The Vroom Closet

I like to think positively of cars, for the most part. They whisk our population hither and yon at liesurely speeds of 90 miles an hour from their homes to their jobs to the stores, from San Antonio to San Francisco, and, depending on who's driving, the bottom of the Hudson River. They're wonderful contraptions of our own whimsical design, and being without one in the New American City delegates you to the Second Class, known elsewhere as the pedestrian, crawling languidly along the infinite sun-seared concrete desert while high school kids in Ford Broncos hoot and throw cans at you from their windows.
I, personally, have gradually given up use of my feet ever since I received my 1994 Nissan Quest at 17. "Why, you horrible lazy man! How could you substitute your own legs for a series of controlled explosions!" Don't you judge me. Within walking distance of my home, I have four things: Taco Bell, an empty strip mall, a 7-11, and another empty strip mall. Wild. But I won't lie to you, dear reader, these places are no more than 100 feet from my house, and I have found myself driving to these very places to the point where I do indeed question my last shotglass of humanity as I pull up to the drive-thru window. My city is laid out with people like me in mind.
Here in the Old World, on the other hand, things are different. These cities were founded at around the same time as the finishing touches were put on the Sphinx, meaning that these cities, in stark contrast to our oh-so-familiar urban sprawl, were built on the assumption that people will be walking to where they need to be. The houses are on top of the shops, the shops are next to the cinemas, the cinemas are beside to the canals, the canals are between the cafes, which, by the way, have consistently provided me with a cornucopia of the best sandwiches in recorded sandwich history.
Instead of blathering on about the apocalyptic struggle of Man vs. Machine as we've already seen in Terminator and its ilk, I'd like to wrap this shmeal up simply and succintly: One day, robots will work our fields and wash our hair for us. Until then, we in America are one car malfunction away from irrelevance.

Just When You Thought it was Safe

There's a nasty bug going around that's written for Google Desktop.
I would not recommend getting it on a netbook.

So, with my laptop down for the count until I can get it back to the lab, I am forced to write with the 15 minute deadline that accompanies the Internet Cafe I am currently using.

Hobo week has begun. With the home stretch of the trip in sight, these last 11 days will be spent blowing through the entire European continent and then hoping that's enough to put me to sleep on the plane.

There's not much else to say as of right now.

Ciao, You Son of a Bitch

The following texts were written from the grand halls of Milano Stazione Centrale Waiting Room. They chronicle the descent into madness that was...

Independence Day Weekend.

---------

Words cannot describe how much I hate J.P. Morgan's hellish apparition, Chase Bank. In fact, one of the first things I am going to do when I get home is track down the computer that froze my card and simply scream at it like a deranged species of howler monkey for a few hours before putting my foot up its cold silicon ass. I bay for the blood of this computer.

It couldn't have been more perfect. The day I arrived in Rome, I was ready to go. Things had just started looking up after the last fiasco with Chase not two days prior, and I was fully prepared to start enjoying my trip again. That is, I was going to, until I tried to withdraw 20 Euro. I couldn't read Italian, but my stomach immediately froze with dread when my card was returned with no money.

I spent the next six hours trying in vain to reach the Chase customer service line. "You bastards!" I wanted to shout into the receiver. "Unfreeze my card, you boobs!" But, alas, the international nature of the call ceaselessly stopped me in my tracks. After blowing through every phone in the tri-city area, I wandered into a grocery store. There, I overheard a horrifying conversation next to me: "Happy 4th of July." Happy day before Sunday.

All at once, it hit me: The bank and its customer service line would be unreachable for the next 48 hours. Somewhere in Hell, Satan was looking up at Chase, saying "wow". Saturday, the fourth. It's a good thing not many people in that particular grocery store understood English cursing. Although, if they could, this performance would have surely gotten a sound round of applause.

I rationed out some of my meager cash assets to send out an SOS e-mail to home, and began killing time until Monday.

---

Monday morning. I'm astounded that as I've started sleeping on wood and stone, my dreams have become more and more frequent and vivid. To my dismay, however, none of these dreams could satiate my bloodlust toward Chase J.P. Morgan. It's just been a lot of elevators with no walls and amusement parks. Don't quite know how that works into the whole scheme of things.

---

I was reminded just how fragile it all is. A simple computer command from a thousand miles away had effectively turned me into a hobo with a laptop. For the first time in my life, I was forced to hold out my hat (I had found a hat, how ominous is that) for bread money. Not something I thought I'd be doing on my trip. I had over $500 at my disposal, but a nightmarish cocktail of computer code and bank holidays had made it as if it didn't even exist. I was trapped in a country where English was closer to Esperanto than Lingua Franca, and where I was constantly mocked by lines of food and drink I knew I could eat to my heart's content in only a slight variation of my current situation. My mind continued to return to the grim specter of J.P. Morgan, his withered claw of a hand flipping the Tourist/Vagrant switch on the floor with no number in Chase Tower, Dallas.

---

When my mind was not intent on re-enacting my favorite scene from Office Space with the Chase mainframe, I thought of home. My family, my friends, my dog, and most importantly, the vast array of cheap food readily available within walking distance of any given point in the city of Dallas. A half-liter of Coke is almost $3.00 over here. I'm simply dumbfounded, as I and every other red-white-and-blue-blooded American is fully used to paying that for a 12-pack of 12-ounce cans in the States. It's the little things that put everything into perspective.

We've got it made in America. For all my heated bashing of the corporate sprawl, I am well aware of its benefits: Innovation is spread quickly and efficiently, mass-production ensures affordability, and not one person can say with a straight face that our financial institutions didn't make everything we have today possible.

This is not to say that those benefits will stop me from calling the Ghostbusters on J.P. Morgan.

---

In the waiting room of Milano Centrale, there is a blown-up child's drawing of the station. There's something pure and uncensored about the drawings of a child. Among the eight people drawn in the station, only one is smiling. The rest have looks of confusion, anger, surprise and sadness on their pink crayon faces.

I can't help but feel like I'm not the first one this has happened to.

---

Little Differences

-In Europe, Fanta Orange is yellow.

-Kroket is not just a game to play as a last resort. Kroket here is delicious.

-You cannot take glass bottles outside a restaurant.

-Packs of cigarettes and other tobacco products have creative warning labels on all sides.

-Beer is sold in vending machines, along with almost every other drink and food imaginable.

-Graffiti is almost never painted over. Why? Because they consistently look awesome.

-Either sales tax is included in pricing to round out to managable numbers, or there is none at all.

-If you cross a pigeon, it will wait for you to pass before continuing on.

-Rap music is 90% better.

-Comic books range in subject matter from ancient Egypt to the American Civil War.

-Did I mention how amazing the graffiti is?

-Black people are not under constant harassment from the police.

-Newspapers have staples.

-A 52' trailer truck is unheard of.

-Coca-Cola really has to work at making an attractive-looking can. Otherwise, people would never pay 2.50 Euro for it.

-Rather than working all day at a soulless national chain, people often work at their own shops.

-Nicotine-free tobacco exists.

-The entire Dutch language is almost anagramatic to English.

-If I could remember what the beer they serve here is called, I'd tell you.

-Nutrition facts on soda cans are divided into 5 easy categories.

-I am yet to see a 3-lane motorway.

-SUV count: 1

-This came as an unpleasant surprise, but as I've been here, the dollar has steadily declined against all local currencies. The pound was exchanging at almost 1.7 dollars.

-Grocery stores here stock a variety of delicious creations, ranging from a scrumptious spectrum of breads to a candy aisle that would put you in a diabetic coma just from looking at it. This juxtaposes the American market, where most products try to taste as much like macaroni and cheese as possible. I would like to add that Big American frozen pizza is 5 times larger than any frozen pizza I've seen in my life.

-You can get a loaf of bread for 75 cents US.

-Once my teeth stop rattling from the coffee, I'll tell you more about how good it is.

-Bus drivers in the Netherlands smile and wave to each other on the road.

-Emergency vehicles have specific melodies to their sirens.

-Civic beautification is taken quite seriously.

-Ramen is sold with a packet of oil (not that kind), giving it a creamy, flavorful texture.

-I don't know how it's going in the States, but people here are mourning Michael Jackson in a way similar to the way Americans mourned Abraham Lincoln.

-There are not bags at grocery stores. Bring your own.

-Toilets, in addition to having a flush button, are also devoid of water.

A Letter to Home

The day of June 28, 2009 had typical weather for Dover, England. The cool sea air wafted gulls and ravens alike over the mountains of rooftop chimneys. From my vantage point at Folkestone, Dover was a truly beautiful city, framed by the unmistakable English Channel. My destination lay on the other side of the towering white cliffs at the Port of Dover. After a short walk to the bus station, I clumb to the second floor of the 101 Line to Dover, "The Wave" as it was called. From there on, it seemed like smooth sailing compared to my hellish debacle with The Countryside. Smooth sailing is to be taken literally, as I soon made my way onto the P&O Ferry Line. Only an hour and a half away was the European Union, land of peace, unity, and most importantly, legions upon legions of trains waiting to take me back to a real bed, TONIGHT. I looked out over the side railings as my salvation inched closer and closer, as the British Isle was quite literally consumed by storm clouds. Fitting. We made port, and that's when the adventure began.

As I stepped out onto the soil (asphalt) of Calais, France, it was immediately apparent that something was awry. The last bus to the train station had left over two hours ago. Strange, I thought to myself. I didn't know it then, but the young backpackers I had exchanged glances with at the port were to be some of the finest friends I had met.

I walked at a brisk pace toward Gare du Calais, not wanting to repeat my previous encounter with being only three minutes late for certain salvation. In this case, I was on my way back to the Flying Pig, where I knew I would be able to be absolutely rid of all stress. The movies in the common room, the music, the people... The last train had left for some remote town at 6:30. I had nothing but fury.

The two backpackers came in shortly after I had collected myself, and attempted to speak French from a hardly-read phrasebook to a local. They were having no luck, so I stepped in. According to the kind Frenchman, there was indeed one more train: The 22:54 to Boulogne. Everyone was in accordance with the best bet: to roll the dice on a connection from Boulogne, or get a room there.

It turned out that The Only Three Americans in France did neither. Once the three of us had descended to the concourse at Gare Boulogne-Ville, we noticed that there was actually a connection to Paris (which likely connects to a place where trains run past 6 PM) departing in 5 hours. Not that bad, right? Well, the train was set to leave at 4:30 AM. It was just then 11:30 PM. We had a night ahead of us, and we quickly decided to look for a bar in lieu of a bed. Not one of us were in doubt that we were in for an all-nighter. We began to walk up the main road, up the hill to the city center. What we found at the top amazed us.

There before us, in working order, was a fortified city center. I made a point to slap the walls to make sure they weren't plastic, and sure enough, 13th century stones all, complete with archer's slits. Therein, we were surrounded by tranquility. The town was asleep, much to our envy. We found a place to get some wine glasses, and we watched as the town quieted further.

0:00. 4 hours to go. I decided to make a theatre out of the park benches and my laptop, and we sat there watching FLCL... Until 3:00. We were in a city center, and not one of the passing groups of people were there to accost us and steal my belongings. Much the opposite: "bon soir." "Bon soir," they would say as they passed. "Bon soir," I would reply. Never before have I passed someone at night and had them greet me voluntarily.

We set out for the train station. Silence. There's always been something eerie in the air when I encounter it at home, but here, it felt right, like the town had actually fallen asleep. I had always heard the tag line for NY, "the city that never sleeps." I hadn't actually seen a city sleep until that night.

Someone had improperly locked the train station doors, so we three soon found food and shelter within the warmth of the train station. It wasn't long before we were all asleep. Then, as if no time had passed, it was already time to get on the train to Paris. Thank god. And if this train was like the others I had been on, thank god twice, because I could sleep like a baby on any train I'd been on... Up until this one. I can only remember being so cold I couldn't sleep even though I wanted to: A certain trip to Colorado that I never wanted to go on in the first place. I could see the parallels like I see the sun: Blindingly apparent.

Between spots of narcolepsy, I bid my new friends a fond farewell, as Paris was their final destination. I can see how that could happen, as absolutely no trains were headed out of the country when I needed them to.

Oh, and it didn't stop there. No way. On my way to Leiden, I was the unwitting victim of the French Train Chair Device (they have a catchy way of saying it)on my way to Lille. The FTCD is a seat-like apparatus designed to the perfecting edge of discomfort. Afterwards, my TGV literally had "pas prends de voyageurs" on the Depart board at Lille, forcing me and 126 fellow passengers to cram onto a Eurostar train to Brussels. From there, the train I boarded literally careened right through Leiden Centraal to Schipol. Luckily, the train back to Leiden was speedy, and a bus was waiting to take me back to the hostel.

The night was extraordinary. It started simply, with only a guitar chord. That caused someone to pick up a ukelele. That caused someone to start singing, and it compounded on into a beautiful symphony of traveling musicians. The man on guitar one was from Sweden, guitar two was from here in the Netherlands, the third guitar and singer was from Spain, and I, on the pen-and-ashtray set, was from a town where this never happens. I did not know their names. I did not ask. Nobody did. We didn't need to. The music said more than our names ever could.

Now I lay here in a mildly muggy bunk, typing this letter, knowing full well that I am in a place that is thoroughly different than anything I'm used to.

This trip rules.

On a Lapse in Communication (and money)

The English countryside is everything you'd imagine it to be. Tranquil plains rolling over misty hills, friendly, hospitable people, local wildlife at every turn... Until you walk a good 12-14 hours through it all, then all that goes out the window while you babble incoherently to yourself about Neuneaton Station.

My destination in the UK was a tiny, tiny town called Twycross. It is the fabled home of one of the Kings of Video Games: Rareware. The objective was simple: Get to Rareware and thank them in person for making Banjo-Kazooie. I'm sure everyone has done that at one point or another, right? Right. The only thing I did not count on was just how hard this place is to get to.

My journey started in the town of Tamworth, a nice mini-city with all the city-amenities. Soon after departing, I realized my journey was going to be a long one. After two hours with no sign of my next destination, I amended that: A very long one.

Soon after starting the "home stretch" (read: final 4 hours) along the M42, a car finally stopped for me. It was to my dismay, however, that this car had flashing lights and all the familiar symptoms of a deportation waiting to happen. Yep, these cops were onto my little walking scheme. But, that dismay quickly turned into surprised gratitude when they drove me straight to Twycross. After chatting a bit on the way and slowly getting over the surrealism of the entire situation, I looked for a room in Twycross. Nothing. Oh well, I'll just head south towards Rareware and find a place on the way, right? Wrong.

The A444 is a Hell road. As opposed to the Road to Hell, which just leads to the lake of fire, the A444 has successfully converted Satan, Pluto and Isis's dark dominions into something resembling a road. For 10 hours I walked down this road. Why? I had no other choice. The nearest train station was at Nuneaton.

Nuneaton. 22:47. Last train out: 22:43. Let that one simmer for a bit.

I lost both money and sanity on this journey to Rareware Studios.

But I made it.

Netherlands!

The Netherlands just happens to be the coolest place I've ever been in my life. I knew I was going to enjoy it, but I had no idea just how much I would enjoy it, especially for the little, little differences. For instance, they do not have stop lights here. They have roundabouts. They do not have giant farms. In fact, it seems like most people have their own plants and/or livestock. Their major roads are narrower than my residential street.

The one thing that put it all in perspective was the tiniest of details that I only noticed in passing: Nobody, and I mean nobody, locks their bikes. The one day I decided not to lock my bike in Dallas, that thing disappeared like a layer of ozone. Here, there are literally thousands of bikes, and it just seems like there's not even a reason to steal them. Everything is either close or within reach for 2,60 Euro on any one of the impeccably operated buses.

All along the streets, I see something completely foreign: People. Well, sure, there are people all over the world, but here, they aren't behind windows tinted enough to turn the sun black. Here, they walk. They ride bikes and mopeds. In fact, as I sit here in downtown Amsterdam, I have seen a total of zero cars pass in front of me. None! Just smiling faces at the cafe across the street (and the coffee shop), and more bikes passing than on the Tour de France. To summarize the scene: "O, the humanity!"

This place can be defined by a word: Peaceful. Nobody here is constantly living in fear of murderers and rapists they see Nancy Grace spitting her cud about. A good place to set an example would be my hostel, The Flying Pig Beach Hostel. When I walked in, I was expecting something more akin to most of my hotel experiences. You know, an army of paid sycophants attending to your every whim. Here, however, the employee-customer relationship I was used to ended at check-in. In the common area, I began meeting people from all over the world: Oregon, British Columbia, Sweden, Edinburgh. They were the nicest group of individuals I've ever been introduced to, and I'd never felt more at home. It was only the next day when I found out most of them were actual staff. The Belgian guy I shared a joint the size of a garden snake with was the shuttle driver. Nobody ever gave me "a look," nobody ever gave me a "cold shoulder," just company and merriment. People in the Netherlands have no malice. I left 10,40 Euro out beside my bed for the entire stay, and it was still there when I checked out. See? Not one more mention of Nancy Grace.

Even the car alarms were more polite! Instead of the hair-trigger Holocaust Alarm we have installed in most cars in the States, the car I heard only made a steady, moderate-volume beeping noise until the key was placed in the ignition. It doesn't stop there! On the bus, a driver gave me change from his wallet, even after the woman behind me had to pronounce Nordwijk for me (I have since learned a little bit more Dutch). I'm in some sort of inverse dimension where making eye contact is not an act of agression!

Post Script: On Amsterdam

I would like to thank the U.S. Moon Embassy for their hospitality, and I'd like to thank Coffee Shop AA for arranging transportation.

Stupid American Moment 1

At breakfast, I saw a waiter pouring some coffee for someone at a table.

There are no waiters here.

There never were.

Ow Oof Ouch Boom

The sunrise in Brussels is beautiful, even more so when you watch it begin at 4:30 in the morning. The night was restless, and rightfully so. My first foray into the European continent was much like my first foray into walking on stilts: Painful and infuriating.

Now that I've got an Internet connection, though, I'm finally able to plan ahead for the holy sake of uninterrupted leisure. To Amsterdam!

1st Gear is a Little Tricky

I've finally done it. I've travelled into the future. Whie cruising at the moderate altitude of low orbit, I watched as day quickly changed to night... Then it became apparent that night was more of a 2-hour affair and day broke regardless of whether I'd slept or not. No biggie, years of World of Warcraft have steeled me to going 18 or so hours at a time without sleep. However, around the 27-hour mark, things started to get a little hazy, and by then, I had already spent 80 US dollars on a Parisian taxi. It was time for rest. That was nearly 12 hours ago.

This first day's been... Rough. A wonderful combination of desire to explore and abject fear of taxis kept me on my feet for most of the time I was awake. The languid protrusions from my legs could no longer be called feet by the time the day was done. They had been so beaten and worn by hours of looking for lodging that didn't cost as much as a taxi, that I had to sound the retreat from the great city of Paris (in local form *da-dum*) to the pleasant streets of Brussels.

For how much youth hostels are touted, I'm very surprised I didn't actually Google a few before I left. They are nowhere near anywhere I'd been. Only after I checked into the Hotel Continental (I was that tired) did I connect to the Internet and actually find some.

I can't wait to start enjoying myself tomorrow!

DFW

So, here I am. After over a year of patient (read: slow descent into madness) waiting, I'm finally here at gate D14, staring out a que-modern window at the refueling Dutch KLM airplane that will be carrying me over the Atlantic Ocean to the land of bread, wine, and funny accents.

The time is 2:20.

Around me is a truly unique environment. The international terminal at DFW airport was obviously meant as some kind of gesture to international investors that Dallas is in fact not a vast metropolis of thieving drunks (in reality, we're thieving bastards). All the stops have been pulled to put Dallas's best foot forward, leaving no doubt that modern architecture is about as exciting as a box of paper. It's like the entire terminal were designed by George Jetson.

The time is 2:50.

Flat-screen televisions arranged along the concourse are tuned into a newscast detailing Chris Brown's impromptu Mixed Martial Arts match with his girlfriend, moving walkways wisk businessmen along the next 45 feet of their journey, and the restaraunts are doing what they do best: serving coffee for 20 dollars a pop. The DFW airport is a city in and of itself, a testament to just how easy it is for the denizens of DFW to unleash an avalanche of 100-dollar bills onto anything and anyone. In the time it took to write this sentence, Don Carter has already purchased twelve more statues of himself.

The time is 3:05, and I am the hell out of here.

Preface

I have never met a European before.