Category: Adventure

“No single life story is pure tragedy or pure comedy. Rather, there are narrative mixes.” [1] I don’t know about yours, but that’s certainly true for mine.

Aristotle, a Greek philosopher of the 4th century BC, wrote in Poetics that tragedies are enactments whereby human suffering brings about the audience’s pleasure, or a catharsis – a purging of emotions – through the pity and fear felt during a tragedy that relieves the audience of such emotions.

When I embarked on what turned into quite an epic journey in Europe, I wasn’t expecting it to end in tragedy. I don’t know if telling this story will bring about your pity or fear, and hence relieve you of such emotions in your own life. But it’s a story that, in order to give continuity to this blog, and in a way purge myself of my own such emotions, I wish to tell.

The journey that the last five weeks of entries has followed had its beginning six months ago when Lisa, my best friend from high school, said to me, “anywhere you wanna go, whenever you wanna go, I’ll come.”

I was 28, entering my “Saturn Returns”, re-evaluating my life as I began to “enter the next phase of life”, so astronomers say happens every 28-30 years. What would that next stage be? I didn’t know then, I still don’t.

For some reason I thought discovering Western civilisation’s roots in Rome and Greece would help. So rather than going back to South America, we went to Europe.

Things didn’t exactly turn out how I thought it would. I guess things rarely do.

No lightbulbs went on while I was Rome or Greece. I had a cold in Rome. I had an accident in Greece. I experienced my own epics and tragedies. I read Plato. I saw the lands of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. I absorbed the history of life in Pompei. I remembered the role Ancient Greece and Rome in the evolution of our society. I was surprised by the smelly state of Naples. I was blown away by the beauty of the Greek islands – well at least the one island I got to see. And I missed out on seeing Athens.

ROME:

The Forum – where “all paths lead”. It was outside Rome’s walls, where most of the trading went on.

The Colosseum – stories of various forms of (largely violent) “entertainment” of our ancestors

NAPLES:

Imagine this on EVERY corner!

A problem with the mafia/government/rubbish industry… apparently “there is no more space in the landfills” and no end to the garbage accumulation is yet in sight.

 POMPEII:

The layers of history, with the present in the middle and nature reigning on top. Another world, an ancient world, buried underground. The Roman underground is a mess because they keep digging and hitting more ruins. What will lie on top of our layer one day?

One of the richer dude at the time’s courtyard.

The detail of preservation was incredible. Wall carvings and hangings, full building structures, contents of inside the structures. All of it more than 2000 years old!!!

One of many wall hangings.

I doubt any of the paintings on our walls would last a volcanic eruption and 2000 years of decay.

Where drinks were served. Lisa accepting her ancient beer.

Mt Vesuvius. I can’t believe I got this shot with no people in it! It’s so much like the picture of the picture I took as I entered the grounds:

I just wished I’d acted fast enough to get a backbend shot here. One second later it people were everywhere again.

Mt Vesuvius is pretty impressive hey… and the only volcano in Europe to have erupted in the last 100 years. No one seems worried about it erupting again thought – short-termed minds that say “it won’t happen to me.“

That’s what I said before I got on the scooter in Greece..

A typical street

What’s your address?

Cause I had to.

A family whose camera ran out of battery and so they asked me to take this. I’m still waiting for them to email me for the photo – if this is you, send me an email!

BACK IN ROME:

The Pantheon – a temple for all (pan) the Roman gods… given my love of panentheism… while it’s not the same philosophy, the overlap in Latin root and the idea of worshiping all the mythological gods, made me smile.

Restaurants and markets

Lisa threw a coin into Trevi Fountain… apparently that means she’ll return to Rome one day.

Breakfast. As they say, “When in Rome…’ and according to Pier, a Roman boy whose couch we surfed on, nutella-filled croissants is “what Romans do.” Ok by me.

THE VATICAN:

The underground. Are we Rome, or Tokyo?

I doubt you have EVER seen a line as long as this – to enter the smallest country in the world.

We got there early and waited in a different line with a British tour guide who amused us for a while… but we had a flight to catch. Our visit to The Vatican was pretty much a poke-your-head-in each room. Say “oooooh”. And visit the next room.

The ceiling of the Vatican Museum hallway. Ooooooh.

Killing of woman and babies…

Hanging of dudes on the back of the door to St Peter’s Cathedral?

Why are these in the Vatican? By this time we’d left the tour group so I guess I’ll never know.

TRANSIT:

Arriving in Athens

Relief as after Easy Jet delays and a longer train ride than expected, we made it to our boat just by the chin on our chinny chin chins.

PAROS, GREECE:

I took this shot two days after the accident. If I put a close-up on here, you would throw up.

On my first day, my first hour on the little 50cc moped, the front wheel slipped or locked (not sure how the heck it happened but a little oil was found on the wheel, so maybe that) and in the blink of an eye I found myself sliding across the gravel thinking “this isn’t happening” “this isn’t happening” “yes this is actually happening” “it’s happening” “you’re losing your skin” “why did you risk it” “where is your leather?” “you were warned about this in Sydney” “f**k f**k f**k”…  “you’re still conscious” “you’re alive”.

A car stopped from one direction, a dude looked out his window. “What do you want me to do?” he said, looking at the road I was blocking.

“Ah, HELP?”

Another car stopped behind him. Another coming the other direction. A family rushed out. “Are you ok?” “Be careful.” “Can you move your neck?” “Can you move your arms?” “Can you stand?”

“I think I’m ok.” I said calmly. “Is there a hospital on this island? A hospital? Can you take me there please?” I held my gaze away from my body. I didn’t want to see. But I was conscious. I was alive. I was ok.

“Of course. Come.” The father put one of my arm around his and his wife’s shoulders. The girls in the car moved across. I sat. After a few moments I looked down. Only when I saw what I’d done did I feel woosy. My head spun, everything went black.

When I opened my eyes I was in a hospital bed experiencing the most intense pain I have ever experienced in my life. The nurse was cleaning the wounds and it HURT. It stung. I grasped the side of the bed. I seized up in agony. I bit my arm.

When it was over they wrapped me up in bandages and sent me on my way.

The good news is that now, two weeks later, they have healed very well. I have to keep out of the sun for a while, which sucks, but apparently if I do I might not have scarring at all.

I know how lucky I am. Lesson #1: wear protective gear. Lesson #2, reinforced by random man on the street who looked at me walking past and said in a stern voice over and over again, “No more scooters. No more scooters.” Maybe I will ask my mum to sell my scooter in Oz, before I’m tempted to get back on.

I had a motorcycle accident in Brazil. Now one in Greece. Third times a charm, right?

In Nepal I was lucky (I didn’t even wear a helmet there). And no accidents in Sydney (where I was pretty much always covered head to toe in gear). I’ve been lucky not to have done irreversible harm in either case. I don’t think I’ll give fate a chance to kill me off just yet.. Well not on a scooter…

Three days later, seemingly to make sure I really truly had learned my lesson when it comes to riding crappy vehicles on dangerous roads, we rented a dune-buggy to drive around the island.

Lisa wanted to show me some of the cool parts of Paros that I hadn’t been able to get to. In theory it was a good idea. In reality driving the rickety old contraption up thin windy dirt roads on the edge of ridiculously high cliffs to the top look-out point, with little more protection than the scooter that had f*d me up… traumatised me almost as much as my accident.

Lisa unbuckled her belt “just in case”… I looked at my immobile legs. Belt or not, if we go over the cliff, I’m doomed. All it would take is the unserviced contraption to fail. In a flash we could be tumbling over the rocks. Visions of it ran though my mind. My heart beat fast. I felt nauseous. Cars came the other way. I beeped the horn as if I was in India. I was pretty sure my time was up. Life was going to be over any minute now… I tried to accept it. I prayed the entire way up and the entire way down. Maybe in a parallel universe I died here. I felt the energy of death penetrate my being.

The buggy did break down. But not up the top of a cliff. It didn’t send us flying into oncoming traffic. It just gracefully lost power and the rental company had to pick us up.

Besides that day of excitement, my days on Paros were very chilled.

Most of my days from here on were spent sipping “espresso freddo” and feeling sorry for myself.

I would look up and see this kind of view.

Then I’d look down and see this.

After Lisa went home I found myself in the most asocial mood I’ve ever been in. I got invited to dinners and parties, but all I wanted to do was sit in front of my computer. Only problem: my computer had died in Rome. So I spent a week and a half skyping through my phone, reading my new Kindle (that I’d ordered in Nice and had delivered to Greece) when I had the energy. I spent 1 euro for every 15 minutes it took for me to fix up a chapter that is to be published in an collaborative book on Peace Tourism, and even then couldn’t finish it because every computer in Paros seemed to have keys or Word or something missing.

I should have been happy given the beautiful location I was in to recover.

All I could think about was going home, but my next flight was not to bring me home. I was scheduled to fly from Athens to North Carolina in the USA – where I was supposed to be teaching for the semester.

Everyone gave me different advice. I wanted to do everything I could to prevent or minimise the scaring. Days on end my head debated with itself: what creams to use (I think I bought one of everything in the pharmacy), which doctor to believe (the cute one in the public hospital, the older one in the private clinic, or the canadian doctor in the cafe), whether to forget the USA and go home, to spend the next few weeks in Greece or try to push on to Turkey… I entertained every alternative.

Then in a swift awakening of my spontaneous side. One morning I had a brainwave: forget struggling with my bags through Turkey, leave my growing depressive state behind in Greece, change my flight dates – go to the US early. I could see a doctor there, make sure I felt ok to stay there for the next 5 months, and if not, fly to Sydney from there. Thanks to the encouragement of Regis, a Frenchman who insisted I be at least a little bit social, during my few hours on Paros I managed to pose for this photo:

And at 8pm embark on a 4 hour boat ride followed by a 1 hour bus ride, 3 hours on an airport floor, a 1.5 hour flight to Munich, a 2 hour lay-over, and a further 9 hours of back-to-back movies on a new two-level airplane. And at the end of something like a 48 hours sleepless journey, I arrived in Hickory – a tiny town in NC. And, well, already lots to tell… some other time.

So all in all, while there were no lightbulbs, and while I experienced my own tragic and abrupt ending to my travels, surrounded by the beauty and history of these places I did feel the planting of some seeds. I felt my understanding of my place in the scheme of human history shift in some way. Hopefully over time these seeds will grow.

Recently my fortune cookie (yes, stories of food in American coming up) read, “Discontent is the first step in the progress of a nation or a man.”

While it seems to be more of a proverb than a fortune but maybe if I apply the proverb to my own discontent – with the end of my holiday coming to such an dramatic end, and I guess also my discontent with the destructive state of our world – maybe my fortune is that progress is on its way.

 

Reference:

[1] Dan P. McAdams, The Stories We Live By : Personal Myths and the Making of the Self (New York: Guilford Press, 1996). p. 53.

[2] Aristotle and Malcolm Heath, Poetics (London ; New York, N.Y.: Penguin Books, 1996).

These last few weeks I disappeared in more ways than from this blog. I’ve tried to put my finger on how it happened. It happened so slowly that like a frog in hot water, I came to realise it only at boiling point. It was too late. Some essential part of my “self” had gone.

Was it the incident in Krakow that led me to question my job in America? Did the massive cloud of uncertainty change everything I thought, felt and did?

Was it travelling with my best friend from high school? Did I return to the old clumsy insecure 17-year-old version of myself?

Was it that peak-time travel in Europe takes away the spontaneity factor? Booking and planning in advance sucks!

Was it my secret hopes that this trip in Europe might inspire a sequel to my South America book? Which, by the way, is still in editing, but slowly slowly getting closer to publishing 🙂  Was it the disappointment that The Universe didn’t bring me an exciting plot like it did last time?

Was it the death of my laptop – something I’ve become attached to this last four years? Leaving her behind in Rome was like losing my best friend. I knew the time was approaching, but without her I feel lost.

Was it the other aspects of bad luck that have taken me by storm – bad luck with credit card fraud, bank cards being cancelled, bag zippers breaking… little nuiances that add up to an air of downward spiralling negativity.

Definitely my accident was the cherry on top. Flying from a bike and ending up in hospital on one’s first day in the Greek Islands is enough to scare the life out of anyone.

As you can see in the photo, I am ok. Day by day I feel my strength, my “vi”, my life-energy returning.

Physically – my wounds are healing.

Mentally – my mind accepting the fate of my holiday (no sun and hence very little swimming), the fate of my leg (impending scars) and still various aspects of confusion about my life and what the heck I’m meant to be doing with it.

And hopefully soon spiritually. My “free-spirited self” that my best friend noted was missing from my facebook posts and photos, hasn’t returned yet. I’m hoping it’s on its way.

I think (hope) my recent dose of bad luck is about to change. My bank card that had allegedly been cancelled magically allowed me to withdraw cash. I received an email about the release of new Macs, so it was good I didn’t buy a new one yet. I’m alone (Lisa, my travel buddy, has gone back to Sydney), but I’m strangely happy to have total freedom and not be burdoning anyone else with my ailments. I moved to a new hotel in a nicer part of the island with a community-like feel and my own little balcony.

I am still having my moments where I feel down and depressed, exhausted, homesick, and impatient about my wounds healing. These are being balanced with moments where I feel relaxed and happy, enjoying the scenery and reading books. It’s an emotional roller coaster ride and I’m holding on tight hoping that, unlike my scooter ride, I won’t fall off!

Photo:

Nico – the dude in the picture with me – was the manager of our hotel. He was in a scooter accident the day after mine. We moped around together complaining but a few days later both felt a little better. Maybe it’s the rough roads, the lack of servicing, the lightness of a 50cc motor and smaller wheels, but scooters in Greece, I have learned, are not to be trusted.

 

I love Barcelona. I love it, love it, love it! The arts, the energy, the colours, cerveza, cops on scooters, the boys, the beaches, the bumble-bee taxis, tapas, the sunshine, the shopping, the street music, the dancing, the people, paella, pick & mix candy shops, live statues, the language, the list could go on.

Last time I visited I wanted to live there, and this time I had the same feeling.

“Dos noches es muy pochito. Barcelona es mas grande. Minimum tres noches,” insisted the passionate cleaner of our guesthouse-like hostel.

She was right. Two nights is not enough. I knew that when I booked it, but with plans to spend a couple of nights in Nice, Rome and hopes to spend a week on a Greek Island, two nights was all we had.

Paella:

Street music:

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nrdTaR0oVv0[/youtube]

A city tour on one of those open air buses gave us glimpse into Gaudi’s fine works & other architecture points of interest around the city.

 

Shopping around town, through small and big cobblestone streets, I came across Desigual – hippyish clothes full of positive affirmations, bright colours and quirky shapes. I went nuts, suffering the consequences when it came to closing my backpack the next morning. I also found a camera shop and bout a 18-200mm Tamron lens to replace the one that broke in Paris. Undecided as to whether its as good as my 18-105 Nikon, it would do the trick.

By the time I got to the beach it was 6pm. The sun was still strong. I had one hour to bake before meeting Lisa for more food, drinks, shops and to watch Midnight in Paris from 10:20pm till well after midnight in Barcelona. You don’t get movies that late in Oz. And at 5 Euros a ticket, the cinema is another thing to add to my list.

Of all the cities I’ve visited in Europe, Barcelona is easily my favourite. In every city I go I try to get a magnet. For the second time I forgot to get a magnet in Barcelona. A sign I will return? I hope so.

 

It was my 4th visit to Paris. The city of lights. Allegedly a city of love. Just not my love.

On my first visit, as 2006 opened, my five-year relationship ended. In front of the Arc de Triompf. Champs de Elise will always carry memories of that moment.

My second time in Paris, a few weeks later, carries the opposite type of memories: new beginnings, “finding myself”, feeling naked and exposed with my shaved head I magically found my dreams  found myself living in a model flat in the 16^th district, looking at the Eifle Tower’s lights, strolling the Seine, running through streets and metro tunnels from casting to casting, job to job, café to café. I have fond memories with friends at the top of Sacre Cuer, fondues, parties, nightclubs, free dinners, free drinks… my brief glimpse of Paris’ glitz and glam.

Toward the end of the year I returned for another season of shows. This time with new head of hair, and an evolving sense of who I was and what I wanted to do in life.

 

Five years have passed. Five years! Where did those years go??? Time. It passes too fast.

My fourth visit, now, in 2011, it was good to create some new memories. I took Lisa to my favourite places, ate my favourite foods…

 

I caught up with some old friends and played “spot the difference”:

I added a long-awaited bridge-post photo to my series.

We took a “trip” to Disneyland with our Amsterdam doggie-bag.. enough said…

  

It seems an appropriate place for me to share an Alan Watt’s quote:

‘For Disneyland exists “as a mystery and a sign,” the land of the fake and the home of the bogus, prototype of the world to come. Even the birds in the trees are plastic, and sing through their hinged beaks with tiny loudspeakers. Plastic deer, bears, elephants, and bunny rabbits stand along the banks of artificial lakes and rivers, monotonously wagging their mechanical heads. Tourists, traveling by river boat through simulated jungle, have the thrill of seeing a plastic hippopotamus shot with a blank cartridge, and a varnished papier–mâché replica of the Swiss Family Robinson’s tree house which vibrates perpetually to the recorded music of an oom–pah–pah band (on a loop tape) going “Pom–pitty bom–pitty pom–pitty bompitty” for ever and ever. Though it takes hours to go through all the “shows,” a decent restaurant—let alone a bar—is nowhere to be found, since this is strictly sodapop–culture, where one must subsist upon hamburgers, hot dogs, ice cream, popcorn, or Fred Harvey–type meals.'[1]

I have had a few other bridge-pose photos lined up in my head for a while: on Champs de Elise, along the Seine, and the Eifle Tower by daylight with the background out of focus. When the day arrived my lens decided this wasn’t to be. A bad rattle sound. A plastic thing in the middle of the shutter…

“Maybe you would have broken your back? Maybe it’s a good thing?” Lisa tried to cheer me up.

Quite possibly I’d have gotten run over on the Champs de Elise – the spot where I wanted to take the photo was a little dangerous –  where Lisa sits, between the traffic.

The Eifle Tower shot I wanted would have involved a bridge on top of a stone wall. Maybe I’d have fallen.

The shot along the Seine would have been ruined by people and the smell of piss. Maybe I’d have caught a disease.

They’d have been great shots, if I’d survived them. Little did I know at the time, the death of my lens was the first of a string of bad luck to come…

[1]

Amsterdam greeted us with wide-open arms. The sun was shining, the people smiling, “coffee shops” inviting.

I immediately felt a sense of belonging. I guess because my mum is Dutch. Elderly women reminded my of my Oma, elderly men reminded me of Opa, and the language – while I don’t understand a word – reminded me of home.

Of all the destinations we had been this was the first I was visiting for my second time. Last time it was a last-minute decision inspired by Frank, a fellow Aussie on my train from Munich, who remains to be one of my closest friends. That time I stayed at “Bob’s Hostel”. This time we walked down the cobblestone streets, over a number of sparkling canals and rang the doorbell of my friend’s new family home.

In the three years since I last saw Nicola, she had fallen in love, got married, and brought the most beautiful little girl Zea into this world. There is something magic about that. And now, after living in New York for a few years, she had moved to Amsterdam. Her and Mike had created a list of wants, and the universe brought them everything on that list. Their apartment was HUGE. Three bedrooms, two massive living areas, a big park, pond and ducks across the road, and a roof-top terrace on its way. An example of “The Secret” in action. They were an inspiration.

Zea brought out a clucky side of me I didn’t know I had.

The two of us went to the park and I felt an insight into what my life would be like had I made different choices in my past or what my life might be like, depending on my choices, one day in the future.

Feeding ducks

Roar!

Smelling flowers

Playing in the sand

We went out, we stayed in, we cooked, we babysat, we ate brownies, we rode bicycles…

We planned to stay three nights but ended up staying four and I had my 29^th birthday doing all of the above. Thank you Lisa, Nicola, Mike and Zea for making it a special day full of fruits, fun and surprises.

 

Student life in Germany is another world to student life in Sydney: free travel, small fees, and for the most part a rent and allowance paid by one’s parents. At least that was life for my friend and his student friends. No part-time job and no living at home – lots of time to and party. Sounds good to me…

More benefits of being a student in this part of Germany include legal drinking on the street, go to a nightclub in the castle basement university’s library, and the free October-Fest-like-event-in-July a massive carnival of rides and fun…

It was a good time to visit my friend Marco. I first met Marco at a hostel in Rio de Janeiro and 6 months later gave him my “overseas friends Northern Beaches tour” when he was in Sydney. Now it was my turn.

In every city Lisa and I have tried the traditional cuisine. In Frankfurt this translated to sausages including those made out of blood, music cheese that has a squeaky factor and is smothered in finely diced raw onion, and apple wine that kind-of tasted like a watered down vinegar.

I liked the locally brewed beer better.

Joined by a group of Marco’s friends from university and the social groups of his seven flatmates, we started drinking in their large and impressively clean flat, and walked only 100 metres down the street to the carnival with “wib beers” (roady drinks) in hand.

Now I know why my friend married a German – they throw a GREAT party. Awesome music, awesome people, and while we could have easily kept dancing I wandered back for a few hours sleep around 4am, bringing to close an awesome night.

Next stop: Amsterdam.

I hadn’t heard of a “micro-nation” until I got to Dresden. As you probably guessed, a micronation is a miniature nation within a bigger nation. Apparently I’d visited one – Cristiania back in Copenhagen. And “New Town” in Dresden was my second – well had I been there 20 years ago it would have been.

On a pub-crawl “night-tour” of what’s known as the “new town” of Dresden with Danilo, a slightly odd but insightful and entertaining who taught us about the town’s crazy past:

Mickey mouse money was the currency, seriously!

Unfortunately after a very strange herbal shot, much of what I learned got lost:

I do remember that the night was extraordinarily random. Party food at the top of church look out point:

The night closed at the Metronom-Bar with Danilo trying to tell us about the proletariat of today’s neoliberal system – the”prekariat”. I didn’t get it but a follow up email clarified a few things:

We talked at the Metronom-Bar about an new name of the proletariat
Since exist the capital system,called the lower class "proletariat"
Now, we have since Reagan and Thatcher a development of the capitalist
system, what is called "neo liberialism system" now.
Here makes not a work the money, money makes money - investors are mostly
not interest about the situation of the working class, they are search to
make money in a very short time.
Just since this periode exanges the livestyle of many workers, artists,
owners of small companies, groups of peoples with an sickness,academics
and others.
They have an precarious situation.
So is developed a new name of this class of peoples.
They have work, but can not survive on the free market, like before.

This class called now "Prekariat" - precariat( lat. precarium ).
80% of the german artist living with the support of the State.
Also more than 60% of the temps in Germany for example get support of the
State.

I didn’t really get what Danilo was talking about. According to wikipedia ‘the word precarity literally means “precariousness“, but is now used to mean existence without predictability or security, affecting material or psychological welfare. It has been specifically applied to intermittent employment, sometimes plus a precarious existence.’

I’m a little precarious I guess. Am I a Prekariat?

Ok, so I still don’t really get it. At least the Mickey Mouse money was cool.

For more, or if you visit Dresden, check out Danilo’s tour and enjoy the ride: www.nightwalk-dresden.de