Also a good tip; I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: don't speak Russian or German.
So in the end, this should be encouragement for other to follow in my footsteps to this country. Here is a place that is on the cusp of a technological and cultural revolution that loves foreigners, values their opinions, and makes a place for them in society. While Poland is not one of the frequently toted "emerging powers" (And I think this is mainly because everyone forgets about them. Maybe when they go on the Euro in 2012, there will be more notice, but that's worse for those that use the dollar. My chicken will suddenly become expensive!), it is going to be important soon.
It's my last week here, and I know already that passing from these borders will lie heavy on my heart. When I was in France, I was thinking about returning "home", and it dawned on me that the home I was thinking about was my little one room in the Jowita. Going back to the states, I knew that I was returning to my family and the place I lived, but once again, when I left, I was leaving for "home" in Poznan. To pharaphrase my friend from Portugal with my own vivid diction, "Ah, that Polonia. 'Aye, she is a fiesty beast. Those who travel amongst her bounties are oft trapt by her wily ways. They come and never return to their home ports. Their hearts are repainted Red and White." I'm not that bad off, but Poland will always have a place in my heart, as will the bonny banks of Loch Lomund.
Polish people love foreigners; the impression I get is that Poland has been insular for so long (By influence of Governmantal Regime, oppression from external powers, lack of investment, a unique and incredibly difficult language, and general absence of knowledge from the rest of the world) that Polish people are tired of each other. My neighbors all want to know me, and they are especially excited to see an American; apparently not too many of those here, as most of the foreigners are EU, most of the students Erasmus. And thus, you don't even have to try to be liked by the general populace of Poland (Excluding the skin heads who wait on the corner outside of the Jowita. Actually, I'm wrong; they think we're British). It's as if just picking Poland as a country to come to is good enough; by choosing Poland, you become family.
And if you go out of your way to learn a bit of Polish history or culture, the Poles will dote on you. I spent 4 hours talking with a guy who conned me into buying him a beer, even though he spoke only Polish and a few words of Espanol. He never seemed to realize that I didn't fully understand, he was just happy that I was a foreigner and that I was listening. But buying him that beer paid off, since I was able to pick up a fair amount of Polish after the 4 hours in the rain and darkening skies (I could have been arrested. I was told last night that drinking in public is illegal, and that it doesn't even matter if you were the one drinking. I mean, seriously?! In Poland?!!). So, when I throw out random words of Polish into conversations with my neighbor, she always seems ecstatic. I can actually string some sentences together now; I wonder how she would react to that.
One guy told me that to know a little bit of Polish is great; people are very appreciative of your interest in the culture and truly value your attempts to learn one of the hardest languages on earth (Possibly the hardest). But if you know too much Polish, people can get suspicious. This is why, if you become fluent in Polish, you should be living here so that your abilities to navigate social customs are up to speed with your lengual skills and Poles assume that you are one of them, and not a Ruskie spy. Also a good tip; I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: don't speak Russian or German.
So in the end, this should be encouragement for other to follow in my footsteps to this country. Here is a place that is on the cusp of a technological and cultural revolution that loves foreigners, values their opinions, and makes a place for them in society. While Poland is not one of the frequently toted "emerging powers" (And I think this is mainly because everyone forgets about them. Maybe when they go on the Euro in 2012, there will be more notice, but that's worse for those that use the dollar. My chicken will suddenly become expensive!), it is going to be important soon.
It's my last week here, and I know already that passing from these borders will lie heavy on my heart. When I was in France, I was thinking about returning "home", and it dawned on me that the home I was thinking about was my little one room in the Jowita. Going back to the states, I knew that I was returning to my family and the place I lived, but once again, when I left, I was leaving for "home" in Poznan. To pharaphrase my friend from Portugal with my own vivid diction, "Ah, that Polonia. 'Aye, she is a fiesty beast. Those who travel amongst her bounties are oft trapt by her wily ways. They come and never return to their home ports. Their hearts are repainted Red and White." I'm not that bad off, but Poland will always have a place in my heart, as will the bonny banks of Loch Lomund.
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