Cliches in Abundance

The day after Thanksgiving, the American Holiday, is known as Black Friday. It is the biggest shopping day of the year, and those brave or dumb enough to risk public appearances, anywhere from shopping malls to coffee shops to the average traffic light quickly understand why the epithet has been attached. The past 2 years, I've been out of the country.

The day after Christmas is probably the second biggest shopping day: after Christmas sales, end of year events, returns, and gift cards all tempt the otherwise debatably sensible masses out of the peace and warmth of a day at home with American football and leftovers (We don't celebrate Boxing Day, in name at least). Last year, I spent this evil day travelling between Roma and Venezia, Italia.

This year, I did the smartest thing I could imagine, and followed my best friend Brandon out of town. He spends the hectic days in the woods. This seemed like the best solution to me, and a few others, as well, so we loaded up the Red Dragon (my petroleum fed pickup truck) with my old 18 foot trailer laden with 5 fourwheelers, pitched in enough food and sleeping apparati into the cargo box. And Brandon, his younger brother Vinny (my sister's boyfriend, conveniently enough), and our friends Cody (whom we call Younger, to avoid confusion between himself and my cousin Cody- who's older than Younger), and Ryan called Tucker, and myself, made our way down the off the Ozark Plateau towards that area of the Boston Mountains known as Devil's Den.

I was nearing sick, and am not improved after a nite out of doors, but I don't regret it. Let the rest of the world run to the commercial centers, we prefer the safety and calm of the wilderness. We were certainly fulfilling every notion of rednceck America, particularly Arkansas, all bedecked in camouflage and Carhartts, making chili over an open fire, drinking root beer, riding four wheelers, and spitting a lot.

I borrowed my grandfather's 20 year old Honda for the occasion, and am still impressed at how well it still performed after having set for 5 months without starting. If you're in the market, Honda gets my vote.






PS- Be sure and scroll on down, I posted twice otherwise today.
Cheers! and Happy New Years'!

My Ring

As near as I can tell, there was no country in the western world not somewhat affected by the American stock market crash of Black Thursday, October 24, 1929 . America itself plunged into the Great Depression, a vile, ominous period that sought dominance over the previous champion, the Pretty Good Depression of 1867, and its weaker cousin, the Slump, a few years later. (Pardon, please, my irreverant treatment of these dark days of modern history. Laugh to keep from crying.)

The Great Depression hit northwest Arkansas with a vengeance. After half a century of unsustainable agricultural practices in what had been a deciduous forest for centuries untold, the topsoil of mid-America was left dried and without minerals and water, and began, after a 7-year drought begun in the late 20s, to simply blow away. Northwest Arkansas, along with northeas Oklahoma, southwest Missouri, and areas further afield, became known as The Dust Bowl. Airborne silt filtered its way into automobile engine compartments, shut and drawn windows, and eventually, the diet of the locals. Quite a few people left for sunny California, America's Promise Land.

Mine didn't. On the one side, they were too poor to move. On the other, they held jobs in town, with the school and Post Office, and managed to subsist, barely. This was my dad's family, the Browns. My grandfather, Marion Edison (Marion, Ed, M.E., or 'B' as I like to call him), was born in '24, and remembers the poverty of his developing years with striking keenness. He had few, if any, 'bought' toys. The man can by gosh make a kite tho-- he had a decade of practice, collecting old newspapers and twigs, binding them together with glue made from flour or cornmeal. By the time he'd saved long enough to buy string, he would've had a dozen kites awaiting.

He listened to a radio serial once a week, the name of which escapes us both. It featured some super hero, one of dozens of men that were beyond the constraints of their modern world and its financial difficulties and natural disasters, and like a continent full of boys his age, he never missed an episode. At one point, the breakfast cereal company that sponsored the show put out a promotion, whereby, if you sent in the proper order form, the tops of 10 of their boxes, and 25 cents shipping, they would send you a tin replica of the superhero's ring. As an 8 year old, young Ed simply couldn't continue living without one. Unfortunately, he had to, as his family either couldn't afford that much cereal, or by the time they did, the offer had ended, or they couldn't spare the 25 cents. Any road, my grandfather didn't get his ring, and like all of the other little defeats suffered in his early years, he filed it away for future justification.

30 years later, when he had built up a bit of savings for the purpose, he went to a jeweler, either with the original promotion ad from the cereal box, if he'd tucked it away and saved it that long, or simply an image in his mind, and had the jeweler make up the most impressive duplicate of this ring possible. B wore the ring for nearly 50 years, until it ceased to fit in old age, and retired it to a box in his dresser. There it stayed until I mentioned it in passing during a conversation about his Dad, Emerson Leslie Brown. He looked surprised that I'd taken interest in the band, as the rest of the family thought it a might garish, and said it was still around, would I like it? Of course I did, and there've been less than a dozen days in the previous 2 years since he gave it to me that I haven't worn it myself, through nearly 20 different countries, and half a dozen US states.

The [Photographic] Christmas Card I really wanted to send...

For those who'd forgotten my quirky sense of humor.

The Christmas Card

Well, here it is, my annual, much awaited Christmas card. Much more belated than usual, at that... I hope you're not all too underwhelmed. This is actually last year's card, but as not everyone I know has read it, and since I got such positive feedback, I use it again. There was to be a picture included this year, but once again, blasted dial-up internet and cantankerous home computer have willed otherwise.

Any rate, I hope that on this holiday we call Christ's Mass your hearts and souls may be filled with love for one another. Bear in mind, that even though Jesus, called Christ, was actually born sometime far earlier in the year than December, and not in a cozy, clean, tidy little stable like a more traditional Christmas card might lead you to believe, he did in fact come as a gift of love to you and every other person on the planet, whether you love Him or them or not. May you give out of love yourself, may your Christmas be merry, may you survive unscathed the intense marketing and commercial schemes that have been threatening your sanity for the last few months, may you value what you have not as much as you ought to value what you do in fact have.

To those of you not Christians, I apologize for the mess and confusion that our most publicized holy day may inflict upon you. I won't say that Christmas isn't about gifts or some jolly old man in a red suit giving presents to children, because it is. Christ was a gift to the lost souls of this planet, a cure for the spiritually diseased and undeserving. England's Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas of days of yore, took it upon himself to give out of his own pocket to those in need just as God had given to him. You don't have to believe in Santa Claus, speaking to all faiths now; you can blame his myth for ruining what some people count a myth anyways, but don't discredit either of the men that are the definition of our modern idea of Christmas. Christmas is a time of setting ourselves aside to focus on the needs of others, and giving to them from our hearts. Dr. Marshall Edwards, currently of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, once said that Jesus exemplified the perfect gift. He reflected both the supreme needs of the recipient, as well as the ultimate desire within the heart of the Giver. Give this Christmas because it is in your heart to do so. Don't do it not to feel guilty, don't do it because tradition mandates you must. Give because you love and you can't not do either.

Love someone this Christmas, and let them know that you love them. Know that you wouldn't be reading this now if I wasn't at least moderately fond of you. ;)
At any rate, I'll step down from my pulpit now, with apologies. It's December 23rd, and tonite we're having Spaghetti Arkansanese at my Grandmother's new house atop the hill. We'll return there tomorrow evening for gifts and our more 'traditional' Christmas dinner. Christmas dinner around our place isn't Christmas dinner until at least 6 people have been addressed with someone else's name, till my grandmother has brought out the traditional ham and spinach quiche (a perennial rural Arkansas favourite... ô¿ô...), homemade guacamole, and a ruthless dosage of sarcasm. I do love our family recipes. Northwest Arkansas boasts North America's oldest Italian Immigrant settlement, Tontitown (where I work, actually), and as such we have a strong Italian cuisine bent, but it's not Italian food as you'd find in the motherland. Usually, our spaghetti comes with a massive heap of deep fried chicken atop it. We are the only family I know of whose Christmas dinner primarily features a quiche. I am proud of that. My aunt's husband smokes up an amazing briscuit, my uncle brings the most amazing, heart-burning pico de gallo (salsa) you can imagine, my mom makes guacamole, and my grandmother dices up chicken for chicken salad sandwiches. My apologies to the vegetarians and vegans among you, but I am now drooling, and am off to dinner.

Happy Christmas!

Lathered

As my time in Europe was winding down, most everyone would ask what I missed most about the States, and was looking forward to returning to. My standard answer was 'the people. Same as I miss most about Europe when in the States, and what I look forward to when I finally make it south to Australia-- the people I know there. Places don't vary all that much. Cities are cities, and John Deere dealerships abound globally, and you can pretty well assume that a grocery store will have all of the same wares as any other grocery store. But it's the people that make a place.'

I still feel that way, but at some point or another while in England, I did realise one thing that I am now very glad to have returned stateside to: American-sized showers. I can actually wash my feet and back again.

I still don't know where home is (back on momma's sofa again, hopefully for a much shorter duration than last time...), but I look forward to the day where I am some place of my own that I'm able to walk around barefoot, dance naked, and sing or make other strange vocal broadcasts to suit myself. Locale isn't the most pertinent question, though. Location will follow other qualifications, such as why, and who with.

So what do I miss most about Europe? Other than the folks? The way English house windows are made, local accents, doner kebabs, public transit, smart cars, German Christmas markets, wall mount hot water heaters. Last year, I missed the smell of Imperial Leather soap. This year, I brought home half a dozen bars and a bottle of shower gel. I started in on the latter last nite, and it is phenomenal. That's one problem solved then... now if I could just import some One...

There are other things that it's good to get back to, and I've been trying to list them, but I can't quite recall them all. American sized trucks join the ranks with our gargantuan showers. We got a new trio of trucks in here at the shop and there's an incredibly sexy Ford F-250 3/4 ton 4x4 out in the parking lot that's been distracting me from my daily duties for hours now...

It's nice to be back where I know my way around. I can once again give directions that include such phrases as "next to where such-and-such usedtowas..." or "down past the old McKim place" and "this side of the 68 east intersection" or "Well, you know where my uncle Larry's place is..."

I'm certain there's other things (Root Beer, little hole-in-the-wall Mexican joints-Taquerias-, and my dog, Cotton), but as I'm actually clocked in and supposed to be working--

Ham Sandwich Mentality

*Pictures forthcoming...dang stinking dial-up connection at home isn't doing so well... it's a might sick. I'd post some pictures now, but I'm at work (back at John Deere, temporarily, doing end-of-year inventory), and posting in a hurry.

Just a passing thought.

I don't know whatever became of Blake Pianalto. It seems he'd been dating one of the Isaac twins and was perhaps slated to marry her, but I never heard for certain. In either case, Blake was a good dude, but we weren't exceptionally close. The only thing I really remember about him was a short speech he made one day in our Bowling Class. (Yep, that's right, in Grade 12, I took a semester long class on bowling. Twas grand.) He'd recently broken up with his girlfriend, and when we asked why, he gave us the same excuse he'd given her. To wit:

"It's not that I don't like her. It's just that I've had enough of her. I like ham sandwiches, but if I ate one every day out of 30, I wouldn't want any more."

Profound. I would, of course, hate to be on the receiving end of that argument, and I'm certain she was far from mollified, but it got him out of a relationship.

I've never felt the need to attach this philosophy to any particular person whom I've had a relationship with, but the principle makes a great deal of sense to me, and my supervisor Todd, out here at John Deere. The job at this dealership that I perform isn't exceptionally tough. The negative side of that is that it's not always exceptionally challenging. Sometimes that's nice, at others it's tedious. I do enjoy it, to some extent (this IS, after all, the third different time I've been employed here.) I just get bored. But that goes for most anything in my life: I get too satisfied. I need a constant inflow of something different, new, changing: fresh water in the pond, so to speak.

I burn out quickly. I can get excited about most anything, and put all my energy into it-- the last week back here at the Deere Dealership has been fun, but I know it'll wear off-- but few things have sticking power. As my profile says, 'ever dissatisfied, seeking, and searching.'

I actually ate only ham sandwiches my first few months back in the States this year: I was on the nearest thing to a health food kick as I've ever experienced (and low on cash) so for lunch every day I made sandwiches of whole grain bread, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, organic cheese and sliced meat. Every day. For months. I've now not eaten a sandwich in about 5 months.

It's a bit of a joke with Todd and I, that I'll just stick around and do whatever until I'm bored, then I'll race off for whatever excitement I can conceive of, till that or my wallet wears thin, then I'll start over. And yeah, it's kind of funny, and it makes for a good story, but... At times it feels less like life but verisimilitude of it...

Any rate, the quest continues. Further On.

Ground Regained

Howdy howdy from old Northwest Arkansas. I've thought endlessly over the last 3 days of what all brilliant thoughts I was going to plop onto here at the first instant, but I'm going to have to wait for the second instant... short on time as of yet, no pictures loaded, people to catch up with...

Any rate, just had to get on and let everyone know that, regardless of the low oil pressure reading on the 767 (why the CRAP they felt the need to tell us this as we left the ground embarking on a 10 HOUR TRANSATLANTIC flight, I cannot fathom, but thanks...), we did manage to drop out of the sky only on schedule and towards a proper landing strip.

If you're not currently in NWA, be you in Edinburgh, Dubai, or Houston, I miss you.

Lines from the Second-to-last house in Greenock

For those of you infamiliar with the second-to-last house in Greenock, it is the home of my friend Lori from the U of Ark days, and her husband Scott. (For further investigation, see www.scottandlori.co.uk -- sorry, I still haven't figured out this dadblasted link thing) I've been in Scotland now for about 60 hours, and the weather, and locals, have been phenomenal. For those concerned, though I did spend a full 48 hours in Edinburgh, I missed the castle. Too much else to do, too much to gain the gate, monetarily. I did get my own private tour about the old city, from my new friend Katie. She's a volunteer at the Royal Scotland Museum, was doing a survey of museum visitors, and we struck up a conversation. One geek finds another...

But, as to the time at hand, I am in Greenock now, which is west of Glasgow a wee bit, where Lori and Scott have organised a house party for the evening, and I have voluntarily stepped forward to cook all of their Scottish friends a good ol' pot of chili con carne (and what else would I?). I think I've averaged about a pot every 10 days, but as I've yet to make it for the exact same group twice, all's well. Lori has described me to the locals here whom I'll meet in the next day or two as her 'chicken farming friend from home in Arkansas,' and I believe it's caused her some angst and warying concern to discover that that qualificaion is one I no longer hold. I do still like to introduce myself as Farmer Brown, but no, I don't raise chickens by the thousand any longer. That train has sailed...

Tomorrow, after church (during which, I've been told, Lori has already volunteered my services as a secondary Sunday school teacher) we're going to Scott's folks for lunch. Haggis.

So any rate, I'm here thru Monday, then down to Nottingham for the Frisbee team Christmas social monday night, German Christmas market on Tuesday (it began November 25, the day after I left for Bath. Consequently, I've already missed out on 2+ weeks of potential bratwurst consumption... arrrrgh.), then we'll have a Chrismtas party at either 49 Claude (my former residence in Notts), or 100A Montpelier (Juan, Giuliana, and Alex' current abode in the same), featuring a simmering pot of Ye Olde Classic Jeffro Chili con Carne.

And here's today's bit of wisdom, as was penned round about a month ago, the day Celine and I went to Cannes while in Cote d'Azur:

Monday, November 13th
For as much as things change between continents, it truly is fascinating how much they stay the same- particularly if you pay attention to the children. The day of the harvest festival in Navis, Austria, I saw a bunch of 8 year old boys running, with a bucket, determined delight, and anticipation, over to the fountain in the town centre. I never saw who they soaked with it, but I'm certain it was one of them's sister. Boys and their mischeif are simply universal, insuppressive, and indisguisable. It was the sort of thing Matt Lockard, Adam Cole, and I would've plotted against Adam's older sisters. Or Kathy Shilling.

I was on a beach in Cannes France today. It wasn't a nude beach, though plenty of people who shouldn't've been were near enough. I did see a pair of naked children, probably aged 3 and 4, run down to the water's edge in unbridled glee. The younger one, the boy, in front, ran in up to just over his ankles, stopped, put his hands on his hips, and considered. He was going to stand there and pee in That Water, Outside, in Public, and he was Looking Forward To It.

That was me, twenty years ago. Or, twenty minutes previous, had I not found a public toilet when I did. No, things aren't all that different. Latitude and longitude are, after all, creations of man. Language, infrastructure, and mealtimes are as well, and thus distinctively fabricated, but the species that came up with them isn't quite so diverse. Not, at least, when we're standing naked on the sea shore.

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

For the Shamrockers...

I checked into a Temple Bar hostel in Dublin
only to discover that the toilet floor was bubblin,'
the kitchen hall was crap, all the plates in need of scrubbin,'
and when they told me they had no lockers,
I began to fret of having chosen Shamrockers.

But then I met Tim, and he's a hella nice guy,
and Jana, whose mind works better when dry,
Curly-headed Katie- who's on the hunt for local guys.
And her partner in crime is a girl named Maree,
who can't pick up when her hairs gone curly.

They sit in the back with a cutie named Hayley
and crack jokes on Dean's consumption of Bailey's.
And Lauren hops off the bus (what's this one? a Healy?)
in the stormy, soggy, home of Paddy,
snapping pictures with Rohan and Matty.

And I sit here and smile when I survey your faces
and wish you the best when you get to your places.
I hope in your memories I've left my own traces
and perhaps if some song ever tickles your ear,
you'll remember Shamrocking with old Jeff John Deere.

'Cause I'd hate if Amy forget that first cider,
or the spectacular sights we all witnessed beside her.
And Jess, who's perhaps the tours' quietmost rider
will somewhere in her mental files save
fond memories of Erin, Becca and Dave.

And don't forget Tricia, who's hell on the clutch,
who for all the banter, don't hate ye too much.
And Karen's good for the local histories, and such,
while Brad and Mick are up for a walk and a beer,
be it in Sydney, Helvetia, Glasgow, or here.

Forget ye not Kathryn, who causes no stir
reading her book with Helena predictably sitting next to her.
Sandie, by the way, has a great sense of humour;
Avery's one who's gifted for song,
And I'm dang awful glad you've all come along.

But as I stand in my spotlight and guess at your thoughts
I worry if I've behaved every day as I ought,
and wonder if we'll ever meet again elsewhere, or not.
I can only hope that if you're ever around,
you'd kindly drop in and stay with ol' Jeffro Brown.

Cheers to ye all. And here's one last pub tune...
And since it falls into my lot, that I should rise and you should not
I gently rise and softly call, "Goodnight and joy be to you all!"
So fill to me the Parting Glass and drink a health whate'er befall,
then gently rise and softly call, "Goodnight and joy be to you all!!"

I wish you all well, and I certainly hope to hear from you in future. My sincerest apologies if I misspelled your names, or if you didn't want your "What-happens-on-Shamrocker-stays-on-Shamrocker" reputations put in internationally accessible text.
Ooops. ;)

Those of you whom I wasn't able to properly say good-bye to this morning, I sincerely apologise. It was all a bit flustering, and if you haven't realised already, when you're trekking round with a pack, it feels like you spend more time saying good-bye than actually enjoying other people's company. Rest completely satisfied that I've enjoyed yours this week, and wish I could've had both more time with you, and more time to say fareyewell. I say that birds of a feather do not, in fact, flock together. They collide in midair. That being the case, I look forward to seeing you next time my head's in the clouds... Meanwhile, Further On.

All my love,
jeff

Shamrockin'

Well, howdy from Bath, southwest England. I and my friend Harp have come down from Nottingham to visit our friend Angela for the weekend, and tomorrow I fly over to Dublin, Ireland, where I'm taking a tour for the next week. I know that Irish blokes probably don't actually all sit around in pubs of an evening and sing all the great Irish pubtunes like 'Wearing of the Green,' 'Black Velvet Band,' and 'Johnny I hardly Knew Ye,' but I'm hoping anyways...

Next Sunday, I'll head towards the north coast to Londonderry, stay a night and head out to the Giant's Causeway, then spend the next 2 nites in Belfast, flying to Edinburgh, Scotland on the Wednesday of that week, staying there 2 nites before taking the train to Glasgow and meeting up with my friend Lori from the University of Arkansas, and her Scottish husband, Scott.

I'll be back in Nottinghamshire on Monday the 11th, just in time for the frisbee Christmas social, spending that night and the following with my friends Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis again, then flying home to Arkansas that Wednesday.

I say all of this because I don't know when I'll be able to post next, and the previous entry was after all a downer.

Any rate, drop me a line...
jeffro

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

Penance

°For a viewer and reader friendly version, skip to the last 4 lines. I know I can be too wordy for some people at times...°

I mention in the column at right (--->) that through self-reflection and the helpful criticism of others, that I have become aware of my worrisome case of self-absorption.

In the 3 months since I typed that into my profile, I haven't improved much. Hence the following paragraphs.

If I've hurt you, I'm sorry. If it were by words or actions or a combination of both, I apologise. I've been told from multiple angles, multiple sources, and in multiple states of emotional concern, that something I have said or done has led to your unwanted sadness.

I offer no excuses, and I do not intend to list my sins here in this format, but I do know that some of my behavior towards others is perhaps inexcusable, and that for someone who professes to love people so much as I do, I've done little to prove it.

I do realise that the few people I wish most to see this public confession of guilt have already reached a point that they no longer prefer to read or hear a word from me, and that those of you reading this perhaps have no idea what I'm talking about. That being the case, I'll not continue this saddened reflection of my actions.

Just believe that my posting these words here is intended to express my concern over the damages I have caused, and know that I am willing to make repairs as needed.

Or, to say all of that a little less like myself, and more easily understandable:
I've been a jerk. I know it. I'm sorry, and I want more than anything else, to make things right.

Heroes in a Half Shell...

Well, Friday night saw the annual house party at 236 Queens Road, Beeston, home of my friend James King (JK, Jake) and his housemate Fergus (here pictured as Raphael and Leonardo, respectively). The fourth of our bunch, Michaelangelo, was portrayed by Fergus' sister, Amelia (Amy).

The theme for the evening was cartoon characters (quite often, British parties seem to feature fancy dress costumes, and are usually themed), and the best costume present was a guy who created his own costume of Mr. Incredible, from the recent Pixar (I believe) feature length film.

The evening featured funnels, a yard glass, frisbee vodka jelly races, and a barbecue manned by yours truly. I spent teh earlier part of the day creating some homemade barbecue sauces for the occasion, which were well received.

Any rate, it's been a fun week in Nottingham, and I hope your respective corners of the world have been equally enjoyable for you lately.

Cheers for now. Remember, life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

A light Peppering of Pictures...

Well, I got up this morning to discover that I cannot put off that haircut any longer...



But then again, at least I don't look like these ridiculous Italian dudes who are apparently very in fashion... Note the mullets, the bad glasses, and the MATCHING trousers and nearly identical shoes... Ye gods...



I saw those Italian teenagers while hanging out with my friend Charlie in Reggio Ermelia, Italia, near to Parma. Her flat overlooked the city park, in the centre of which was one of the most amazing trees I've ever seen. It's the one that claimed the life of my British mobile phone...



When I was in Yorkshire 3 weeks ago, I did manage to talk a local farmer into letting me check out the antique tractors in his barn. This is probably my favourite picture, though not my favourite of his particular examples of aging British iron. He had a Fordson Major, which weren't sold in America, that I loved. This is a 1968 Massey-Ferguson 135. Or, the nose of one.



While in France with Celine over the last 2 weeks, we did some hiking through the southernmost stretches of the Alps, and we dropped off of one peak into the valley containing Le Sac du St. Croix- the Lake of the Holy Cross. I think they call it that to make themselves feel better for having buried the original village church beneath 600 metres of water when they dammed and flooded the valley 35 years ago, but that's just my opinion... In either case, the valley and lake were beautiful. There was a massive float plane that kept circling round and loading water into itself- it seems there was a fire a few ridges away- so we sat down on the water's edge to watch the process of the plane filling its belly, and presently this catamaran came skirting across the surface, and I went all but blind trying to get this shot. He was etching his way back and forth across my line of vision making for the far end of the lake, so I took 5 or 6 pictures like the one following. This seems to be the best.



At any rate, I'm back in Nottingham, and glad of it. I tore my backpack strap yesterday, so I'm going to hike down the road to Beeston City Centre where there's a shoe repair place right next to a barber's on the high street, go have a coffee at Cafe Nero, where my friend Giuliana (Juan's wife) works, and then there's both frisbee practice and a social later in the day.

Hope y'all have a wonderful day yourselves...
cheers for now,
jeffro

England once more...

I left Nice this morning at roughly 10 am, where the temperature was a balmy 20 degrees Celsius, or about 70 Fahrenheit, sunny, and promisingly as amazing as the previous 2, during which I'd combed the beaches of San Raphael, Cannes, and Antibes barefoot and shirtless. England, as expected, is cold, damp, and rainy. And I love it. Perhaps I like England so much because somewhere deep in my fibres is a need for something to gripe about, and if nothing else, there's the weather...

Or perhaps it's because England, particularly Holmfirth, Yorkshire, can give rise to pictures like the latter 2 following. The first is from San Tropez, France. The ocean just doesn't do all that much for me, though the Mediterranean is my favourite, and that shows in my pictures. I simply cannot get good shots of the sea. Put me in the mountains in inclement weather, though...

Blue Shores

Howdy howdy again from Côte d'Azur, the southern French region that borders the Meditteranean near Italy. The weather here the last 10 days has been fabulous, with the sun dominating all of its hours above the horizons. It hasn't rained once, but the clouds present around the sun's rising and setting make for some breathtaking scenery. I've hiked along the shore, through the gorges and peaks of the southmost stretches of the Alps, and through half a dozen towns I can neither spell nor pronounce.

I've finally spent some time writing, as I've had ample opportunities. I will stay here 14 nights, which will be more than all the compiled nights in any other locale by the time I leave for the States in December. I'm headed back north to Nottingham on Tuesday, and am certainly looking forward to it, bleak tho the weather might be upon my arrival.

I promise that within the week I'll post something significant-- one of the things I penned while relaxing along the Mediterranean coast...

Cheers for nowm hope the weather's at least tolerable in your respective necks of the woods....

Just In Passing

To ease all minds counting the days since any news last issued forth, I am now on the French Riviera. I spent the last part of last week and the weekend in Yorkshire, a region I highly recommend to anyone, and then headed for London Monday, flying to France on Tuesday. The weather in England was beautiful, and it was a shame to leave when things are so nice, but I had the chance to spend some time in France rent-free, so here I am. The weather is fabulous, the Meditteranean a shade of blue more usually associated with a mountain stream.

Happy belated Halloween, All Saints Day, and Dia de los Muertos to you all.

Ciao!
jeff

The Frozen Underwear Story

As I've said more than once in recent years, I grew up with a pretty dynamic circle of friends. This is why most of my stories revolve around Adam Cole, Brandon King, and Tim Newberry. There's always something good to tell; be it leaving Adam behind kissing his girlfriend goodnight at her house on top of a hill so that he had to chase me down if he didn't want to walk home, or listening to Brandon try to purchase a "ba' geiss" (Bag of ice) from a gas station attendant in Delaware, or Tim headbutting me to give me the only scar on my person, there's no end to the anecdotes I could rattle off around these, and others, of my friends back home in Arkansas.

When I was 15 or 16, about a dozen of us guys from the church we attended in Springdale went on an overnight trip to Tulsa, Oklahoma (famous internationally for being where Chandler Bing worked...) with our youth minister, Brian. We'd checked into a sort of hotel suite, with multiple beds, a kitchenette, and a divided bathroom (sink and vanity through one door, toilet and shower through a further). I cannot sleep until I'm clean, so while the rest, I though, were watching a movie, I hopped in to clean off the daily grime. While I was out of hearing, however, Tim removed the laces from my shoes and tied the bathroom door (which opened inwards) to the vanity sink, so that I couldn't get out. This was a common prank, originated from Brian, our youth minister. The coup de grace came when, at church camp one year, we tied a dozen dorm doors, occupied by another church group, all together with one stretch of rope, effectively locking about 50 dudes in their rooms. I managed to yank the door enough to stretch the lace sufficiently to push the blade of my pocketknife through the small opening thus afforded and cut myself out.

This was, of course, not the worst of the matter. While I'd been fighting my way out of the shower, someone else, probably at Tim's direction, had gotten into my bag, which I should've know to carry in with me, and removed my jocks/skivvies/undershorts/briefs/whitey-tighties. These they took into the kitchen and submerged in a bowl of water, and placed the whole affair in the freezer. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what all the snickering was as I rummaged over and over through my belongings in search of some clean underwear. Finally, the room erupted in heart-felt guffaws, and I was informed as to my clothing's location. Ohhhhh, I was beside myself. I opened the freezer and saw, sure enough to my further rage, that I was now effectively without a clean pair of jocks.

Tim, conniver that he is and knower of personalities and weaknesses, told me that they'd all agreed to buy me breakfast in the morning, as a recompense, providing I could remove my shorts from the freezer (come breakfast-time), extract them from the bowl, and put them on. Now, you'd simply have to know that I'm a sucker for a free meal, and as my whiteys were already nearly on the rocks, I took the bait, and slept in my swimming trunks.

The blow didn't really fall till the next morning, when I dutifully chipped my underwear out of a solid block of ice with a fork, pried them apart, and experienced the coldest sensation of all my born days. It was then, as I scurried off to reheat myself, amid a roomful of hecklers splitting their sides agape, that I was informed that it was a continental breakfast.

In America, 'continental' means free.

And I've always wondered how that particular name had been chosen for a free breakfast. Now, having travelled Europe both through England and on the continent, I've assessed the mystery. A traditional English breakfast, or a great fry-up as the locals would say, consists of fried tomatoes, baked beans, fried mushrooms, white English sausage links (savoury, but much drier than sausage in the States), and fried bacon (which is more akin to thinly sliced ham, where I'm from), toast, cereal, orange juice, tea and coffee. Breakfast on the continent, however, is far less impressive, as a rule. Usually, it consists of cereal and a bread of some sort, with jam and butter, perhaps some fruit, and tea or coffee. Unless, of course, you're staying at the Hortnagl House in Navis, Austria, where breakfast is a glorious melee of sliced meats and cheeses, breads, coffee, cocoa, and honey fresh from the comb just out the back door.

A continental breakfast, then, is a term attached by European travellers at some point in the vaguely recent past to indicate that one should not expect the hot meal associated with breakfast in England. Speaking of which, the inspiration here expounded came about this morning, as I broke fast in the west Yorkshire town of Holmfirth, famously the set for the 30-year running British comedy series "Last of the Summer Wine." It's a lovely little locale, and I plan to do some much anticipated hiking and touristing this afternoon.

Y'all have a fabulous day.
jeff

Damme Herre Slamme Fayre

Well, That's probably spelled wrong, but the title enscribed above was the frisbee tournament I played in yesterday, with my old teammates from the University of Nottingham's Ultimate Society, Random Fling. It was wonderful flipping a disc around with the crew again.

I am back in Nottingham again, after my last trip to East Dulwich, South London, to visit my Colombian Friend Yeny. I like London, but as the saying goes, it's a lovely place to visit, but I'd hate to live there. I don't know if I've ever managed to convey the respect I have for Yeny and her housemates and the thousands of others I don't know who've moved to another country, learned a new language, and are putting themselves through university by working as near full time as the government allows. I usually feel quite guilty after conversing with any of the residents of her townhouse, and hearing the intensity of their daily work and study schedules-- me and all my wandering, unencumbered gypsy tendencies...

At any rate, London was nice, but when I got up to leave first thing Friday morning, it was raining, which was perfectly suitable. I've realised that I have left nearly every city or town I've been to on this trip when the rain comes. Every town, that is, but Nottingham. I expected it to rain here, and rain it has. But it was raining when I left Bergamo, Innsbruck, and Milano. When the rain comes, it's time to leave. So it was fitting that my last call on south London ended in thunder and puddles. The city is wonderful, the variation of people in residence is unrivalled, and the parks and history inescapably unavoidable, but in the midst of a torrential downpour, it's hard to see any redeeming qualities.

It rained so hard in England Friday morning that a good portion of the M1 between Mansfield and London was flooded, causing multiple wrecks, resulting in the closing of said motorway, and stranding the bus that was to pick me up and whisk me out of the damp cold of London was an hour late. By the time I did arrive, I'd managed to move beyond angry or put out, after all, we all know I have no real appointments to keep, and was simply in a serenely unemotional mood, ready only for escape. I boarded the bus, popped in my earbuds, and immediately fell to sleep as the driver did his best to navigate us out of the traffic, construction, and flood barricades and off towards the North. I came to when I realised the bus was no longer lurching among other vehicles, but had eased into the hum of overdrive. I saw the last far-flung semblances of city and modernity pass across the horizon, as the clouds broke, and all at once my vision was filled only with the inimitable green of English grasslands. I turned off the music and shook myself to full wakefulness, and lost myself in the scenery. There was one small pasture in particular that's still in my mind. It was hemmed in by the classic rural English stone wall, broken here and there by the growth of trees, and the field itself was filled only with lush grass, save a solitary tree out towards the middle. It was noon, but this far north on the globe, the autumnal sun never rises more than about 40 degrees off of the southern horizon, so that even high noon has an appearance of what reminds me of 4 in the afternoon at home. So, after a long and, comparably, distressing morning, noon though it was, as I passed by that picturesque 12 acre plot, the shadow cast by the tree had an effect of the last hours before sunset, and the hectic psychological constraints of the city died all at once as I remembered why I truly love England.

Or, for that matter, Arkansas, or bits here and there all over the parts of the planet I've seen thus far. Trees, stones, and the greenery of nature in general. England, nor indeed Northwest Arkansas, can truly claim any longer to be an agrarian, rural locale. The ways of life that suit and require such surroundings are quickly dying, and my favourite source of serenity along with them. As Allen commented a few posts back, quoting some classic American lighter rock: "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone. They pave paradise and put up a parking lot."

Take stock of where you find peace, and what you know is worth loving, and enjoy it soon. If not today, this week,or when you're able in the not-so-distant future. If it's London, New York City, or Spring, Texas, or the Snake River, Sahara Dessert, or Puppy Creek, get there sometime soon. Myself, I hope to get to either northeast or southwest England in the next month-- either Yorkshire, or Somerset and Dorset. If I can, I'll hire a bike and ride along some canal towpaths.

What speaks serenity to you?

This Ever-Shrinking Terrasphere

I returned to Yeny's house in East Dulwich, South London, this evening, and heard an American voice upstairs. When I finally managed to get up to the living room to see who all was in residence, I encountered a girl in a University of Virginia hoodie, who introduced herself as Jodi. We exchanged pleasantries for awhile, and she eventually asked where I was from. I started with the usual thread I save for Americans: "Near Fayetteville, where the University is... Spingdale is actually my hometown, between Fayetteville and Bentonville, where Wal-mart's headquartered." But she stopped me: "I've heard of Springdale...we have relatives there... Yes that's right, I've seen it on our Christmas Cards. My cousins are the Bogers." Kelly and Cody. For those of you in NWA, the Bogers are the family on the corner of Cowface Road, on the way to Hickory Creek Marina on Beaver Lake, with a pasture full of buffalo. I actually talked to Kelly over the phone a week or two before leaving the US, trying to line him up to haul some dirt.

We had a good laugh over the coincidence, if you could call it that. I don't particularly believe in coincidences...

Trying to Stay on Top of this Updating Thing

Well, so Tuesday saw me sleeping in late, as the aftereffects (washing up et al.) of the Monday evening dinner party had me up well past midnight. I left 49 Claude just in time to catch the last possible bus that would get me to Nottingham's Broadmarsh Coach Station before the 450 National Express to London pulled out without me. I love the drive from Notts to London, down the M1. It's not what you'd call remarkable: tarmac is tarmac and asphalt is asphalt, regardless of continent. A road is an obviously blighting streak across otherwise pure and unfettered nature or idyllic farmland, no matter the latitudal and longitudinal lines it crosses, but for all that, I love a road. Given that it will probably be asphalt that finally claims the last scrapings of the little bit of geography my family's called home for a century and a half, I derive a sense of peace from a well-paved highway. If you know my road-tripping tendencies, this won't surprise you.

The M1 to London from Nottingham, via Milton Keynes, is certainly the main British road I'm most familiar with. I've lost count of the number of coaches I've ticked past the miles in down said stretch, but I've grown well familiar. I usually try to stay awake the whole trip, but I was beat this time, so I popped in the ear buds and drifted in and out of Jimmy Buffett, the Fray, and Sister Hazel.

That was just as well, as I received a text message from my Australian buddy Davo, whom I met in Spain last year, inviting me out to the Frog and Forget-Me-Not pub for a pint and a spot on his quiz team. Pub quizzes are big affairs here in England, and particularly England. One of the prizes last night was an entire case of beers. Our team, "The-number-of-times-will-we-have-to-play-before-we-win-this-quiz-is" featured returning contenders Ed, of English persuasion; Davo and his girlfriend Natalie, both from Australia; Myself and Yeny (Colombian, if you forget); and her newest to housemates, Demis and Michaela, an Italian couple. There were 3 rounds of 30+ questions in multiple categories. We all had our strengths, but I was able to prove myself by identifying Ray Charles "Georgia on My Mind", among other tunes, and anagramming 'Excitation' into 'intoxicate.' All of our combined knowledge pooled together, unfortunately, landed us only in 4th or 5th place, out of 40+. Our score of 104 simply didn't measure up to the two 106's and the title-taking 109 scored by our competition.

Win or lose, we did have a smashing time, which is an awful good thing, as when my tab came round, the ONE pint of Magner's Irish Cider I'd washed down cost me 4 pounds. It's a wonder the poverty level in London isn't frequented by more of the locals, given the price of alcohol, grog and booze in the imbibing establishments. Quite fortunately, I'm not an alcoholic. If I'd known the levy I'd be laid with for 1 solitary refreshment, I'd've nicked a pint glass bearing the pub or brand name...

Any rate, Happy Wednesday. Hope the weather's fair where you're at. London is mostly cloudy, as per usual, and not raining. As Yeny's at work, I'll probably hit a park or museum for the first part of the afternoon.

Do some stretches. Your body'll appreciate it.
jeff

Big Weekend

Welllll...

I took a bus from London to Nottingham Thursday, so that I could practice with the frisbee team Thursday evening. I spent Friday doing... nothing...that I recall, and kicked off the weekend Friday night with my friend Sophia, whom I met in Vienna (if you haven't heard that tale, we'll get there eventually). Her boyfriends 25th birthday was one day last week, and they were celebrating Friday night. I went along, and as they're both medical students, met about 40 other meds, and ended up conversing most of the night away with a girl named Katrina.

Saturday was nice, by Nottingham standards; it wasn't raining. So, Katrina and I went for a walk through Wollaton Park, the ancestral grounds of either the Wollaton or Willoughby family, or both. We also went down to the Nottingham Canal and Castle Marina to check out some of my beloved narrowboats. Found one for sale for a mere 80,000 pounds... Went out for a pint with Dave from Fling at the Happy Return that evening, then to a house party at our friend Helen's house. Helen is also known as Fish, but that's another story I'm infamiliar with.

Sunday...I spent a greater portion of the day posting, as I recall, till about 2 pm, when I headed off for frisbee practice and some track training afterwards. My body is still sore in places I'd forgotten existed. Came home and showered, then went back to Dave's to grab him, his housemate and our fellow flinger Rod, and Dave's guitar, and headed down to open mic nite at the Happy Return, once more, to meet up with James and Harp, also from Fling. We got there about 8.30, and after a few sips of Kingston's Press Cider to start the evening, I took to the stage and played for about an hour... everything from my standard "Can't You See" by the Marshall Tucker Band, to Kenny Chesney, Jimmy Buffett, and the Generic Love Song. Eventually played a duet of "Sweet Home Alabama" with a phenomenal British piano-playing chap, who actually played the entertainer from underneath the piano... Left the HR at midnight, and went to the Fanoose takeaway for a Kebab, which I got for half price after playing the cook a Jimmy Buffett's "He Went to Paris". At least, I think that's what I was playing... I'll go ask him tomorrow: he recorded me.

Today, my friend Danisha and I went walking round; again to the canal, but west to Beeston marina. I really love those narrow boats. I promise I'll get some pictures up soon as I'm able. We walked goodness knows how many miles, ending up in Beeston city centre, the long way, and hitting the Sainsbury's grocery store, where I bought all the ingredients necessary for a good pot of chili and a batch of brownies, and we feasted at my old house tonight: myself, Danisha, Sophia, Katrina, James, Juan, Giuliana, Alexis, Tung, and Alejandro. I made so much, though, that Tung will be eating the stuff through the weekend. He seemed to like it, fortunately. We sat around after dinner for nearly 3 hours, laughing hysterically about one thing or another. Which was good, as we'd all eaten too much and severely needed to burn a few calories. It would seem that everyone enjoyed themselves and the meal. Even Sophia, who's highly critical... ;) James did, for what it's worth, eat half of the entire [double] batch of peanut butter brownies. Take it all around, we all went our separate ways satisfied.

Tomorrow, it's back to London for a few days for Yeny's birthday. Beyond that, I'm uncertain.

So, to recap: Tex-Mex dinner done Arkansas style with English available ingredients, peanut butter brownies a la Carol Brown. In attendance: 2 English, 1 American, 1 Mauritian, 1 Anglicised Greco-Barbadian, 3 Mexicans, 1 Malaysian, 1 Peruvian. It's a cosmopolitan world, allright. This is why I love England, and Nottingham in particular, so much.

Any rate, have a fabulous week. Eat Thai.
jeffro

Second Post in 12 hours...don't miss the first...

Howdy, all. It's about 10 am Sunday morning in Nottingham GMT, so 4 am in Arkansas, and late evening in Western Australia (I've got so many numbers in my head-- translating temperatures from centigrade to Fahrenheit, miles to metres, pounds to euros to crowns to dollars, that I've forgotten the time swap to further locales than the ones I'm typically concerned with). I've got a few hours free before I head to frisbee practice, and as I've got access to a free computer with internet, thought I'd take some time to get you fully caught up on what the devil I've been up to the last few weeks.

I reckon I'll just start with the day I left Northwest Arkansas. I've been gone a month now, so rather than write an elongated dissertation on the previous four and a half weeks, I'll only give you the first week now, and post more later.

Tuesday, September 12: Breakfast with my folks and best friend Brandon at my grandparents Sharp's house, flight to Atlanta, Georgia, four hour layover, overnight flight to London Gatwick. While boarding the plane, I met a brother and sister heading home to, of all places, Nottingham. Their names were Alan and Elena, and had been visiting their grandparents in Colombia. I do not know what my magnetism is for meeting Colombians in Atlanta, but that's two for two. Alan had recognised my University of Nottingham T-shirt, and I spent an hour or two talking with his sister as we made our way over the north Atlantic.

Wednesday, September 13: Arrived into the city of London around 9 am, met up with my Colombian friend Yeny (whom I met in the Atlanta airport one year previous when we were both heading for England). I spent the better part of the day fighting off jetlag, we walked the city a bit, and called it an early night.

Thursday, September 14: Late brunch, early afternoon train to Nottingham. Went round to my old digs at number 49, Claude Street in Dunkirk, where I found my old housemates Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis in conference with Tung, my replacement 9 months ago, settling up final accounts, as Juan and Giuliana were moving house, just around the corner. Juan, Giuliana, Alexis and myself went out for Kebabs at the Beeston Charcoal Grill, and then I met up with my frisbee flinging mate, Dave, for a pint or two of Kingston's Press Cider.

Friday, September 15: Met up with my friend James, from Fling, late morning to chuck a disc around and catch up a bit, then made my way from main campus to Jubilee campus, the satellite location of the University of Nottingham, where my Greek friend Lilian had lived for the last year, to help her pack for her flight home the next day. Walked around with her for a bit, met her friend Andriani, who for all of her being Greek, could be Angelina Jolie's sister, and then went back to Juan and Giuliana's to celebrate Mexican Independence Day with the two of them and their friends Marcos and Melissa. Then, around 9.30, I made my way back to Lilian's and we went out to a club with Andriani and her boyfriend Demetri, for Lilian's last night in Nottingham.

Saturday, September 16: Left Notts at the crack of dawn, up with sparrows, to help Lilian haul all of her stuff down to London Heathrow. I realised at some point in that 3 hour bus trip that I was probably never going to see this amazing friend again, and it was an incredibly bitter, tearful ride. Perhaps one of the worst days I can recall. After I left her at the airport, I had to find a little out of the way corner to hide in and recuperate, before I headed back into the city to meet up with Yeny again. We walked through Soho, Leicester Square, and Covent Garden, where there was a phenomenal guitarrist entertaining the other tourists. It was nice, but it was a day that simply couldn't end soon enough for me.

Sunday, September 17: Sunday was relaxing. We all got up late, and I made French Toast for Yeny and her roommate Angelica. Just the doing of that is enough to lift my spirits from any point. Learning to make French toast is one of the rites of passage for the males in my family. My grandfather Brown, 'B' I call him, is an absolute master and can turn out heaps of the stuff quicker than my 4 cousins, their combined families, and myself (totalling a good baker's dozen worth of ravenous mouths) can put it away. My dad is pretty good too. French toast for breakfast was always a big occasion growing up. Knowing that I'm now capable of the feat is a very satisfying realisation. I've fixed it for Yeny before, and know she likes it, but it was nicely comforting to see Angelica's enjoyment for the first time. They spent the day studying, I read Oliver Twist out in the back garden, and then after our dinner of Chinese takeaway, spent the evening in conversation with their Turkish housemate, Basak.

Monday, September 18: Got up early (-ier) and made my way south to Gatwick airport, where I flew out to Budapest to meet up with my French friend, Celine, whom I met in Spain back in January while traveling with my Australian friend Lisa. While in queue (waiting line) in airport security, I noticed that the girl in front of me was absolutely awash in tears. She'd caught the attention of a few other passengers-to-be, and after a moment of following her eyes through the crowd, we all saw what we expected: a young man with an equal amount of saline streaks and rosy cheeks, well out of the queue, with no luggage, obviously waving goodbye. Unfortunately, the poor girl was fairly short and her vision kept getting blocked by the hundreds of people between, so I tapped her shoulder, and told her to clench her fists and hold her arms straight down tightly. This done, I grabbed hold of her tiny hands and lifted her up as high as I could, to the amusement and applause of those around us, about 2 and a half heads higher than my own, so that she could get a last glimpse of her beau. Of course, then I realised that she couldn't wave at him.

That notwithstanding, I could see by his smile that he was as appreciative as she for the last light-hearted parting shot, and he turned to go as I let her down. She introduced herself as Andi (her boyfriend, I found out later was an Englishman named Robert), she was Romanian, heading home to Transylvania via Hungary. We sat together on the flight, talking of I don't even remember what all, and then she helped me to find Celine upon arrival, and then helped both of us into the city centre towards our hostel, as Andi spoke the local tongue (among about 4 others, fluantly) while we did not. We parted ways at the station and I haven't heard from her since.

Celine and I made our way to the hostel, then went out for a walk through the newer half, Pest, of the Hungarian capital, and had dinner in a quiet little locally flavoured restaurant, where I feasted on a dinner of pork roast and lentil stew.

So, to recap that first week lest there be any confusion, that was Arkansas, London, Nottingham, London, Budapest. In order of appearance were: Mom, Dad, Brandon, Jay, and Nana (from Northwest Arkansas), Alan and Elena (from my Transatlantic flight, from Colombia, Nottingham, and London, variously), Yeny (from last years's eastbound Atlantic flight, from Colombia, in London), Juan (former housemate, from Mexico), Giuliana (former housemate, wife of Juan, from Peru), Alexis (former housemate, from Mexico. He's in Wales for the weekend with the University of Nottingham Caving Society, and I'm using his room and computer in his absense), Tung (my replacement at 49 Claude, from Malaysia, I believe), Dave (from Stoke-on-Trent, Frisbee teammate), James (from Petersfield, also from the frisbee team), Lilian (from my [unfinished] English Literature program here, Greek, the best friend I had in Nottingham, and perhaps a broader area even), Andriani (Greek, friend of Lilian), Marcos (Mexican, friend of Juan), Melissa (Mexican, girlfriend of Marcos), Demetri(Greek, boyfriend of Andriani), Angelica (Colombian, housemate of Yeny), 'B' (grandfather Brown, northwest Arkansas, former Postmaster, gave me the ring you might've seen me wearing), Basak (Turkish girl, housemate of Yeny), Celine (French, met in Spain while travelling with...), Lisa (Australian, met while travelling Europe with Topdeck Tours last year), Andi (distraught Transylvanian from my flight to Budapest), Robert (whom I've only waved at, distraught English boyfriend of Andi).

There we are, hope you've all got that filed away into memory, as some of these names, if you've not bored out of your ever loving skull, will repeat in chapter 2. Cheers for now.
jeff

Every town has its ups and downs...

And I'm in Nottingham, again. I've really been trying to cope with the implications of the term 'old haunts' over the last 24+ hours. An old haunt rather implies that the places I am traversing now I once visited before as a haunter, if you will, a ghost. But that's not the case. When I was here before, this was my life. I actually lived in Nottingham less than 90 days (in fact, I may not've truly reached that total yet, so far as nights slept here are concerned), but it became home. When I first came round here again 4 weeks ago, I turned onto my old street and stopped dead in my tracks as my eyes adjusted and my brain registered one word: 'Home.'

But this isn't home, it couldn't be-- I don't think. This is a University town. This is the sort of place that really isn't home to anyone. People come here only on temporary bases. It's when they come back, as I am now, that they truly haunt the place. I float around, remembering a life that was, the friends who've already moved away again, seeing the houses that I used to know the residents of, and I know that my time here is well done, but I cannot leave, I cannot put this place, the life I had here, to rest, and I merely hover at the fringe...

But it's not like that, really. Yes, there's so much different: people gone, doors no longer open, no real purpose of being here. But quite a few of my friends are here, I've already made more friends, thanks to and starting with Sophia, the thoroughly Anglicised Greco-Barbadian girl I met in Vienna. She's a medical student here in Nottingham, and I went out with her and I think 80 of her peers last night. The gents from the frisbee team are just as fun to be around as I recall, Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis are still the noble friends I remember them being. The air smells the same, the canal and its longboats still drifts idly along the southwestern side of town, from Beeston, past Dunkirk, and through Nottingham's city centre on its way to the Trent River. A doner kebab (Turkish version of a burrito or pita sandwich, made with lamb doner (sausage, essentially) still has that magical taste that only really fatty meat with garlic mayonnaise could provide. The streets I walked, the shops I frequented, the color of the grass and the scents on the air-- they're all what I remember of Nottingham. But still...something is missing...

I may go and participate at open mic night at the Happy Return, a pub in the village of Lenton, 15 or 20 minutes walk from here (my old residence), tomorrow night. I'll be sure and let y'all know how that turns out.

Cheers for now, from your favourite spectre...
jeffro

Repetitive Ignorance

Let's assume, for both the sake of argument and my own self-respect, that everyone does something, every so often, moderately unintelligent. You have something, surely. Some act you commit, phrase you use, turn you take, regularly, that routinely turns around to bite you. You know that you cannot wear white shirts because you stain the pits in a matter of minutes. You don't chew gum because it braids your braces together. Or at least, you ought not, but do anways. Somehow, you just can't remember the effects of poor decisions.

Mine's eating raw chicken. I don't know how I manage to pull this off, but if there is an option, be it in my own fridge at home or at the deli counter in a London grocery store, to pick out and consume either well cooked, perfectly stapf and salmonella free poultry, or a raw, theoretically bacterially infested version, I'll take the unsanitary course, invariably. I don't know how. I did it today. Hence the presence of such a strange vein in the forefront of my mind. I was mildly hungry, had gone out for some household cleaner and a KitKat (They have a DARK chocolate version out here in the UK), and decided to pop round the deli and bakery corner for a mouthful of something toothsome. Asian food is currently, and has been for some time, the most popular culinary genre in Britain, save for Kentucky Fried Chicken and all its clones. So, I decided to try a few different pastries than what I'd normally be able to find back home. I'm not sure if the assortment I got were mostly Turkish, Indian, Bengali, or something else, but I did have some sort of fried onion pancake, a vegetable spring roll, some delectable little triangles filled with both vegetables or chicken and potatoes, and had saved for last a chicken and chili roll. When I got my bag of goodies, I noted that they were cold, but as the typical pasty or pastry has usually been precooked, I presumed that these little trifles had merely been in the fridge since their prep time had ended.

I was wrong. I was halfway through the 7th, and last, morsel, that chicken and chili roll that had me drooling the moment I read the placard in front of it, when I realised that the meat was a might gummy, and harder to chew than should've been expected. I'm OK so far, and it has been 10 hours, so either I have the stomach of a goat, that could digest a tin can, or I have the digestive duration of a cow, and will wake up next Tuesday in severe cramping pain.

Today's Moral: Always ask if food needs further preparation, particularly if you can be reasonably certain that the person behind the counter speaks the same language as yourself.

Oh, and in case your wondering, as a precautionary measure, I went back to the grocery store and bought a package of Digestive Biscuits (with chocolate). For those of you, most of you, not resident of, nor familiar with the grocery habits and selections of, the UK, Digestive Biscuits are merely blandly sweet cookie type crackers, high in fiber. Something akin to a ginger snap or oatmeal cookie, and quite nice, particularly with tea.

Geographical Pronunciations...

In English, I would tell you that I, over 2 different weeks in 2 different years, I've been to Florence, Rome, Orvieto, Venice, Brenner, and Verona, Italy. After 10 days there this year, I flew back to London.

However, if I were still in Italy, my listeners would have no idea where I'd been. In the local tongue, I was in Firenze, Roma, Orvieto, Venezia, Brenero, and Verona, Italia, then flew to Londra.

And I have to wonder why it is that different languages have different titles for locales not their own. Tokyo, for what it's worth, is Tokyo in every language that uses the Phoenician alphabet. We call the larger country inhabiting the Iberian peninsula 'Spain,' and don't even have the tilde-capped letter 'n' that the proper spelling of Espana requires on our keyboards. Pronunciations are one thing-- it can be difficult to wrap your tongue around the Spanish usage of the letter 'c', and English dipthongs are a bane to nearly all inhabitants of South America.

Any thoughts or opinions...such as "Yeah, language sucks," or, "Well, historically, the difference between Latinate and Germanic dialects have led to..." or, "Give up on introspective profundity, dude."

Anyhow, London is beautiful today. I saw Yeny to the train station just after dawn and went for a walk through the early morning cool, watching the multitudes of London jumping into everyday life. London is a fun little city, in that not-at-all-so-little way, but I'm afraid the people who live here aren't able to see it. The city moves at such a sprint that few folks take the time to watch others, or stroll through any of the city's magnificient parks. I may head north to Nottingham today, otherwise, I'll probably go out to either Hyde or Battersea Park.

Take a five minute walk today. Just five minutes, to appreciate where you are. Pick up an acorn and toss it to yourself, throw rocks in a creek or pond. Pet a dog.

Greetings Again

Well... (Pretend you can hear me saying that aloud... 'Wayelle...')

I am back in London, but it's a wonder. They didn't particularly want to let me back in the country. Too many stamps on my passport, all out of order. The checker at the port security point thought that I had been in England for over a year, and not a student, which would put me at cross purposes with the laws of the land. I finally managed to assure her otherwise; it's a good thing I'm a talker, and used to telling anyone interested what the devil I've been up to over the last year.

I flew with Ryanair from Parma, in northern Italia, to Stansted airport, north of London, today. As I checked in, I noticed that the poster advertising individual passengers' luggage restrictions had emblazoned across the bottom "Ryanair: The ON-TIME Airline." Twas a reassuring little note, until you read its counterpart, posted immediately next to it: "Ryanair takes no responsibility for connections missed due to delayed flights, queues, or other causes. Ryanair advises you NOT (emphasis mine) to plan connections... 'Ryanair: the LOW-FARE Airline'" I laughed, somewhat bitterly, and took consolation from the flyer that said that Ryanair has the lowest percentage of delayed flights, when compared to other European airlines, such as Lufthansa, Alitalia, and EasyJet. They are very proud of that.

My flight LEFT Parma ONE HOUR LATE.

Consequently, I met my train from Stansted to Nottingham, where I planned to surprise my old teammates from Random Fling, the University of Nottingham Ultimate Frisbee Society, at their first social of the year. No luck. Well, it's not all bad though. Yeny, my friend from Colombia, still lives here, so I made my way to her flat, and then made up a pan of cornbread (soulfood- rough day...) and bought a pack of Strongbows at the store, so tonight I'm kicking back and relaxing in a city that I've passed through so much it feels like home. It's nice pulling into London on a bus or train after travelling all over Europe, where all of a sudden I'm familiar again, and know my way around. Though, being able to read every sign around takes a lot of the excitement out of travelling. Guesswork is a key ingredient in international travel.

Any rate, I plan to do some heavy duty blogging in the next few days to catch y'all up a little better on the various footfalls I've dropped over the last few weeks.

Cheers for now, y'all...

Stupid Crowded Boot

Well, then, I have been in Italy for 5 days, and seen that many cities. I left Verona yesterday, merely on principle, as it was time to be moving on. I fly from Parma to London on Wednesday, an event I am sincerely looking forward to, and plan to stay around north-central Italy until then.

In that vein, I took a train yesterday to Bergamo, upon the advice of someone who'd already been there, and soon realised it was a mistake. The details will follow later, once I have more time to type, but the long and short of it is that the ONLY hostel in town had a bed for only one night, and that I had to leave today.

This I did, as soon as I was up, as it was raining and nasty and there was no sense in staying. All I saw of Bergamo was the hostel, a pizza restaurant, and the 4 miles I put down getting between the three.

I went to Milano. Not because I especially wanted to, but because I thought that I'd might as well, as it's just one of those places. This, also, was a mistake. The town was equally soggy, looked miserable, was expensive, and offered NO hostels. The cheapest hotel wasn't, so I got back on the train and went south to Parma, where I'm flying from this coming week. There were 2 hostels in Parma, the woman at the Information desk told me, though one was showed on none of the printed maps of the city, as it was miles away. The other was booked full. I got BACK on the train, and went 13 miles down the track to some city whose name I don't even know, but the Parman information clerk booked me a room in.

Here I am now. The location is tolerable, and I'm sharing a room with a Japanese gent named Akiro. He's great. We played frisbee for awhile, had a beer, talked a bit, and he'll head to Venezia tomorrow. Finding and losing, that's the way of it.

I've met a few Asian folks this time around: 2 South Korean guys(Morrie and Moon), and a guy(Akiro) and girl (Miho) from Japan. I've discovered something about Asians: if you ask them if they speak English, and they say "Ahhh...leetle." What they mean is that they are fully conversant. If you ask the standard European the same, expect the same response, be they a public service employee, retail salesperson, or random person on the street. What THEY mean, however, is that they plan on answering your next question with "No" whether you ask them if you can brush their teeth, or what the sum of 3 and 5 is.

Any rate, the past few days theme song has been Moby's "Natural Blues."

For what it's worth, Tim Newberry (pretend this is a link to www.seeyabye.blogspot.com) will be eating at my favourite American pizza parlour this weekend. He'll be in Atlanta, and is supposed to be finding one of the local Mellow Mushroom Pizza Companies there. Best of luck to him...

Happy Belated Birthday to Vinnie King...

And Ciao to the rest of y'all...

Buon giorno da Italia!

Greetings all from Verona, Italy. Local time here (GMT + 1) is 10.45 am, Tuesday, October 9. That's 9.45 am in London, 3.45 am in NWA, and something like 4.45 pm in Western Australia.

I left Navis. Not because I wanted to, but because I'd been there 4 nights, and my standard limit is 3. So, I checked out of what Rob, Nick and I affectionately, and deservingly, titled the Ritz Navis' Rose Room, hopped a bus (a school bus at that... the passengers were myself and 30 6-10 year old Austrian kids... whose only English was "HI!!" and "Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, knees and toes...," followed the bus with a train from Matrei, Austria to Brenero, Italy, and a train from there to Verona, where I checked into the equivalent of a YMCA. Missing Austria alllllllready... but Verona does look promising.

I'm in an internet shop at the moment trying to plan my next stage... but I've no idea where it will lead. I'd like to bump into someone with an actual idea about things, and follow them again, but I've noticed that when you amble along with no sort of direction or ambitions, people in similar state are hard to find. Most other folks have very determined agendas, and I don't tend to fit the contexts... Any rate, not so much to report at this point. I'm going to see some Roman ruins and an archaeological museum, and apparently Bruce Springsteen is in concert here Thursday in the old Roman arena, third oldest in the world, at nearly 2000 years.

Hope life is stably, dependably satisfying to you. Living in hopes and hopping trains can be quite psychologically challenging.

Listen to some CCR.
jeffro

Gooooood Morning

Well, I've realised that the detriment to keeping a daily paper-and-ink diary as well as a weblog is that one is always about 4 steps ahead of the other. Consequently, the current theme or undercurrent of my notebook is a bit more upbeat than that of the blog. My sincerest apologies. I forget sometimes that, often as you might get online, you are not truly able to keep up with the turn of events as quickly as they pass through my mind.

Unfortunately, I still do not want to interrupt the chronological flow of thoughts as I have them written down, so for now I'm going to simply diverge from the main body of content and offer a bit of light-hearted relief from the other half of myself that's forever trying to prove itself profound...

In a desperate attempt to encourage slumber last night, I tried, for the second time in my life, counting sheep. They were hopping over a bi-railed log fence (Who in the world thought of this?) and I'd seen the first sixteen gently lope across when number seventeen didn't get high enough off of the ground and stumbled through the upper spar, leaving it on the ground, and allowing the next dozen and a half to come through in pairs. But thirty.six and thirty-seven collided in mid-air, crashed down onto and shattered the bottom spar, and took off in opposite directions at a dead run. I managed to count up to forty-five before the flood of fluffz white tufts became indiscernible, and doyens poured through before the last trotted gaily through over the splintered rails and trodden turf.

At this point, the analytical, get-on-with-the-obvious farmer part of me took over, and I began repairing the fence. I was apparently still in Austria, judging by the deportment and outfit of the local who came ambling along just as I finished. I ws relaxing against one of the uprights, having just scooped up and downed a few handfuls of the dependably cold and pure Alpine spring water near-to-hand, and he came and rested himself against the section of fence immediately next to that which I'd just repaired.

'Say,' he began, in surprisingly good English. Unless, that is, I'd learned German since lying down, which is, of course, far more likely in Morpheus' realm. 'Have you met the Mustang girl yet?'

I knew I hadn't, as horses aren't all that common her, save for the two small ponies I saw one middle-aged farmer leading along in a village a few doyen metres up the mountain, so I replied in the negative.

'Ahh,' he replied heavily, 'You should seek her out. As an American, you'd certainly appreciate her. All seven of her dental fillings are made of some part of a melted down Ford Mustang. Her first was from a 1965 standard coupe, and she followed with one casdt from the window crank of a '66 convertible, then various parts from a '67 Fastback, a '68 GT350, a '69 GT500, a '70 Boss 302, and a '71 Mach I.'

At this point, I came fully to with a jolt, and thought, once again, 'Who the CRAP came UP with this?'

I hope your dreams are as entertaining, though perhaps easier to understand...

As I've been writing this, the landlady's 8 year old daughter and I have been teaching one another our native tongues with the aid of the website www.leo.org. I've just been told that she and her cousin operate a small library in the attic, and she's gone to fetch me a book. I am the only guest currently occupying this cozy little bed and breakfast, and have decided to stay two more nights, as tomorrow is the annual harvest festival. It seems that I may be the only non-native to the hamlet at the affair, but the family who operates the B&B, die familie Hörtnagl, have said that I can attend Mass with them in the morning, and presumably, I'll just follow them to the celebration, which is to include the fruits of the harvest, brot und käse (Bread and cheese). I wonder if they need an English teacher here...

Rob and Nick, wherever you are, safe I hope, you really ought to have stuck around longer. I wish you the best for the upcoming school year, and I pray you're made as warm and welcome wherever you find yourselves as we were here in Navis.

OH!! And to show that I do read and appreciate your comments:
Thanks Tim for encouraging me to bring the iPod (I actually bought a new one, a 'shuffle.' For what it's worth, an Altoids tin makes an ideal travel case for an iShuffle, earbuds, and lanyard to wear said iShuffle, as well as an extra camera chip or two...or it does until you forget that said tin is propping open a window and you cram the window shut, forever crimping aforementioned tin beyond usefulness...) I've found that my selection of 131 songs has definitely been more encouraging than detrimental to my situation.

Allen...never did care for the Cure, though I seem to recall that you did. Don't remember you in black eyeliner... Do have plenty of U2, though. I might write up my music list at a later date.

Brad: have taken plenty of pictures, have lost camera-to-computer cable. Drat.

Larry and Raysha: glad to see someone gave y'all the address. Did you make the reunion last weekend?

Next stops: Verona and possibly Milan, Italy. Hoorah.

Gratitude...

Thanks, by the way, to all who posted or emailed after my fit of self-pity...

Things are looking up from that last post a few days ago, and I look forward to filling y'all in on all the little details you've missed...

Update

OK...trying to cover a lot of ground in a short time:

Adam, Brad, and Vince, y'all would be proud...I've done some crazy hiking through and over portions of the Alpine foothills over the past few days. Things I would not have done under normal circumstances I've managed to negotiate while strapped to a 45 pound (19kg) pack. It was more like bouldering than hiking...

Any rate, am currently holed up in a regular Tirolean paradise; little town of Navis. Have been writing in ye olde travel logge for hours, but don't have time to transcribe everything onto here. In lieu of brilliant thoughts from me, here are a few of the quotes that have been on my mind for the past few daysÖ

First, for Cody Canup:
Architecture and war are not incompatible. Architecture is war. War is architecture. I am at war with mz time, with history, with all authority that resides in fixed and frightened forms. I am one of millions who do not fit in, who have no home, no family, no doctrine, no firm place to call mz own, no known beginning or end, no 'sacred and primordial sight.' I declare war on all icons and finalities, on all histories that would chain me with mz own falseness, mz own pitiful fears. I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments, and forms that appear with infinite strength, then 'melt into air.' I am an architect, a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhouette against a darkening sky. I cannot know your name, nor can you know mine. Tomorrow we begin together the construction of a city.

- Manifesto of Lebbeus Woods, Austrian educated at Purdue Universitz School of Engineering. I do not totally agree with all he says, but some of it is most certainly eloquent and right on with my own sentiments. On to the lighter blips...

One of my favourite bands is a group called Satellite Soul. They have a song called 'Love is all we own.' The second verse ends as follows: The sunsets by the barnyard, and the dark means day is done, but the night can't last much longer than it took to hide the sun. If I could just go back there, in time much more than space; to hear my mother's laughter and to touch my father's face...' Europe's fine, but it's hard to find home in a sea of constantly passing friends and strangers, in a world altogether different from what has been familiar.

Coming down off the mountain yesterday, and knowing I was desperately satisfied to be doing so, I kept singing to myself the beginning lyrics to The Band's 'Cripple Creek:' 'When I get off of this mountain, you know where I want to go: straight down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico...' I didn't want a change of scenery that drastic, but I was well prepared to get off of the rocks and out of the wind.

Then, while writing today, The Travelling Wilbury's 'End of the Line# came through my ear buds, and a few of the refrains seemed particularly pertinent: 'Even if thez say you're wrong, sometimes you got to be strong, long as you got somewhere to lay (It's allright...)... Riding around on the breeze, (It's all right) If you live the life that you please...'

And so I am. I hope you find peace, love and fulfillment where you are and when you lay your head down tonight.

OK for Pete's Freakin' Sakes

I was going to put up a little quiz with hints as to where I am now, but as I cannot get online all that often, it would take too long.

Hello from Innsbruck, Austria, the most innaccessible and expensive city I have ever seen. I cannot afford to do anything, including leave.

So seriously, since I'm stuck, I got online to see if anyone had responded to my posts or sent me an email. I had ONE email, and no posts on the blog. Now really, y'all, is it THAT big a deal? Freaking respond! My goodness! I am wandering around Europe alone, hoping to make friends to travel with, but having no luck, discovering that everything I want to do is impossible (or so the bitter, unhelpful woman at the tourist information center would have me believe) and when I get online (at roughly 3 US dollars an hour) it would be NICE to see that someone is taking some interest in what I've got to say. If I'm just blathering information that no one other than the 3 people who will actually post (Thank you, Tara, Allen and Brad) is interested in, I'll stop, and save the money.

Show some stinking love here.

Sunday Evening, and I was too late for Church

I really did want to go in and hear the church service in the local tongue this evening, but they'd already started when I got by. I got rather tired of churches while touring last year, but haven't reached that stage yet. After awhile, they all seem quite a bit the same. I did go in one today that was exquisite as all get out, and I went to my first synagogue last week, but I'm pacing myself. It's easy to get churched out and, as I said, eventually, like cities, they're all the same.

Any rate, I'll not tell you where I am just yet, as that will upset the chronological flow I hope to preserve. Be satisfied that I'm OK and having a blast.

I don't have time for a large section of ye olde travel log today, so I'll just pepper the usual format with a bit of light humour. I figure that way my short spurts of profundity will be all the more rattling upon arrival.

Got in from the pub where I'd been playing duets for 2 hours with a Jewish Aussie (Adi, who's an amazing jazz pianist) at about midnight last night and realised that I'd left my soap in the previous town. So, according to one of my travel mantras, I collected an empty Coke bottle (I've been carrying 3, full of water, daily) and went to the bathroom to fill it up. Unfortunately, there was no liquid soap dispenser. So, I reached a dramatic crossroads. I'd played frisbee all afternoon with a Spaniard named Alex and a Polish dude named Jacob (Yakub in his tongue), so I was in dire need of a shower. Either I could rub down with toothpaste (I mean, it's got baking soda and flouride, right?) and then rinse off, or rinse off only and then simply rub deodorant in all the places that usually need the most cleaning after a day of strenuous activity. I won't disgust you further with any details as to the final decision, but as today was Sunday, there were no shops open, and I was unable to purchase any soap or shampoo or anything of that nature, so my problem has only waxed despairingly. Knowing that my hostel would still have none to offer, I was a bit concerned.

Trekkers are easy folks to spot. We're the ones with the massive packs on both front and back, arms outstretched with a map, turning it in multiple directions, looking at street signs, and alternately consulting brightly coloured hostel leaflets that, without fail, have poor directions. On the way back to the hostel this evening, I happened across an obvious pair, and asked if they spoke English. They did, and were from California. I asked the name of the hostel and discovered that they were looking for a place a street over from me. There are about 6 where I'm at, so the odds were good. I said I was heading that direction and would see them there. That duly accomplished, I went inside with them, as I was helping with a bag or two, and nonchalantly slid into the bathroom to discover that there was no soap there either, so I poked around till I found the kitchen and nicked some dish soap from a hostel I'm not even staying at.

You know you're an accomplished backpacker when your options are a toothpasting, extra located deodorant, or antibacterial thievery.

Any rate, I am now headed to take a nice hot, pine-scented shower. Fortunately, that axe body spray is some strong stuff.

Y'all be good.

More on Budapest...

1- Continuation of an already long rant on impressions gleaned from time spent in Budapest...
2- What we DID see...
3- International public bathing...
4- Beyond the city's walls...
5- I'm WHERE???
6- Money well spent...
7- Diamond in the rough...
8- Out of the line of fire...


It takes all kinds.. I finally came to realise the expanse of truth beneath those words while travelling with a random lot of Australians last winter. And on that note, if you're reading this, Beau, you worthless son of a Mandurahn soul-chomping 2-bit career facility, I miss you, brother. Europe's just not as lively with you on the exact opposite face of the globe. And I find more and more, that when you see the world, no matter where or how much of it, as a tourist, Paul Kelly's right: Every stinking city is just the same. Budapest certainly has its elements that are indigenous, but it also has McDonald's, they play Shania Twain in the local restaurants, and a second class train ticket buys the same seat no matter the destination. So, as Beau, Sean, Sharon, and I discovered, eat at the restaurants without English names or menu (preferably, you'd ought to learn a few elemental dietary terms in the local dialect first. I did figure out that 'szalt' is Hungarian for cheese, and 'szendvich' is pretty obvious); spend some time in a park, watching the locals, ride the metro/tube/subway to the end of the line. Celine and I spent nearly all of our time trying to find teh recommendations in her 2005/6 Routard Guide (Chakun sa Router-- "Find your own way"). Unfortunately, it's already outdated. Prices have changed (For the betterment of the host nation only apparently), construction has moved, obliterated, or otherwise masked necessary landmarks, and the Art Deco exhibit at the Decorative Arts Museum that we were really excited to see has been replaced by the temporary Hungarian "Collectors and Treasures" exhibit. The TUrkish baths were twice the price we were prepared for, and thus out of our price range, and we spent teh better part of 2 days hoofing it nowhere.

The Dohany Synagogue was quite nice. Pronounced 'Do-hein' (and named for the street it's situated upon, itself named in turn for a type of Turkish tobacco), it's the largest in the world by constituents, second largest in size (after Messiah in New York). An otherwise sunny Wednesday turned sour with a sudden, unforeseen rainstorm that left us soaked and dampened, but it soon cleared again and the resultant muggy, humid steam left us vaguely dry from the heat fighting to escape our drenched persons. We ended the day having seen an Orthodox church housed within a cave on the older city's side of the Danube, the synagogue in Pest, and countless thousand of footsteps placed variously through the Hungarian urbanity.

We re-crossed the Danube on a bridge whose middle-most support was laid upon Margit Island, the local mecca for joggers. Dusk as it was, there were quite a few out, as it seems that Hungary is full of people concerned about their health and appearance. This was obvious at the Turkish bath we did finally partake in on Thursday, though most of the other patrons were octogenarians. Though the Ottoman Turks ruled what the Romans in their turn had called Pannonia, Hungary has ben under Christian, or at least non-Islamic, rule for a good three-hundred years, whereas the Baths within the city park are no more than one-hundred and forty years old at best. But the Ottoman empire and its ruling sultans still hold a reputation for opulence and luxury. We took my own advice our last day in Budapest, and rode one of the metro lines to its terminus at Mexikoi Ter (Mexico Station, I suppose), in the city park. This public green space contains the aviation museum, the agricultural museum, a lake, a carnival with rides, a zoo, and the aforementioned baths. We were so far from the typical backpacker's and tourister's centre that we heard no English for hours, but the hot mineral waters within the Moorish and neo-Classical structure wer certainly a relief from the harsh embrace of a backpack. It was only after a wrong-turn down a random corridor as we were trying to leave that we spotted the outdoor baths-- two of more acres of thermally enhanced aqual delight in open exposure to the still-warm September sun... And we were already running late... Ah, well. C'est la vie, ganas no ganas.

It was in the city park that I truly began to value Budapest in and of itself. And as the train carried us out of the city, making its way upriver to Bratislava, the tracks followed the course of the Danube through a chain of low-lying, green clad mountains, and my appreciation for Hungary increased all the more. The countryside was magnificient, and further enforced the tickling notion in back of my mind that if I really want an appreciative assessment of Europe, I'm going to have to escape the urban scene and find a locale more akin to what I've been accustomed.

Well, it's about 12.30 Saturday morning as I'm typing this, and perhaps you've picked up on some important words over the past few paragraphs, to wit: 'last day in Budapest,' 'Thursday,' 'train,' 'Bratislava;' all words that hold a great deal of weight. Those familiar with my original plans might recall that I was to've flown from Budapest to Greece on Thursday evening. That fell through, and by the time I got to looking for a flight back to England, the price was well past outrageous. I couldn't fly out any earlier than Friday, and flights got no cheaper before next Friday, which meant that I could fly immediately, or stay in the same hostel for a week and then fly cheaper, and the price would be pretty well equal. Well, Budapest was nice, but I saw no sense in staying, and am too cheap to go wasting money on a flight when I have no deadline, so I just opted to follow Celine back to Slovakia, where she's doing some cultural research for Rotary Club of France. We boarded the [wrong] train at 4.15 pm in Budapest on Thursday, still dripping from our recent time in a sauna, were kindly, and quickly, assisted by some charitable locals to the correct coach, and found ourselves in Bratislava at around 8 pm.

Celine, having already been in Slovakia for 2 weeks, had a contact to stay with. Her contact picked her up at the station, and I was left to my own devices. I went and got a few thousand crown from the cashpoint (by the way, Eastern Europe is highly affordable, no matter what currency your exchanging. You can get 30 crown for a dollar. 30 crown (koruni), in Bratislava, will buy you a ticket to the clock museum, a pint of beer, 2 McDonald's cheeseburgers, or 3 scoops of gelati. 90 crown will get you into a ballet...

Any rate, local money well pocketed, I stepped out of the station to see if I could make use of some suggestory directions from Celine for a cheap bed, but had no luck, so stepped back to the safe light of the station, and was met by a local chap who runs a guest house. I was afraid he was a bit shady, but bottom line was that I was tired, in need of food and company, and a cheap bunk, and he offered all for the best price I saw advertised. Yuray turned out to be a genuine good local soul, and his guest house, a converted block of flats, already contained, when I arrived, 3 North Ireland blokes, a couple from Spain, a Japanese girl, and half a dozen Germans. Laundry and internet are free, and overall, it's been a good experience.

Oh, and yes, for all who were worried, you did hear correct, there were some fairly intense riots in Budapest while I was there. I had no idea of their occurrence until they were well over and dealt with, and I felt no repercussions nor even negative vibes resultant during my entire stay. Thanks for your prayers, sorry you were worried, but you actually knew what was going on before I did.

Any rate, hope I've said something enjoyable. Currently, the Weblog is about 48 hours behind the spiral notebook, but I'll do my best to keep y'all informed. I hope you're well.

Love someone today.