UNIVERSAL TRAVELER

Retrospective

2005-10-17T05:42:00.000+02:00

Well, I think I left all you guys hanging somewhere on an island in Thailand. Obviously, a lot has happened since then, but I don't want to get into details right now. I think it's time for the big picture to finally emerge.

Perhaps the main reason for my silence had to do with me coming to terms with the end of my 9 month odyssey. It was a slow process, one that took a long time to sink in. It finally hit me as I was sitting in a window seat on my flight out of Bangkok and the flight crew started the pre-takeoff ritual (the one with seatbelts and oxygen masks and all that). Then, all of a sudden, I knew it was over, felt it was over, and I couldn't help but shed a few tears. At the time, it seemed like a great loss...the end of the road. That loss, however, has been offset by the incredible gains I have made along the way.

People seem to want to know if I've had some sort of epiphany as a result of my travels...whether I've "found myself," or discovered the secret to life, the universe, and everything. The answer to all those questions, unfortunately, is no. But now that I think about it, none of the other travelers I met along the way had these revelations, either. So I don't think that my failure to achieve nirvana on this trip has made it a "dud" in any way. It seems that it would make more sense to conclude that anyone who transports himself to the highest Swiss peak or the lowest Cambodian river delta and expects to suddenly become enlightened is headed for disappointment.

Despite my lack of any "ultimate wisdom" as a result of this trip, I have learned a few important lessons en route, and these are what I want to focus on for this post. I'll try to keep things as simple and brief as possible:

Value space and silence. This lesson goes hand in hand with countless more practical lessons I learned in the backcountry. The fact is, as more and more of us fill cities across the globe, space and silence seem to be the only remaining commodities that we can't obtain through our on-demand, instant gratification lifestyles. And even when we make concerted efforts to find space and silence, we take our lifestyles with us and suddenly find ourselves unable to appreciate the very things we were looking for in the first place. But when you have the time to slow down and step back, your perspective changes. You're able to appreciate simple things like a drink from a clear, cold stream. Or a cool rain after a long walk. Or a panoramic view from a mountain peak. Or just sitting on a rock, watching the world go by, and realizing that it isn't going anywhere after all! When you realize just how rare these experiences are, you're able to appreciate them more fully, and that's when your soul really benefits.

Everyone you meet has a story. Be a part of it. When you travel, you can't help but notice how your life interesects with those of the people you meet along the way. The act of physically separating yourself from home's typical work/friends/family relationships tends to make you more receptive to creating new ones. Simply taking the time to listen to the stories people share often reveals fascinating aspects of life that you never knew existed. It's amazing how rewarding it can be to discover these stories, and perhaps help in the creation of future chapters.

It's okay to love your home. (Even if that home is America). These days it's very fashionable, especially among my generation, to bad-mouth the USA. Hey, guilty as charged. I will be the first to agree that there are innumerable reasons to jump on that bandwagon: Americans of all stripes do a lot of stupid, destructive shit. But it seems that everyone is so caught up in all this negativity that they completely ignore all the great things that happen here, the things that fly under the radar and don't make the evening news. Even if your relationship with your home country has been suffering, after spending the best part of the year on the road you can't help but acknowledge that it's your home nonetheless, and that maybe, just maybe, there's still a soft spot for it in your heart.

Let freedom be a means to an end, not the end itself. This, I think, is the single most important lesson I learned on the road, and probably the least intuitive one as well. In America, we are part of a culture that is obsessed with the idea of freedom. Politicians invoke it to gain votes. Marketers associate products with it to convince us to buy. Hell, lots of people seem perfectly content to regard "America" and "freedom" as practically synonymous. Freedom is a concept that enjoys nearly unanimous praise across the world. When you get down to it, though, it's really a negative term. You can't have freedom without something "bad" to be free from...otherwise the word would have no meaning. Attaining freedom requires that you successfully escape whatever negative entity it is you're running from.

Before I embarked on my journey, I was practically drunk on the promise of freedom. That, I had decided, was what I was after, and I knew I was in for a lot of it. And I looked at everyone I was leaving behind in the USA, and I saw the things that were keeping them from following me: homes, spouses, children, and so on. I began to regard these things, which have huge, meaningful significance to most people, as little more than anchors, slowing one's pace in the sprint towards total independence.

As I experienced the liberty I'd been dreaming about, in places such as New Zealand's national parks and Norway's high country, I took stock of my situation. Could I be any freer than I was then? Perhaps, but when I extrapolated the concept as far as it could logically go, I came to a harsh conclusion: complete freedom demands complete solitude. That is, the more free you are, the more alone you become.

I realized that when you chase the specter of freedom, you really aren't chasing anything. You're running away. This led me to my next conclusion: if you are going to strive for a goal, strive for something beyond freedom. Rather than searching for what is most free, search for what is best. I know that sounds incredibly nebulous and probably raises more questions than it answers. But I think that this sense of what is best is something that's intrinsic in each of us. And I think that only when we allow this sense to guide us will we be steered toward the personal satisfaction that we all seem to be after.

Hmmmm. Looks like what I actually ended up writing was neither brief nor simple. Oh well.

I guess the only remaining question is, what's next? Well, while I certainly enjoyed my freewheeling, vagabonding lifestyle, the downside of it all is that it's ultimately unsustainable. Which means that I have to go back to work and make a living. But now, at the very least, I can do it knowing that I saw that big "something else" that most people only dare to dream of. I was there. I have the t-shirt to prove it.

As far as this blog goes, I'm tempted to simply take it out of commission. Now that I'm back home, mission completed, there isn't much reason for it to exist anymore. But I think I'll keep it around. While there won't be any more updates, I'll leave the site up to serve as an archive of my trip for anyone interested. And who knows...maybe the highway will call again one day and I'll have some new material to write about. After all, there's always the final verse of the song that inspired this blog:

Just be everywhere at home
Tomorrow is a brand new day
Let's go somewhere else

Until then, this is the Universal Traveler, signing off.

The "Thank You" Post

2005-10-16T04:41:00.000+02:00

Before I wrap things up for good, I want to take a moment to thank all those people who helped make this trip great:

Thanks to Mom and Dad for staying remarkably calm and supportive, even after I told them that I was leaving my stable, well-paying job for a temporary stint as a wandering bum. And for contributing to the Blue Steel Memorial Fund.

Thanks to Hopie for setting the wheels in motion.

Thanks to all the great folks who generously offered me a place to stay at one point or another: Joanne, Hanne, Anand and Tammy, Karin, Calci, Nadja, Mikkel and Lasse, Ingar, The Eriksens, Elana and Thor-Eirik, Norbi, Anna, Mira, Emre, Dylan, and Nammon.

Thanks to the New Zealand Department of Conservation. You put those huts in all the right places.

Thanks to Ava for being a fantabulous travel buddy in Morocco. "Where's Ava? Where's Ava?"

Thanks to Søren for introducing me to the word "schwagabond." Usage example: "Shut your cake hole, you goddamn schwagabond!"

Thanks to Eivind Luthen for sending me off in search of Trondheim and, subsequently, glory.

Thanks to those kind Norwegians who refueled me with coffee cake and solbaer juice before my descent into mosquito hell. I don't think I would have made it otherwise.

Thanks to Ana and Demetria for the dog-eating-a-watermelon lighter. That is the coolest souvenir ever!

Thanks to Nammon for integrating me into his radio program. I've never had so much fun yelling "Get 102.5 international hit music!"

And finally, thanks to all you UT readers who followed me on my zany round-the-world trek. Especially those that left comments. Well, except for the homo-erotic ones. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

There's a little Universal Traveler in all of us...

2005-10-15T07:25:00.000+02:00

Back home, when I talk to people about my travels, the number one response I get is this:

"Gosh, that sounds amazing. I'm so jealous!!!"

It's a line that every long-term traveler is familiar with, one that's predictable, but also perplexing. It's perplexing because I know that I'm not some sort of travel superhero; I don't have super powers that enable me to be a jet-setter while others can only watch from the sidelines. I have talked to scores of people, with backgrounds similar to mine, who want to travel the world but have convinced themselves that they can't.

It's an attitude that's especially prevalent in America. Here there is simply no cultural precedent of everyday people taking time off to see the world. In New Zealand, it's practically expected that people will have an "OE" (overseas experience) of some type, but back in the States, we have relegated such travels to the realm of students, counterculture dropouts, and the idle rich. There is obviously some sort of a disconnect here.

My point is this: you CAN travel the world. No, really, you can.

I won't spend too much time trying to convince you of this, because there's someone else who can do it better and much more eloquently. That person is Rolf Potts, author of a short but compelling book called Vagabonding. This is a book that inspired me prior to and during my travels. It was good enough for me to read it several times. If you have even the slightest desire to travel the way I did, do yourself a big favor and pick up a copy of this book. It costs less than $10, and you can read it in an evening. Who knows...it may just send you down an exciting path that changes your life forever.

There is a passage from the book that I think encapsulates the overall message:

There's a story that comes from the tradition of the Desert Fathers, an order of Christian monks who lived in the wastelands of Egypt about seventeen hundred years ago. In the tale, a couple of monks named Theodore and Lucius shared the acute desire to go out and see the world. Since they'd made vows of contemplation, however, this was not something they were allowed to do. So, to satiate their wanderlust, Theodore and Lucius learned to "mock their temptations" by relegating their travels to the future. When summertime came, they said to each other, "We will leave in the winter." When the winter came, they said, "We will leave in the summer." They went on like this for over fifty years, never once leaving the monastery or breaking their vows.

Most of us, of course, have never taken such vows--but we choose to live like monks anyway, rooting ourselves to a home or career and using the future as a kind of phony ritual that justifies the present. In this way, we end up spending (as Thoreau put it) "the best part of one's life earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it." We'd love to drop all and explore the world outside, we tell ourselves, but the time never seems right. Thus, given an unlimited amount of choices, we make none. Settling into our lives, we get so obsessed with holding on to our domestic certainties that we forget why we desired them in the first place.

Vagabonding is about gaining the courage to loosen your grip on the so-called certainties of this world. Vagabonding is about refusing to exile travel to some other, seemingly more appropriate, time of your life. Vagabonding is about taking control of your circumstances instead of passively waiting for them to decide your fate.

Thus, the question of how and when to start vagabonding is not really a question at all. Vagabonding starts now.

If that doesn't at least get the gears in your head turning, you may be a lost cause. But if that passage resonated even the slightest bit with you, it might be time to start considering travel more seriously. Don't be afraid to think in uncommon ways simply because they're uncommon.

Say WAT???

2005-09-20T12:36:00.000+02:00

After several days "languishing" in Bangkok, I finally got off my ass and began my mission to Siem Reap, Cambodia to uncover the mysteries of Angkor Wat. Despite its position on the UNESCO World Heritage list and awe-inspiring beauty, Angkor Wat doesn't get much exposure in the West, so for a brief overview check out this site.

I should preface all this by noting that traveling from Thailand to Cambodia has long been problematic to varying degrees. As my guidebook says, "visiting the Thai/Cambodian border was once suicidal." That's no longer the case, but it still has its idiosyncrasies. Unlike travel within Thailand, nothing is "easy" in Cambodia.

Getting from Bangkok to the Border was simple enough, and I actually made it through Cambodian immigration with no problems. Thankfully, I was able to avoid the well-known "official" SARS clearance form scam. The Cambodian border town of Poipet, while dusty and unattractive, was not as menacing as reports had suggested. So maybe I let my guard down a little bit. Rather than insisting on taking a share taxi from Poipet to Siem Reap, as is recommended, I ended up booking a cheap ticket on a minibus. This was the start of my problems. We left as scheduled at 2 in the afternoon, but somehow I got stuck in a seat over the wheel well, meaning that I had my knees to my chest for the first 3 hours of the ride. Maybe this would have been marginally tolerable if not for one unalterable truth, namely:

The "road" from Poipet to Siem Reap is THE WORST "ROAD" IN THE UNIVERSE.

I say "road" only because I don't think a word exists in the English language that can accurately describe the thing that connects these two cities. It is truly apalling, to say the least. Probably only 5% has any pavement whatsoever, and of that, perhaps 5% is in what might possibly be described as "good condition." The rest of the road alternates randomly between mud bogs, ruts, potholes, and rock fields. Not 5 minutes into the journey, and I was seeing potholes that could kill a car at 20 paces. After 5 more minutes, I lost count. We rattled around helplessly in our minibus, and I felt as though my left lung had shaken loose and gotten tangled up in my small intestine. If I had any fillings, I'm sure I would have lost them. At one point, I decided to record our plight by sticking my digital camera out the bus window and recording a short movie. The result is a surreal little clip showing the bus buck up and down through the pothole minefield while our Cambodian driver whistles the tune to "Dancing Queen" by ABBA. Ask to see it when I get home.

I'm sure I could blabber on endlessly about the pure evil of this road, but the fact is it's impossible for anyone to even fathom until they've ridden it themselves.

Anyways, about halfway through the trip, our driver noticed something he didn't like about the behavior of the minibus, although I don't know how, since I felt like the thing was on the verge of explosion the entire time. So we pull over to a "service station" (i.e., a shack with some tools in it) to see what's the matter. Nothing major, it turns out...only that THE CHASSIS HAS A 3 INCH CRACK IN IT. Back in the USA, this would have instantly totaled the vehicle, sending it scrapyard-bound. In Cambodia, however, this translates into a 30-minute welding job. The mechanic hauled out some random piece of scrap metal, slapped it onto the frame, and sparks started flying. True to his word, in 30 minutes she was "good as new."

By some act of divine intervention, the bus was able to hold together for the rest of the ride...and only once did we have to get out and push to dislodge it from a mud bog! Can you guess how long it took us to traverse the 150 km (93 miles) from Poipet to Siem Reap? How about 10.5 HOURS. That's an average speed of 8.9 miles per hour. Incredible.

Once I finally made it to Siem Reap things settled down considerably, and I launched my multi-day exploration of Angkor Wat. I wish I could post some of the pictures I took of the temples, but the internet cafe I'm at doesn't allow it. Anyways, suffice it to say that it's truly a place of staggering enormity and artistry. The entire site is so huge that you realistically have to hire a tuk tuk or moto in order to see the best parts. Another great thing about Angkor Wat is that almost the entire place is up for exploration, and only a few sections are considered off-limits (mainly because the ruins in these sections are in danger of collapsing at any minute, so I'm not sure I'd want to visit them anyways). You can climb all the steps, peek into every nook and cranny, examine every relief and observe every sculpture. Really nice.

Well, after a few days playing Indiana Jones in Cambodia, I decided to head back to Thailand to begin the final stage of my Southeast Asia travels: beach mode. I am writing from the island of Koh Chang, a mountainous jungle island near the Cambodian border. The beach is beautiful, the water's perfect, and I have a beachfront bungalow that's costing me only $3.75 per night. Can't ask for much more than that.

Waaaaaah! My name is David and I want to see photos! Waaaaaah!

2005-09-15T15:29:00.000+02:00

Man, you know a blog is on its last legs when you start seeing sophomoric post titles like that. But, in my defense, David (over at Your Thoughts Exactly) has been consistently critical about my inability to provide a constant flow of eye candy. AND he dropped an unprovoked low blow asserting that I only visit "white" countries. Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe Whitey is definitely in the minority in places like, say, Morocco and Turkey and Thailand and Cambodia. In fact, I am noticing a distinct shortage of cracker-ass crackers here in Bangkok.

So here are your precious photos, Dave. Now would you please kindly go to hell?

...

HA! Just kidding about all that. You didn't really think I was an axe-grinding sociopath, did you? DID YOU?!?!?

On to the pictures!

The first set is from a canal cruise I took during my first few days in Bangkok. A local CouchSurfer chartered a longtail boat and invited Nammon (the guy I was CouchSurfing with) and myself along. Who were we to refuse?

This sight greeted us upon reaching the ferry pier. Did you know that Thailand has one of the highest rates of canine lung cancer worldwide?

This is the type of boat we rode in:

This monk was sweeping up outside a monestery we passed along the way. I'm not sure what he was burning...his own abandoned desire, perhaps? That would be a pretty cool Buddhist parlor trick:

Apparently there's something about canal cruises at sunset that cause me to grin like an idiot:

Hauling ass back to the pier:

The next two shots are from the ruins at Ayutthaya, which used to be the capitol of Thailand. I think they're pretty much self-explanatory:

I took the next several photos during a motorbike ride through the mountains around Pai and Chiang Mai in northern Thailand.

Said motorbike. These Honda Dream 100cc bikes are ubiquitous all over Thailand. Despite being underpowered, they are pretty fun to ride. This particular one was quite good to me during the few days I rented it. In fact, I believe it to be the latest reincarnation of the spirit of Blue Steel. I think I shall call him...Black Steel:

Rice fields near Pai:

The road to Soppong:

The last three shots are just garden variety tropical paradise shots I took on Koh Tao. No additional explanation is needed:

A Slight Change of Plans

2005-09-15T07:53:00.000+02:00

Judging from my previous post, one would probably assume that my target destination for the near future is Laos. After all, it's a Lao visa that I've been waiting for all these days, right? Well, as the Flaming Lips might say, "suddenly everything has changed." Turns out I won't be going to Laos after all. Instead, I will go to Las Vegas.

Doesn't make very much sense, does it? Let me explain how this all happened.

While I was waiting for my Lao visa to process, I didn't feel much of an urge to go out and "see stuff," as I had already seen everything that I deemed worth seeing in Bangkok. (Not a very good attitude). So I spent most of my days...well, languishing. That's the best term I can think of to describe it. I think most people who have been here would agree that Bangkok is not a very good city to languish in, for reasons too numerous to get into here. But the end effect of it all was to put me in a rather pensive, reflective mood.

I started to ask those uncomfortable questions that travelers (universal or otherwise) tend to avoid. Questions such as Do I really want to go where I've planned? and Am I truly interested in this place? and Do I have the energy necessary to do these places/sights/experiences justice? and Just what the hell am I doing here anyway?

To which I answered "not really," "I don't think so," "probably not," and "gee, I really don't know," respectively.

I should also mention that I have observed a strange recurring phenomenon throughout my travels, whereby I might be hanging out in any particular location, having a good time, and then the mood suddenly turns stale and I get restless. This phenomenon culminates with me thinking to myself (pardon my French), "Christ, I've got to get the fuck out of here." Which I do. It's just that in the present scenario, "here" turns out to be anywhere other than home.

I initially assumed that there would come a time when I would realize I had traveled long enough. I had no idea when it would come, but I figured I'd run into it eventually. However, the longer I traveled without an inkling of such a feeling, the more I started to wonder if I was one of those folks that could travel indefinitely. A nomad. It's an intriguing thought, but a false one, apprently.

By now, I'm sure you can tell where all this is going. For better or for worse, it's time for me to go home.

David Byrne of The Talking Heads once elucidated the present feeling very precisely in a song called "What A Day That Was." Here's a lyrical snippet:

And if you feel like you're in a whirlpool
You feel like going home
You feel like talking to someone
Who knows the difference between right and wrong

And on the first day, we had everything we could stand
ooooooOOOOOOOooooooh, and then we let it fall
And on the second day, there was nothing else left at all
ooooooOOOOOOOooooooh, what a day that was

Oh, I almost forgot about the whole Las Vegas thing. When I called home to tell my parents that I'd be returning early, they mentioned that they were planning on going to Las Vegas (as a jumping-off point for visiting the Grand Canyon) in early October, and would I like to come along? Well, that sounded like good ol' wholesome family fun, so I jumped on the bandwagon. So on October 4 I'll be trading Bangkok for Sin City.

In the meantime, I have to make the best of my remaining time in SE Asia. Tomorrow I'm making the eastward slog to Siem Reap, Cambodia, which is the "base" for visits to Angkor Wat. I will admit that I'm not 100% gung-ho on the plan but, after all, it is supposed to be one of the most impressive sights in Asia, and apparently each year it becomes increasingly overrun by Japanese/Korean package tourists. I think it would be nice to see it before the highly unnatural presence of peace-sign-flashing, "Hello Kitty"-clad teenie-boppers is too much to bear.

After that, I think it would be the perfect time to find a nice, secluded beach on some coastal island. As luck would have it, this is pretty easy to do in Thailand. One last chance to lay out in the sun, collect my thoughts and otherwise while the hours away.

So I guess things are winding down, for my travels and for this blog. You can probably expect future posts to be less action-packed and more introspective than those in previous months. I think this is a natural consequence of my own effort to sort out the past 8 months and come up with some conclusions.

We'll see how that goes.

Worst...blog...ever...

2005-09-11T11:38:00.000+02:00

Okay, I have a confession to make. You know how the "LOCATION:" heading of this blog has said "GOREME, TURKEY" for the past several weeks? Well, that is a lie. I haven't been in Goreme, or Turkey, or even Europe for that matter.

My current location? Bangkok, Thailand.

Yes, it's time I came clean. There is one last regional stop on the Universal Traveler itinerary, and that stop is Southeast Asia. Why did I choose to come here? Well, for a variety of reasons. First, it's nothing like New Zealand or Europe. Second, although it seems wildly exotic to most Americans, Southeast Asia is actually a well-traveled backpacker destination by global standards. Third, everything is dirt cheap here, and it's more or less the only region left on the globe (short of sub-Saharan Africa and select South American countries) that I can afford.

At the moment, I am stuck in Bangkok waiting for my Laos visa to be processed. This will take at least two more days, during which I'll try to fill in the blanks about my first three weeks in Thailand. But here's a small taste of what I've been up to so far:

I have...

...skanked to the sounds of a Thai ska band, as improbable as that sounds.
...been given ten seconds of airtime on a Bangkok pop radio station.
...sat next to a saffron-robed monk on a regional bus ride.
...discovered the taste sensation that is the banana pancake.
...driven a motorbike through the mountains northwest of Chiang Mai.
...pushed said motorbike to just over 100 km/hour on straightaways (if you are my mom, don't read that last sentence).
...scuba dived among the coral reefs off the coast of Koh Tao.

Details (hopefully) forthcoming.

You can't go back to Constantinople...

2005-08-24T08:49:00.000+02:00

...but you can go to Istanbul, which is exactly what I did after Hungary. It's an intriguing city, I must say. Just taking a cab ride around town, you're constantly taking in views of enormous mosques perched on various hillsides. The Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sofia (although it is no longer used as a mosque) are the most famous/grand of these. The city is also littered with various ancient buildings and relics, including the cistern and hippodrome. But hey, you can read about all that stuff in any Turkey travel brochure, so I figure I'll try to provide some alternative perspectives:

FOOD: Believe it or not, the food I enjoyed most in Istanbul was...the ice cream. Or dondurma as they call it there. You can get it from typically cheeky vendors at sidewalk stalls all over the place. The interesting thing about dondurma is that it has a sticky, almost chewy texture to it that is unlike any ice cream I've tasted previously. These physical properties enable the vendor to perform all kinds of tricks with the ice cream, including swinging huge chunks of it through the air with their serving/stirring/kneading paddles and twirling ice cream cones around as tourists try in vain to grab for the cone. Granted, this routine gets old after a couple tries, but the ice cream still tastes good.

While I'm still on the topic of food, let me let you in on a discovery I made in Istanbul that shocked me to the core. A little background: In Europe, it is possible to get a Turkish-style snack known as a doner kebab in just about any city, in any country. A doner kebab is essentially some gyro- or shoarma-like meat between two pieces of bread with lettuce, tomato, onions, and various sauces. They are generally cheap and very tasty, which means that I ate a lot of them. Perhaps too many. Anyways, once I realized that doner kebabs had infiltrated every corner of Europe, I decided to find out which region produced the best ones. So, in every city I visited, I resolved to try a local doner kebab, subjecting them to the most rigorous quality criteria. Before I came to Turkey, Berlin was in possession of the "World's Best Doner Kebab" title belt. The one I had there was meaty, juicy, saucy and, perhaps most importantly, huge. But this was no surprise to me...I believe that Berlin actually has the 4th highest Turkish population of any city in the world, being bested only by Istanbul, Ankara, and Izmir. So it figures that Berliners could turn out a mean doner kebab. But it was my assumption that the creme de la creme of doner kebabs was to be found in Istanbul. I mean, it's a Turkish food, right? Well, it turns out that I was horribly mistaken. I gave Turkey several chances to prove itself worthy of the doner kebab crown, and it failed miserably on every try. The Turkish doner kebab, I found, was basically the antithesis of the Berlin version: small, dry, and just not very tasty. People have since told me that the doner kebab was actually invented in Berlin, that the concept of putting kebab meat between two slices of bread had previously not existed in Turkey. Well, this may be the case, but I still don't think this excuses such a terrible all-around showing. C'mon, Turkey! Let's get with the program!

THE BUS RIDE FROM HELL: Christ, just writing about this unfortunate story makes me cringe. I decided to take a brief two-day detour from Istanbul to the Kappadokya region, known for it's impressive "moonscape" geological formations. The 11-hour bus ride out there was pleasant enough, and I enjoyed my stay while I was there. The night bus back to Istanbul, however, was a complete nightmare. It started with my assigned seat: in the very back row, where they try to squeeze 5 seats in where there should normally be 4. On top of that, they put some fat Turkish guy next to me, who was so corpulent that there was essentially no way he could sit without him resting his sweaty elbow on my chest. Very, very uncomfortable. By around 2 in the morning, I had decided just to give up trying to sleep, although I drifted off eventually. When I woke up (around 6 AM), I had, shall we say, a "gut feeling" that caused me great alarm. Yes, folks, it was the onset of The Shits. Something I had eaten back in Kappadokya (probably one of those damn doner kebabs) was not agreeing with me. As my old boss Alan would have said, it was fighting back. With a vengeance. Normally this would not be a huge issue, except for the fact that this bus didn't have any sort of a toilet on board. So I went up to the driver and asked him to pull over at his earliest convenience. Almost as soon as I said this, traffic on the freeway began to slow down to a crawl. A traffic jam. (I later discovered that this was the result of a truck overturning several KM up the road). My worst fears had been realized. Total gridlock, and I had nowhere to go. It was becoming increasingly difficult for me to avert disaster, with "urges" coming in waves that had me straining with all my might. I think I came close to fainting at one point. It got so bad that I actually asked the bus driver to just open the door so I could go over to the side of the road and do my business. Think about that for a moment. I was so incredibly distressed that I was actually entertaining the thought, nay, begging for the opportunity to drop trou and empty my bowels in front of hundreds of horrified onlookers. Well, by some miracle I was able to make it through the traffic jam to the next rest stop, at which point I sprinted to the men's room only to find both stalls occupied. So I just went next door to the women's bathroom. Perhaps this might be labeled "culturally insensitive" in a country where Islam is practiced by 90% of the populace, but if given the choice between cultural insensitivity and colonic explosivity, I'll take the former every time.

Alright, I'll be honest with you: After spending a good chunk of time writing this post up to this point, I really don't feel like writing any more. Not that I didn't have a great time in Turkey, of course. If you want the whole story, you can always ask me when I get home.

Hungary Redux

2005-08-22T12:42:00.000+02:00

Once again, I have done a God-awful job of posting regularly, so I'm just going to do a brief recap of my Hungarian travel experience. My time in that country was divided between two cities: Budapest and Pecs (pronounced "paych"). I spent about 7 days in Budapest and 2 days in Pecs.

With Budapest, it was great to spend a good chunk of time in one place and really get to know the city. I found that it had fewer communist-era leftovers than Prague, but it seemed to have an intriguing split personality of sorts. Depending on what neighborhood you were in, you could definitely see whether the people there had vigorously embraced the full-throttle capitalism of the 90s, or lagged behind, stuck in the "old ways." I saw a surprising number of Ferraris and Lamborghinis while I was there.

Budapest was also special for me because I got to CouchSurf with not one, not two, but THREE different Budapesters! One of the things I like most about CouchSurfing is that every time I stay with a local somewhere, I end up doing things that I would never have even thought to do otherwise. For example, on my first night I went with my host to what was probably the most interesting bar I have ever visited. It was housed in what was essentially an abandoned, gutted factory complex. The bar itself was in the courtyard, but if you felt so inspired, you could freely wander through the buildings, maneuvering in darkness up stairways and around piles of trash. At one point we ended up on top of one of the highest buildings, looking down on the bar bustle below. Unrefined, perhaps, but definitely unique.

With another host, I went to a local cafeteria that served up traditional homestyle Hungarian food. Basically, Budapest's version of Boston Market. Budapest Market, perhaps? Hungarian cuisine is typically very rich, very hearty, full of paprika, and served in very large portions. Some people say that every Hungarian recipe begins by sauteeing onions in butter. Which may be true. Still, very tasty and very filling. Afterwards, we went to a local bar which happened to be doing a karaoke night. Hungarian karaoke is, for those who have not experienced it, a very interesting sight to behold. Probably 75% of the songs sung were Hungarian rock 'n' roll tunes, influenced heavily by Elvis, Chuck Berry, and other early rockers. I asked my host for a brief synopsis of the lyrical content, which was somewhere along the lines of "I love my girl, she is so beautiful, we have so much fun together, blah blah blah..." So nothing revolutionary, but it definitely inspires Hungarians to get on stage and make fools of themselves.

Pecs was a big change of pace from Budapest. It's basically a rural outpost with some interesting history (it was once an Ottoman stronghold), one of Hungary's universities, and a cute, squeaky-clean town center. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have gone there if it weren't for the fact that I was meeting my friend Anand (of Utrecht fame) and his girlfriend Tammy there. A particularly interesting (if somewhat harrowing) aspect of my visit was my accommodation. I ended up staying in one of the town's university dormitories, as most of the actual students were on summer holiday. The room itself was nice enough...it actually reminded me a lot of Liggett 2, my freshman dorm floor. Things took a turn for the worst when I visited the bathrooms. As far as I could tell, they hadn't been cleaned since the students had left in the spring. One of the stalls looked as though a stick of shit dynamite had been placed in the toilet and detonated, creating a scene that would have brough a tear to Jackson Pollock's eye. So basically, I resolved to take care of all my bodily functions in town. On the bright side, I only paid $5 per night for the bed. Maybe that's a fair tradeoff.

So that was Hungary, in a very tiny nutshell. After that, I flew from Budapest to...Istanbul! Which takes me to my next post...

Random thoughts on Norway

2005-07-28T22:20:00.000+02:00

LET'S BOUNCE: For some reason, Norwegians seem to own a lot of trampolines. I know, it sounds strange, but I've seen plenty Norwegian yards in my time here, and an awful lot of these yards feature big, blue trampolines. I have formulated a few theories as to why this might be the case:

Norwegians have difficulty understanding the Theory of Gravity, and the only way they can grasp it is by empirically observing its results. They do this by repeatedly attempting to launch their bodies into deep space, only to be pulled back to Earth each time. What device makes all this possible? You guessed it: the trampoline. After spending several weeks bouncing away perplexedly, the Norwegian eventually has an epiphany, and the Theory of Gravity is understood. He/she then celebrates with a $12 beer.
In order to remain outdoors for any length of time, Norwegians must remain in bouncy perpetual motion in order to avoid the hordes of pterodactyl-like mosquitos.
Norwegian women like to welcome overseas visitors by donning skimpy clothing, bouncing on trampolines, and giggling, a la The Man Show's "Girls Jumping on Trampolines." (I am still waiting for this to happen).

THE GASP: This one truly perplexes me. You know how when Americans have a conversation with somebody, they might say "yeah" or "uh huh" as an expression of affirmation, or simply to let the speaker know he/she is listening? Well, in Norway, they don't say "yeah" or "uh huh," even when they're speaking English. Instead, they make a bizarre noise that I have never heard anywhere else. It's basically a combination of "yah" and a quick gasp. It's like they're trying to say "yah," but they get confused and inhale instead of exhale. When I first heard this sound, I thought I was saying something shocking or offensive, which surprised me because I figured train schedules would be the last thing to offend anybody. Then I started hearing people using it EVERYWHERE! If someone can explain this to me, please do.

KRONER? I HARDLY EVEN KNOW HER!: The kroner (crown) is the Norwegian unit of currency. I hate to beat a dead horse, but if you ever visit Norway, don't get to attached to them as you'll be parting company with an awful lot of kroners in various denominations. While here, I asked around and determined that Norway is almost unanimously regarded as the most expensive country in Scandinavia (including Iceland). I also found out (from people who had visited both countries) that Japan is slightly cheaper than Norway. This settled it for me: Norway is, without a doubt, the most expensive country on the planet. I mean, think about it. The only other countries that could possibly come close would be the other Scandinavian countries and Japan, and Norway apparently bests them all. Most Norwegians don't seem too worried about this, probably because they (or their government, at least) are sitting on a ridiculous amount of oil wealth. Another mind-boggling example of how expensive it is here: On more than one occasion, I have paid the equivalent of $1.54 to use a pay toilet. I shit you not (pun definitely intended).

THE ARYAN NATION: Norway has the reputation of being chock full of beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed people. I found this to be only partially true. I will say that Norway certainly has a higher per-capita allocation of physical beauty than most places I have lived in or visited, but I was also surprised to find a large number of rather homely bumpkins running about. On several occasions, I was unable to tell whether an individual was a native Norwegian or a German tourist (not a good thing). So, in my opinion, the overall beauty title resides with...Denmark. If you have read my previous posts, you probably gathered that I was, shall we say, "smitten" with the Danish womenfolk. I have decided (and I think archeological and anthropological evidence will bear this out) that Denmark is the "nexus of hotness" in Europe: the epicenter from which European beauty radiates. I will be publishing my findings in the next issue of "Nature."

Universal Reader's Poll: To beard, or not to beard?

2005-07-21T14:54:00.000+02:00

As certain detail-oriented readers may have noticed from the pictures I've posted, I've been growing a bit of a beard over the past month or so. It was essentially an issue of curiosity, as I had never really tried growing one before. The only time when I came close was when I decided to stop shaving during my Spring Break Breckenridge ski trip of 2003. The result of that brief foray was termed "the Grizzly Adams look" by Jon Crilly.

Well, I figured that a multi-week jaunt through the Norwegian wilderness would be the perfect time to really give this beard thing a shot, as there wouldn't be many people around to make snide remarks (in Norwegian) about my shabby appearance, and even if they did, I would be too tired to care. Plus, a scraggly beard fits the "mountain man" persona quite well, I've discovered.

Anyways, here's how the beard looks at the moment:

Personally, I'm getting kind of sick of it (I think it makes me look like a goddamn bum) and I have a good mind just to take the whole thing off, but I wanted to turn the question over to my loyal readership first. So, beard or no beard? Leave a comment and throw in your two cents. Feel free to type "Anonymous" in the name field if you like (you cowards).

Now is the time to let your voice be heard! Excercise your God-given right to comment on my facial hair! Rock the vote!

The pilgrim's pictures

2005-07-21T14:22:00.000+02:00

The "glass cathedral" at Hamar. A giant steel/glass "greenhouse" was erected around the ruins of the cathedral to prevent weather damage:

One of the pilegrimsleden waymarks in the middle of a construction site. It was nice of them to leave it standing:

A particularly idyllic Norwegian farm:

Mossy track:

The group of Norwegian Rotarians that fed and rehydrated me:

You might notice that this picture is a slightly crooked and out of focus. That's because I was being chased by 5,000 mosquitos when I took it and couldn't stop to get a clear exposure:

Ringebu stave church. Stave churches are built using an ancient design where wooden pillars are driven straight into the ground, rather than using a typical foundation. I think they are found only in Scandinavia:

The 700 year old pilgrim lodge that I stayed in at Sygard Grytting:

The interior (and exterior) of an old stable that I slept in at Budsjord:

The moors of Dovrefjell:

Allmannrøysa, a big cairn in Dovrefjell:

The tiny village of Ryphusan, where I spent a night in Dovrefjell:

My first view of the Nidaros Cathedral as I descended into Trondheim:

The cathedral from across the river:

20 days and 643 km later...

2005-07-21T13:47:00.000+02:00

...I finally made it to Trondheim!

Or, as the Great Sajeeva would say: "I'm done, bitches! Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Actually, it was two days ago on the 19th that I finished, but I just didn't have a chance to post about it until now. I was actually pretty surprised that I was able to complete the walk as quickly as I did. I don't know if I set any records or anything (because nobody keeps track of that stuff), but I do know that I got to Trondheim at least 5 days faster than the "average" pilgrim. Not that it was a race or anything...I guess I just like to keep a good pace.

Walking down from the hills and into the city was sort of an odd experience for me. On one hand, it was good to know that I would be finished soon and would be able to rest for a while. On the other, the past 20 days had flown by so fast and I had seen so many beautiful things that I kinda didn't want it to end.

It seemed like the closer I got to the Nidaros Cathedral, the more conflicting thoughts and feelings came into my head. Most of the tension was religious/spiritual in nature. Once I sat down in the courtyard in front of the cathedral, I suddenly felt this powerful connection with all the pilgrims who had made the same journey in the past, some nearly a thousand years ago. It was very intense to realize that I had, in a way, just become a member of such an ancient fellowship. But at the same time, I was troubled by questions of why I had made the pilgrimmage in the first place. Obviously, it was not for the same reasons as the original pilgrims, as I had no expectations of miracles or divine intervention upon my arrival. I knew that the "true" pilgrims were drawn to Nidaros not because they enjoyed natural scenery or wanted to "see Norway," but because they were compelled to go by a powerful sense of faith. And that kind of faith is something I just don't have.

So why did I do it? Why did I choose to spend 20 days walking to a place I could have reached in 4 hours by train? Why was I sitting in front of that cathedral, sweating like a pig, with a giant pack on my back? To be perfectly honest, I don't really know. It is true that, before I departed, the whole thing just "felt right," but I have a hard time accepting that a rational person would undertake such an immense task based on something so nebulous. I guess I'm starting to accept that it may take some time, perhaps a long time, before I fully understand what this pilgrimmage means to me. I'm banking on the hope that with experience and reflection, I'll have a clearer picture of what compelled me to set off in the first place, and how things have changed now that I'm done. I wish I could say that, while perched atop some Norwegian mountain peak or in the shadow of an awe-inspiring cathedral, I had some sort of epiphany, some kind of earth-shattering insight into my life, because that sort of thing makes for very interesting writing. But I suppose that I should know by now that those epiphanies never seem to arrive when I want or expect them to.

So, now that I'm finally here, what am I doing? Well, not a whole lot, and that's okay with me. I think I need a little down time to digest all that's happened in the past few weeks. Lucky for me, I've been CouchSurfing again with a Norwegian couple, and they've been so great about making me feel at home while I'm here. Just what the doctor ordered.

So what's the next step? Well, tonight I'm taking the bus down to Bergen to check that area out. I mean, as long as I'm here I might as well, right? And after that I'll probably head back to Oslo, take it easy for a few days, and then...well, I'll save that for another post.

Bear with me for a little while and I'll have a new post with a few more Norway pics up in a jiffy.

The Pilgrim's Progress, Part III

2005-07-16T09:38:00.000+02:00

493 km down, 150 to go!

Right now I find myself in the town of Oppdal, a small community that appears to thrive on farming in the summer, and ski tourism in the winter. I've decided to take a rest day here, and I'm staying at the local youth hostel, nestled between two ski resorts which, as you might guess, are pretty much dead at the moment. Like most of the towns I've visited on my northward trek, not a whole lot is going on here.

But it's been an interesting week or so since I last posted. After leaving Lillehammer, I slogged through the neverending ascents and descents of the Gudbrandsdal valley, wandered through the open moorlands of the Dovrefjell plateau, and finally descended to the wide, flat Driva valley. Here are the highlights:

A couple days after leaving Lillehammer, it got unreasonably hot. I'm not sure what the actual high temperatures were, but they had to be approaching 90. So I'm trudging along the Losna river valley, sweating my ass off, when I see a group of people up on a cliff ahead. A (shouted) conversation ensuded that went something like this:

(unintelligible Norwegian phrase)
"I'm sorry, I don't speak Norsk very well."
(more unintelligible Norwegian speech)
"No, I mean I don't speak Norsk. I know English and German."
"Oh, where are you from?"
"The United States."
"USA?"
"Which state?"
"Minnesota."
"Oh, we were just talking about Minnesota. Would you like to come up
for a drink?"
"YES!!!"

So I turn up a driveway and am greeted by a group of about 8 Norwegians, all of them at least 65 years old. Turns out that they were Rotarians, and they were responsible for maintaining the Olav's Way trail through the Øyer kommune, so they were happy to meet an actual pilgrim using their section of the trail. Not only did they give me water, but they also fed me cake with fresh cream and strawberries, coffee cake, and homemade juice (from "solbære," literally, "sun berries," whatever those are). It was such a refreshing break from all the walking/roasting I'dbeen doing. The stop delayed me by about an hour and a half, though, so it was approaching 8:00 when I hit the road again for the last 7 km to Ringebu. In this region of Norway, 8:00 is apparently when the mosquitos come out. Oh. My. God. I have never seen so many mosquitos in my life. There was literally a cloud of them following me for at least 5 km. And since mosquitos had not been a problem up to that point, I had no insect repellant with me. So I basically walked as fast as I could (full-on sprinting at times), swatting my legs, arms, and neck with my hat. It was exhausting, and I'm sure I looked ridiculous running through the woods, flailing about like a maniac. And despite my best efforts, I still got bit about 50 times. Not fun.

The next day was much better. I stayed at an ancient farm called Sygard Grytting, which has been under continuous ownership of the Grytting family since the 13th century. To top it off, I slept in the oldest buidling on the farm, an actual, original pilgrim lodge that was built around 1300. Trondheim-bound pilgrims stayed there as early as 700 years ago! Additionally, it is known that Norwegian King Magnus Magnusson stayed there in 1311. That's some serious history.

A couple days later, I had an encounter with a moose. I was walking through a rocky pine forest, and just as I crested a ridge, I heard a rustle up hill. That's when I saw, about 20 feet from me, a fully-grown female moose. She took off down the hill right away, so I wasn't able to take a picture, but it was a cool experience!

That night, for the first time, I met some other people who were hiking Olav's Way. I wouldn't call them pilgrims, per se, as only one was making the full Oslo -> Trondheim journey, and she was having the bulk of her gear carried ahead by car each day (instead of carrying it on her back). The American hiking community calls this "slack packing." But maybe I should cut her a break since she appeared to be around 70 years old. Anyways, everyone in the group was Norwegian, at least 50 years old, and most didn't speak English very well, so we didn't have much in common. Nevertheless, we stuck together for about a day and a half. An especially nice part was when we all sat down to a traditional rømmegrøt dinner at Budsjord Gard. Rømmegrøt, I am told, is made by boiling sour cream and adding flour, producing a sort of porridge. You sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on top and eat it with a spoon. I had my doubts about it, but it was actually quite good.

I spent the last two days hiking through the Dovrefjell region, which is definitely near the top of my "coolest places I have visited" list. It's basically a huge plateau flanked by mountain peaks on all sides. Once you get in the middle of it, it's wide open moorland as far as the eye can see. The wind just howls up there. It's one of those places that gives you a real feeling of isolation, when you can't help but stop and think, "man, I am really OUT THERE!" I'll post pictures when I get a chance.

So those have been the goings on of the past week. I'm basically in the home stretch now, and I'd guess that I'll be in Trondheim within 5 or 6 days. Once the pilgrimmage has come to an end, I'll be able to do a proper blog post (w/ pictures) and plan my next move.

See you in Trondheim!

The Pilgrim's Progress, Part II

2005-07-06T11:08:00.000+02:00

224 km down, 491 to go!

Yesterday I made it to Lillehammer, pretty much my last stop on the shores of Lake Mjøsa. It's a nice little town, and of course you can still see the remnants of the '94 Winter Olympics everywhere. Sometimes you get the impression that they're still riding that one for all it's worth: "Visit Lillehammer, a really exciting place to be 11 years ago!"

Not too much to report, really, although the situation with my feet has improved considerably. With foot pain less of an issue, I think I'm really starting to hit my stride.

Oh, and one more thing before I go. I think I mentioned a few posts back that Switzerland was the most expensive country ever. I'd like to make a correction: Switzerland can't even hold a candle to Norway in terms of sheer unaffordability. Example: I took a 3.5 km cab ride back in Hamar, and I couldn't believe my eyes when I read the meter at the end. 120 kroner, folks. For those not up on their exchange rates, that's almost twenty American dollars. Let me repeat that. Twenty dollars. For a 4-minute cab ride. Christ on toast, that's expensive! I've been trying to think of all the countries that could potentially be even more expensive than Norway, and all I can come up with are Iceland and Japan. But I think the chances are good that Norway is actually the most expensive country on the face of the globe.

Alright, gripe over. Time to start walking again!

The Pilgrim's Progress

2005-07-03T12:10:00.000+02:00

158 kilometers down, 485 to go!

Yesterday evening I strolled (more like staggered) into Hamar, my first major milestone on the road to Trondheim. If you look at it strictly from a numbers perspective, I'm already a quarter of the way there! Of course, the terrain gets much rougher north of Lillehammer, so I'm not expecting to put in 40-km days then like I have been so far.

Overall, things have been very good so far. I've seen plenty of beautiful countryside, met some nice people, and enjoyed the exercise. The only downside has been my feet. To put it mildly, they have taken a serious beating. I guess they're just not used to logging big miles each day, because now I have silver dollar-sized blisters on each of my heels, abrasions around my Achilles' tendons, and, at the end of the day the balls of my feet ache like a sonofabitch. So all that (along with the fact that I've basically been hauling ass thus far) led to my decision to take a rest day here in Hamar. I'm sure my feet will thank me for it. And, to top it off, the youth hostel here has free internet, enabling me to write this post, complete with PICTURES!

Here's where I started out: the ruins of the Mariakirke in Oslo's Gamle By (old city):

The first stone marker indicating the way to Trondheim/Nidaros. 643 km to go:

Unfortunately, the historic path out of Oslo goes straight through what is now a largely industrial area, so there wasn't much to photograph along that stretch. But as I ascended into the hills surrounding the city, things got much quieter, and much prettier:

After walking about 40 km, I made it to the first place I would spend the night, a farm called Arteid:

The Eriksen family, which owns the farm, were so friendly to me while I was there. I initially the daughters and their Russian au pair, and although their command of the English language was not great, they did their best to make me feel at home. When their father, Dagfinn came home, he set me up in a 200-year old farmhouse and gave me some food and beer. It was just what I needed after an exhausting day.

Relaxing with Lady, the family dog:

Of course, I continued walking the next morning. One thing you have to understand about Olav's Way is that it's not a wilderness trail, and sometimes not even a "trail" at all. In the past four days I've found myself walking through front and back yards, next to local roadways, across abandoned racecar tracks and shooting ranges (yikes!), along railroad tracks, and sometimes even straight through farm fields:

On the third night I stayed in a traditional "stabbur" at Hestnes Gård. A stabbur is basically a barn/farmhouse building elevated off the ground by stones or concrete pylons:

The next day, after a few hours of walking I was within striking distance of Hamar. I stopped to rest and have lunch at Stange Kirke, where I took these pictures:

The church itself:

503 km to go:

View of Lake Mjøsa from Stange Kirke:

So that's where I've been so far. Hopefully by tomorrow my feet will have recuperated enough to take on the next section of the trail, which traces the eastern shore of Lake Mjøsa to Lillehammer. Wish me luck!

Oh, one more thing before I go. I took this picture while I was still in Oslo. One of my new goals, after I get to Trondheim, is to go to a bar, order a can of this stuff, do a spit take, and exclaim, "Hey, this beer tastes like AASS!!!"

Nidaros or bust!

2005-06-28T17:11:00.000+02:00

Well, I hinted in my previous post that I had special plans for my time in Norway. In recent years, this country has held an increasing mystique for me. I think it goes beyond the fact that it's the source of the most "Old World" cultural heritage for me and my family. It also has to do with my appreciation for the Norwegian character (the way I perceive it, at least). I appreciate Norwegians' connection to nature and the outdoors. I appreciate their sense of social responsibility. I appreciate their quiet, understated confidence. Maybe these are all just outdated images of a culture that has changed with time, but at the very least, I want to find out for myself whether that's true.

I guess I was looking for something special to do while I was here in Norway, something that would bring me close to the Norwegian people and close to nature. It didn't take long for me to figure out what that was:

I'm going to walk from Oslo to Trondheim.

I only found out that this was even possible about two weeks ago. While doing an internet search for information about hiking in Norway, I came across this site. It's the Pilegrimsfellesskapet St. Jakob, Norway's pilgrimmage association. This is the organization that is, in part, responsible for reviving the ancient pilgrimmage route known as Olav's Way.

Let me drop a little history on you, if I may (compiled from various sources):

In 1015, Olav Haraldsson, a prominent Viking chieftan, sailed for Norway from England with the intent to conquer his homeland which, at the time, was divided into several small kingships. Aided only by several English bishops and clerics and the support of yeoman farmers, he soon succeeded, and ruled as the king of Norway for twelve years. His most famous acheivement, however, was to make Norway Christian (or, rather, complete the Christianization of Norway), a result of his conversion while he was in England.

Later in his rule, Olav's decision to conspire against Denmark's King Knut brought about a Danish invasion of Norway, and he was forced to flee the country. Two years later he returned to Norway at the head of a small army, but he was killed at the Battle of Stiklestad on July 29th, 1030. His body was smuggled away and buried on the spot where Trondheim (known then as Nidaros) cathedral now stands.

Almost immediately following his death, numerous reports of miracles began to surface. As a result, Olav was canonized as St. Olav on August 3rd, 1031. As miracles continued to be reported, an increasing number of Northern Europeans made pilgrimmages to the shrines of St. Olav in Nidaros. These pilgrimmages continued for over 500 years until 1537 when the Reformation put them to a halt and ended the official veneration of St. Olav. In recent years, however, there has been renewed interest in Olav's Way, the ancient pilgrimmage route from Oslo to Trondheim, and partial restoration of the trail was completed in 1997.

SO...I've decided to do the walk myself, following in the footsteps of the pilgrims who made the trek over 500 years ago. As you might imagine, it's a long way from Oslo to Trondheim: 643 kilometers, to be exact. The terrain is often hilly or mountainous, and the path is often poorly marked. These factors combined dictate that the average person usually completes the journey after 25 to 30 days of walking. Accomodation along the way is sketchy, often nothing more than a farmhouse with a few extra beds in certain places (which is why I'm packing a tent).

The logical question to ask at this point is, why am I choosing to do this? Well, I'm not exactly sure, to be quite honest. The factors that led up to my decision are intangible, for the most part. I guess you could say that it just felt right. The more I thought about it, the more I felt that I was somehow meant to do this walk. On top of that, there have been wierd little coincidences that, while probably circumstantial, make me say "hmmm" at the very least:

July 28, the day on which celebration of Olav Wake begins in Trondheim, is also my 25th birthday.
The home of the family friend I've been staying with in Oslo is located on a street called Trondheimsveien, which literally means "The Road to Trondheim."
Both of my parents are graduates of St. Olaf College in Northfield, MN.

Sure, probably just coincidences, but fun to think of nonetheless. Anyways, I'm going to be starting the walk in the next day or so, probably putting in somewhere around 35 km per day at first. I hope to arrive in Trondheim by July 25, which marks the beginning of a small festival especially for pilgrims. I'm not sure if I'll be able to get there that quickly, though. Who knows what could happen between now and then?

Blog updates between Oslo and Trondheim will probably be scarce, but I'll try to make short posts when I can to let everyone know about my progress. Hamar and Lillehammer are places where this might be possible.

So that's that. I'm excited to start walking, and I can't wait to get out into the Norwegian countryside. Now more than ever, I'll be needing all of you to send me good vibes from wherever you are. Wish me luck!

Århus, in the middle of our street...

2005-06-28T16:27:00.000+02:00

As you may or may not recall, I met a couple of Danes named Mikkel and Lasse while I was in Denmark. Since they so generously offered me a place to stay in their home town of Århus, and I was heading to Scandinavia anyways, I figured it would be a shame not to stop by for a while. Which is exactly what I did. I ended up spending about 5 days in Århus, and they were actually some of the busiest days I've had so far in Europe.

I started out doing something that has been strangely foreign to me for the past 5 months: work. Let me explain. Mikkel and Lasse have a friend named Matthias who apparently owns and operates a very lucrative vegetable shop in Århus. I never knew that the vegetable business could be so profitable, but there it is. Anyways, one day he got it in his head that he would like to go sailing across the Atlantic with his buddies, and then do some island hopping in the Caribbean. So he took out a loan equivalent to about $100,000 USD and bought a 52-foot sailboat, the Rosa. It sailed fine but was in rough shape cosmetically. So, since he had invited Mikkel and Lasse to sail with him, but neither of them could afford to pitch in to pay for the boat, they decided it would be better for them to help out by fixing it up. So that's what we worked on for the first few days. It was arduous work...mostly sanding the interior wooden surfaces and applying fresh coats of lacquer, but it was good to help out with the cause. When they actually embark on their transatlantic voyage in a couple years, I'm sure it will be one hell of a trip.

For some reason I completely neglected to take any pictures of the Rosa, so you will just have to use your imagination. Here's some help: It's a sailboat. It's 52 feet long. It's currently a mess. That just about sums it up.

The next day I got the chance to take part in a uniquely Danish experience. Every year at midsummer, the Danes celebrate Saint Hans, although nobody could tell me why. I guess he was just a pretty cool saint. Anyways, they celebrate Saint Hans by recreating a medieval witch-burning. They make a huge pile of logs, sticks and hay and stick a cross on top, from which hangs the effigy of a witch. Then they set the whole thing on fire and sing songs about Saint Hans. And get this...they even cram the witch effigy full of fireworks and noisemakers, to simulate the screams of agony that a real witch would no doubt be belting out at that point. So I guess the Danes are some sadistic mofos.

Here are some shots from the get-together:

Before:

After:

Great Danes. From left: Julia, Hanna, Markus, Lasse, Mikkel, Me, Søren, Anna, Ingeborg, Julia's friend (never got her name):

At some point during the evening, Søren and Mikkel got a hold of my camera. Here is the result:

We spent almost all of the following day at the beach. The experience thoroughly confirmed for me a suspicion that I had had all along: Danish women are HOT. I almost fell over as soon as I hit the sand. Seriously, folks, you have no idea. You have to go and see for yourself.

Danish women. Hot. Hot hot hot hot hottttttttttt...

Whoa, I'm sorry, I think I lost myself there for a moment. Yeah, so anyways, the beach. As the sun went down we scored some food and had a barbeque down by the seaside. It was pølser-licious. Here's Mikkel rockin' out with his gee-tar:

Somewhere along the way, one of us had the bright idea to spend the night sleeping under the stars at the beach. This idea worked fine...until it started raining at about 2AM. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), we were all pretty much drunk, meaning we couldn't drive home. So we did the only logical thing we could think of: we slept under a railroad bridge. That was definitely a first for me. It's a strange feeling to wake up to the sight of pedestrians gingerly stepping over you.

Anyways, I pulled it together in time for me to catch the train to Frederikshavn, where I assumed I would be able to catch a night ferry to Oslo. This was not the case. Apparently they only run once a day, at 10 AM. So I had to spend a night in sleepy Frederikshavn. Not the end of the world, but more or less pointless.

The next day I made the 8-hour journey across the sea to Oslo. I spent most of that time sleeping and listening to my iPod, so nothing interesting to report there. But here's the view that greeted me as we steamed up the Oslofjord toward the city:

Well, I will say right now that the plans I've come up with for Norway are quite a bit different from my usual M.O., so I'll just leave that for the next post.

Go north, young man!

2005-06-28T15:22:00.000+02:00

Normally, if I were to kick off a post such as this (i.e., one after a long period of nothingness), I would start with an apology to my loyal (read: dwindling) readership. Well, I've apologized so many times that I think it's starting to be a waste of everyone's time. So I offer this instead: It's been a long time since I last posted. Deal with it.

Now that I've got that out of the way, time to pick up where I left off. After I left Munich, I had a day to kill before I went over to Mainz, so I ended up staying with Calci, a German girl I met in New Zealand. I had given her a ride from Queenstown to Wanaka (back in the glorious Blue Steel days), and she gave me her email address, so I figured, why the hell not? Anyways, she was living with her parents in the tiny village of Haag, about 45 minutes away from Munich, which is where I met up with her. It was cool to see a part of Germany outside the huge metropolises (metropoli?), although she was more or less correct in her assertion that there isn't much to do in Haag. I did get some delicious, home-cooked German food out of the deal, though. After dinner we decided to play a game of Scrabble. I'll be honest...even though Calci speaks English very well, I assumed that the matchup would be inherently lopsided, what with me being a native English speaker (with a relatively large vocabulary) and all that. So I went easy on her at first...until she started to catch up and eventually surpass my score. This was not something I had bargained for. So I kicked it into high gear, hoping for miracle words like "quickly" and "quizzed," but it was all for naught. Ladies and gentleman, may I present to you my ultimate humiliation: I was beaten at Scrabble by someone who isn't even a native English speaker. I'm going to sit in the corner and cry now.

Anyways, the next morning I took the tain to Mainz where I met up with Nadja, yet another German that I had met in New Zealand. (This is proof that NZ is actually crawling with Germans). She is a medical student and had just finished a big exam that morning, so we celebrated with a bunch of her friends at a local club. We danced and drank until the wee hours of the morning, and it was a great time except for the fact that the club's speaker system was, to quote Spinal Tap, "turned up to 11." This made it almost impossible for me to hear or understand anyone, let alone people with German accents (i.e., everyone). The end result was that, after me giving blank looks and saying "what?" several times, people would just get right up in my ear and start screaming. I think my ears rang for about 48 hours afterwards. Yowza.

Anywho, I didn't really take that many pictures in Mainz, but here's one of me and Nadja right before I left:

After Mainz I tore over to Prague. By that point I had heard so many people gush about the place that I figured I had to give it a visit. Let me tell you, all the praise that Prague receives is well-deserved, for a variety of reasons. First, the city has some great history, especially if you are interested in the Soviet era, the Cold War, and communism. Second, everything is cheap! My hostel was less than $10 per night, and you could get a decent meal for a couple bucks. And last, but certainly not least: The beer is damn tasty. And cheap. And consumed in mass quantities by Czechs and visitors alike. They say that the Czech Republic has the highest per capita beer consumption of any country in the world. Now I understand why.

I was lucky enough to meet some really cool guys at the hostel: Brad from Colorado, and Connal from Australia. We usually did our own things during the day, but we'd always meet up in the evenings for meals and for nighttime excursions into the heart of Prague. On one day, though, we all made a daytrip to Kutna Hora, a small town about an hour outside of Prague. It's most famous for what most people refer to as "The Bone Church," which is basically a small church decorated with intricate arrangements of human bones. Yes, definitely weird, and definitely creepy. Here are some pics:

After The Bone Church we were all starving (go figure), so we tried to find the Kutna Hora town center in hopes of finding a restaurant. Well, either we missed it completely, or Kutna Hora doesn't have much of a town center, because we didn't find much. Eventually we stumbled upon a local pub/restaurant, and we went inside to eat. It was an interesting experience. Everybody stopped and stared at us as soon as we went in. Nobody spoke a lick of English. The food and beer were about 50% cheaper than in Prague. I ended up having a half liter of beer and a really tasty beef/goulash/potato dumpling meal for the equivalent of about $3 USD. Hot damn!

When we went back to the Kutna Hora train station to catch the train to Prague, I noticed one of those funny little typos you get when you translate between languages. Don't you hate it when you call up a taxi service, and the guy on the other end of the line is a complete tool? Well, not with these guys:

While I'm still feeling pictorial, let me throw in a few extra shots of Prague:

The famous(ly touristy) Charles Bridge:

Wenceslas Square, where all the protests during the Velvet Revloution took place:

A creepy, Soviet-era monument that I hiked up to. Supposedly that statue is the largest equestrian statue in the world. And since everybody knows how much I love equestrian statues, I just HAD to go:

So that was Prague. After that I continued northwards to Berlin, which was very different from all the other cities I had visited. Because it had the shit bombed out of it during WWII, and has been undergoing all sorts of construction since the fall of the Berlin Wall, it's all very modern and new-looking. And its most interesting history all happened within the last 100 years. Anyways, I spent most of my time in Berlin in its numerous museums. And since I don't really like taking pictures in museums, I don't have a lot of pictures of Berlin. But here's one of the good ol' Brandenburg Gate:

Thus concludes my ridiculously brief summary of my days in Germany and Bohemia. Afterwards I continued my northward trajectory to Denmark, but I think I'll leave that for a separate post.

Sweet merciful crap, it's PICTURE TIME!!!

2005-06-12T12:31:00.000+02:00

Alright, I'm just going to cut to the chase and say what everyone has no doubt been thinking lately: UT sucks. It's been a long time since I had a really meaty post. This is partially the result of my own laziness, but the unreasonable difficulty I've had finding a computer suitable for uploading pictures hasn't been helping things either. Well, it's time to recover the good graces of my readership, and what better way to do that than to knock your socks off with a pictorial extravaganza!

Let's start with some early Europe pics. Here's a shot of me harnessing the intermolecular forces of Brussels' Atomium. My future's so bright, I gotta wear shades:

On to Paris. I think everyone who visits the Musee d'Orsay takes this shot, but here it is again:

This is essentially the back yard at the palace of Versailles. As you no doubt can tell from the photo, these gardens are HUGE:

On to Madrid! I spent a pleasant, sunny afternoon at the Parque del Buen Retiro, where I snapped this shot of the pond:

The infamous bullfight. PETA members should close their eyes at this point:

I realized after I left Granada that almost all the photos I took there focused on the Alhambra. Oh well, it's a pretty cool place at least. Let's start with a few exterior shots:

And the interior. Note the detailed wood and stucco work. This is all original stuff, dating back to the 10th century. Very impressive:

When I wasn't busy getting completely and utterly lost in the Alpujarras, I took these pics:

Ok folks, time to switch continents. These are some random shots of the Jemaa al Fna square in Marrakesh.

Jemaa al Fna with the tower of the main mosque in the background. Note the ubiquitous orange juice stands...mmmmm, fresh OJ:

As the evening draws closer, food and craft vendors descend on the square, turning it into a giant restaurant/bazaar:

View from one of the dinner tables:

Tea with Ava, Chakir, and his neice, Maria:

A traditional Moroccan lunch spread, including "cous cous of the kings":

Chowin' down. The other guy is Kamel, Chakir's pal:

Hanging out with Chakir's mom:

Ok, I think it was at this point that I essentially stopped blogging about my travels, so I suppose nobody has any idea what happened next. I'll provide the Cliff's Notes version.

SO...the next morning Ava and I started a guided excursion into the heart of rural Morocco, beginning with a gruelling 8-hour van ride. The experience was made extra special for me by the fact that I spent the previous night alternating between puking my guts out and shitting my guts out. I think it was the result of some food I ate, or some water I drank, or a combination of both. Anyways, I didn't take many pictures that first day simply because I was too exhausted to even get out of the van. But here's on of an old Moroccan city that I did manage to pull off:

Another reason I didn't take too many pictures of the Moroccan countryside is the fact that it basically consists of massive quantities of dirt, sprinkled liberally with equally massive quantities of rocks. If you have a yen for the color brown, Morocco is the place to be. So I'll just cut straight to the good stuff: the sand dunes of Merzouga!

Dunes in the distance:

Someone took this picture of me right before Lasse the Dane beat the living shit out of me. Well, not really, but it sure looks that way. Somebody needs to take some photography classes:

Yep, we actually rode camels across the desert. And no, they don't spit that much, and they didn't even smell that bad. But I will say this: if you're a guy, that hump is REALLY inconveniently located:

Riding off into the sunset. Hi-ho, Ishtar!

And now for something completely different...Gaudi's Sagrada Familia cathedral in Barcelona. Still under construction after over 100 years:

To be perfectly honest, by this point in the trip I was getting kind of tired of Mediterranean Europe, so I decided to head north to Switzerland. Iterlaken was my first stop. Now, let me tell you something about Switzerland: it's the most expensive country...ever. Period. Add to that the fact that Interlaken is essentially the Queenstown of Europe (i.e., filled with rich Americans eager to drop a huge chunk of cash on skydiving, canyoning, paragliding, and other "extreme" activities) and you're in for a fund-reducing experience. Which is why I only stayed a few days. But anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, Interlaken.

The giant Saint Bernard that greeted me at my hostel. Doesn't get much more Swiss than that, folks:

After a day of hiking, I got this view of Interlaken from above:

On my last day in Interlaken, I went mountain biking to a little town called Lauterbrunnen with some friends from the hostel:

After Interlaken, I spent a couple days in the town of Lucerne (a couple hours northeast). Here's a shot of the city, taken from the medieval wall that forms the northern border of the old town:

Lucerne's iconic covered bridge:

Okay, a little backstory: Maybe some of you have clicked the "CouchSurfing" link on the left side of my blog. Basically, it's a network of travelers (universal and otherwise) and hosts who meet up through the website. For all the gory details, go here. ANYWAYS, I CouchSurfed while I was in Lucerne. My host was a Swiss textile designer named Karin. Here's a pic of the two of us:

In front of the Lucerne train station, about to head to Munich:

You know, I really didn't take that many pictures in Munich. But I just had to grab a shot of this. Basically, they have a river that flows under a bridge in the English Gardens, and somehow it creates a permanent, immovable wave that's perfect for surfing. That's right, surfing in Munich. You heard it here first:

On another day, I took a daytrip to the town of Fussen, which features the famous Neuschwanstein castle, popularly know as "The Disneyland Castle." Well, here it is:

Well, there you have it. Those are pretty much all the decent pictures I've had a chance to upload up to this point. Since leaving Munich, I've been to a tiny German village called Haag, the college town of Mainz and (as if that weren't enough) Prague. But this post is big enough as it is, so I'll leave all of that stuff for another day. And if the past is any indicator, that day will be in the distant, distant future. But who knows, maybe I'll be able to get my act together and start posting more than once every couple weeks. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: stay tuned to find out!!!

Blast from the past

2005-05-29T17:34:00.000+02:00

Well, since I have been having (and continue to have) such a hard time finding an internet cafe where I can upload some of my photos, I will lamely attempt to satiate you all with pictures from a pub crawl I did an Madrid. Apparently the guy who organized it just put all the pictures he took on his website, MADride.

Hanging out with a couple Canadian girls, a Dutch guy, and a pink-shirted Irishman. The Canadian in the foreground is named Devon and the Irishman is named Stuart. For some inexplicable reason that most definitely has nothing to do with the alcoholic beverage I am holding, I don't remember the names of the other two:

Ok, so three dorks walk into a bar: a Dutchman, an Irishman, and an American. Now you add your own punchline!

I will leave you with a question that has been mystifying me lately: Why am I always standing to the left of people? First person to furnish a plausible explanation wins a prize!

Did you know...

2005-05-23T23:27:00.000+02:00

...that in Denmark, they sing a song that has the same melody as "She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain When She Comes," but the lyrics aren't the same? In fact, they're not even close. When translated, they say:

You can have my recumbent bicycle when I die
You can have my recumbent bicycle when I die
You can have my recumbent bicycle, you can have my recumbent bicycle
You can have my recumbent bicycle when I die

See, this is what happens when you live too close to the North Pole.

That's it for now. I'll post some thoughts on the weekend when I get a chance.

What it's all about

2005-05-20T22:58:00.000+02:00

Ok, one more quick post for the moment. Today was one of those days where I sat back and thought to myself, "Now this is why I'm traveling." So I just have to fill you all in.

A little backstory: When Ava and I checked into our hotel in Marrakesh (the infamous Hotel Ali), we started chatting with Chakir, the Moroccan gentleman who showed us our room. He was an affable guy, and he seemed genuinely happy to be showing us around the place. We ran into him several times on subsequent occasions, and he always stopped to chat and see how we were doing. Despite his friendliness, we were pretty surprised when we ran into him yesterday evening and he asked us to come to his house for lunch on Friday (today).

I must admit, my initial reaction was to wonder to myself, "okay, what's the catch?" Sometimes it seems that if anyone in Morocco does anything nice for you, they want something (read: money) in return. So I was a tad bit wary, but it seemed like too unique an opportunity to pass up. In the end, we agreed to meet Chakir today at his home for a traditional Moroccan lunch.

So today, at around 11 AM, we met up with Kamel, another friend of Chakir's who was also staying at Hotel Ali, and caught a cab to the outskirts of Marrakesh. When we arrived at the Mohammed household (where Chakir, his mother, two sisters, two brothers, brother-in-law, and two neices live), we were greeted with the most amazing outpouring of hospitality. We were ushered into the living room where we were served delicious mint tea while Chakir showed us pictures of his friends and family. After a while, his six-year-old neice, Maria, ran in and gave us each a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. When lunch was ready, we were brought upstairs to another sitting room where an incredible lunch spread was laid out. We feasted on fresh salad, bread, potatoes, chicken shish kebabs, and what was quite literally a MOUNTAIN of couscous with a delicious sweet onion and raisin topping (Chakir called this "the couscous of the kings"). Even though we were ridiculously stuffed by the end, we were somehow able to top things off with another round of mint tea and a tasty selection of Moroccan cakes and pastries. Throughout the entire affair, I was just blown away by how nice everyone was, and how they were going out of their way to make us comfortable. Keep in mind that, by this point, we had known Chakir for only about 24 hours!

To me, this entire afternoon was basically a continuous string of magical moments where I felt like I was actually accomplishing what I set out to do: having meaningful exchanges with people of other cultures. Somehow Ava and I were able to connect with this person, whose life has always been so different from ours, and share a few hours of mutual learning and friendship. I know that this will be one of these days that I remember for the rest of my life.

So, what's the next step? Well, as much as I have LOVED Marrakesh, Ava and I have decided that it's time to move on. Tomorrow morning we're leaving on a guided expedition into the heart of Morocco, which will last 3 days and two nights. We're going with a couple of Danish guys that we met a few days ago, and they both seem really cool. Honestly, I have no idea what to expect, but the way things have been going, I can only assume that we'll all have a fantastic time. Hopefully I'll be able to post again when I return, so keep an eye out!

Marrakesh Express

2005-05-19T13:39:00.000+02:00

Alright, just a quick post here because I only have a few moments of internet left and it's really slow. I've actually been in Marrakesh, Morocco for the past two days, and all I can say is: HO...LY...SHIT. I have never seen anything like this in my life. This place is so ridiculously different from anything I have ever seen in the USA, Europe, or anywhere else, for that matter.

Ava (the girl I've been traveling with) and I have been staying in the ancient Medina, the walled "old part" of town. It's so incredible...the roads go in a million directions and wind all over the place, so it's impossible to go anywhere without getting to a little adventure. And there's adventure EVERYWHERE. No matter where you turn, you're confronted with new sights, sounds, and especially smells. We've been learning how to haggle with shopkeepers and fend off the hustlers on the street. We've tried so many new foods and seen so many amazing sights. The past few days have been a bit of a blur and I'm not exactly sure how I ended up here, but I am SO GLAD I did.

As a little sidenote, let me tell you about one of my favorite things about Morocco so far. Anyone who knows me well will definitely agree that I'm bit of an orange juice connoisseur. Well, in Marrakesh's Jamaa el Fna (the Medina's main square) you can get a glass of delicious, fresh-squeezed OJ (they slice and squeeze the oranges right in front of your face) for the bargain basement price of 3 DH (Moroccan dirhams). That's $0.34 USD. At that price, I'll take ten, please.

This is definitely one of those places where words and pictures are just not going to do the actual experience any justice. Maybe it's lame, but I have to say that if you ever want to really get a feel for Morocco, you have to come here for yourself. Trust me, if you are looking for even the slightest taste of adventure, you'll find it here.

Andalucian Dream

2005-05-17T01:15:00.000+02:00

Preface: I held off on posting this entry for a while, thinking I would have a chance to upload pictures. Unfortunately, that chance hasn't happened, so I'm just going to post everything minus the visual element. Hopefully I'll have a chance to upload pictures in the future.

Well, once again I haven´t been doing a very good job of keeping this blog updated. But this time it's with good reason. I've been spending the past week in the Andalucia region of Spain, and the place has been blowing my mind all the while. Of all the Spanish regions, it's probably the most Muslim-influenced (a result of the Moorish conquests from over a millennium ago), which lends it a unique, Arabic flavor. Although Seville is, on paper, the Andalucian capital, many feel that Granada better embodies the spirit of the region. I haven't been to Seville (I hear it's nice, though) so I can't compare the two, but I will say this: Granada is freakin' sweet. Of all the European cities that I've visited so far, it's definitely my favorite. I like the fact that it's a smaller city, and its setting among the Spanish Sierra Nevada mountains is spectacular. When it's sunny (as it is most of the time), the sky is a beatiful royal blue, and the sheer intensity of the light seems to somehow purify the city. The whitewashed houses and villas of the Albaycin and the Sacromonte (the older parts of town) seem to be whiter than white. It's truly a magical atmosphere.

Granada's centerpiece is the majestic Alhambra, which is a 10th century Muslim palace/fortress perched on a hill above the city. My first encounter with it actually happened only a few hours after I arrived. Once I got to the hostel, I met a Texan named Luis. We got to talking, and he asked if I liked hiking which, of course, I do. So he told me about this spot up on one of the hilltops with great views of the Alhambra, and we set off for it right away. It was a weird little hike...we had to scale a few walls and squeeze through a few holes in a chainlink fence in order to get to the ridge, but once we got to the top, the view was well worth it.

Later that night I met up with an American couple and a trio of Germans (who called themselves "The Vikings" for some reason), and we decided to head out for a taste of Granada nightlife. It was night of ups and downs: on the downside, it was a weekday and there weren't many people out at the bars. On the upside, there were promoters all over the streets handing out tickets for free/cheap drinks. It was pretty funny...we'd show up at a bar, have our super-cheap suds, head back into the streets, get stopped by another promoter, and repeat the process at a different bar. I definitely had my fair share of beer and Sangria for the night, and I didn't spend more than 5 euros. Now that's what I call efficiency.

I spent the next day just wandering around the streets of Granada, especially around the Albaycin. It's full of old, traditional Spanish houses, and the streets are narrow and cobbled and ridiculously labrynthine. I got completely lost trying to find the local plaza, but I got there eventually. Also, since I was out during siesta (2-5 PM), the place was practically empty, which gave it a very mysterious feel. I've grown quite fond of getting lost in these old cities, and Granada is definitely one of my top cities to get lost in.

The next day was the day of my up-close visit to the Alhambra. I wasn't sure what to expect...my guidebook only gave a sparse description, garnished with this enticing line: "Much has been written about the Alhambra, but nothing can prepare you for what you will actually see." Well, they were right. First of all, the place is absolutely HUGE: it took me almost six hours to explore every courtyard, garden, and chamber. Second, every nook and cranny is decorated with exquisite stucco work, wood carvings, and marble accents. I can't imagine how many craftsmen and artisans it must have taken to finish the Alhambra. And third, it's an excellent reminder of Spain's Muslim roots. Overall, it was an awe-inspiring and educational experience, to say the least.

The next two days were mainly spent hanging out and preparing for my next adventure in a region called...

LAS ALPUJARRAS!!!

I'm not exactly sure how I first found out about the Alpujarras. It may have been from surfing websites about hiking in Europe, or maybe it was from chatting up a fellow hiker. The fact is, most guidebooks give the Alpujarras only a passing mention, if they mention it at all. But I was seduced enough by the promise of beautiful Mediterranean vistas and tiny, un-touristed villages that I decided to make it a must-do on my visit to Spain.

So what are the Alpujarras? Basically, we're talking about a mountainous region starting about 45 km east of Granada and stretching west to the end of the Rio Trevelez river valley. It's dotted with several small villages which are linked together by a hiking trail called the Gran Recorrido Siete, or GR-7. The idea is that you walk from village to village stopping for lunch at one, taking a siesta at another, staying at a local hostal at another, and so on. For those who have heard of the Italian cinque terre, I get the impression that Las Alpujarras are essentially the cinque terre of Spain.

I started things off with an hour-long bus ride to Lanjaron, which is known for its fountains (which supposedly possess curative powers). Once I arrived, I wandered around town, searching for the point where the GR-7 picked up. Little did I know that this would not be the first time I would have difficulty locating the trail. I think that Spanish hikers must take a more relaxed attituded when it comes to trail markers, especially when compared to New Zealand. A quick stop at the officina de turismo got me on track, though. I started to climb up through the hills, meandering through olive groves, rural neighborhoods, and little shanty towns. The landscape was very arid...mostly dusty and rocky, with scrub brush all over the place and a few random trees (mainly where there was irrigation). The higher I climbed, though, the more majestic the views across the valley became. It was at this point that I realized that this area of Spain has a very Monet landscape: pretty when viewed from afar, but kind of a mess up close.

Anyways, as I was saying, Spanish trails seem to suffer from questionable marking. And when I say "questionable," I mean "ridiculously bad." I can't tell you how many times I came to a fork in the path, where either direction could have been the true trail, and had to flip a coin, take one route by trial and error, and see where it went. I think I got lost at least 20 times just that first day. At one point, I hadn't seen a trail marker for over 20 minutes, and I was basically relying on my pocket compass to keep me going in the right direction. I asked the driver of a passing car for help: "Donde estas Gran Recorrido Siete?" To which he replied, "Oh, I don't know!" Turns out he was an Australian expat, who obviously spoke English. I was able to convey my dilemma to him, and he gave me some directions, but either they were completely wrong or too complex to follow correctly, because I was lost again in a few minutes. Then, I was lucky enough to randomly run into a British couple hiking through the hills. They had just been on a horse trek, and they directed me to the ranch where they assured me there would be English-speaking people who knew the area well. Once I got to the ranch and got straightened out, I realized that I was about 1 km north of the GR-7. Don't ask me how I got so far off the trail...it's really just a testament to Spanish trail marking.

Once I hit the first village along the trail (a tiny hamlet called Canar), things got a lot better. The trail markings improved a little, and I was able to enjoy the views and the ambience of the town. It was really cool walking through these little villages. You could just observe small-town people going about their daily small-town business. I have always felt that, in order to get the true flavor of a country, you have to get out of the big cities and into the rural areas, and this excursion solidified that opinion.

The next town I passed through was called Soportujar. For some reason I had counted on having some lunch here, but I happened to show up in the thick of siesta, so the whole place was shut down. I abandoned any hope of getting some food and pressed on. By the time I got to Pampaneira (where I would spend the first night), I was starving, moderately dehydrated, and completely exhausted. I stumbled around town for a while, trying to find a decent hostal, but I think my brain was too fried. I tried "donde estas un hostal," but even in this small town, the streets were so convoluted that I kept getting turned around. At one point it seemed like half the villagers in the town square were taking it upon themselves to decipher my broken Spanish and get me pointed in the right direction. Once I finally found a place to crash, I flopped down on the bed and went to sleep, too tired even to eat.

So the first day was a day of mishaps, but the second day went considerably more smoothly. I ascended higher and higher into the alta Alpujarra, constantly stopping to admire the views (and take a big swig of water). I eventually made it to the town of Portugos, where I would spend the second night. This place, more than any other in Spain, had me kicking myself for not knowing Spanish. My hostal was situated right above the town pub, and it seemed like half the village's population was hanging out there at any given time. It would have been so cool to sit down, have a beer, and chat up the locals, but nobody spoke any English, and I certainly didn't know enough Spanish to be conversant. I made a pact with myself right there and then that one day I'll return to the Alpujarras, and by that point I will have learned some Spanish, hopefully.

On the third and last day, I walked to the town of Pitres to catch the bus back to Granada. While I was waiting for the bus, I met an American couple, Joel and Karen from Nashville. (They were easy to spot because they were wearing Chaco sandals and drinking from Nalgene water bottles: telltale signs of Americanism). We hit it off and decided to meet up for dinner back in Granada. It was great to have some quality conversations with them, as their perspective was a lot different from the typical members of the European travel circuit. They were about my age, but they had been married for a while and were doing a trip through Spain before Joel started medical school at KU Med (near my old KC stomping grounds). It was nice to have a brief respite from the typical questions that get asked on the travel circuit: where are you from, where have you been, where are you going, and so on.

So that was my week in Andalucia. Despite all the little hitches along the way, I had a GREAT time. I will definitely be coming back here some day. Now the question is, where to next? Well, previously I had been planning on taking the usual route up the Mediterranean coast to Barcelona. But right before I left for the Alpujarras, I met a girl at the hostel who was talking about wanting to go to Morocco, but wanting to have a travel partner to make the trip a bit safer. I figured that Morocco had a nice ring to it (and it's only 14 km from Spain at their closest point), so I told her that if she could wait a few days, I'd go with her once I got back from the mountains. So, in a few hours we'll be riding the bus down to Algeciras, taking a ferry across the Med, and catching an overnight train to Marrakesh. I had no idea that I would be visiting Morocco on this trip but, once again, that's what I love about traveling by the seat of your pants. You can always turn on a dime and head wherever the winds take you. So hopefully I'll be able to churn out another post from the African continent in a few days! Stay tuned!

¡Viva el gran gringo!

2005-05-09T12:58:00.000+02:00

Here's what I love about traveling by the seat of your pants: before I came to Europe, I wasn't really considering coming to Spain. I figured it would be too far out of the way; something I should save for another trip. But while I was in Paris, pondering where to go next, I just thought, "Screw it, Spain sounds nice. I think I'll go." And that was that. If I had planned everything out before I left, there's no way I would have ever made it out here.

Alright, enough advertising for independent travel. As you probably guessed, I'm in Spain at the moment, Madrid to be exact. It's definitely a radical departure from the northern European locales I've been visiting. You can definitely tell that people here are more passionate, and a lot less reserved. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the powerful Mediterranean sun, which has been out in full force for the past several days. The weather has been absolutely beautiful, with blue skies and light breezes, and highs in the low 80s every day. Beats the hell out of Netherlands weather.

Yesterday I started things off with a trip to the Museo del Prado, which has one of Europe's best collections of 16th-19th century paintings, many by Spanish painters (Goya, most notably). It was nice, but I didn't like it as much as the Musee d'Orsay in Paris. A little too much religious art which, as you might imagine, can get pretty repetitive. And a lot of portraits of expressionless, smirking rich people. However, the Prado is also home to Hieronymus Bosch's famous "Garden of Earthly Delights," which was really cool to see. This guy had to be on LSD or something. His depiction of eternal damnation is awfully creative, even a little hilarious. I'll go out on a limb and say that, among paintings depicting flutes up the ass, pig-nuns, and ice skating in hell, this one is probably my favorite. In any case, when I left the museum, all I could say was, "The Prado...bwuaaah." (That one's for you, Colin).

Later that night I decided to go to a Sunday night bullfight with a couple guys from the hostel. Wow...what an experience. It was incredibly visceral from start to finish. Probably the craziest part was watching the picadors on horseback. Basically, they sit atop a horse weilding a long spear, and they turn the horse so that its right side is facing the bull. Apparently this has the same enraging effect as waving a cape, because the bull charges at the horse and hits it straight in the chest, at which point the picador goes in for a jab with the spear. It's nuts...we could hear the impact (a giant THUD) from way up in the cheap seats. The horse wears some sort of armore that prevents it from getting full-on gored, but the force of the blow is so strong that it often gets lifted off its feet, and it has to lean straight into the bull in order to stay upright. I don't know how they could possibly train horses to do this.

I respect the fact that bullfighting is part of the cultural heritage of Spain, but I don't think I could see myself becoming an aficionado. That said, I can definitely see why it is popular. When you have a really good bull and an equally good matador, it's like they fuse together and become one entity. Even when faced with a charging 650 kg bull, every move the matador makes is fluid and graceful. And its a great example of showmanship at its finest...the matador definitely knows how to get the crowd going, and the atmosphere can be electric at times.

Anyways, I'm running out of internet minutes, so I should hit the road. More to come in a few days!

"I'm French. Why do you think I have this outrageous accent?"

2005-05-07T11:55:00.000+02:00

Ah, France. The country Americans love to hate. Despite the fact that it's home to such novel inventions as the croissant, the beret, and a variety of tasty wines and cheeses, it's hard to deny that its reputation among my countrymen isn't so hot. I must admit that, after spending my formative years in a francophobic society, I let all the anti-hype get to me. Indeed, at one point I was considering avoiding France altogether on my European trip. When I mentioned this to my friend Stu, he offered this sobering reminder: "Nate, if you don't go to France, then all those right-wing crazies (who created 'freedom fries' and dumped French wine down the gutter) will have won."

Well, I cerntainly can't have that, so I penciled in a token visit to Paris. And you know what? I liked it quite a bit! I can't say it's my favorite city in the world, but it certainly has its charms and a huge amount of history.

I gave myself three nights in the city, which really is only enough time to see the big-name touristy things. You know, the usual suspects: The Louvre, Musee d'Orsay, Centre Pompidou, Eiffel Tower, Champs d'Elysees, Notre Dame, and so on. I won't go into details on all of them, with a few exceptions:

The Cathedral of Notre Dame: I was genuinely moved by this place. Sure, it's uber-touristy: there was basically a river of people continuously flowing through it. But as I sat down among the pews and gazed up at the stained glass and graceful arches, I couldn't help but think of the incredible sacrifices that must have been made to make it a reality. Back when it was built, survival was still a constant struggle and the spectres of sickness, hunger, and death were never far off. But despite the practical difficulties of simply staying alive, these people built this monument out of faith and reverence. I think that really says something. Maybe I am overly romanticizing things here, but at the very least, I felt connected to the past and recognized the cathedral as a triumph of the human spirit.

The Musee d'Orsay: Of all the big sights in Paris, I was most excited to see this one, mainly because of its extensive collection of impressionist paintings. I'm not exactly sure why, but impressionism has always been, by far, my favorite style. I think it's because the lack of definition, combined with the expressive use of color, allows me to re-create the scene in my imagination in ways that are probably much more beatiful than anything one could find in reality. Anyways, as soon as I got there I made a bee line for the Monet gallery, and I wasn't disappointed. Although all the works on display were great (including the famous "Water Lillies" that everyone knows), I felt most strongly about a lesser-known painting called "Le Givre" ("White Frost"):

To be perfectly honest, the digitized image just doesn't do it justice. You have to see it for yourself. To me, it evokes a sense of peace and tranquility, which is something I generally value very highly in a painting.

I also met some cool people. For my third night, I moved to a hostel in the Montmarte neighborhood, which was really great. Montmarte is the "bohemian" area of town where all the artists and musicians have lived since the mid-1800's, and it just seemed to have a more refined air than central Paris. Anyways, while I was there I hung out with a Canadian named Cleo and an American named Mike. Cleo was basically an itinerant vagabonder, and Mike was a student who, coincidentally, had been to Wash U several times while "on-tour" with his a capella group. We spent the night drinking 3-euro wine (4 bottles...whoops), exchanging "your mom" jokes and listening to music. At one point we were amusing ourselves by "shotgunning" (or, as they say in Canada, according to Cleo, "supering") cigarettes. Don't know what we were thinking there. I was thankful for the hostel's late checkout the next morning.

For my last day in Paris, I left my pack in a locker at the Paris-Austerlitz train station and took a day trip into Versailles. There isn't much I can say about the Versailles palace except this: it's big. I mean really, really big. I guess Louis XIV was looking to create a palace that would symbolize his might and wealth, and he certainly hit a home run in that department. I was especially impressed by the royal gardens. They are frickin' GINORMOUS.

After returning to Paris, I took my first trip on a night train, which I guess is part of the quintessential European travel experience. Oh, I suppose I should mention where the train was going: Madrid. When it wasn't dark outside, the scenery was beautiful. At first I figured I lucked out, because I was in a 4-bed sleeper compartment that was only half full. There were only two unfortunate things about the situation: a) the other guy in the compartment couldn't speak English, and I can't speak French or Spanish, which made for lots of silence, and b) he snored like a chainsaw...no, actually it was more like a jackhammer...well, really it was more like a legion of constipated grizzly bears engaging in paw-to-paw combat, weilding chainsaws and jackhammers. I think he actually takes the snoring trophy from my dad.

So I rolled into Madrid at around 10 this morning, checked into the hostel, and now I'm just going to browse the city a bit. I'll write more when I get the chance. Adios!

Beneluxurious

2005-05-03T11:03:00.000+02:00

So when I last posted, I was still hanging out in Utrecht with Anand, and day-tripping around The Netherlands. Unfortunately, I got smacked with a nasty little head cold that kept me from getting any more ambitious than that. Still, we were determined to press on and take part in the Queen's Night festivities on Friday. The Netherlands is (are?) governed by a constitutional monarchy and, as I mentioned earlier, Queen's Night is a celebration of the queen's birthday. The Dutch commemorate this event in the following ways:

Wearing bright orange clothing (the official Royal color)
Selling all their unwanted junk on the street in what may be the world's biggest and wackiest yard sale
Getting absolutely hammered

Walking through the streets during all this craziness was quite the experience. I spent several minutes haggling with a yard-saler who was trying to sell me an orange Jaegermeister-logo wristband. I wasn't interested at first, but he was really working hard to close the sale, and I appreciated his persistence. And I wanted some orange clothing to make me cool like everybody else. So I worked him down to 40 euro-cents apiece, and bought one for Anand and myself. I think it was a pretty good deal, because not only is this Jaegermeister wristband absurdly stylish, but it also doubles as a good iPod protector. Anand bought us some black market Heineken to celebrate a deal well done.

We also got a healthy dose of Americana that night. In one of the squares, some Christian evangelical organization had set up a stage of sorts and was doing an old-school tent revival. I wouldn't think twice about seeing something like this in the States, but in The Netherlands? I was surprised, needless to say. Anyways, the head preacher-guy would sing and shout the typical phrases, and a Dutch guy next to him would translate for the crowd. "Jesus Christ is risen!" "Jesus Krijst op roosijn!" "He is our savior!" "Het op oor saavdijks!" (Note: the Dutch translations I have written may or may not be grammatically correct. In fact, they may not be Dutch at all!)

Anyways, it was a fine way to wrap things up in The Netherlands. The next day, I hopped on the train to Antwerp, Belgium. This city really surprised me. I wasn't originally planning on going, but I couldn't find a decent Brussels hostel for that night, so I decided to give it a try. As it turns out, Antwerp (or at least what little I saw of it) is a beautiful town, with plenty of quaint cafes to hang out at and lots of picturesque cobbled streets and alleyways to get lost in. I'm glad I went.

After Antwerp it was on to Brussels, the so-called "capital of Europe." I wasn't as impressed with Brussels as I was with Antwerp. The main square and gardens were beautiful, but I got the impression that, just below the surface, it was really mostly a working town. All the glass-and-steel skyscrapers reinforced this. I spent most of my time wandering the town with an American named Mike, who despite his somewhat high-strung, semi-paranoid attitude ("I left a book and my toiletries sitting on my bed...anyone could steal them!") was a pretty fun guy. We logged plenty of miles exploring the city, including a trip to the quirky Atomium, which is essentially a 10- story steel representation of a molecule. I'm not sure what it's there for. It was actually undergoing renovation at the time so we couldn't go up in it, but we figured we had to see it after reading the brochure: "Come see the renovation!" That was the first time I ever saw someone touting the fact that an attraction was closed for repairs.

Well, I'm a little behind on my blogging at the moment; I'm actually finishing up my visit to Paris at the moment! I'll write about that when I get the chance. Au revoir!

Random Thoughts on The Netherlands

2005-04-28T18:59:00.000+02:00

Nothing earth-shattering to post at the moment, but I've been having some random thoughts about my Netherlands experience that I wanted to get out into the open:

*I had some vla today. "What's vla," you ask? Damned if I know, although it may be a dairy product. I initially came across it at the Albert Heijn grocery store whilst trying to find some decent yogurt to eat (a surprisingly difficult task, for some reason). I asked Anand about it, to which he replied, "I dunno, I never eat the stuff. How could you eat something called 'vla'?" Good question, but my curiosity got the better of me and today I grabbed a carton of vla off the shelf, right next to the equally-mysterious "quark." I am happy to report that vla seems to be edible. I would basically describe it as pudding, but in a thinner in-between phase that makes you wonder whether you should be drinking it, spooning it, or injecting it. Vla tastes pretty good overall. For a moment, I thought I might be able to make my millions by importing it to the States, where it would be voraciously consumed by legions of eager vla-fans (vlans?). This thought was promptly abandoned in light of another of Anand's observations: "I don't think vla would ever be approved by the FDA." Touché.

*From the "ha ha your language sounds funny" file: Today I saw a booth at a street carnival (in honor of Queen's Day, previously mentioned), with a brightly-lit marquee that said "Power Polyp" and "Cash Box" on alternating sides. I have no idea what this meant, especially considering the mystifying usage of the word "polyp." Since I have an overactive imagination, I decided that Power Polyp and Cash Box are a Dutch crime-fighting superhero duo. Criminals beware...or face the awesome fury of the Polyps of Power, and/or be crushed under the suffocating weight of the Cash Box!

*Yesterday I took a day-trip into Leiden. On the train ride back, I noticed some graffiti with an unmistakeable message: "DEAM." I saw it repeated several times. "DEAM DEAM DEAM DEAM." Perhaps I have a long-lost graffiti artist relative? I don't think so. Rather, I believe it was simply an expression of Dutch hospitality.

*I came across another weird sight in Leiden. Resting outside a camping/outdoors store was an exact replica of my backpack, only about five times larger. A large midget would have fit quite nicely in the main compartment. I figure a pack of this size would be useful for two types of people:

Those who often tote midgets around on their back for work or leisure
Lee Roth

The pack in question:

*For whatever reason, the Dutch seem to be incredibly trendy and fashion-conscious. I've never seen so many knee-high leather boots, sportcoats, and salon-quality hairstyles, and I've never felt like such a damned bum in comparison. Nobody else wears cargo pants or similar backpacker attire. Where are all the unkempt sociopaths and counterculture wierdos? I need these people to provide the suitably low standard by which my own appearance is judged.

Sensitive Euro-Man

2005-04-26T13:54:00.000+02:00

Ah, my first post from the European mainland. I've been spending the past several days making day-trips out of Utrecht, my unofficial base of operations for The Netherlands. Major props definitely go out to my friend Anand, who is studying at Universiteit Utrecht, for providing me with shelter (against his better judgment, I'm sure). Utrecht itself is a nice place...I'm glad I'm staying here rather than in the midst of the typical Amsterdam chaos. Here are some pics I took during my explorations:

As Anand and I were walking through the center of Utrecht, he paused and said, "wait until you see what's behind that bus." As the city bus continued along its route, I was confronted with one of the most shocking visions of my life. Yes, my worst fears had been realized: the infamous "Wash U Bunny" had followed me to Utrecht:

Here we came across a small plaza where an animal rights group had set up a protest against animal testing. According to them, some unnamed American organization was performing cruel chemical tests on dogs to "prove that smoking is unhealthy." Sounds suspect, but we signed the petition anyway because we are mindless drones. Even so, I'm not sure if their protest was working, because the only message I took away from this display was, "smoking can kill you, unless you are a cute little puppy dog, in which case it makes you unspeakably cool (and photogenic)."

The cool thing about the canals in Utrecht is that they have room for sitting and walking right at the canal level, and many restaurants and cafes serve food and drinks right at the canal's edge. While we were sitting down there having a snack, we witnessed a Dutch guy come idling by in a small motorboat. After a quick cellphone call, he produced a bottle of wine and some snacks, picked up an attractive woman from the dock, and sped away with a look of smug satisfaction on his face. Damn, that guy was smooth.

The tower of the Domkerk which, at just over 100m, is the highest in The Netherlands. Although Utrecht wins the award for "highest church tower," Amsterdam trumps all with its "highest citizenry" card.

City scenes from the top of the Domkerk:

The other part of the Domkerk. The tower and the main part of the church actually used to be connected (you can see evidence of that from the photo). Unfortunately, due to budget shortages, the middle section did not get the full flying buttress treatment, ultimately resulting in it being leveled in a big storm a few hundred years ago. Shoddy church construction makes baby Jesus cry!

Me on top of the Domkerk:

And now, the topic you've all been waiting for: Amsterdam! What can I say...it's one hell of a city. You have to understand, though, that I am presented with a dilemma when blogging about Amsterdam. See, this blog has been aproved for general audiences and Amsterdam, well, hasn't. But you can't visit this city and focus solely on the museums and churches...to do so would be to deny the very "uniqueness" that makes it especially compelling as a destination.

So, I've decided not to write about it. As much as I like to keep you all in the loop, I can't just go around handing out full-access passes to my life. Plus, I have keep up my brooding, mysterious persona. And that's all I have to say about that.

Anyways, I've got about 4 days left in The Netherlands, after which I'll be heading to beautiful, bustling, bombastic...Belgium! At this point it looks like I'll probably spend a night in Antwerp and two in Brussels, with a day-trip to Brugges. In the meantime, I plan on doing a couple day-trips out of Utrecht, with Rotterdam and Leiden being probable candidates. I'll be finishing things up on Friday night with the big "Queen's Night" celebration (it's a big blow-out in honor of the queen's birthday), so I should have some more material to write about in a few days. Adios!

But wait, there's more!

2005-04-20T07:42:00.000+02:00

I realized the other day that I haven't been doing a very good job of filling my blog readership in on my long-term travel plans. It seems like a lot of you were under the impression that New Zealand was the end of the line. Take my friend Steve, for example. When I called him up and told him that I would be in town for a week before leaving for Amsterdam, he simply said, "What?!?!?" After I explained my European travel plans to him, he followed up with, "Damn, you're a bastard!"

So, for those of you who aren't in the inner sanctum of the Nate Deam Cult of Personality, I will fill you in. I am going to Europe, in about 6 hours, actually. I have a one-way ticket to Amsterdam, where I will be meeting up with my college friend Anand. All I know at this point is that I'll be hanging around Amsterdam for a little over a week. After that, who knows? When you're the Universal Traveler, you can handle that kind of ambiguity.

When you hear from me next, I'll be in The Netherlands. In the meantime, I have some minor details (such as packing) to attend to, so I'm going to have to cut this post short. Keep in touch!

The Honeymoon Is Over

2005-04-20T06:02:00.000+02:00

Well, let's see. It's been two weeks since my last post. My bad, folks. To the many members of the Nate Dogg Cult of Personality (aka, my blog readership), I issue my sincerest apologies. However, you have to understand that this is all part of what I like to call "The Blog Lifecycle." I developed this theory through detailed observation of other blogs and, sure enough, Universal Traveler is following the same pattern. The progression of The Blog Lifecycle usually goes something like this:

Someone thinks to him or herself, "Hey, I have a pretty interesting life. I bet my friends and family are dying to know who I saw a movie with last night, why I love tofu, what things really, really irritate me, and how I like to procrastinate when I should be studying/working instead. I should start a blog!" Said person becomes a "blogger."
Blogger creates blog, writes an awkward, stream-of-consciousness first post about how they "can't believe they are doing this," or how they're "jumping on the bandwagon."
After a few posts, the blogger suddenly realizes he/she has nothing important to say. The blog enters a stagnant period. Statistics indicate that 95% of all blogs are abandoned at this point (Source: The American Blogging Consortium [ABC]).
If the blogger is part of the other 5%, he/she unleashes a flurry of posts. This stage, when the blogger gets in touch with his/her muse, is known as "The Honeymoon."
After the initial rush of creativity subsides, the blog again begins to stagnate. The honeymoon has come to an end. During this period, bloggers may feel that "things are moving too fast," and often express a desire to "take a break" or "see other blogs."
Eventually, blogger and blog patch up their differences, and the period of disunity ends. Blogger continues to post until he/she a) becomes bored and/or burnt out, b) realizes nobody is reading anymore, or c) meets an untimely demise in a freak accident involving a Sno-Cone machine and a dancing bear named Clarence.

I think that, for Universal Traveler, the honeymoon was pretty much all of New Zealand. Now the honeymoon is over. I've spent the past two weeks soul-searching and ruminating, pondering what the future holds for my blog and me. Well, I am happy to report that this introspective period was just what I needed. My blog and I are back together and stronger than ever! From here on out, it's nothing but sunshine, lollipops, and posts by the score! Chim-chim-cheree!

Alright, now that I've met my bullshit quota, I'll briefly fill everyone in on what's been going on for the past two weeks. When I last posted, I was still in Nelson, about to fly back to Auckland for one last fling before my flight back to the States. Well, after getting to Auckland, I jumped on a bus and headed straight up to Paihia, which is a resort-ish town on the Bay of Islands, about 3.5 hours north of Auckland. I didn't have any big plans for my time here, other than to relax and enjoy my last days in the Land of the Long White Cloud.

And that's exactly what I did. On my first full day in Paihia, I went for a day-sail on the R. Tucker Thompson, a replica of a classic 19th-century tallship. We were fortunate enough to have steady winds that day, allowing us to raise all the sails and cruise around the bay in relative silence. This is in contrast to the majority of the Bay of Islands cruise operations, which zoom around in motor boats, each one making a stop at the hallowed "Hole in the Rock" (yes, it's just a big hole in an even bigger rock, but you can ride a boat through the hole, which somehow bowls people over). Anyways, it was a very relaxing way to spend an afternoon, and a good way to take a look around the bay.

Well, that first day was definitely the most ambitious of the five or six (who's counting?) I spent in Paihia. The rest of the time, I indulged in the time-honored backpacking tradition known as "hanging out." I was fortunate to meet a great group of people at my hostel, many of whom were also getting ready to fly out of New Zealand. Each morning we would wake up and tuck into the *FREE* breakfast provided by the hostel, following it up with extended periods of lounging, chatting, wandering, and card-playing. We played an obscene number of rounds of a card game called "Shithead," which seems to be popular on the NZ backpacker circuit. If anyone is curious I'd be happy to explain the rules, but at its most basic level, Shithead can be described as follows:

In Shithead, there are no winners...only shitheads.
MILO® is the official beverage of Shithead.

It used to be that the essence of Shithead could be distilled down to a single rule, but, for reasons to complex to describe here, I added the second one.

Anyways, I won't bore you with the details of the rest of my stay in Paihia, because not much happened. And that's exactly how I wanted it. I flew back to the States on the 13th, and honestly, not a whole lot is happening here, either, with one exception. There is a new member of the Deam family. His name is Karl, and he's a Standard Poodle puppy. Here's a pic for you to gush over:

I am an artist!

2005-04-06T02:00:00.000+02:00

Once more, I find myself maxin' and relaxin' in the town of Nelson. Yesterday evening I got back from hiking in Abel Tasman National Park, which can be summed up in one word: beaches. They're the reason that so many people come to the park, and understandably so. Long, arcing strips of golden sand next to clear blue water...what's not to like? Here are a few pics:

Yes, the beaches were great, but the walk was actually a pretty bizarre experience, for a variety of reasons:

First, for a national park, Abel Tasman seems a little too developed for my tastes. During the walk, I came across a variety of holiday homes, lodges, and other buildings...even an airstrip! The wierdest point was when I came across the posh Awaroa Lodge and Cafe. It's right next to the track, so you can't miss it. Just to be different, I decided to have a quick snack at the cafe. So one minute I was sweating my ass off, lugging a pack through native bush, and the next minute I was lounging under a patio umbrella sipping a capuccino and nibbling on a croissant. Sure, I realize that Abel Tasman National Park is not a wilderness by any means, but this was just over the top.

The Awaroa Lodge and Cafe:

Second, since a) the Abel Tasman Coastal Track is a Great Walk and b) I am a cheap bastard, I decided to camp rather than stay in the overpriced huts, which led to some interesting encounters. The first night I camped at the Bark Bay campsite, which was actually quite nice. I arrived right as it was getting dark, so I quickly pitched my tent, cooked dinner, and got ready to turn in for the night. See, right now in NZ the sun goes down around 8:00, and since most campers don't have campfires or lanterns to provide light in lieu of the sun, they just go to bed when it gets dark. So it's almost like regressing to childhood, when bedtime was at 9:00. Anyways, there was a nearby group of garrulous English kayakers that decided to make their presence known to the entire campsite long after sundown. Apparently they were all keen on spotting a possum (though I'm not sure why...there are reportedly 70 million of the buggers in NZ), and when they did, they all squealed with delight and made quite a commotion. But that wasn't the end of it. They were the only group in the campground that decided to have a campfire, and they were determined to keep it going long into the evening. However, rather than collecting all the firewood they'd need before dark, they made periodic excursions to the wood pile (right next to my tent) to chop wood as needed. The last time they woke me up with their chopping was around 11:30 PM...WAY too late to be making all that noise. And it wasn't just one guy doing the chopping, either. They'd go over in groups of three or four: one to chop the wood, and a few extra to provide moral support. So you'd hear the WHACK of the axe, followed loudly by, "Whoooo! Bloody good chop, mate!" and "That's the ticket!" and "You've almost split it! Give it one more good blow!" Bloody poms!

On the second night, I camped at Mutton Cove, which was far less rowdy: there was only one other tent at the site, occupied by a relatively sedate Dutch couple. But this night, as it turns out, it would be Mother Nature giving me problems rather than other people. It started right after dark when I was snuggling into my sleeping bag. I was trying to fall asleep when I heard a faint rustle outside my tent. I ignored it at first, but the noise just got more and more persistent. Finally, I grabbed my headlamp and shined it around, just in time to catch the sight of a tiny mouse darting into the darkness. "Alright," I thought, "just a little mouse. I'll just make a lot of noise and scare him away." So I flailed around for a bit, slapping the ground and shaking the tent. Satisfied that I had given him a good fright, I settled back into bed. But 30 seconds later, he was back. I repeated the noise-making ritual a few times, but each time the mouse came back. Finally, I decided that I needed to get some sleep, so I would just forget about the mouse, let him do his thing, and go to bed, which I did. When I woke up in the morning, the first thing I did was look around the tent for evidence of the mouse. I didn't see any holes, and all my food was sitting right where I left it. "Ha," I thought, "looks like you gave up, Mr. Mouse. I win!" I realized I had spoken too soon when I reached for my bag of instant oatmeal, only to dump most of it in my lap through a hole in the bag. Turns out that the mouse had crawled under the tent, directly below my oatmeal, chewed a hole up through the groundcloth and into the bag, and stuffed himself on what would have been my breakfast. I couldn't believe it. I had set my food about one foot away from my head. Thinking that the mouse would be at the periphery of my tent, I had been swatting around at the edges, when in actuallity, he was right next to me...practically UNDER me! This mouse had some serious chutzpah. Actually, if he happens to be reading this post, I have a message for him: To the Mouse of Mutton Cove--You just made the mistake of your life. You messed with the wrong camper, buddy. Enjoy your victory while it lasts, because while you may have won the battle, the war is FAR from over. One day I will return, and when I do, I will destroy you. Consider yourself marked for death.

Ahem.

Anyways, to sum up Abel Tasman National Park: beautiful beaches, lots of wierdness. I thought that the wierdness would be over once I hopped on the bus and got back to Nelson, but I was seriously mistaken. I went back to the Tramper's Rest hostel, where I had a couple more nights booked. The crowd there was pretty much the same, except for the addition of a new guest, a German guy named Marcus. I could tell right away that there was something about him that was a little, well, "off." He was sitting at the kitchen table with the phone, having a heating argument with his mother (whom he referred to as "mama"). I found out later that he had been hogging the phone (the only line in the house, and the same one that Alan, the owner, uses to take bookings) for well over an hour. Alan kept telling him to wrap things up, and he would just nod and keep talking. When he finally hung up, Alan had to lecture him about not taking advantage of his hospitality and so on. Perhaps as a form of apology, Marcus offered to sleep outside on the patio (???). So I figured that he was just rude at first, maybe a little socially awkward. But then I overheard him having a conversation with Simon, one of the other guests. He was saying stuff like "I can see from your hands that you are reading my mind," and "some people say I am crazy, but I'm not crazy...just wierd." Uh, okay. I went to bed and had an uneventful sleep, due to the fact that I had earplugs in all night. When I took them out in the morning, the first thing I heard was a bizarre grunting/screaming combination. I could tell that it was Marcus. At first, I thought that maybe he was still sleeping and having a nightmare. Then Alan opened the door and said to me and Simon, "you'd better get dressed, the police are on their way." Apparently Marcus was going bat-shit crazy. When I peeked out into the hallway, I saw him in the kitchen, in some sort of kung fu pose, shouting and glancing around suspiciously. Clearly, the Marcus situation was getting out of hand. I got dressed and went out to the front porch, where I could make a quick getaway if needed. Marcus had cornered Alan in the kitchen and was doing his grunting/screaming theatrics. When the police finally arrived, they tried talking to Marcus, but he was still going on with his kung fu shit and acting generally crazy, so they ended up tackling him, cuffing his hands, and zip-tying his ankles. By this point he was saying some seriously bizarre shit: "Alan, you are not my father. I am your father and you are my son." "Do you want to see me do my haka? Go away, you haka! Go away!" And he kept on saying, "I am an artist! I am red! I am an artist!" Every once in a while he seemed to have a moment of clarity, saying stuff like, "Okay, stop. I am just Marcus." But these moments were short-lived, and he'd go right back to shouting incomprehensibly and writhing around on the ground. Eventually the police hauled him out to their squad car and drove away.

After that debacle, Alan gave us all a little back story on the "Marcus situation." Apparently, he had been to Tramper's Rest a few months before, with his girlfriend, and was relatively normal at the time. Alan learned that he had some sort of mental illness and was taking medication for it. A week or so ago, Alan received an email saying that Marcus had "gone missing" and stopped taking his medication, and that he was supposed to be brought back to the care of a family friend in Christchurch. So when Marcus showed up yesterday night, Alan figured he would try to get him back to Christchurch without involving the authorities. And it appeared that everything would work out, until Marcus started his grunting/shouting routine at about 2 AM (which I didn't hear, since I was wearing earplugs). Apparently he was in the bathroom taking a shower and doing a lot of yelling. One of the other guests knocked on the door to see if he was okay, at which point Marcus opened the door (buck naked), handed the soap to the guest, closed the door again, and did some more kung fu posing. So it was clear at that point that it would not be a normal night. I guess Alan stayed up with Marcus all night long, trying to keep him under control, until he realized that things were getting out of hand and the police had to be called.

Whew. So, that was the wierdness that was. I am expecting the next few days to be low-key, though. Tomorrow I am flying from Nelson to Auckland, where I will catch a bus up to the Bay of Islands, my last major destination in New Zealand. Since I have less than a week left here, I think I'll save my next update for after I get home to the States. See you all later!

WEST SIIIIIIDE!!!

2005-04-02T06:59:00.000+02:00

At the moment, I'm relaxing in Nelson after finishing my trip up the South Island's remote West Coast region. It was a bittersweet journey...the scenery, as you would expect, was beautiful, but it was also my first major trip without Blue Steel. It took some adjustment to get used to bus travel, but it's still pretty easy in the end.

Initially, though, I thought I'd try to circumvent the whole bus process entirely and travel on the cheap by hitching. The idea was sound in theory, but it was a different story in practice. The West Coast, I found out, is notorious for poor hitching conditions, mainly because so little car traffic goes through there. The road wasn't even completed until the 1960s! On top of that, I was trying to hitch from Wanaka to Makarora on Easter Sunday, and I don't think the holiday influence helped any. I was able to get a lift about 15 minutes north to Lake Hawea, where I thought I might be able to thumb a ride further north. Unfortunately, it seemed that just about every northbound car on that road was headed for Lake Hawea...most of them had boats in tow. After standing by the side of the road for a few hours, I gave up and walked about 15 km back to Wanaka to regroup and buy a bus ticket. It turned out to be a nice walk, though. It's amazing what you miss when you speed by places in a car...unique and quirky homes, scenes of families enjoying the holiday together and whatnot.

I decided to skip Makarora and head straight up to the glaciers. NZ has two major glaciers: Fox and Franz Josef. I chose to check out Franz Josef, mainly because it had a more developed village (based almost entirely on tourism) to entertain me if the weather was bad. Luckily, the weather, while not perfect, was good enough for me to do a full day guided glacier hike. I was debating whether or not to go out on the glacier at all...how much fun can walking around on a huge hunk of ice be in the first place?

Quite a lot, it turns out. Dayle, our guide, was able to take us about halfway up the front face of the glacier, which was full of impressive ice formations. I was amazed at his skill with the ice axe: occasionally we'd end up in a crevice that I thought looked totally unnavigable, but, with a few swings of the axe, he'd carve a set of expertly-placed steps to get us into the next gully. Here are a few pics from the expedition:

Looking down into the valley carved by Franz Josef glacier:

Sneaking through an ice tunnel:

Dayle carving his way through a hallway of ice:

Another shot of Dayle to provide a sense of scale...these were some big ice formations!:

Peering out through a hole in the ice:

Throughout the glacier walk, a recurring thought kept popping into my head: "There is no way these trips could ever happen in the USA." While we were never in mortal danger, we were often in pretty precarious situations where a false step could lead to a sprained ankle, twisted knee, or broken wrist. Dayle mentioned that the guiding company has to do several medevac trips each month. And, in a particularly sobering reminder of the danger lurking in the glaciers, someone on an ice climbing tour had died on the glacier about two weeks earlier. Apparently he got tangled up in his crampon straps and fell into a deep, narrow crevice. Not good. Of course, all this adds up to paint a legally infeasible picture that would prevent a company from ever offering such trips in the overly litigious USA.

Anyways, after "doing" Franz Josef glacier, I hopped on the bus and headed up to Punakaiki, home of the famous "pancake rocks," which are stratified and eroded in such a way as to make them appear somewhat like stacks of flapjacks:

I wasn't really in Punakaiki to see the pancake rocks, though. My main reason for going there was to hike the Inland Pack Track, which used to be a route used by gold miners in the 1860s to avoid the rugged coast. The highlight of the hike was the section through the Dilemma Creek gorge, where the track and the creek become one. I hiked along the creekbed, surrounded by towering limestone cliffs and exotic-looking native vegetation. To avoid deep pools, I had to ford the creek about 40 times and I got totally soaked from the knee down. No big deal, though. I suppose that's the nice thing about having mucked around on Stewart Island previously: all other discomforts seem tame in comparison to that kind of bog-bashing.

The other nice thing about the track is that you get to camp out under a massive limestone overhang called "The Ballroom," which is 20 meters high at its highest point:

When I first showed up, I had the place all to myself, and it stayed like that for several hours. Later on, though, I heard some rustling sounds in the bush and saw someone emerge into the clearing. "Oh well," I thought, "there's plenty of space under here for two." But then another hiker appeared. And another. And another. It turns out that certain hiking tour companies like to take groups to The Ballroom because it seems adventurous (even though it's only a two-hour hike from the highway). So I shared the spot with 10 other hikers and their guide. It was actually pretty nice to hang out with the group. I spent a while talking to an English guy who surprised my by his knowledge of Garrison Keillor...I had no idea that he had appeal outside of the Midwest, much less the entire country! I don't think the Englishman was fully able to appreciate the Minnesotan/Lutheran/Norwegian humor, though.

The next day I hiked out to the parking lot, where I had arranged for the bus to Nelson to pick me up. It was over an hour late, though, and on top of that, there were sandflies all over the place. So I spent a good hour or so wandering around the parking lot, pacing back and forth to keep the sandflies off. I'm sure I must have appeared completely insane to the other tourists who came by.

Which brings me to Nelson. I've been staying at a great little hostel called "Tramper's Rest," which seemed appropriate for me because, well, I'm a tramper and I could use some rest. Tomorrow I plan on starting the Abel Tasman Coastal Track, which will probably be my last hike in NZ. Kinda sad, but it should be beautiful, at least. Look for an update in a few days when I get back to Nelson.

The Never-Ending Superultramegapost From Hell

2005-03-25T04:56:00.000+01:00

As some of you (i.e., my mom) may have noticed, it has been a long time since I updated the ol' blog. My apologies to all of you...it's been a very busy and eventful week and a half. Since I have kept you in the dark for so long, I've decided to satisfy your Universal appetites by bringing you up to speed with THE NEVER-ENDING SUPERULTRAMEGAPOST FROM HELL!!!

So...when I left off I had just finished my kayak trip on Doubful Sound. I think I covered that pretty well in my last post, but pictures were conspicuously absent. Well, I actually didn't take too many pictures on the trip (it was drizzling most of the time and I was too busy paddling), but here's what I have. These two pics were taken from the shore of our campsite on Hall Arm after the first day of paddling. I think they capture the overall feel of Doubtful Sound pretty well:

After finishing the kayak trip and hanging around in Te Anau for a while, I set off to walk the Kepler Track, one of New Zealand's nine so-called "Great Walks." In general, I think the "Great Walks" term is more of a DOC marketing device than an actual indicator of the quality of the track. You can often see scenery that is just as beautiful on less well-known tracks, but the Great Walks usually feature well-groomed trails and hostel-like huts with gas cookers and flush toilets, which make them prime targets for tourists that don't usually go hiking. An unfortunate side effect of these posh amenities is the cost of walking the track...it actually costs more to stay in a hut on the Kepler Track than it would to stay in a hostel! I took issue with this, so I devised a plan to hike the track in such a way that I would not have to stay in any of the expensive Great Walk huts. This turned out to be one of the best decisions I've made in a long time.

I started by combining the first two days of the hike into one, creating an exhausting 10-hour day. I set off walking at sunrise to make the most of the daylight. At the time, Lake Te Anau was shrouded in a thick fog, making for a cool and refreshing early-morning stroll. I walked along the lake for a few hours and then began to climb the grade leading up to Mt. Luxmore. As I gained alititude, I was able to get above the fog, and once the bush thinned out I was treated to gorgeous views of Cloud Land:

I continued along the track, stopping briefly at the Luxmore Hut for lunch. By this time the track had reached the sub-alpine level, and the landscape was covered with scrub and grassy tussocks:

For a little side trip, I ditched my pack and scrambled up to the summit of Mt. Luxmore. Here is a photo of the trig station at the top. You can see Lake Te Anau in the background:

I trekked through the sub-alpine zone, admiring the panoramic views, fresh air, and tranquility. After a long day (and what seemed like a million switchbacks), I descended into the Iris Burn Valley and camped next to the Iris Burn hut. The valley was damp and misty the following morning:

I spent the day hiking alongside the river. In contrast to the dry sub-alpine environment of the previous day, the valley was lush and green. In this picture, I came across what seemed to be a sea of ferns:

Eventually I came to the Shallow Bay hut on Lake Manapouri, where I would spend the second night. Shallow Bay turned out to be, by no small margin, the best feature of this track. The beach there was clean, quiet, secluded, and peaceful, and the weather was absoultely perfect. Scarcely a cloud in the sky, and nary a breeze to disturb the clear, cold water:

Later that evening, I caught a great sunset on the shores of Lake Manapouri:

I spent the night in the six-bunk Shallow Bay hut, which seemed plenty quaint:

However, a terrible secret was revealed to me at about 9:30 that night: the Shallow Bay hut has a serious mosquito problem. They came out just as I was nestling into my sleeping bag, and they would leave not even the smallest bit of exposed skin unpunctured. I ended up having to sleep with my head under the covers of the sleeping bag...not very comfortable.

Thankfully, I survived the night, and the following day was looking just as beautiful as the one before. Since I was in no hurry, and it was so pretty and peaceful there, I decided to spend another day just hanging around Shallow Bay. And since I had my tent with me, I was able to set that up to provide protection from the "mozzies:"

After another beautiful day (and night) at Shallow Bay, I finished the track and headed back to Te Anau to recharge. I spent a couple of days with Kelly and Nadja, travelers from The Netherlands and Germany, respectively. Since I was the youngest in the group (I'm 24, Nadja was 26, and Kelly was in her 30's), they took to calling me "Benjamin." I'm not sure why Europeans use this term for young people, but they certainly got a kick out of it.

Anyways, after hanging out in Te Anau for a couple days, I was eager to get out for a bit. So I decided that I would take the 3-hour round trip drive up to Milford Sound on the infamous Milford Road. Thus began the chapter in my story that I like to call:

THE SOUND AND THE FURY

The drive itself up to Milford Sound is pretty spectacular itself, so I was making plenty of stops to get out, take in the views, and snap a few photos. Here's one I took just before I plunged into the stygian depths of the Homer Tunnel:

(Note: The fact that some random guy's ass is prominently featured in the photo is an accident...AN ACCIDENT!!!)

Anywho, I was starting to notice that when Blue Steel would slow down and start to idle, the engine would bog down just a little. I didn't think anything of it at first. Unfortunately, the symptom was brought to the forefront of my attention when, as I turned into the parking lot at The Chasm, about 20 km from Milford Sound, the car stalled. Not good. I coasted into the lot and tried to restart the engine, to no avail. REALLY not good. Eventually I gave up and had to push the car into a parking spot. I was scratching my head trying to figure out what was going wrong. There was plenty of gas, plenty of oil, and everything under the hood seemed to be in its right place. But still she would not start. I was slowly getting used to the idea that I might not be driving back to Te Anau in my own car. Luckily, a sympathetic English couple offered to give me a ride back into town so I could talk to a mechanic.

To make a long story short, Blue Steel got towed all the way back to Te Anau, where the mechanic diagnosed the problem as distributor trouble. Apparently the distributor coil had blown. But no problem: he would just order a new coil, install it, and then I'd be good as gold. It was going to take a few days, though, so rather than sit around Te Anau and twiddle my thumbs, I decided to head out on another trek through Mt. Aspiring National Park.

My plan was to start at The Divide, just off the Milford Road, and link up the Greenstone and Caples tracks with a steep climb over Steele Saddle along the Steele Creek Route. In the morning, I caught a ride up to The Divide with a group of Milford sightseers and started off through the beautiful Greenstone Valley:

After two days in the Greenstone Valley, I began the 10-hour hike up to Steele Saddle. The Steele Creek Route was especially challenging because it's a route instead of a track. This means that there is no defined trail to follow, only trail markers...it's up to you to find the best route between markers. I will admit that I got a bit lost a few times...at one point I even missed a forest re-entry that was marked with three cairns and two blazes. Duh. Anyways, it got to be extremely tough going once I got above the bushline, as the landscape was covered with scrub brush and tussocks that I literally had to force my way through. It's a good thing I had gaiters on hand, or my legs would have been scratched to hell.

I took this picture as I was nearing the saddle and trying desperately to force my way through all that scrub brush. Steele Creek is in the lower left:

This is a shot from the top of Steele Saddle, looking back along the route towards the Greenstone Valley. It was a long hike!:

Me, triumphant after my conquest of Steele Saddle:

The route down the other side of the Saddle was ridiculously steep, and my knees took a pretty good beating. I couldn't believe that people actually tackled this route in the other direction! Eventually I made it down to the Upper Caples hut, where I relaxed and recuperated for one last day of hiking.

On the last day I made my way over McKellar Saddle and back to The Divide. Two sub-alpine saddles in two days...not too shabby! I was really tired by this point, though, so the trek was a bit of a chore. I was relieved to make it back to the parking lot, where I hitched a ride back to Te Anau with a geophysicist from Denver. Apparently he was in New Zealand to go on caving expeditions, a hobby of his. And here's another one for the "it's a small world" file: I found out he went to University City High School, which isn't more than a couple of minutes from Wash U!

He dropped me off at the service station in Te Anau so I could pick up Blue Steel and head back to the hostel. However, I was in for a bit of a shock. I walked into the garage and said "I'm the owner of the blue Honda Civic," and the mechanic sort of shuddered. Not a good sign. The conversation that followed went something like this:

"Is everything was alright with the car?"
"No. Did you enjoy your walk?"
"Yeah, it was great."
"That's good, because you might be doing a lot more walking."
"Uh oh. What's the matter?"
"Well, this car has never had regular oil changes, so there's wear all along the cam shaft and cylinder head, which caused the cam shaft to seize, which caused the pulley gear to slip on its axis, which threw off the engine timing and blew the distributor coil."
"Okay...so what are my options?"
"Well, professionally, I shouldn't even put the engine back together in this condition, but I could order a new pulley gear and try to polish the camshaft and cylinder head, but I wouldn't guarantee the car to drive more than 5 feet in that condition. To replace the camshaft and cylinder head would cost more than the car is worth."
"What's the other option?"
"We can charge you $80 to dump the car for you."
"Uh, alright. So what you're saying is there are no good options?"
"Exactly."

I'm not sure why, but at this point I recalled an old Star Trek episode, where Captain Kirk learns of the death of one of his extraterrestrial love interests. Of course, you have Dr. "Bones" McCoy there with his standard blunt delivery: "She's dead, Jim."

She's dead, Jim. Blue Steel is dead.

I suppose I could have taken a gamble and had the mechanic polish the worn spots and rebuild the engine, but who knows when it would have broken down again? On top of that, I could not in good conscience attempt to sell this car to anyone after I was finished with it. It was a time bomb waiting to go off. So I made the decision to put Blue Steel, after a lifetime of abuse, out of her misery.

As weird as it may sound, I think I actually went through the 5 stages of grieving with Blue Steel:

1. DENIAL: "I can't believe this is happening. I mean, what are the odds? This is the sort of shit that's supposed to happen to other travelers, not me!"

2. ANGER: "Dammit, of all the times for this car to quit, it had to be NOW?!?!? I bet the dude who sold this car knew it was in terminal condition...the bastard! Oh, cruel fate, why dost thou torment me so?!?!?"

3. BARGAINING: "Maybe she'll still run if I polish the cam shaft and use some fancy engine additives...then I might at least be able to finish the trip with the car intact. You can make it, Blue Steel...I just know you can!"

4. DEPRESSION: "Jeez, I am so f---ed. All that money, vanished like a fart in the breeze. What the hell am I going to do now?"

5. ACCEPTANCE: "Okay, there is a harsh reality to face: the car is dead. But that's in the past, and there's nothing I can do about it now. Look...I willed this trip into existence. I embarked on my own terms, I am going to continue on my own terms, and I will quit on my own terms. No goddamn car is going to tell me when it's time to give up and go home. F--- that. You hear that, fate? Is that the best you've got? You can't stop me! I'm the Universal Traveler! The Universal goddamn Traveler! I'm INVINCIBLE!!!"

So there you have it. That's how the last week and a half went down. I hit the highest natural highs the Fiordlands have to offer. I suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. But I'm still going. Yesterday I took the bus into Wanaka, the last outpost before heading out along the West Coast. I'm taking a day or two just to relax, collect my thoughts, and plan my next move. I'm not exactly sure where I'll go next, but hopefully I'll be better in the future about keeping you all updated. Stay tuned!

Blue Steel (The Wonder Car), R.I.P.

Doubtfully Yours

2005-03-12T23:11:00.000+01:00

Aaaaand I'm back. I just finished up a 3-day Doubtful Sound kayak trip in Fiordland National Park, which was an awesome experience. Kayaking is a great way be a part of the fiords for a bit, as it gets you away from the terrestrial crowds and allows you to cruise along in relative silence. Doubtful Sound is especially peaceful, simply by virtue of its inaccessibility: to get to the beach where we were to put our kayaks in, we had to take a 45 minute boat ride across Lake Manapouri, transfer our gear to a van/trailer, and take a 30 minute drive over a mountain pass on a dirt road to Deep Cove. There are no direct roads from civilization to Doubtful Sound...you always have to take a boat at some point.

Anyways, on to the actual trip. Let's start out with the crew. We were a motley bunch, to say the least. First of all, there were eight of us (seven not counting Adrian, our Kiwi guide), and six of us were Americans! This is the first time that this has happened to me in NZ...usually Americans seem pretty scarce. Because four of the Americans were all friends, the team became loosely split into two (friendly) "factions:" the four American buddies and, well, everybody else. Now, I don't usually like to pass judgment or make sweeping generalizations about people I hardly know, but I think that something needs to be said about the American friends: they were all huge nerds. There was Alfred the computer programmer (yes, I know I am a computer programmer, too, but this guy was a STEREOTYPICAL computer programmer), his wife, Claudia the librarian, Jonathan the finance manager, and Dan the accountant. A computer geek, a librarian, a finance manager, and a bean-counter...Jesus tapdancing Christ, that's like a laundry list of the world's most boring professions. Anyways, in the other faction there was me, Adrian, Will (who "breaks" horses for the US Forest Service in Wyoming), and Lee, a graphic designer from Manchester, England, described by Adrian as "quite a cheeky pom." Although the nerds kept pretty quiet during most of the trip (stunted social skills?) the rest of us were able to entertain ourselves quite well. Lee had made an observation that characters in American movies say "goddammit" a lot (apparently quite a bit moreso than in England), so we had a running joke of shouting, "goddammit!" in an exaggerated John Wayne accent whenever the opportunity presented itself. Got bit by a sandfly? "Goddammit!" Morning coffee too weak? "Goddammit!" You get the picture.

Things were looking pretty rough when we met at HQ at 6 AM on Thursday...it had been pouring all night, and we were getting reports that the sound was looking pretty rough. But we pressed on anyways. When we got to Deep Cove, the water was covered in whitecaps and it was raining like crazy. Supposedly there was going to be a southwesterly change that would bring better weather, so it turned into a waiting game. We hung out inside a government-owned hostel used by NZ schoolkids, had lunch, and twiddled our thumbs. After about 5 hours things finally started to clear and we jumped at the chance to get going. Although it was still cloudy and drizzly, we were very fortunate to be kayaking at that moment, because the deluge had generated a TON of temporary waterfalls and cascades. It was unbelievable...everywhere you turned you were greeted by at least one spectacular waterfall, some starting from over 1000 meters above sea level. Later that day we set up an improvised campsite at the spot where the two-day kayak trippers normally spend the night. We had a rain and insect shelter for cooking and socializing, and Macpac tents for sleeping. After a potent dinner of ramen noodles with beans, tuna, and powdered soup mix, I fell asleep to the sound of waterfalls in the distance.

The weather on the second day was a lot better. We did a strenuous 23 km paddle to a campsite on Crooked Arm. A lot of the previous day's waterfalls had disappeared, but the break in the weather allowed us to take in views of the steep fiord walls and mountains in the distance. The highlight of the day was running into a pod of about 15 bottlenose dolphins. Apparently they like to fish and rear their young in the sounds, and we were able to see them up close as they surfaced. Really cool.

Although we were all enjoying ourselves, by the third day we were all eager to get back to the comforts of civilzation. We started paddling back to Deep cove, and about halfway a long a pretty good tailwind picked up. So Adrian suggested that we sail for a bit. It's hard to explain how this works, but basically all the kayaks "raft" together, and the paddlers in front grab the bottom of the sail while the rear paddlers hoist the top of the sail up on their paddles. Long story short, we enjoyed a leisurely, wind-powered cruise most of the way back to Deep Cove. It was a nice way to end the trip.

It just happened that the last day of the trip was also Lee's birthday, so we all met at a restaurant called Bailez later that night. We all dug into satisfying, meaty fare (mostly burgers and steaks), and Lee, Will and I went out for beers afterwards. We ended up closing down a local bar called The Moose, which was an interesting experience, to say the least. The place was filled with Te Anau locals, most of them thoroughly drunk and dancing (convulsing, rather) to tunes provided by a crappy local cover band called "Charma." (What kind of weak-ass name is "Charma?" Apparently these guys did not go to the SmackDab School of Band-Naming). Anyways, we were trying to finish up a game of pool when we got shouted down by one of the bartenders for holding things up and keeping the bar from closing. I was ready to turn tail and go, but Lee was having none of it. In his own special Manchester style, he "cheekily" rebuked the bartender for her attitude and language (which was colorful). I thought there might be a "scrap" if thing got any more out of hand, but thankfully we were all able to escape unscathed.

Anyways, since my arms and shoulders got such a good workout from kayaking, I've decided to turn it into a total-body workout by starting the Kepler Track tomorrow. Hopefully I'll have the chance to post some photos once I get back from that. Adios!

The Great Dunedin Gorge-Fest

2005-03-07T23:25:00.000+01:00

So I've been back in Dunedin for the past few days, just maxin' and relaxin' and waiting for my fancy back-up boots to come. As I may have mentioned earlier, Dunedin is, so far, my favorite "big" city in New Zealand. Of course, I only have Auckland, Christchurch, and the ferry terminal at Wellington to compare it to, but hey, take it for what it's worth.

I've been staying with Hanne since I've been here, and somehow we both decided to use my visit as an excuse to stuff ourselves silly. It's almost like I've been visiting my grandparents or relatives..."eat, eat...you must eat!" Anyways, we kicked things off with a visit to Thai Over, one of Dunedin's well known curry joints. I ordered pad thai, but they served it in an interesting way that I had never seen before. Basically, the noodles and spices were all the same, but they took the noodles and wrapped them in a thin egg omelette in lieu of having fried egg strips in the noodles. It tasted about the same as traditional pad thai, but I gotta give them points for originality. Afterwards, I ordered a cheap sundae for dessert that turned out to be a monstrous, four-scoop leviathan which I couldn't even bring myself to finish. Things were off to a good start.

The next day we drove to Port Chalmers, a hip artistic suburb of Dunedin, and then headed up to the Moeraki boulders, stopping at Palmerston along the way for some coffee. Of course, I had already seen the boulders, but since Hanne is so geologically inclined and she doesn't have a car, it was the least I could do to drive up there to take another look. For dinner, we cooked up a tasty batch of New Zealand's famous green mussels, boiled in a tangy sauce of white wine, garlic, onions, and red chiles. We also managed to scarf an entire loaf of bread between the two of us. Not sure how that happened.

The gluttony continued the next morning when I decided to whip up a traditional American breakfast: blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and hickory-smoked bacon. I have to say, it was a really nice reminder of the comforts of home. Memories of the camping trips of my youth(where my family most often made blueberry pancakes) made them taste even better. After breakfast, it was mostly a lazy day of running errands. We went down to the University of Otago computer lab, where I was able to crank out two blog posts...for free! Take that, internet cafes. I also managed to swing by the post office and grab my back-up boots, which will hopefully be able to see me through the rest of my NZ tramping activities. Later that night, Hanne cooked up a Norwegian specialty dish. I can't remember what it was called, but she said that it loosely translated to "lumpy soup." Sounds appetizing, huh? It was basically boiled milk with dumplings, served with cinnamon and sugar. Like most Norwegian dishes, it had a rather subdued color palette of white and brown. Ah, those Norwegians...not much for presentation, are they? Despite its lack of visual appeal, it tasted quite good. After dinner, we went down to the movie theater and saw The Aviator while dispatching a large popcorn, two cokes, and a bag of M&M's. See, I told you I was eating nonstop! I enjoyed the movie, too...look for it in an upcoming Universal Media Review installment!

Anyways, in an hour or so I'll be heading off on another road trip to Te Anau, on the other side of the island. I'll have a day or so to gear up for my Doubtful Sound kayak trip, which will finish up on Sunday. I probably won't post again until after I get back, so take care and stay tuned!

When we walked in fields of gold...

2005-03-07T00:05:00.000+01:00

Well, I have certainly had my fill of the central Otago goldfields over the past week. As you may recall from a previous post, I was drifting between the old mining settlements of Alexandra, Clyde, and others, leading up to a weekend sojourn in Queenstown.

In all honesty, Queenstown itself was not as intense as I expected it to be. I think it comes down to this: in Q-Town, you only have to deal with as much hype and "extreme-ness" as you subject yourself to. Since I wasn't really interested in doing any bungee jumping or skydiving or canyoning or extreme pancake flipping or anything like that, I was largely able to avoid most of that nonsense.

Times were good, overall. On Friday I met a group of English and Scottish folks who were working in New Zealand through the BUNAC organization. They were all planning on spending at least 8 weeks working in Queenstown. I wondered about their choice of location, but hey, whatever floats your boat, right? Anyways, I went to see the movie Closer with Andy (see previous post), and afterwards we met everyone else at a bar called Brazz for happy hour.

The concept of "happy hour" in Queenstown deserves special explanation. If you know what you're doing, happy hour basically means anytime in between 5 PM and 2 AM the next day. Bars will often have an early happy hour after people leave work, and then a later one to get people back in the bars at night. Since no two happy hours between bars are the same, you can essentially bounce from bar to bar in a state of perpetual happiness. Apparently, someone actually publishes a guide to explain all this.

Anyways, after a hearty (and cheap) dinner of sausages and beans, I embarked with an Irish group to The World Bar, which serves half-price "teapots" from 10 to 11. A teapot is just a traditional teapot filled with a boozy drink of your choice, conveniently served with little shot glasses to share with friends. We were able to tear through several teapots in that hour, each of a different flavor. After a few subsequent beers and gin and tonics, I was sure that I would be in for a rough night, and definitely hurting the next day. Luckily, I was improbably saved by a gift from the gods called...

...The Fergburger.

When we left the bars at around 3 AM, someone suggested that we grab a few Fergburgers for late night sustenance. What is a Fergburger, you ask? Why, only the BEST DAMN HAMBURGER I have had since I arrived in New Zealand, thank you! They are administered from a seedy-looking little hole in the wall, nestled deep in a dark, unassuming alley. They are thick and juicy and served with interesting ingredients like aioli and coleslaw and Brie cheese. They are, indeed, damn tasty.

But are they worth waiting 45 minutes for?

That was the question we were asking ourselves when we saw the impressive queue of famished partyers waiting for their Fergburgers. Unfortunately, the Fergburger shack is not a model of Western industrialized efficiency. We really did end up waiting 45 minutes for our burgers. Luckily, we were entertained by a super-drunk English pool shark for most of that time. He spent a good fifteen minutes ranting about the rule variations he found in New Zealand pool halls, which apparently made it difficult for him to hustle people for free beers. When he found out I was from Minnesota, he was actually able to talk about the Vikings and Twins! I was shocked that he even cared about baseball and American football. And once his number was finally called, he struck a pose and did a little dance of joy that looked strangely like Ryu's "shoryuken" uppercut from the Street Fighter 2 arcade game. What a guy.

Anyways, as I was saying earlier, I had subjected myself to an unholy alliance of alcohols that would surely spell disaster for the coming hours. But that's where the magic of the Fergburger comes in. Somehow its careful selection of fresh ingredients and robust, juicy flavor were able to purge all those nasty toxins from my body, and when I woke up the next morning I felt like a million damn dollars. Because I had not consumed even a single glass of water before bed, I could only attribute my unexpectedly pleasant condition to the wonderful, magical, mystical Fergburger.

Wow, I just realized that I've written damn near an entire treatise on a slab of ground beef placed between two halves of a bun. That must mean it's time for me to sign off. I plan on heading to Te Anau in the Fiordlands sometime tomorrow, where I will gear up for my upcoming Doubtful Sound kayak trip! I'll keep you all posted as I "get back to nature."

Universal Media Review No. 1

2005-03-06T22:15:00.000+01:00

And now for something completely different...

One thing I've realized about traveling for a long time is that you have plenty of opportunities to catch up on your reading. I've been through about 4 books (and 2 movies) since I arrived in NZ, so I figured I would take a moment to critique them in a little segment I like to call...

...UNIVERSAL MEDIA REVIEW!!!

I'll describe each bit of media briefly, provide some commentary, and then assign a "Universality Factor," on a scale from 1 to 1o, 1 being the least universal, 10 being the most. The more universal the better, of course.

Book One: The Beach by Alex Garland

You may recognize this book by its Hollywood adaptation, starring Leonardo DiCaprio. I never saw the movie, but I seem to remember hearing that it sucked. Well, as far as the book goes, I place it firmly in the "so-so" category. I was initially drawn to the book because it's about a group of 20-something backpackers in Thailand. While stuck on the infamous Khao San Road in Bangkok, the protagonist stumbles across, somewhat cheesily, a handwritten map drawn by the enigmatic Mr. Duck, who constantly mumbles about "that *$&#ing beach" right up until he mysteriously commits suicide. A tale of adventure and intrigue then unfolds as the protagonist and his intrepid French cohorts search for, and find, the beach. What follows is a traditional "paradise lost"-style narrative, with hints of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness or, more recently, the film Apocalypse Now (minus those wily VC and Marlin Brando). All in all, I give it a Universality Factor of 6.

Book Two: Once Were Warriors by Alan Duff

This book tells of the plight of a Maori family, the Heke's, living in an infamous New Zealand subdivision (read: ghetto) called Pine Block. Led by the well-intentioned but self-destructive matriarch Beth Heke, the family struggles with poverty, domestic abuse, street gangs, and other plights. Being from the USA and having already read a fair amount of fiction and nonfiction about the numerous American ghettoes (There Are No Children Here, etc.), it was interesting to hear about the NZ counterpart. The book was a little difficult to read in spots, as it switches between 3rd person narration, 1st person musings, and dialogue, on a whim, often without any helpful clues like, say, quotation marks. Still, an enjoyable read, and an interesting contrast to the sugar-coated view of the Maori put forth by NZ tourism organizations. Universality Factor: 8.

Book Three: A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson

This is, by no small margin, the most readable nonfiction book I have ever laid eyes on. Basically, it is an expansive rough guide to science (chemistry, physics, biology, geology) from the beginning of the universe right up through modern humans. Sounds ambitious, huh? Well, I really have to give credit to Mr. Bryson...he has taken a ridiculous amount of exceedingly complex material, reduced it down to the Cliff's Notes level, and presented it in an entertaining and accessible way. Hell, even slack-jawed mouth-breathers like myself can enjoy it! He accomplishes this feat partially by interspersing fascinating tales of squabbling scientists, mad eccentrics, and theoretical divas among the more weighty material, creating an engrossing human interest element. This is the first Bill Bryson book I have read, but I can assure you it will not be the last. In fact, A Short History is just so damn universal, I have to bestow upon it a Universality Factor of 9.

Book Four: Stupid White Men by Michael Moore

Alright, let the groaning and eye-rolling begin. I picked this book up for free at a hostel's book exchange because, as you can imagine, I was desperate for something to read at the moment. It's a typical Michael Moore rant: heavy on polemic and hyperbole, light on substance. Each chapter can typically be reduced to controversial but easy-to-swallow nuggets such as: "Rich people suck," "Kill Whitey" (that's the actual title of one of the chapters), "Men are pigs," and so on. Now, I typically identify myself as a fairly "progressive" person, and a lot of my political leanings fall to the left of center. On the continuum of American politics, I probably qualify as a solid liberal. Even so, I just cannot stomach Moore's knee-jerk reaction of blaming "the usual suspects" (i.e., rich, white men) for all of society's ills. It's just too easy. He sees white, the prototypical Christian fundamentalist WASPs see black, and all the shades of grey in between go unnoticed (but for the valiant efforts of the Knights of Truth at Your Thoughts Exactly). I might be able to handle all this if the book were actually funny, as the endorsements on the cover trumpet: "The angrier Moore gets, the funnier he gets!" Uh, no. The angrier he gets, the more he grates on my nerves, the less sense he makes, and the more I feel like I need a stiff drink. Universality Factor: 3.

Movie 1: Maria Full of Grace

I saw this Colombian film at Arrowtown's overpriced but sumptously comfortable Dorothy Brown's Cinema. It's the story of Maria Alvarez, a 17-year-old Colombian girl, who tires of her job at a rose plantation and decides to become an international drug runner. She ingests a batch of cocaine-filled pellets and hops on an airliner from Bogota to New York. Of course, everything goes wrong along the way, and she is forced to use her wits and cunning to survive the streets of NYC. A typical drug film in a lot of ways, but I still enjoyed it. In fact, for reasons that I don't quite understand, I almost always tend to enjoy drug films. (No, Mom, it's not because I'm on drugs). This one deserves a Universality Factor of 7.

Movie 2: Closer

Okay, last review. I saw this one with an English film nut named Andy that I met in Queenstown. It's about two men and two women whose lives constantly intertwine as they create and mercilessly destroy a series of messy, angst-ridden relationships. It seems as though they are inescapably bound to indulge every single impulsive, self-destructive libidinal urge they encounter and then describe, in excruciating detail, their misdeeds to their partners. Somehow they manage to be incredibly honest and incredibly dishonest at the same time. I get the impression that they revel in their own dysfunction. Maybe I am being a bit too harsh and judgmental here. But here's the thing: I certainly don't handle my own relationships this way, and I can honestly say that I've never met anyone who has. The first thing I thought after leaving the theater was, "When the hell am I ever going to meet somebody who acts like this?" Seriously, people like this do not exist in my little world. In the end, the movie was interesting and pretty entertaining, but I (clearly) just could not relate to or empathize with the characters. So I give it a Universality Rating of 5. (Edit: One thing this movie does have going for it is its soundtrack. Ever since I saw the film, I've had The Smiths' "How Soon is Now" in my head, and I've always liked the Damien Rice song that plays during the credits.)

That's it for now. Stay tuned for more editions of Universal Media Review in the future!

Wherever I may roam, where I lay my head is home

2005-03-02T03:15:00.000+01:00

Just a quick post for the moment, as internet usage is sort of expensive where I am (Arrowtown), and I don't have all that much to report after all.

I currently find myself in a weird in-between phase of my travels, where I seem to be drifting, more or less. I will admit that it is a situation I have created for myself...unnecessarily, for the most part. After I left Wanaka, I had the idea that I wanted to see Queenstown for at least a day, but I somehow got it in my head that I should splurge for a single rather than a dorm, where drunken revelers would no doubt be stumbling in at all hours of the night. So I booked way in advance for a single for this Friday. In the meantime, though, I was scratching my head trying to think of nearby places to go. I decided to rule out any long hikes due to the condition of my boots, so instead I've basically been criscrossing the central Otago goldfields, visiting small towns along the way. I've stopped by Alexandra, Clyde, Glenorchy, Kinloch, and Arrowtown. Never heard of them before? Probably because there isn't a whole lot going on in either of them.

In retrospect, I realize that a lot of the decisions I made were based on faulty reasoning. Queenstown, despite all the hype and craziness, is still just another town, and I should have just stopped by for a night when it was convenient. And even if I decided to keep my Friday booking, I should have treated myself to a decent-sized hike in the meantime, if for no other reason than to provide cheap entertainment for a few days.

So, as you can probably tell, I am a bit frustrated with myself for ending up in this position. Despite the fact that I will be in NZ for a total of almost 3 months, I still feel like my time here is precious, and that I haven't been making the greatest use of it as of late. BUT...I realize that everybody makes mistakes, and that, being inexperienced as a long-term traveler, I am certainly due my share of them. I hope to be able to learn from this week and treat it as a lesson...to live every week to the fullest.

There is light at the end of the tunnel, of course. After I leave Queenstown, I'm heading back to Dunedin for a couple days to catch up with Hanne and pick up a pair of back-up boots (the sturdier leather kind) that my mom sent to me (thanks, Mom!). After Dunedin, I'm heading to Te Anau to start my Fiordland adventuring, which I've been looking forward to for some time. Late next week I will be doing a 3-day guided kayak trip through the Doubtful Sound, which I think will be awesome. My hopes are boosted by a glowing report from Hopie of her recent kayaking experience in the Abel Tasman National Park.

Anyways, I'm sure I'll have the chance to update again once I get to Dunedin. In the meantime, notes of encouragement are appreciated! Catch you all on the flipside...

Aspiring to Greatness

2005-02-27T22:22:00.000+01:00

After lazing around Wanaka for a while, I was eager to head back into the wilderness and get my tramp on. So, I decided to make a brief (2-3 day) trip into Mt. Aspiring National Park. It's one of the best places in NZ to experience the alpine beauty of the Southern Alps, and Wanaka has convenient access to the park's Matukituki Valley region, so it all came together pretty well.

I was all geared up and ready to go on Saturday morning when I jumped in Blue Steel and...she wouldn't start! Not only would she not start, but the engine wouldn't even turn over. Each turn of the key yielded no response.

SHIT!!!

After an unsuccessful jump start attempt, I walked over to the local service station to ask for advice. The mechanic guessed that something might be wrong with the starter motor, but said that their only "sparky" (electrical expert) was off duty that day and wouldn't be back in until Monday. But he suggested that I pop the hood and give the starter motor a few good taps with a wrench, just to see if that helped.

Well, it sounded like lame advice, and I was trying to get comfortable with the idea of being stranded a few more days in Wanaka, but I figured I should give it a try anyways. After tapping the hell out of the starter motor, I unenthusiastically got back in the driver's seat and gave it a try. And it worked! I was amazed. I never got the name of that Wanaka mechanic, but whoever you are, you are a prince among men.

Anyways, after that ordeal I drove to the Raspberry Creek carpark in Mt. Aspiring National Park and started my hike. It began with a 4-hour tramp through the Shovel and Pearl Flats in the Matukituki Valley, with the peaks of the Southern Alps surrounding me on both sides. I could see glaciers and snow fields at high altitudes, and each of these spawned spectacular glacial waterfalls that cascaded all the way down into the valley.

Here is a shot of the Matukituki Valley as I was crossing the flats:

After passing the flats, I began the gruelling, 1200-meter ascent up the side of Mt. Barff to the Liverpool Hut. (Yes, I did chuckle a bit at the fact that I was climbing Mt. Barff, although I was slightly disappointed that there was no Mt. Poopp or Mt. Snott nearby). It was a real knee-bender of a climb...far more difficult than anything I had done previously. And it only got harder when it started drizzling at around 500 meters. Yowza. Anyways, you can imagine that I was relieved to finally reach the tiny, 6-bunk Liverpool Hut, shown in this photo:

I had to wonder if the location of the hut was the result of a dare or something, because it was basically perched on a ridge above the treeline in the middle of nowhere. But the surroundings lent a truly rugged and remote air to the place, and it was a great place to spot to spend the night.

While in the hut, I occupied myself by compiling a short list of humorous log book comments. See, each DOC hut has a log book that is filled out by anyone who visits the hut, and each line includes a "comments" field where trampers write, well, whatever they feel like. It's often quite entertaining to read these entries:

"Kiwis are the closest God ever came to creating a Pokemon."
"We are under attack! They came in the night and started banging on the door and window. Big keas (irritating alpine parrots) with madness in their eyes!"
"Hope the giant rat doesn't come and the men don't snore."
"Came in search of alpine whores but didn't find any. Saw a kea but couldn't root it."
"Resident mouse can kiss my ass."
"It's like snefling with puf the rop." (Note: I think psychotropic drugs may have been involved with this comment).

The views from the hut were also quite good, although high cloud prevented me from getting a clear glimpse of Mt. Aspiring:

Anyways, it rained like a mofo all night and it was quite cold in the morning, so I was getting a little nervous about the weather. I wasn't cool with the idea of being stuck in the hut, so I decided to descend Mt. Barff on Sunday. This turned out to be an excellent idea, because when I met another group of hikers on the way down and asked if they knew the forecast, they said "snow and hail." Wow, glad I didn't stick around for that. Even though there was no solid precipitation, it still rained all the way down, which made the descent awfully perilous, probably the most dangerous stunt I have yet attempted in NZ.

An unfortunate side effect of the tramp was that my boots got kinda shredded on the way up...they both have holes now! So I'm thinking I might give tramping a break for a while, unless I'm sure the weather is going to be good. I feel like I'm sort of drifting at the moment, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Updates to follow, of course.

Come to Wanaka...to celebrate Hanukkah!

2005-02-25T00:32:00.000+01:00

Sort of a nonsensical post title, but if you have ever heard "The Hanukkah Song" by Adam Sandler, you will understand why the Wanaka-ized version has been in my head EVER SINCE I ARRIVED HERE.

After I left Stewart Island, I was looking for a good place to chill out and re-socialize for a bit, and Wanaka has been fitting the bill quite nicely. It has a very laid-back attitude, and the surrounding lake and mountain scenery is beautiful. Yesterday I met an English woman named Annie, and we decided to hang out and spend the day together. We started out at the Stuart Landsborough Puzzling World, which is home to oodles of optical illusions, holograms, brain-teasers, and a famous, gigantic outdoor maze. The maze has four colored towers in each corner, and, ideally, you make your way through the maze and hit each tower in sequence. After breezing through the red, blue, and yellow towers, we suddenly found ourselves going in circles trying to find the green tower. (And yes, Stu, at several points I thought to myself, "you have now found yourself...trapped in the incomprehensible maze"). I am sorry to say that since it was very hot out (and we were giant wusses), we decided to abandon the maze without ever reaching the green tower. Damn you, green tower...damn you to HELL!!!

Being thoroughly parched from our a-maze-ing (HA!) experience, we decided to stop by Slainte, a local Irish pub for a beer. Well, somehow this turned into a drinking spree that would last well into the evening. We sat out on the patio, sipping Speights and Guinness, just relaxing and enjoying the weather and the conversation. Later that night we went to a seafood restaurant for dinner...it was so nice to have a quality meal after so many days trapped in freeze-dried purgatory. Afterwards we went back to Slainte to keep our drinking momentum going, and were just in time to enjoy a nice little Irish folk band that was playing.

Today Annie and I met a German girl named Rena, and we were all planning on buying tickets to a Black Seeds (a NZ reggae band) show tonight, but they were sold out! Maybe we will hit the posh Cinema Paradiso for a movie instead. I am pretty sure that this will be my last night in Wanaka for the moment, and that I will probably start a new walk sometime tomorrow, although I really have no idea where I feel like hiking. I suppose I will sort it out eventually.

To conclude this post, I figured it would only be fitting to offer the last verse of The Hanukkah Song (Wanaka-ized, of course):

"So drink your gin and tonica, smoke your marijuanika, and if you really really wannaka, have a happy happy happy time in Wanaka!"

How I learned to stop worrying and love the bush

2005-02-25T00:03:00.000+01:00

Since some of you have been asking about the logistics of my Stewart Island/NW Circuit walkabout, I figured I would do a quick post to explain how I pulled it all together.

FOOD: I packed about 10 days worth of food, and I ate the same thing every day. 2 packets of instant oatmeal in the morning, cheese and crackers for lunch, trail mix for a snack, and a freeze-dried instant meal for dinner. Multiply that list by 10 and you have a pretty good idea of how much food I was carrying. It was a lot of weight at first, but my pack got lighter with each passing day.

CLOTHING: 3 t-shirts, 2 pairs of shorts, 1 pair of pants, 3 pairs of underwear, 3 pairs of wool socks, rain coat, and a fleece hat. As you can probably imagine, my clothes were unbelievably nasty by the 9th day. I coined a term for the condition they had attained: "terminal stankocity."

SHELTER: The nice thing about hiking in New Zealand is that the Department of Conservation maintains hundreds of backcountry huts along the tracks. Every night I stayed in one of these huts. They typically provide bunks with sleeping pads, a table with benches, a wood stove, and a sink with a rainwater faucet (which means that I never had to worry about purifying water). A sleeping bag is really all you need to stay in one of these huts.

OTHER GEAR: I did all my cooking with an MSR Pocket Rocket stove attached to an MSR IsoPro isobutane cannister. This setup worked great because all I ever had to do was boil water, which it did very quickly and with a minimum of weight and bulk. Probably my favorite bit of non-essential gear were the gaiters I purchased before the hike. They are basically just nylon pant legs that attach to the bottoms of your boots and extend up just below the knee, with the purpose of keeping mud, rocks, and other junk out of your boots. I was amazed at what a great job my gaiters did. My shoes always got plenty wet, but no mud ever made it inside. Possibly the best 40 NZ dollars I have spent yet.

So there you have it...thats how I survived 9 days in the Stewart Island wilderness. I you have any more specific questions, feel free to post another comment!

HE LIVES!

2005-02-22T08:00:00.000+01:00

Well, after a long hiatus from the civilized world, it sure feels good to be back in a city, even if that city happens to be sleepy Invervegas. You've probably lost count by now, but I spent a grand total of 9 consecutive days hiking in the backwoods and beaches of Stewart Island. It was by far the longest backpacking trip I've ever been on, and it was an incredible experience. I won't bore you all with the day-by-day details, but hopefully I can distill the tramp down to the highlights:

The MUD: Maybe this doesn't deserve to be a "highlight" per se, but hey, mud is undeniably part of the character of the Northwest Circuit and of Stewart Island in general, so there it is. I'd say that, out of all the hiking I did, I probably spent at least 60% of it in the mud. Some of it was fairly dry and shallow, some of it was ridiculously sloppy and up to my knees. But it's not as bad as it sounds. In fact, I found that the Stewart Island mud bogs can be real character builders. After a serious bog or two, you realize that you can't simply skirt around the edges or find an alternate route. You just have to slog straight through...dry boots be damned. This straightforward mentality actually requires far less time and effort. Maybe this is a metaphor for life in general: when life deals you a mud bog, just bite the bullet and bash on through it. You may get a little (ok, a lot) dirty in the process, but you emerge a little bit stronger (and hardier) on the other side.

Here are some mudographic photos to satisfy your curiosity:

A typical Stewart Island mud bog. Actually, this one is pretty small. The longest one I came across was roughly 1 km long and featured knee-high mud (I am not joking). I was in too much of a hurry to GET OUT of that one to take a picture:

This is how my boots looked after a typical mud bog trounce:

The BEACHES: For me, Stewart Island's beaches made all the steep climbs, precarious descents, and never-ending mud bogs worth it. It is hard to convey just how rugged and remote they are. The best part is that pretty much whenever I came across a beach (which was just about daily), I had the entire place to myself. Having access to a beautiful beach is one thing, but being able to experience it in solitude really adds a new dimension.

Here are several random pics of the beaches I visited:

The DUNES: Stewart Island is somewhat unique in that it is home to a suprisingly large collection of sand dunes. My favorite beach, Smoky Beach, gets its name from the smoky appearance of the wind blowing sand over the dunes. One of the dunes is so extensive that it reaches up from the beach up to the top of a mountain pass, attaining an alititude of roughly 300 meters above sea level. In fact, when I first came across this dune, I had just been slogging through the aforementioned 1 km mud bog from hell. Just when I was thinking that the sloshing would never end and that I might soon find myself neck deep in mud, I stepped through a gap in the trees and found myself, inexplicably, surrounded by sand. It was one of the most bizarre changes of scenery I have ever experienced.

The BUSH: Since it is so remote, much of Stewart Island's forested land remains the same as it has been for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Rimu, rata, and beech trees provide the canopy, while a lush collection of ferns and mosses coat the ground. Stewart Island's flora is a beauty to behold.

The SOLITUDE: According to DOC, fewer than 1000 people hike the Northwest Circuit each year, which means that you'll have plenty of time to yourself to muse, meditate, or, well, do whatever you want. For me, the most peaceful time of the tramp was when I hiked across Freshwater Flat from Mason's Bay to Freshwater Landing. I left early in the morning, and it was so amazingly quiet that if I stopped and stood perfectly still, all I could hear were the distant sounds of the ocean and my own breath. Ocean breathing, me breathing, and nothing else. Beautiful.

Well, this is turning out to be one hell of a post, and I am racking up one hell of an internet charge, so I should probably let things go here. I'm actually not sure where I'll go next...probably Queenstown or back to Dunedin since, after 9 days in the bush, I feel like I need to be re-socialized for a bit. I'll keep you posted.

Journey to The End of The Earth

2005-02-13T02:20:00.000+01:00

I decided long ago that I was going to make a trip to Stewart Island, the third island of NZ, just across the Fouveax Strait from Invercargill. It is unquestionably one of the more remote spots in NZ, and it features some of the most diverse and unspoiled plant and animal life in the country. The only question I had: which track to hike?

There are two main tracks on the island, and they couldn't be more different in character. Most people hike the 3-day Rakiura Track, which is serviced by relatively modern Great Walk huts and is lined with boardwalks to avoid most of the mud for which Stewart Island is famous. On the other hand, there is the 8-to-10-day Northwest Circuit Track, which covers a good chunk of the island's coast and is known as the muddiest track in New Zealand. It also reportedly has some of the best scenery.

Here's a basic map of Stewart Island. The Northwest Circuit follows the coast from Oban North to Mt. Anglem, then West towards the Rugged Islands, then South to the end of Mason bay, and finally cuts across the mainland back to Oban:

Well, yesterday, after an inspiring discussion with a Stewart Island tramper from Ohio, I made the decision to hike the Northwest Circuit. Am I crazy to do this? Maybe. Will I get my ass kicked by the mud and the muck? Probably. Will I even be enjoying myself by the 8th day? Well, I hope so. At the very least, will I feel a sense of accomplishment after completing the track? Definitely.

Anyways, odds are that I won't have internet access until I get back to Invercargill, so the blog will probably be silent for at least 10 days. In the meantime, send me some good vibes all the way accross the Pacific to Stewart Island! God knows I'll need them.

Beervercargill

2005-02-13T02:02:00.000+01:00

As I mentioned in a previous post, I randomly bumped into Kate (Wash U '04) on the streets of Invercargill yesterday. I recognized her face instantly, but I couldn't remember how I knew her. Turns out that it was a pretty random connection: Kate lived on the same dorm floor as Laura, my ex-girlfriend, when I was a sophomore. I suppose it's amazing that we even recognized each other.

Anyways, Kate, her friend Maggie, and I went to a bar called "The Frog and Firkin" last night to celebrate our random encounter. We all made efforts to expand our repertoire of NZ beers: I had Export Gold for the first time, and they gave Lion Red a try. A good beer was had by all.

For some reason, the conversation eventually turned to scary stories. Kate told a brief but creepy story about a girl who hiked the Appalachian Trail and, as she was shuffling through the photos she had taken after the hike, she came accross 3 photos she didn't recognize. One of them was of her tent, the second one was also of her tent (but closer), and the third was of her sleeping in the tent. Yowza. I'm not sure if the story is actually true or not, but it's creepy nonetheless. If Stuart Lim is reading this post, he will be happy to learn that I told his famous (and true) "helloooooo" story. I think Kate and Maggie found it pretty scary. Later on, I was talking about my experiences camping alone in the Ozarks and in the Top Bus, and I tried to persuade them to give solo camping a try, but after all the scary stories we told, I don't expect them to follow through.

One last Catlins post...

2005-02-12T05:04:00.000+01:00

After I finished the Catlins Top Track, I hiked back to Papatowai and checked into the Hilltop Backpackers, which somehow managed to surpass The Falls as the best hostel I have patronized in New Zealand. It was quite a bit nicer than either of the apartments I lived in in KC, which I know doesn't say all that much. The fact that my bed cost me only $22 NZ is almost a crime. All I can say is that it really felt like a home.

I was lucky enough to be staying with a great group of guests that night. John and Jackie from England, Steve and Amanda from England, and Eileen from Ireland. We all had dinner together and talked late into the night. Steve and Amanda had recently gone on a cross-country RV tour through the USA, so we had a great time sharing our impressions of America. It was really interesting to hear their take on my home country, especially the midwest. Most overseas travellers never stop in "fly-over land," but Steve and Amanda had gone straight through and said it made up the best part of their trip. They both had love affairs with Krispy Kreme and, strangely, Wal-Mart.

Here's a picture of the group. From the left: me, Jackie, Rodney (owner of the Hilltop), Steve and Amanda, John, and Eileen:

The next day I drove South along the Southern Scenic route to check out Curio Bay, where I was to spend the night. Along the way I saw the following sights:

The Cathedral Caves, a series of cavernous coastal caves eroded by the sea. They are only accessible for a period of two hours before and one hour after low tide. I ran into Steve and Amanda here, so they took the picture of me at the mouth of the cave:

McLean Falls, which I think are the most impressive falls I have seen yet:

Unfortunately, once I got to Curio Bay I found out that the hostel I was supposed to stay at had lost my booking. I know for a fact that I had made the reservation on Monday, so I can only assume that signals got crossed somewhere along the way. It was no big deal, though. I just called the Hilltop back up and booked another luxurious night there.

There was a new group of people staying there and the atmosphere had totally changed. Everyone was more quiet in general, mainly because everyone spoke English as a second language. I did meet a pair of friendly Swedes who wrote a list of cool things to see in Sweden, for when I travel there this summer. I also had an interesting conversation with a guy from "the Basque nation." I originally misheard this as "the best nation" and thought that he was simply proud of his country. When I realized that he had said "Basque" and not "best," I almost said, "oh, you mean Spain?" but caught myself. For those of you not in the know, the Basque region is the part of Spain near the border with France. For many years some of the residents of the region have been fighting for recognition as an independent state. Some have even resorted to terrorism, as evidenced by the acts of ETA, the main Basque separatist movement. When the Madrid train bombings occurred last year, ETA was initially blamed. Anyways, I didn't know if this guy was really into separatist ideology, so I decided to play along and accept that he was indded a citizen of The Basque Nation.

Today I drove to Invercargill, known sarcastically by locals as "Invervegas." It's really not much more than a farming town. I'm only using it as a jumping-off point for Stewart Island, which I should be visiting on Monday. Interestingly enough, I just ran into someone I recognized from Wash U! We really weren't much more than acquaintances while we were actually in college, but we both recognized each other and decided to meet for beers later on tonight. It's a small world!

I'll try to post once more before I head off to Stewart Island. At that point, I would expect silence for at least a week. Don't give up on me, though...I'm sure I'll have lots of pictures and stories when I get back.

Pict-o-rama!

2005-02-12T04:29:00.000+01:00

Alright, here's what you've all been waiting for. This should be a rough photographic summary of the things I've seen and done since I last posted photos. Enjoy!

Me and Hanne. I didn't realize that the picture was out of focus until I had already left Dunedin. But you get the idea:

Hanne took this picture of me with Lover's Leap in the background. You can just barely see it. I guess that my own majestic beauty was too much for Lover's Leap to handle, so it was forced to fade into the background. You can only fit so much beauty into a single photo:

Baldwin St. in Dunedin, the steepest street in the world:

The Nuggets, named, of course, after Nugget McSimpson:

Purakaunui Falls, after which The Falls Backpackers that I stayed at is named:

The view from The Falls Backpackers:

Me, Ian, Alan, and Debra, about to embark on our scenic tour of Ray and Debbie Francis' (the proprietors of The Falls) farm:

The Catlins Top Track

2005-02-12T03:45:00.000+01:00

After leaving The Falls Backpackers in Owaka, I set of to Papatowai to start the Catlins Top Track. It is unique in that it is a privately owned and operated track that passes through private land, so it's a slightly different experience than a typical DOC (Department of Conservation) track through a national park. It is described as the longest and most varied track in the Catlins, so I figured it would be a good way to get a feel for the natural beauty of the area.

The track started along a 3 km beach, which was incredibly peaceful. Actually, for the entire first day of the track (it's 2 days long) I didn't see another person anywhere. Here's a pic showing the beach and the rocky outcroppings I traversed later:

On the other side of the cliffs shown above, I came across another beach with an ocean-worn rock formation that jutted out into the ocean. This is where I had lunch for the day:

After lunch, I continued through sections of farmland, regenerating bush, and rolling hills. Eventually reached the place where I would be spending the night: the "Top Bus." The Top Bus is actually a 1960s-era Dunedin city trolley that the operators of the CTT hauled up on one of the cliffs and converted into a cabin, complete with bunks, cooking facilities, a writing desk with a small library, and even a primitive shower:

At night, all I could hear was the sound of the wind (which was howling). I took in the sunset (which was marred somewhat by clouds) and wrote in my journal for the rest of the night:

The second day, unfortunately, was shorter and not as memorable as the first, but I had a great time nonetheless!

The Catlins

2005-02-10T05:55:00.000+01:00

Since Tuesday I have been slowly taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the Catlins, the coastal region between Dunedin and Invercargill. It's a very beautiful and interesting place. In the 1960s much of the forests covering the hills were logged and burned to create farmland and pastures for sheep, so the landscape is a mix of rolling pastures and dense bush. I have come to appreciate both forms.

On Tuesday I visited mostly beaches and coastal cliffs. The most notable stop was Nugget Point which features a short walk to a still-operational lighthouse from the 1870s and views of a geological oddity called (what else) the Nuggets. The Nuggets are basically a group of rock formations jutting out of the sea just off the coast. Of course, Nugget Point gets its name from the Nuggets which, indeed, look kinda like nuggets of some sort, but I decided that I would dedicate the area to Nugget McSimpson, the alter-ego of my Wash U comrade TJ Peterson.

Tuesday night I stayed at my favorite hostel yet, The Falls just Southwest of Owaka. It's a really tiny place on a sheep farm owned by caretakers Debbie and Ray, and it actually felt like a house/home instead of a hostel. Debbie actually took the time to make sure that all the guests were introduced to each other, so I met Graeme and Adrian from Christchurch, Ian and Jayne from the UK, Alan from Copenhagen, and Debra from Seattle. It was a very friendly atmosphere and we spent all our time together chatting.

The best part came later that night. Ray asked us if we wanted to see the farm, and Ian, Alan, Debra and I obliged. We climbed up into the back of his pickup truck and stood up, holding on to a frame in back of the cab. (Note: This, of course, would never fly in the USA due to legal liability. Another reason why NZ is a breath of fresh air.) We drove all over the farm as the sun was setting, observing the surrounding hills in the wonderful dusk light. Ray let his working dogs out, and they all ran alongside the truck, occasionally breaking off to tend to an errant sheep. He took us to the highest point on the farm, where we were treated to fantastic 360-degree views. It was dark by this time, and the night sky was gorgeous as well. Along the way, Ray would periodically stop to talk to us about the ins and outs of sheep farming, and I learned an awful lot about the life of a sheep farmer.

When we got back to the hostel, Ian, Jayne and I walked down to the Purakaunui falls to look at the glow worms. They were all over, forming little constellations of pale blue/green light on the slopes surrounding the falls. On the way back, Ian semi-successfully tried to scare the shit out of Jayne and I by making scary voices and noises.

Well, I have racked up a substantial internet fee here in Owaka (the only internet access anywhere near Papatowai), so I should sign off for now. Trust me, the pictures are coming. See you in Invercargill!

Lightning strikes thrice

2005-02-10T05:40:00.000+01:00

I'm having a hell of a time trying to find a place in the Catlins that will let me upload my pictures, so that will probably have to wait a day or two when I get to Invercargill. When I get there I'll try to post a ton of photos to make up for their absence up to this point.

Anyways, let me go back to Thursday the 7th, if you will. I spent the day running errands (getting a haircut, buying hiking supplies) and visiting minor tourist sites. These included Baldwin St., which is certified by the Guinness Book of World Records as being the steepest street in the world! Of course, I had to walk to the top and back, and it was plenty of work.

My last errand was to make a run to The Warehouse (like Wal-Mart, only crappier, if that's possible) to buy some plastic storage bins to organize Blue Steel's jumbled trunk. While I was there, it suddenly started pouring outside...and I mean POURING. Apparently the sky dropped 37 mm in 1 hour, and half of that was in the first 15 minutes. It was Dunedin's worst flash flood in 5 years, and total damages were estimated to be in the millions. I wandered around the Warehouse and waited for the worst of the rain to pass, and when I finally emerged, there were rivers flowing in the streets. It was crazy.

I had a quick dinner back at the Elm Lodge, but I didn't feel like reading and no English-speakers were around to chat, so I decided to venture out for coffee. Well, about 10 minutes into the journey the rain picked up again, so I decided to turn around. I was rounding the corner to go back to the hostel, and guess who I saw? Yep, it was Hanne again. I was beginning to think that maybe the gods were trying to send me a message about this woman or something. In a display of Norwegian hardiness and stoicism, she was trudging back from the convenience store in full wool garb, so of course she was soaked, but it didn't seem to bother her. Since it was such a serendipitous meeting, we decided to turn around and go out for coffee together. We went to a cafe called The Percolator and discussed music, among other things. I displayed my knack for "Name That Tune" by recognizing all the songs that were playing within the first measure or two. Hanne tried in vain to think of a Norwegian band that I might have heard of before. A good time was had by all.

On Tuesday I continued South to the Catlins region. I think I'll write about it in a separate post.

I feel Dunedin...Dunedin for spedin.

2005-02-07T01:18:00.000+01:00

That horrible pun only makes sense if you know how to pronounce the name of the city I've been staying in for the past several days: Dunedin (pronounced duh-NEE-din). I've been having a really great time here. The town has a palpable Scottish influence that you notice everywhere from the architecture (neo-Gothic, often inspired by the buildings of Edinburgh) to the local accents (a slight Scottish "burr"). The weather has been great except for today, which is okay since I was planning on running errands today anyways.

Things got off to a rocky start, though, both literally and figuratively! On Friday, I drove towards Dunedin from Oamaru, taking a brief stop along SH1 to see the Moeraki boulders (pictures to come). These are basically a group of giant stone spheres, some up to 2 meters in diameter, sitting on the beach. It looks like somebody must have carved them and dumped them into the surf, but they were actually naturally formed. I'm no geologist so I won't even try to fully explain how they were formed, but it had something to do with mineral deposits attracting various sediments (forming the spheres) and then the sea eroding the cliffs where they were buried, causing them to fall onto the beach. Anyways, once I got into Dunedin, I found out that the hostel I had booked (called Hogwartz, although there was nothing Harry Potter-ish about it) had bungled my reservation. So they sent me to another hostel up the street, the Elm Lodge, which turned out to be fine.

At the Elm Lodge, I met Hanne, a geology student from Norway who had come to Dunedin to pursue her master's at the University of Otago (NZ's largest university). She was staying at the Elm Lodge while she searched for a flat to rent in the area. We chatted for a few hours about various things...she was surprised to learn about Minnesota's ties to Norway and thought it was funny that we were so enthusiastic about lefse and, in some rare cases, Lutefisk (she was a fan of neither). We went out for dinner later that night where she had sushi for the first time. For some reason, I seem to have adopted the role of sushi ambassador as of late.

On Saturday I went back to Hogwartz and booked two nights there. I spent the day watching a concert featuring Tongan music in the Octagon (Dunedin's city center), visiting the Dunedin Art Gallery, and having lunch/reading/relaxing in the Dunedin Botanic Gardens. The art gallery had a special exhibition of roughly 50 photographs of 90's-era Tokyo youths dressed in garish, avant-garde, home-made clothes. The exhibition was called "Fruits," ostensibly because the style of dress was fresh and colorful, but I had other connotations in mind.

I woke up a little early on Sunday morning to have a relaxed breakfast and do some laundry. I was heading out the back door with all my dirty clothes when who should I run into but Hanne! Turns out that Hogwartz rented flats in the house and she had chosen one of them. She was trying to fill the tires of the bike that the Hogwartz staff had lent her, but it seemed that one of the valves was broken, preventing the tire from taking on air. She had been hoping to bike out to the Otago peninsula, and since I didn't have any plans for the day, we decided to drive out there together.

We visited a smaller garden, which was sort of a waste of time as it was nowhere as good as the Dunedin Botanic Gardens. Then we went to explore Larnach Castle, and ostentatious castle/chalet (NZ's only) built by Dunedin enterpreneur/politician William Larnach in the mid-late 1800's. The place had some cool history, and it was interesting to see how Otago's high society lived 150 years ago. Finally, we went to hike some short tracks on the peninsula. A short loop track brought us (via sheep-shit-covered trails) to geological points of interest with dramatic names such as "Lover's Leap" and "The Chasm" (again, photos forthcoming). Although it was cloudy, the views from the lookout points were beautiful. Our last track was little more than a sandy path out to Allen's Beach, but the beach itself was gorgeous. White sand, clear water, and big waves. Somehow Hanne convinced me to go swimming with her in the surf which was, as they say, "cold as." Once we had our fill of the chilly water (didn't take long), we went back to the beach and basked on a volcanic boulder to dry off.

When we got back to Hogwartz, we treated ourselves to a spaghetti feast which, to our delight, only cost us $6 NZ apiece. I spent the rest of the night reading and relaxing in the hostel. I figured that my grandma (on my mom's side) would be pleased as punch to learn that I had spent the day hanging out with a Norwegian, so Grandma, if you're reading this, this post's for you.

Which brings me to today. Since I am apparently not very good at booking hostel rooms far enough in advance, I had to move back to the Elm Lodge this morning, which is alright by me. It's kind of drizzly outside, which makes it a good day for doing errands and getting other necessary business out of the way. Tomorrow I am venturing into the Catlins coast region, which is the stretch of coast between Dunedin and Invercargill on the South Island. Supposedly there is some beautiful scenery to be taken in around there. I will probably spend a few days in the Catlins before I head into Invercargill, and then (hopefully) on to Stewart Island. I'll post pictures of my Dunedin exploits as soon as I get a chance.

Oamaru: A Photo Essay

2005-02-04T09:03:00.000+01:00

Ok, so maybe this doesn't qualify as a bona fide photo essay, but here are some pictures I took around the quiet city of Oamaru:

The spire of St. Luke's Anglican Church:

The next three shots are of the Oamaru Public Gardens. The gardens are surprisingly elaborate and beautiful. You wouldn't expect to find them in a small town like Oamaru. They are a symbol of the bygone days when Oamaru was a thriving seaport and a major exporter of wool, lamb meat, and the Oamaru whitestone for which it is famous (at least in NZ):

Of Penguins and People

2005-02-03T03:25:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I drove into Oamaru, which is billed as "The Penguin Capital of New Zealand," due to it's location near blue-eyed and yellow-eyed penguin colonies. I figured that since I had decided to stay in town for a while, I might as well make an effort to see the (blue-eyed) penguins. It's not as easy as you might think, though. First of all, they are only 10" tall (the smallest penguins in the world) which makes them pretty difficult to spot. Second, the majority only swim ashore at a particular time and location each night. So the resourceful Oamaru townsfolk have set up a special blue-eyed penguin viewing area, with bleacher-style seating and narration by a marine biologist.

So, as the sun was setting yesterday evening, I walked from the campground where I was staying down to the viewing area. This turned out to be somewhat of a mistake, since what appeared on the map to be a 15-minute walk turned into a 35-minute trek. Anyways, I got settled in on the bleachers and stared out to sea as the sun disappeared and the coast was enshrouded in fog and mist. Sure enough, at about 9:30 PM, a few tiny blue dots appeared along the shore. The penguins would swim ashore, often flung to and fro by the surf, and hop/waddle onto the rocks. Then they'd stop and congregate for a while, preening and smoothing their feathery coats to make sure they'd be waterproof when they next went out to sea. Finally, they would scale the rocky slope up to a dirt road, crawl through a wire fence designed to keep out terrestrial predators (mainly dogs, cats, and possums), and disappear into the brush.

I watched this spectacle unfold for a while and then, satisfied that I had had an appropriate penguin experience, decided to leave. By this time it was totally dark outside, and the fog and mist, combined with the relative silence (apart from the normal sea sounds), created an eerie scene. As I walked along a coastal road, past the docks, I was occasionally passed by cars carrying other exiting penguin-watchers, mostly tourists from Germany, the Netherlands, and Japan. I was approaching a seaside warehouse when I saw two bright flashes of light illuminate the street. I continued walking, not sure of the source of the flashes, since it was obscured by the building. As I got closer, I saw a man come around the corner of the building, and there was one more flash before he got in a car and drove off.

The scene struck me as sort of weird, so I was cautious as I approached the warehouse. Once I got close, I realized what all the flashes were about: standing stock still, not 10 feet away from me, was a tiny blue penguin, huddled next to a scraggly bush beside the warehouse. I stopped in my tracks and stared at him. And he stared back at me. Neither of us moved. We watched each other in silence for a few seconds, and then I continued my walk back to the campsite.

It's incidents like these that make me upset about the attitude of some tourists. We were all specifically told not to use flash photography (it scares the penguins), but this guy felt the need to chase this little penguin around, flashing happily away, so he could have something for his scrapbook. Does he care that he probably scared that penguin shitless? Does he care that if enough tourists like him did the same thing, they could potentially alter the nesting behavior of those penguins forever? I don't know. But I hope that as I continue my travels, I will never fall victim to the same sense of entitlement.

Let's get peninsular!

2005-02-01T09:30:00.000+01:00

Today, eager to escape the hustle and bustle of Christchurch, Hopie and I set off on a day trip to Akaroa, a French colonial town on the Banks Peninsula. We decide to take the scenic route recommended by my guidebook, which was somewhat treacherous. We drove on narrow, winding, variable-quality roads along the northern coast of the peninsula, hoping to catch some views of the countryside. Unfortunately, we missed a lot of them because we were socked in with fog and clouds, but when the air cleared the scenery was absolutely stunning. Although at one point (when we were driving along a rough, one-lane gravel road) I almost thought Blue Steel would expire from all the abuse, we eventually made it into Akaroa.

Map showing Christchurch, Banks Peninsula, and Akaroa:

The town itself was really nice...a great place to spend an afternoon. We had lunch at a tiny seaside restaurant with great views of the harbor. The place was little more than a kitchen room with a small bar at one end and a small group of tables and chairs, but the food was great, and it was nice just to tone things down for a while. Afterwards we browsed through the town and had drinks at a local cafe.

I didn't take this picture, but it's a pretty good shot of the town of Akaroa:

By today, we both realized that we were ready to part ways. Not that we didn't enjoy each other's company, but I think we are both on independence kicks at the moment and eager to strike off on our own. I'm excited to explore the South part of the South Island, especially Stewart Island and Fiordlands. But I think I'll take my time getting there. Tomorrow I'll probably spend the night in Oamaru, and after that, who knows? I may not be able to post in a while, so don't be surprised if things are quiet for a bit.

Hope all the "folks back home" are doing well and not freezing their arses off!

Warrent of fitness? I'll warrant YOUR fitness!

2005-01-31T05:47:00.000+01:00

Today was my day to do some errand running and take care of some tasks that I had been putting off for a while. One of these was to get a fresh Warrant of Fitness for Blue Steel. In New Zealand you have to take cars above a certain age to a government-approved inspection station to be inspected every 6 months. I suppose they have this requirement so people aren't driving around in deathtraps that could explode at any minute, taking an entire city block with them.

Anyways, the inspector apparently did not appreciate the might of Blue Steel as much as I do, because he failed it on the first try. One of the parking lights didn't work, and there was an exhaust leak as well. So they gave me the address of a local auto shop, and I went off to get the requisite repairs. And since the oil hadn't been changed in a coon's age, I threw in an oil change, too. It all came to about $90 NZ. Although I certainly respect Blue Steel and want to make sure that he is well-maintained, I have decided to put my foot down and declare that this is the last bit of money (besides gas) that I will ever spend on this vehicle. The last thing I need right now is a money pit car.

After I got the repairs, I took Blue Steel back to the inspection station, got rubber stamped, and was on my way. Now I suppose I'm good to go for the next 6 months, barring any major breakdowns (knock on wood).

Anyways, tomorrow I'll be off on a day trip to Akaroa. Hope to update again soon.

Random Photos

2005-01-30T23:28:00.000+01:00

Introducing: Blue Steel, the Wonder Car:

In this photo, Hopie and I happened across a lost band of hungry, dehydrated hikers who had been living off of tree bark and moss for the past ten days. In an effort to summon a rescue party from a village across the sound, I removed my shirt, exposing my alabaster skin and directing a high-intensity light reflection at the town, much like the Bat-signal. A rescue helicopter arrived shortly thereafter, and I was awarded the NZ equivalent of the Congressional Medal of Honor. Then again, maybe I was just cooling off after hiking up to Eatwell's Lookout on the Queen Charlotte track. I like the first account better:

A view of the Marlborough Sound region from Eatwell's Lookout:

Transmissions from the South Island

2005-01-30T05:28:00.000+01:00

Well, it's been an action-packed six days since I last posted. Here's the rundown on what's been happening with me in NZ:

Tuesday, January 25: Being thoroughly sunburned and sore from my ascent (and descent) of Rangitoto, I took it easy for most of the day. Later on, though, it was all business. I headed over to Turner's car auctions to see if I could scare up a car. It was a pretty crazy experience. Basically, they had about 75 relatively junky-looking cars in a big warehouse, all of them with the keys in the ignition. You could inspect the cars from bumper to bumper and take them out for a quick test drive. Once the auctions actually started, they only spent about a minute on each car, from the start of bidding to the final sale. In the end, I came away with a heavily-worn '91 Honda Civic. It's not much to look at, but it does run, and hopefully will continue to do so. I decided to christen it Blue Steel, after the classic Zoolander "look." Oh, and the car is blue. And made of steel. Very apropos.

Wednesday, January 26: Got up at 4:30 in the morning to make the drive from Auckland to Wellington. Thankfully, I was able to miss Auckland's rush hour by about 30 minutes, and the rest was smooth sailing. The North Island (or at least what I saw from Route 1) is incredibly geographically diverse. I drove through lush forests, mountain passes, and scrub brush deserts. Once I got to Wellington, I drove Blue Steel on to the Interislander ferry and took the 3 hour trip across Cook Strait, the body of water that separates the North Island from the South. In Picton (the ferry terminal on the South Island), I stayed at my first hostel, or "backpackers" as they are known down here. It was called The Villa, and it was a collection of 0ld houses that were converted into budget accomodation. A really cool place...it was amazing to be among so many other travelers of so many different nationalities going so many different places. I didn't get much chance to settle in, though, since I had to wake up early the next morning, which brings me to...

January 27-28: I took a ferry to the start of the Queen Charlotte track in the Marlborough Sound region and met up with Hopie, my ex-girlfriend, who is visiting NZ roughly the same time as me. We spent the next two days hiking the track...about 40 km. For the first day, the track climbed through several exposed peaks and saddles, which made for some spectacular views of the sounds. Unfortunately, we were constantly bombarded by the sun's harsh rays, and we hadn't brought nearly enough water, so we were forced to drink the water at the campsites along the way which, according to the NZ Department of Conservation, should be "filtered, boiled, or treated." Well, we didn't have the implements to do any of those things, so we took it straight up. Apparently giardiasis usually sets in 7 to 10 days after exposure, so I guess we'll be in suspense for a while. The second day was much better...most of the track was was covered by dense, primordial-looking forests which provided ample shade. When we finished the track, there was an ice cream stand conveniently located just down the street. Needless to say, we each splurged on an ice cream bar.

Saturday, January 29: We drove South on Route 1 to Kaikoura, which is famous for the colonies/pods of seals, dolphins, and whales which live nearby. We settled in at the Top Spot backpackers and then headed out to do a seal swim. We suited up in full neoprene garb and headed into the surf, accompanied buy our guide. It wasn't too long before we had our first encounter with the seals. It was really something to see them face to face. They like to float on top of the water and crane their necks around under the surface, giving them 360-degree views. They'll let you get within a few feet of them, and then they usually dart right underneath you (sometimes as close as 6 inches) or jump over you. I really got the impression that they were as curious about us as we were about them. Later that night we barbecued sausages and veggie-kebabs at the Top Spot. This was where we met our first "ugly American" of the trip...a loud-mouthed East Coast girl, probably about 21 or 22, who would NOT SHUT UP about, like, how in America, like, everything is, like, so different, it's like un-believable! Guh. Now I know why people hate us. The low point was when I overheard her say, "honestly, compared to the average American, I'm not even that loud!"

Which brings me to today. We left Kaikoura in the morning and drove to Christchurch. The drive was spectacular, if a bit treacherous. Lots of windy shoreline roads with great views of the ocean. Christchurch itself seems pretty cool. We took a walk around the city center to see what was up. There just happens to be a big busker (street-performer) festival going on here, so we got to see "The Brothers Juan and the Incredible Bull Circus" and "The Jim Show." We also took a look at the local botannical gardens, for which Christchurch is famous. Christchurch is supposed to be the most English of all NZ cities, so we are planning on continuing this theme by having fish and chips for dinner tonight. We'll probably hang around the city for another day tomorrow, and then Hopie is planning on taking the trans-alpine railway to Greymouth. I will probably drive South to Dunedin, Invercargill, Stewart Island and, eventually, the Fiordlands. I'm really looking forward to it.

So there you have my stream-of-consciousness summary of the past week. I'm thinking things will slow down over the next week or so, so hopefully I'll have more time to keep the blog updated. Also, I plan on posting some new pics soon. Keep your eyes peeled!

Rangiphoto!

2005-01-25T00:13:00.000+01:00

Sorry, another cheesey post title. I'll stop when the novelty wears off.

Anyways, here are a few of the pictures I took of Rangitoto:

Panoramic shot of the island as the ferry approaches:

Peering into the volcanic crater:

A hazy view of Auckland from the summit:

Rangitoto, we're not in Kansas anymore

2005-01-24T08:34:00.000+01:00

First of all, I would like to apologize for that incredibly cheesey post title, but hey, you know me: I love the puns.

Today my only mission was to explore Rangitoto island, one of the larger islands off the East coast of Auckland. It is basically an extinct volcano that has since been overtaken by lush forests. I plan on posting some pictures, but I don't have them with me now, so here is one that I pilfered from another website:

By the way, a fat guy at this internet cafe just leaned back in his chair a little to far and absolutely shattered the wheeled base. Just thought you would like to know.

ANYWHO, the hike to the summit took about an hour, which gave me plenty of time to take in the views and breathe in the air. It was good to take a relaxed pace, since the entire island was covered with golfball-sized volcanic rocks that made it pretty hard to get a good footing. However, my leisurely tempo nearly got me stranded when, as I was checking out some volcanically-formed caves, I suddenly realized that the ferry was set to leave in 30 minutes and I was only a few minutes down from the summit. So I turned tail and booked down to the wharf just in time to catch the ferry. I was awful lucky that I didn't take a spill, because I'm sure that that volcanic rock could do some serious damage.

Well, after all that excitement, I think tomorrow will be more of an off day, all though I am going to try to buy a car in the evening. We'll see how that goes.

In the city...the city of Auckland

2005-01-23T04:39:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was my day to make the journey to downtown Auckland to scope out the city. Getting there was a bit of an ordeal, since I picked the wrong bus stop to wait at, and the actual trip into the city is about an hour and a half long. But once I finally got there, I was impressed with the city. Definitely more laid back than, say, Chicago, or even Minneapolis in some respects. I spent most of my time around Queen St., which is the prototypical tourist-packed main thoroughfare that every major city seems to have.

At one point, I ran into two young people, a guy and a girl, sporting big-ass backpacks with Canadian flag patches prominently displayed on the back. As a joke, I asked them if they were actually Canadians or just Americans pretending to be Canadians so as to avoid political arguments from other travelers. I'm not sure if they got the joke. Does this make me an ugly American?

I also saw a crazy guy having a rap battle with his reflection in a window. For those of you who went to Wash U, he reminded me a lot of Gabe. He may have been crazy, but he was actually pretty good. I'm not sure which of his personalities won the battle...it was too close to call!

Just for kicks, I stopped into the local Base Backpackers and asked if anyone knew a good place to pick up a cheap car. They pointed me to the local "backpacker's car market," which is basically a big garage where travelers go to unload the vehicles they've been driving around NZ. There seemed to be a lot of camper vans in stock that day...big old Toyota Hi-Aces with improvised paint jobs featuring everything from flowers to crescent wrenches. I was looking at a beat-up old station wagon, and the guy who was selling it came over to pitch it to me. "It's in great shape," I was told. Upon further questioning, though, I discovered that one of the wheels needed replacing and that it leaked so much oil that you had to top it off every couple weeks. But otherwise, it was in great shape!

Once I got back to Orewa, Joanne and I went over to Pam and Bruno's (parents of Joanne's son-in-law) for dinner. All I can say is...wow. We had lamb prepared two ways, potatoes, carrots, Italian-style peas, pasta salad, lettuce salad and, to top it all off, Pavlova. Pavlova seems to be the official dessert of New Zealand, and it's one of those things where I can't understand why it hasn't made its way to the States yet. It's basically a crusty, dome-shaped merengue topped with fresh whipped cream and strawberries and kiwi fruit...damn tasty. I will leave it at that.

Tomorrow I plan to take the ferry to Rangitoto Island to do a little exploring. Updates to follow.

Quick Pics

2005-01-23T04:26:00.000+01:00

Here are some pictures I snapped of Orewa Beach on Friday:

Hello, New Zealand!

2005-01-21T04:54:00.000+01:00

I have approximately 10 minutes and 23 seconds left on my Orewa library computer pass, so I'll have to keep this quick.

Got into Auckland at about 7AM this morning, in pretty good shape. I had one hell of a layover in LAX (about 11 hours...guh), but I slept pretty well on the LAX to NZ flight, thanks in no small part to the wonder drug Ambien. I caught the first half of Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, which totally sucked.

Joanne picked me up at the airport and we drove to her home in Orewa, a nice little suburb of Auckland. Her house is only a block from Orewa Beach...sweet as. Today's activities consisted of running errands in Orewa, eating lunch, buying a sun hat, and taking a long walk on the beach. Yes, ladies, I enjoy long walks on the beach. Tomorrow I'm planning on taking the bus into Auckland and having a look around. Also, I hope to have procured a car within a few days. Despite my mom's insistence that I will lose my concentration, drift into the right hand lane, and collide head on with a turnip truck, having my own car seems like the best option. Look at it this way, Mom: at least I won't be hitching.

Goodbye, Minnesota!

2005-01-19T03:26:00.000+01:00

From the "sweet merciful crap is it ever cold" department: Yesterday the temperature dropped down to -56° F in Embarrass, MN, just 4° shy of the all-time Minnesota record. That's actual air temperature, mind you, not windchill. So in the past week I have gone from KC, which is trapped under a sheet of ice, to Minnesota, which is so damn cold I think one of my nuts re-ascended when I went to take out the garbage.

No more. Tomorrow I escape the frozen tundra of the midwest and head to LA, and then on to Auckland. Friend-of-the-family Joanne, whom I will be staying with for a few days, has informed me that the forecast for my arrival features plenty of sunshine and a balmy high of 26° C (better get used to the metric system). Additionally, the water at the local swimming beach is reportedly warming up nicely. Suh-weet. Or, as the Kiwis say, "sweet as!"

I don't think the reality of all this has quite hit me yet. For the most part, tonight seems like any other Tuesday night. Maybe it's because I really have no idea what to expect from this trip. Who knows what might happen during the next three months?

Well, I will find out soon enough. Catch you all on the flipside! And KEEP IN TOUCH!

Goodbye, Cerner!

2005-01-14T14:48:00.000+01:00

Today I say goodbye to my first "real" job after college. They say you always remember your first, right? My 1.5 years with Cerner have had their ups and downs, to be sure, but the one thing that has remained constant has been the great company of the friends and associates I have come to know in KC.

To all the Cernerites who might be reading this, thanks for for everything, and best of luck in 2005!

P.S.: Keep in touch!

Conclusion: The Great No-TV Experiment

2005-01-08T20:20:00.000+01:00

With less than a week left in my increasingly-empty apartment in Kansas City, I'm thinking it's time to wrap up The Great No-TV Experiment, gather the data, and report my findings to the scientific community at large.

What have I learned from being TV-less for the past month? Well, first of all, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. When you sell your TV, you quickly come to terms with the fact that, hey, the TV is GONE, and you couldn't watch it even if you wanted to. It would be much worse if I still had a TV and forced myself not to watch it. I guess what I'm saying is that with the actual appliance removed, it's not that hard to accept a TV-less reality.

Second, I realized that I can remain just as connected to the world without TV as I can with it. Let's face it, as a news media vehicle, the TV is damn near worthless these days. I can use the internet to get news on the topics I choose, on my own terms, without all the fatuous filler you usually get from the TV networks. If you watched local Kansas City TV news coverage for a month, you would deduce that Kansas Citians care about only two things: 1) Wasting money, and 2) The terrorist/kid next door/school official/household cleaning product/fashion fad/exotic fish that is trying to poison/kidnap/molest/breathe on/brainwash or otherwise warp YOUR children! Oh, the humanity! Seriously, someone should enact a law preventing cities under a certain population from producing TV news programs. I don't know what the population of Kansas City is, but it would most definitely NOT make the cut-off. Whew. Rant over.

Third and finally, I came to the conclusion that not having a TV would be much more difficult without the internet. Basically, whatever role the TV used to play in my rigorous time-wasting regimen, that role was gracefully assumed by the internet immediately upon the TV's exit. I would go so far as to say that, for me, the internet is an almost completely adequate replacement for TV. I think this says a lot about where TV is heading in the future. Allow me to make a prediction: in 15 years (maybe less), TV and the internet will essentially be the same thing.

All in all, I consider The Great No-TV experiment to be an unqualified success. News of Nobel nominations is forthcoming.

One Month Countdown

2004-12-20T04:43:00.000+01:00

Ah, it's so close I can taste it. Just one month until my January 19 flight to LAX and then on to Auckland. From this point forward, the time until the beginning of my trip will be measured in weeks and days, not months. It sure feels good to finally say that.

Update: The Great No-TV Experiment

2004-12-15T05:27:00.000+01:00

Time for a status report. I am a little over a week into The Experiment, and doing well so far. My vitals remain at acceptable levels and I am in good spirits.

A crisis was narrowly averted last night when, for some unknown reason, I experienced a prolonged internet outage. Faced with the total absence of electronic entertainment, I began suffering classic withdrawal symptoms immediately (quickened pulse, sweaty palms, screaming profanities, cowering in fetal position, etc.). Eventually I realized that I still had a couple DVDs left over from my mass liquidation binge and happily settled in for an emergency screening of Being John Malkovich on my Cerner-issued laptop.

Now that my internet connection has been restored, prognosis for the remainder of the test period appears to be good. Updates to follow.

How to contact me

2004-12-10T04:47:00.000+01:00

I have set up several ways for you, my adoring readership, to get in touch with me while I'm on the road:

Email: universaltraveler@gmail.com. This is probably the easiest and most reliable way to contact me. If you leave your physical address, I'll do my best to send you a letter or postcard.
Post comments: If you have something to say in response to one of my posts, click the "Comment" text at the bottom of the post. Fill out the form and type your message. Remember, everyone who reads my blog will be able to read your message. Therefore, please send all propositions via email.
Guestbook: Sign it here.

Lessons I Have Learned: Installment One

2004-12-07T02:28:00.000+01:00

Lesson: Always remember to poke a few holes in a potato before you bake it, otherwise it will detonate...

...like this:

The Great No-TV Experiment

2004-12-06T00:45:00.000+01:00

I think this post would be best introduced with a Simpsons quote:

Homer: No TV and no beer make Homer something something...
Marge: Go crazy?
Homer: Don't mind if I do! (launches into a homicidal rage)

Looking back on my life, I don't think I've ever had to go more than a week without regular access to a TV. That's all going to change, now that I've sold mine. My big, beautiful boob tube is now in the hands of a fellow Cernerite, and I am about $400 richer. Clearly, I need the money much more than I need the TV (which would have done nothing more than depreciate in my absence), but I'm not sure how the next month and a half in my apartment is going to go. TVs are so deeply ingrained in American culture that I'm not sure I can just quit cold turkey without having withdrawal symptoms.

To give you an idea of what I'm up against, here's a picture of the gaping void left by my erstwhile idiot box:

It will be interesting to see how I react to the total absence of television. Obviously, I had better get used to it, since TV-watching is the last thing I ought to be doing while I'm traveling. At the same time, I want everybody to keep a watchful eye on me, in case I start making smug comments about not owning a TV or other annoying shit like that. If that starts happening, a firm slap in the face would be totally justified.

The Beginning of the End

2004-11-20T02:10:00.000+01:00

Well, the secret is out. Today I finally told my boss that I'll be leaving Cerner in January, and I think it went pretty well. Nobody flipped out. Actually, it was kind of ironic...after a team meeting, I asked him if I could talk to him afterwards, and once everybody had left, he jokingly said, "Hmmm, this looks like bad news. When are you leaving?" Then I told him that I actually was leaving, to which he replied, "Dang! You're killing me!"

Afterwards, I felt kind of weird. I had expected that once I got the big secret out into the open, I would feel relieved, even liberated. Instead, I actually felt kind of guilty. I suppose that once I moved to Kansas City, my co-workers (associates in Cernerspeak) became, for better or for worse, part of my extended family. I mean, after spending at least 50 hours per week with them for the past year and a half, how could they not? Anyways, a little piece of me felt like I was letting them all down.

Of course, in the end, I know they'll all get by just fine. I know that I am making this decision for all the right reasons. And I know that when my plane touches down in Auckland, I sure as hell won't be wishing I was back in my cubicle.

Nate sells, but who's buying?

2004-10-25T01:39:00.000+02:00

Many people who have done RTW (that's "round the world" for those of you not hip to the lingo) trips talk about the cleansing, restorative effect of their travels. Usually, this is taken to mean that they have examined themselves and determined exactly what makes them happy, allowing them to discard pretty much everything else. Although I'm not exactly counting on it, I think it would be cool if my travels had a similar effect on me.

On the other hand, it is pretty much guaranteed that I will be "cleansed" in a different sense...namely, financially. If you think it might get expensive to spend a year flying in airplanes, riding on trains, eating at restaurants, and sleeping in hostels/hotels, then you are absolutely correct, Poindexter. Something tells me that when all is said and done, my bank account is going to be so pristine that the Virgin Mary herself would be happy to sign up for direct deposit. (I wish.)

Now, I'm not looking for sympathy, and I definitely don't need any handouts because, as John Kerry is so fond of saying, "I have a plan." And the first prong of that plan involves me doing a little cleansing of my own. That's right, folks, I'm selling off all my shit.

This will be good for two reasons. First, I'll hopefully make enough money that I won't have to spend the last few months of my trip competing with local pidgeons, squirrels, and rhesus monkeys for food scraps on the street. And second, I'll be ridding myself of all the worthless shit that I've been toting from apartment to apartment for the past 6 years.

Items that have hit the auction block so far:

My CD collection. In all honesty, this should have been done years ago. I did the bulk of my CD purchasing during the period of 1991 to 1999 which, coincidentally, is also the period when I had the worst taste in music. And it boggles my mind how easily I was able to unload this swill on eBay. The shame I felt for owning a copy of Snow's 12 Inches of Snow (remember Informer?) must take a distant second place to that of the girl who paid SIX DOLLARS to take it off my hands. Kelli Ivey, if you are reading this, seek help.
My video games. This was a tough one. My XBOX and I shared some good times together: drunken HALO, "Fyoo-shaaaaaaaaaan Fren-zaaaaaaaay"...I could go on forever. When I realized that I would never again hear Zak's stirring monologue, well, a little piece of me died. "Zak shellac in the ack ack pack...win again!" Indeed.
My guitar. Okay, there is a lesson here that I have obviously been too stupid to learn: I am too lazy to learn to play guitar. I've had three separate opportunities to figure this out. Maybe it will sink in this time.
My graphing calculator from college. If there really is a God, and He is truly just and righteous, He will see to it that I never end up in a college-level math class again.

So there you have it. My worldly possessions up for sale at a fraction of their original cost! My only worry is that I might have some sociopathic secret admirer who is slowly collecting my personal effects, just waiting for me to leave the country, and I'll return to find this guy sleeping in my bed, hanging out with my friends, and otherwise living my life. This situation will culminate with us enacting one of those bizarre Hollywood scenes where the cops have us at gunpoint, and they're desperately trying to figure out which one is the real Nate and which one is the impostor.

Oh, well. At least I will have made a few bucks.

The waiting is the hardest part

2004-10-17T18:30:00.000+02:00

As of today, I'm just over 3 months away from my flight to New Zealand and the official start of my extended travels. The suspense is killing me! Sure, it's only 3 months, but it's starting to seem like an eternity. So, I'm trying to think of things I can do to make the time pass more quickly. Here are my ideas so far:

Immerse myself in a vat of liquid nitrogen; emerge from cryostasis in early January
Spend extended periods of time in a meditative state where notions of time and space cease to exist
Take up juggling

Unfortunately, there are problems with this list. The first two items present logistical difficulties due to their technical/spiritual complexity. And, to add insult to injury, I already know how to juggle. Shit!

Luckily, I've got one thing going for me: my job. What else could offer 50 hours per week (80 if you're lucky) of consistent time-passing power? Well, sure, I suppose video games, TV, and beer could do that, but would they feature the same vast assortment of free office supplies?

I don't think so.

So, it looks like a long 3 months of waiting is inevitable. I think I'll cheer myself up by treating myself to a fresh pack of Post-It notes and a Bic pen.

Almost cut my hair...

2004-09-25T18:56:00.000+02:00

...well, actually, I really did cut it. Almost all of it. And it feels kind of weird, maybe because I haven't had it cut this short since I was 8 years old.

Perhaps this makes me neurotic or high-maintenance, but I had an intense internal debate over how I wanted to wear my hair while traveling. I was torn between two extremes. On one hand, I was considering growing it out and getting in touch with my hippie side. On the other, I thought I might just shave it all off in the name of expediency.

In the end, I figured that having long hair would just be a pain in the ass. I pictured myself emerging from the forest, having just finished an 8-day hike, and finding a set of, nasty, funk-ridden dreadlocks where my luscious locks used to be. Needless to say, the thought was too much to bear.

So, overcome by curiosity, I decided to head over to my friendly neighborhood Great Clips and reacquaint myself with the shape of my skull. Here are the results:

Whoops, wrong picture...

That's better, although I hope I'm not the only one who notices the striking resemblance between Kojak and myself.

What's in a name?

2004-09-18T18:03:00.000+02:00

I spent some time thinking about what I wanted to name this blog. Because the name is more important than things like, oh, actual content, right? Right. Well, my first choice was "The Tourist," after my favorite Radiohead song. Predictably, though, that one was already taken. Then I started to get clever and tried a variation on the theme: "The Occidental Tourist." I was pretty proud of myself for thinking that one up. But, lo and behold, that one was taken, too! I guess my claim that I am the cleverest, wittiest person on the internet is unfounded.

Finally, after much hand-wringing and gnashing of teeth, I settled on "Universal Taveler," which is derived from the Air tune by the same name. The song comes off their Talkie Walkie album, which is excellent...if you have the means, I highly recommend it. Anyways, if you are curious about how the song applies to me, here are the lyrics:

I know so many places in the world
I follow the sun in my silver plane
Universal traveler

If you have a look outside on the sea
Everything is white, it's so wonderful
Universal traveler

So far, so far
So far away

I've met so many people in my life
I have many friends who can care for me
Universal traveler

Just feel everywhere at home
Tomorrow is a brand new day, let's go somewhere else
Universal traveler

So far, so far
So far away

Very cool song, if you can get past Air's pronunciation of "universal" (u-NEE-ver-SOW). They can't help it...they're French.

Inaugural Post

2004-09-04T20:32:00.000+02:00

Alright, before I get started, I need to issue a warning: I am new to the realm of blogging. Although I have read plenty of blogs in the past, I have no experience writing them. So my posts might suck at first, but things will get better. Then again, they might continue to suck. Stay tuned to find out!

First of all, who am I? My name is Nate, I am 24 years old, and I live in Kansas City, Missouri. I work as a software engineer for Cerner Corporation, a medium-sized software vendor for the healthcare industry. Although I have been living in Missouri for most of the past five years (the first four as a computer science student at Washington University in St. Louis), I consider myself a Minnesota native at heart. I grew up in the halcyon Minneapolis suburb of Eden Prairie.

So, now that you know who I am, you are probably wondering what this blog is all about. Well, there is a story to that, but I will try to give you the executive summary. After I graduated from Wash U, I transitioned immediately into my current job as a software engineer. That was the plan all along, and I never really considered any alternatives. After a while, though, I started to wonder if this was really how I wanted to kick off my post-college life. I was searching for a sense of adventure and independence, and I wasn't finding it at my desk job. I had thought about traveling before, but I always figured that it would be something I did after I retired and could live off my nest egg. Eventually, I decided:

Screw that. I'm going now.

So, basically, I will be spending the first half of 2005 (maybe longer) backpacking through New Zealand, Europe, and other strange and exotic locales. I will be living day-to-day with minimal extended planning. Exactly where I'll be at any given moment is a mystery, and I expect the trip to evolve, literally, right before my eyes.

This blog will be a written record of my journey. It will also be a tool to stay in touch with friends, family, and people I might meet along the way. I hope to keep it regularly updated with fresh thoughts, feelings, observations, and images from my travels.

I won't actually depart for New Zealand (the first stop on my trip) until January 2005, so you can expect things to be pretty quiet for a while. In the weeks and months leading up to that day, I'll start posting more as I complete my preparations. And once I actually embark, it will be a veritable post-o-rama (hopefully).

So sit back, relax, and strap on your seat belt. You've never been on a ride like this before.