La Francia!

We stepped off the plane into a fresh view of everything new, everything shiny, everything clean, everything class. What a stark contrast to our world in South America! Here, in Paris, the name lives up to all it is written in the movies to be - the City of Romance, the City of Lights, the European capital of Beauty. Fashion is never compromised here; every one is dressed in clothes I could only purchase for special events once a year, adorned in accessories from stores I've only seen on Sex and the City, and most importantly, donning their cigarette butt in their hand. A t-shirt and tennis shoes is forbidden, obesity is obsolete, and high heels are always in style - whether riding your bike to work or taking a stroll in one of the beautiful parks. By the way, these fashion faux-pas are not exclusive to women, the men all look like they're about to step on set of an Armani commercial. This city reeks of class, not only in its dress, but in the mid-day wine excursions, the always up-town prices, and of course the enchanting language an American can only envy. I'm not sure I could spend a long time here, because it sure would take a long time to make myself French enough to fit in; however, its inspired me to be a little more beautiful myself!

We spent the first day in the Luxemborg park, strolling the beautiful, flowered walkways and taking a rest in the softness of the perfect grass. Afterwards, we spent a lovely dinner at an outdoor cafe (the weather is only comparable to that one cool, September day in Oklahoma we get when everyone skips class or jobs to run outside at their only chance of the year!), an interesting walk across the bridge through Party Central for young Parisians, and a restless night in a peculiar Student Hostel that creepily reminded us of Hogwarts. The first half of day two was spent on the Metro trying to get from one side of this gigantic city to the other for a different hotel; we apparently failed at our fail-proof plan and ended up taking a pleasant bicycle-taxi across town to the relaxation of our Mariott hotel (Thanks to our good friend and Mariott employee Trevor Sharon). That night, we walked to the Eiffel Tower and enjoyed the light show over a bottle of wine in the grassy park (why can't you drink in Public in America again...?) I made sure to utilize the fantastic amenities of the hotel and gave myself a long, much-needed, warm bath that night. 

Our attempts for jobs are on to Bordeaux, the most famous wine region in the world, tomorrow morning.

Bagpipes, Whisky and dreams of William Wallace

So, I think I've officially found my new favorite European city - Edinburgh Scotland. A country filled with thousands of years of prideful Scots, and a capital city lined with medieval castles and dark, dreary ghost stories. Forgive me for the bad blog entry on this one because I'm currently sitting in Istanbul, Turkey trying to write about my new favorite European city while I'm surrounded by such a new and different atmosphere - my attention span is suffering. I took a free walking tour of the city, which blessed me with three hours of tales of spirits roaming the streets of the "most haunted city in the world", history of all the famous names coming out of Scotland (Sir Walter Scott, David Hume the philosopher, the original Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde, and so many more), and I even caught a site of Dolly the Sheep - the first cloned mammal, she was from Scotland! 

I also took a tour up to the highlands where I really felt the zeal and passion of William Wallace and his successor to FREEDOM! Robert the Bruce. The whole, panoramic, 360 view is shockingly green - the fluorescent colors make your eyes squint like the sun on a bright day. A visit to Loch Lomond and a hike up to the top of the hill in the rain really put me in the Scottish mind while I drove home with my tour guide, a native of the land, telling me all the years that have lead up to the current status of Scotland: a referendum vote soon to secede from the UK altogether and become their own, separate country! If I were able, I would vote, in remembrance of the thousands of names who have been vying for that independence for over 800 years. The Scottish hate the English, maybe even more than the Irish. 

Maybe I'll come back and edit this entry more later, but I just have to leave and go see the Hagia Sophia and the Palace of the Ottoman Sultans right now - my imagination can't wait any longer.

A Welsh-ful Experience

Canyoning; a.k.a. Gorge-Walking; a.k.a traversing down a river in a canyon, making your way by jumping, wading, swimming, floating, or whatever means possible. Canyoning in Wales: follow a footpath to a misty, pebbly river in the Brecon Beacon mountains of South Wales, throw on a wetsuit and helmet (or, rather, take about 30 minutes to try to fit into a wetsuit), fill your face with a ear-to-ear grin thinking of the thrills to come, and tiptoe to the edge of the river where you then dive into the most freezing water you've ever felt before; next, remind yourself that Rose survived the icy Atlantic even after Jack "never let go", so if she can do it so can you. This was my Saturday experience with Call of the Wild adventure tours in Wales. Canyoning consists of a number of physical activites made for fun to get you down about a 5-mile stretch of the river tucked deep in the lush, green mountains of Stouth Wales, with only rolling hills and... sheep... in sight; jumping off waterfalls, crawling under waterfalls, wading through shallow water, floating in the current through some rapids, hiking, and of course freezing your ass off and bruising up your body. But did I mention it was beautiful? The morning sun crept through the trees, peeking onto the shallow waters and illuminating the unbelievably clear, fresh water beneath us, filled with bright red sandstones. The smell was constant, of the nature of the pleasant aroma you immediately sense when you step out of the car and onto the campsite in the Rocky's or even Lake Carlblackwell - smokey, woody campfires waiting for smores to be made. 

I'm not sure if I can fully describe what I did (maybe pictures uploaded later can better detail) besides traverse down a freezing river in the September sunlight of Autumn in Wales, being led by nature to discover that my body was not made for this sort of thing! At one point I was shaking so uncontrollably they took out some emergency ginger tea and an extra fleece to wear under my wetsuit (which didn't help by the way). The company along the trip was great, as a group of ten young British men came out to celebrate their "stag weekend" - better known to us as a bachelor party. 

Accomadation was provided in a nearly small town of Ystradganleis - don't try to pronounce the Welsh; I can barely understand their English let alone the old, native words. Ystradganleis apparently has a whopping two bars (!) and absolutely no diversity; so when the three lovely female strangers came down for drink before heading up to bed, all heads turned - I felt like Kevin Bacon breaking into Town Hall in footloose. When "America" was given in response to the question of where we strangers came from, we were immediately the talk of the town. Free drinks and free lessons in Welsh, we were escorted by two friends: Michael and a round, jolly man simply known as "Spud". They took us to the two town pubs, showed us off to their friends, and struggled through conversations lost in translation despite our common language. Apparently the Welsh are the "southern hospitality" of the UK, willing to talk to anyone and eager to share their blues over a drink. We even got hit on by th eyoung crowd on the way out, of which I can only remember the following phrases: "You're awesome - your arms are like a bodybuilder!" and "hey girls - shagadellic!" I'm not sure what they were trying to do: impress us or get cast for a movie. All in all, it was nice to start off Wales in a small own in the mountains; now I move to Cardiff, the capital, where life is sure to move a bit differently than the life of "Spud" back in memorable Ystradganleis.

Beware, Elderly Crossing!

I arrived here to the city of Salisbury with little knowledge of just what I was arriving to; with only images of the mysterious "Stonehenge" dancing in my head, evoking wonder and excitement about seeing a monument that I knew only as probably the oldest structure I will have ever seen. It turns out, Salisbury is quite the place to be! A quiet town dated back to circa 1200 when it was moved from the medieval civilization of Old Sarum further south. Moving this large Norman population here, brought with it the eager Catholic leaders longing to attempt to astound God yet again with one of their architectural marvels. Although sites of interest mentioned to the European tourist haveing anything to do with Cathedrals can get quite tiring, the Cathedral of Salisbury is one I'm glad I didn't pass up. With the tallest spire in the UK, a Gothic-style structure adorned in detailed carvings, and surviving so many generations of wars and bombings, this cathedral was of its own category. I dropped by just at dusk, as the spire lit up and the high school kids in their private uniforms gathered to share pizza in the large frotn lawn, giggling and teasing their gender counter-parts. Yet again, I find the similarities of humans all over the world to far outnumber their differences.

I have been staying in the Youth Hostel Association villas of the UK. Government-run and apparently begun nearly 50 years ago, the "youth" inhabiting the hallways of these villas were, in fact, truly at their youth prime in the 1960s. Sixty-year-old British grandmothers are my dorm-mates here; most still traveling independently, out of a back pack, and easefully crawling up to their top bunks after a night of drinks downstairs with their new-found friends. There are numerous opportunities for easeful hikes and walking tours for the elderly around the UK, and Salibury even proudly protects its majority clientelle with road signs stating: "Caution: Elderly"; the sign has the outline of two hunched over beings, arm-in-arm with the assistance of a cane. It is a different atmosphere from my usual hostel experiences, and I particularly love it. Instead of being the only bum, twenty-something traveler to wake up for breakfast, my morning tea blesses me with widely-differed opinions from elderly men and women of the war generation of the UK, what an opportunity for chatting!

In the morning, I caught the cheap tour bus through the countryside of the Wiltshire Region of Southwest England, up to the mythical location of the Stones. Surprisingly, this mythical location captured in cloudy, ominous photographs seen round the world, is not so mythical after all. Maybe I just caughtit one one of England's only sunny days, or maybe I'm jaded after my National Geographic-esque Machu Picchu trip, but Stonehenge sits on a hill in the middle of two bustling highways carrying Brits to and from the city. But wait.. it gets better. 

The stones are thought to have been gathere dand placed in the current circular form nearly 5,000 years ago during the Neolithic period. Apparently, archeologists (I don't know how) estimate this to be around the same time the pyramids were being erected in Egypt. On the contrary to the great Egyptians, not much at all is known of the people who inhabited these lands so ong ago, but from the structure, we've derived som egood hypotheses. Despite the lack of Galileo's telescope and Copernicus' theory's of the sun-centered universe, these ancient architects seemed to have discovered that the sun moved across the sky in different patterns throughout the year, particularly the solstices. The monument was constructred, thereafter, in conjunction with the patterns of the sun, providing an archway for the sun to shine directly through at each months passing. Some believe this indicates a worship of the sun, common trait of ancient people; yet others think Stonhenge was simply the world's first scientists' laboratory, where they could examine the movements of the sun and moon. Whatever the case, one cannot help but be awed and agape at the sheer size of these monolith rocks, drug from a quarry 50 miles away, lifted upright with ropes and possibly only by the strenth of giants, all erected to form a clearly defined circular form with the axis of the sun's trace directly through the center. 

Every time I turn around I am being amazed and humbled by the achievenments, diligence, and intellect of my ancestors in the human race.

Detour to the UK

In the absence of labor opportunities in France due to that old trouble we call technology (that would be.. machines that pick the grapes), we have decided to detour until our next destination of Turkey in two weeks. I have chosen the blessed United Kingdom as my choice of refuge, and Michael is... well I don't know where for the time being. I'm excited for the opportunity to take a break from the hectic life on the road with painful attempts at conversations in a foreign language, mysterious meals that never come out like you thought they would (how does frommage even sound like cheese?, and to visit a friend from home that is studying over here in England. It has been a sigh of relief reading menus in English, resupplying my stash of books, and getting to share travel stories with new friends. My sites on the itenerary as of now are: Stonehenge, Canyoning in Wales for the weekend, the countryside of Scotland and the beautiful city of Edinburough, a possible stint in the land of the Irish for a few days (?), and of course the lovely but dreadfully bad-weathered London. So far I spent my first night trapsing the streets of London with my self and my big backpack until 4 AM looking for the hostel my friends were at. After many stressful encounters I won't recall here, I found the Brits to be surprisngly helpful and kind, and I'm glad they speak English. After a day in the city visiting the Tower of London and its historical references to the past Kings and Queens (including the most famous jewels in the world), I made it here to Cambridge where I'm enjoying the sites of the many, historic universities and the intellectual chatterings at the local pub. We will see where I go next.

Por Favor Espana!

After relaxing days spent on the beach we boarded a train to Barcelona for our small excursion into Spanish country – however, I soon learned we were in Catalania, not Spain. Catalan is a region in the North East part of Spain, bordering France and the Mediterranean sea, where there is a different dialect (Catalan), different cuisine, and different people. Literally, everything is translated into 3-4 languages, Spanish, Catalan, English, and French. 

Barcelona is the most beautiful European city I have seen thus far. All European cities knock the U.S. out of the water with their enormous public parks, their cleanliness, their old buildings, and their narrow, bricked streets. However, Barcelona has the most impressive architecture I have seen of all these European wonders. Apparently, some guy named Gaudi, who, by the way was chums with Dali and other famous-names-you-can’t-remember-from-art 101 artists, loved his homeland of Catalania and decided he would pretty much build the majority of the city up himself, with his own architectural designs. This provides a stunning tourist-bus drive (yes, I did one of those double-decker sight-seeing buses, strapped with my camera around my neck and my sunscreen on) of stunning buildings built not to expected style, but with curved or rounded tops, deep metallic colors of blues and greens, and the most famous of all, the Sagrada Familia – a cathedral so vast and beautiful you can’t really capture it all in one photograph no matter where you stand (google it for pictures). The cathedral itself is not even finished yet, as Gaudi died before his dream of 18 steeple tops that shoot into the sky could be completed; the construction continues from anonymous donors finances. 

La Rambla is another famous site of Barcelona that all tourists are sure to experience since it houses most of the hotels and hostels. What is it? Just a street. But a street with a walkway down the center that is lined with everything one could ever want to peak their interest: birds, turtles, guinea pigs, newsstands, flowers, characters dressed up in extravagant costumes, soccer players showing off their juggling skills, or human statues painted head to toe in metallic body-cover. Least to say, this is where all the tourists hang out and get drunk, and to try to sleep at night before 5AM is a lost cause. 

To our luck, we were there during the week of the big football World-cup qualifier game between England and Andorra, to be played at the famous Olympic Stadium in Barcelona; if you’ve never experienced English fans, well, imagine those annoying little girls that like to make up cheers and chant them all night long behind you at an OSU football game or something, then multiply that by about 20,000 Brits who want to be noticed in all their glory, all over Barcelona. They have hundreds of songs they enjoy getting started, one right after the other, in every bar you step into along La Rambla. After our pub crawl one evening, our last stop brought us into, I believe, the most crowded English pub with screaming, drunk Brits donned in their red and white jerseys. We finally engaged a sensible (if you can call it that) conversation with one group and were educated about the superiority of the English, the arrogance and ignorance of the Americans, and all about those “F***ing French collaborators! The rumors are true, the English hate the French. 

The next day, we took a tour through the wine country of Rioja Spain, to two vineyards owned by the “Wine Kings of Spain”, the Torres family. The countryside where these vineyards produce that drink that entices us all are so peaceful and uninterrupted by buildings or electrical lines or even people, you can’t imagine. We got to see the whole process of wine making: the cycle of the vine over a year, the picking, the fermenting, the aging in those dark, scary cellars, and the bottling with a pretty Spanish label slapped on. It is quite intricate and detailed. 

After the trip, we were determined to make it to this English football game and see these crazy fans at their best. A long walk over and an expensive taxi ride brought us up to the Olympic village, a beautiful sight, but a disappointing ending as the game was sold out. All we were going to experience was the sound of the screaming 23,000 fans from outside the stadium. I started strolling away, trying to console poor Michael and his loss of the one truly, manly thing he wanted to do in Barcelona… and someone offered to sell us tickets – not to the game, but to the COLDPLAY concert! Coldplay was playing in the Olympic dome the very same night, by my luck, and we went!! Although all concerts will forever be jaded by my incomparable experience with U2, this particular concert may have given them a run for their money. A truly talented band, they sound just as perfect live as they do on the radio, and their improvisation with their music proves they are real artists with a love for making new sounds. They played all their songs from the new album, while making sure to please with all their old favorites. Chris tried with all his might to speak a little Spanish to please the crowd, and the Spaniards we sat next to were incredibly friendly and fun to share the experience with. Coldplay loves its fans, even jumping in the middle of the stands to play one of their songs, and bowing for five minutes at the end while applauding their fans. It was an unexpected, unpredictable joy …. Much like much of this trip.

Le Plage

From Perpignan we took a short bus down to the beach community of Canet Plage – plage being the snooty-French sounding word, like all French words, as compared to our lousy Beach or the fun, Spanish playa. We spent two days here relaxing at the sight of the many shades of the blue in the Mediterranean sea that stretched it seemed forever into the horizon. The plage was one of the most peaceful beaches I’ve ever spent time on (besides the East of Oahu.. Kaneohe for anyone who knows, you’ll understand). There were few people, nice people, and a large stretch of sand almost 6 km long where everyone could have their personal space. 

I love Europe! I went for a walk tonight. First, I sat amidst the dark backdrop of the powerful Mediterranean ocean, with its booming waves pounding the shore in a mess of unpredictable patterns – it was like that poor sea just wanted to go to sleep but couldn’t stop tossing and turning in the sheets. I sat in the sand moistened by the rain a few hours earlier, looked out into that mysterious power that never ceases to amaze me, closed my eyes, and entered into meditation with myself and the intoxicating tune of the tide. Solitude is a precious thing that I don’t get to experience too often – it comes in small portions, is always tampered by distractions, and it only allows me sparing moments to capture the essence. But the solitude by the Sea, this is indescribable. The presence of a power as strong and as big and as mysterious as the Ocean cannot be subsided. The distractions seem to wither away. I feel small. I feel humbled. I feel calm. I feel outside of the control of things, and its nice. After a relaxing and reinvigorating number of minutes I couldn’t count, I continued the stroll down the beach. 

I had no direction, but was pleased to see the guiding light when I noticed the local bookstore was still open and, just to my luck, had a section of English novels. After the loss of my highly-interesting book about the Isreali-Arab conflict after only 30 pages read, I was having that yearn for a nice, soothing read to revitalize my imagination and intellect. I found just that, in a novel of four characters who crash into each other literally and historically in Hong Kong. 

After the purchase of the book, I turned back towards the hotel, thinking the night had been pleasant and ready for a slumber; yet, I was yet again given a blessing from the strength of the universe – the sound of the Spanish Morena music being played down the street in the center of town. I walked over to a stage set up in the surroundings of the cafes and restaurants with small area in front to dance. The site was beautiful. Couples danced the Mamba, the Pase Double, the Tengo Camisa Negra, the Por Favor Espana, and many more. Two couples in particular were quite impressive, knowing the steps to every type of dance and in sync the whole way. Some couples new some simple steps to some of the dances, and some just had no rhythm and looked ridiculous. But the beauty, the beauty is in their eyes and their smiles and their joy. The music took them back to their romantic twenty’s when they fell in love. They danced flirtatiously. The women felt beautiful. The men couldn’t stop adoring their brides. The little girls couldn’t stop smiling at their daddies. The grandmother’s adoringly looked on snapping photos.

A hitch-hiker's guide to the South of France

It all started when we stepped off the train and into the reality of signs marked only in French. Of the few French words I have learned, Sortie (exit), is one of them; therefore I followed the signs. That Sortie brought us to a deserted, ugly, completely non-French town that burned our expectations and left us walking aimlessly up the street in hopes of a helpful taxi. The aimless walking lead us to a SUV of men (whom I realized were drunk only after I got in the car) who wanted to take us to the nearest hotel. The nearest hotel was a lonely building in the midst of an abandoned area on the North side of Bordeaux with no restaurants, a dirty river, and only industrial plants for entertainment. We thought we had made a mistake, decided to cut our losses and take a tram to the center of Bordeaux and see if we could find some information about picking grapes. Our luck seemed to change... 

The next morning, the receptionist/owner of the hotel we had determined must be going out of business (for our perception we were the only occupants of a room that night in the abandoned hotel in the middle of no where!) turned out to speak perfect English, had contacts with a nearby vineyard in the Medoc wine-making region, and was eager to help the lost, American travelers. After informing us the grape-picking, or Les Vendages as it is called here in France, doesn't start until the 15th of September, she suggested us making the short trip across the border to Barcelona for the weekend. "Would you like to go by train (expensive) or hitch-hiking?" she asked. My response, "So hitch-hiking is a possibility?" Some might say this may not have been the smartest move, but hey - when in Rome, right? So, we hitch-hiked. 

After desperately standing at the corner of an intersection, a friendly telecommunications Frenchman drove us to the main highway entrance to Toulose. There, it didn't take long to meet a young married couple on their way back to their hometown of Toulouse who offered a ride in the back of their black, sleek car and with entertainment from 100s of favorite American bands all the way back to Bob Dylan and Elivs Presley! In Toulouse, we met the traditional semi-truck driver who carried us on to the truck stop at the highway split to Perignan, where a disabled women in a wheel chair opened her door for a free ride into the center of Perignan...Which is where I sit now, in a humble hostel amid the streets of a Mediterranean city in the South of France. I had a 2003 Bordeaux wine for only 15 euros tonight, sitting in an outdoor cafe, breathing in the fresh, clean air and admiring the beautiful, flowered apartment balconies of the European buildings. 

Surprisingly, the rides were neither scary nor difficult to find! At each stop, we waited no more than 5 minutes for a someone to offer their free seats, and none of the drivers lived up to the legend of snooty Frenchman. Each spoke at least a little English, and all at least understood the most important English phrase when passing through traffic with inept drivers, "Bullshit!" The road trip was indescribably beautiful. To the South lay the Pyrenees, to the North lay the Alps, but here I was riding through the flat lands of South-Central France that oddly reminded me of Oklahoma. Lots of agriculture (especially grapes!) and rolling hills dyed with colors of yellow, brown and green - I wondered, isn't this the France everyone should see? So different from the bustling city of Paris, flooded with noses stuck in the air. The countryside - this is the real France, the simple France, the France that can remind you of Southern hospitality at home - however, this France has the Mediterranean sea that I get to visit tomorrow, and Oklahoma has... lake Grand Lake?

If it wouldn't have been for that wrong turn out the back door of the Train station, if it wouldn't have been for that crazy group of men taking us to the abandoned hotel; if it wouldn't have been for that owner who suggested hitch-hiking to Barcelona... where would I be now?