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Le Cinque Terre

Le Cinque Terre

Le Cinque Terre

Tired of Traveling

I am tired of traveling. The thought first showed up last night at dusk. Except for the Peter Pan hostel in Rome, which lacked air conditioning, we haven't slept in a bed since Caltrano, Italy two-and-a-half weeks ago. Since the beaches of Hvar, we have been working our way north and west toward Spain, not stopping in any one place for more than two nights.

We awoke yesterday morning to the sound of a helicopter that wouldn't go away. In the rough seas of the day before a 22-year-old who was staying at the campground disappeared. Presumably by this point, they were looking for a body, not saving a life. We drove north, full with the spirit of Le Cinque Terre, excited to meet some of our new friends from Croatia in their home town of Barcelona. After winding our way out of Italy and into France on Route 1, we opted for the highway. This meant more than 15 Euros worth of tolls, but more direct. After eight hours of driving we found ourselves in the fishing village of Sete in search of a payphone or WiFi connection.

Some thoughts are like cirrus clouds. They are wispy brush strokes high in the sky, disconnected from everything, disappearing just as they appeared in the blue. Others are like thunderheads, taking an entire day to build up. They assemble methodically and ominously. I don't know what kind of though, "I'm tired of traveling" is yet. When it first appeared at dusk last night, we had no place to sleep. After a day of a cell phone with a German SIM card that we couldn't successfully get to call a Spanish number, we finally called our contacts in Spain. This only to learn that our friends in Barcelona wouldn't be there for another week. And our friend's aunt in Bilboa had broken her wrist and felt she could no longer properly host guests. As day became night we found ourselves drinking 3 Euro sangrias outside of a bar with WiFi. We checked couchsurfing. We checked Facebook. We checked e-mail.

"The universe provides," replaced "I am tired of traveling." Within 20 minuts, we had a couch to stay on toward weeks' end on the Costa Brava in Spain. And an old friend messaged saying she was stuck at her dad's place near the French-Spanish border a few extra nights due to Hurricane Irene back in New York City. Fitting, I suppose, given that it was also the sixth anniversary of the day Hurricane Katrina upended our lives back in New Orleans. Excited for a friend, shower, bed and kitchen tomorrow, we enjoyed a long fixed price Thai meal. We wandered Sete until near midnight, when we found some cliffs over the sea, rolled out our thermarests and sleeping bags and slept under the stars. We expected to be woken early by joggers and dogwalkers at sunrise.

We weren't. But we found ourselves in a McDonald's parking lot shortly after 8 am awaiting a response from Brittany on where she was and how to meet up. When there was nothing, we decided to go to the grocery store to buy breakfast then drive toward the border. We would check again at lunch time. We detoured for a two-hour wine tour and tasting in a cellar converted from an old gypsum mine outside of Narbonne. Complete with videos, music and light shows, we fell in love with the area. Sampling eight wines certainly helped. We bought four.

We drove and wandered a couple of towns looking for an Internet connection. Close to an hour later we found one outside of Le Rotonde Brasserie in Segina. We found a message back from Brittany that she was Barcelona-bound. Here we are again without a place to sleep tonight. And we're hungry. And everything seems to be closed. The thought returns; I am sick of traveling. I remember my brother-in-law's advice--when things get tough, there is always a beach nearby. So, after lunch, we head to the beach in Port La Nouvelle.

After a nap and a swim, I decide to walk the beach. It is long and sandy. People and umbrellas populate it for a few miles. So I walk the shoreline, in and out of the waves. A child digs a moat in the sand down towards the water. I am tired of traveling. I miss home. The clouds build. A couple plays paddle ball, ankle deep in the water. It reminds me of childhood vacations on Longnook Beach in Cape Cod. I would play with my brother, my dad and my mom, whomever I could get to play, for hours.

I spend an awful lot of time worrying about where we will sleep tonight. Especially when one considers that we have a car, a tent, two sleeping bags and two therm-a-rests. We can sleep anywhere. And the coast has almost as many camping areas as ice cream shops. Perhaps this is why we build our safe and secure and predictable world back home, with our jobs, our routines, our houses. It's all to keep us cushioned, save us from (momentary) concerns about the basics. Irrational fears.

I feel disappointed. A place to sleep is one thing. But I was looking forward to a friend to talk with. After all, Annette is the only friend here. And we have spent 24 hours a day together for four months now. No matter how much we love each other, it gets grinding at times.

A pit bull is digging in the sand, focused on a single task relentlessly, until far beyond the natural end. The way only a pit bull can. It's straight tail sticks out from its hole. It pauses while I walk by, so as not to kick sand on me.

I miss home isn't about missing my home or even New Orleans. Then what is it? I don't really want to go home. I just want to enjoy the company of family and friends. Old friends. Good friends. Nothing in particular needs to be talked about.

A crutch rests on the shore. The waves reach it, but it doesn't move. I wonder how this crutch got here. Did its owner disappear into the sea. It seems as if it was left there, no longer needed, recently. Did somebody experience a miraculous recovery? Or did they hurl the crutch toward the sea in frustration and despair before dragging themselves back across the sand?

I see campers parked near the beach and wonder if we should sleep there tonight or pay for a formal site. What will Annette want? And how much will it cost? If we spen more money, will our experience be better? I have always hated the sterility of hotels. I prefer my tent to that.

I come upon a small fish writhing in the sand. Its gills are flapping. I flick it back in the water with my big toe. It swims away with two of its friends. It was as if the other two fish were waiting just at the land's edge, concocting a plan to save their fish friend's life. Maybe I was the plan.

I turn around. The walk back on the beach is always longer than the walk there. It's ground you have already covered. I try not to cover the same ground twice. But there is much to look at. And all is new now, nearly an hour later. I wonder if there is any paper to write on back at our towel. I know my constant concern over where we are going, how we get there, what we will do, what we will eat and where we will sleep drives Annette crazy sometimes. It wears me out sometimes too. Perhaps transcending that is the purpose of this journey. Perhaps it is merely learning to live with it and enjoy life.

Le Dolce Vita

Food was invented in Italy. I came to this realization halfway through a focaccia with pesto in Vernazza in Le Cinque Terre. After all, my lunch was first created, or rather discovered, within 50 km of where I sit on the steps watching a cat play in a boat while eating. I say discovered because only God could have created pesto. He made basil, parmesan cheese, pine nuts, garlic, olive oil all native in this region. Then he left it to man to figure out how to combine the ingredients properly (a personal discovery I have yet to make). And that may have taken a thousand years, but we are better today for it, just as the focaccia is.

But back to our thesis here. Food was invented in Italy. Before that, it was just sustenance,like the bagels with cream cheese that have sustained my brother since he was two. Here food takes on meaning, identity, a higher purpose. It becomes le dolce vita, the sweet life enjoyed in five or six courses over three hours with friends or family. Antipasta. First course. Second course – land or sea. Dessert. Liquor. Coffee. And ample amounts of wine throughout – all from Italy, too many to be named. But any country with towns named after wines, or vice versa, appreciates the good life. That is so much more than sustenance. That is the invention of food.

And then there are deli meats. Start with prosciutto, legs of it hanging from nearly any Italian trattoria or grocery store wall. And speck. Mortadella. How can meat go wrong with little pistachio nuts in it? And cheeses – mozzarella, bufala, asiago, parmesan. And breads – focaccia, ciabatta, bruschetta. And that good thin crust pizza that puts New York to shame. And there is Annette's daily favorite – Gelato. Straciacella is her favorite – vanilla with chocolate chunks. But the flavors go on far beyond Baskin Robbins could imagine.

Italy is the good life. We say goodbye to it tomorrow for the French coast and on to the delicacies of Spain.

The Road to Rome

I didn't want to go to Rome. After a week on the Croatian beaches swimming in the clear waters of the Adriatic, Rome seemed like it would be crowded, hot and dirty. On Sunday, we said goodbye to Croatia with a dinner of grilled squid and sea devil before catching the overnight ferry to Ancona, Italy. The ferry originates in Split, so it was crowded by the time we got on. Only the driver could go with our car, so Annette went to stake out a spot on deck for us while I crammed the already small car into a tight space on board.

As I walked from the third floor where the car was parked to the sixth, seventh and eighth in search of Annette, I began to get a picture of just what this ferry was like. And it wasn't what I expected. The two-hour car ferry we rode from Split to Starigrad, Hvar last week felt like a party. There was a big lounge with a bar. People were drinking, smoking, playing cards. Upstairs on the sun deck, it felt like a beach. It was lively. People were sunning, drinking, enjoying friends and family with the joy of a much-anticipated vacation that officially began when the ferry left the port.

This ferry to Ancona, on the other hand, felt like a cruise ship taken over by squatters. Since cabins are significantly more expensive, many people just buy "deck seats." There is airplane seating in various areas of the ship, but the stairwells, the cafeteria, the kids' play area, even the casino and bar has towels and sleeping bags stretched everywhere, as people claim their sleeping spots for the night.

Annette and I eventually find a free wall in the back of the ship under an outlet. We blow our Thermarests up and get comfortable for the ten-hour ride. I begin to download photos from the camera to the hard drive and type up my last few handwritten blog entries. Annette curls up in her sleep sack with a book and soon begins to doze.

The ferry arrives in Ancona around 9 a.m. The port feels industrial and dirty. The morning breeze on the sea, though, is delicious. We joke that it almost replaces a shower. It will have to for now. We forego our planned breakfast in Ancona after an hour waiting to get our car off the ferry, watching the madness from a deck above. The carless passengers exit through the same area as the automobiles. We head for a a small town down the coast, where it is presumably quieter and closer to Rome.

Three hours later we eat overpriced but delicious prosciutto and mozzerella paninis in a small city that only left the first letter of its name in my mind: T. Neither my nor Annette's ATM cards worked on our last stop in Croatia, so we are sparingly living off of 30 Euros and a VISA card. We have no place to sleep between here and Barcelona in two weeks. While that is liberating, it is also stressful. Espeically at times like now when we find out our sandwiches cannot be paid for by VISA and we are down below 20 Euros.

But the stress momentarily washes away with Croatian sweat and ferry dust as we swim and bathe in a beautiful mountain lake. The mountains are five degrees cooler. The lake is near the southernmost glacier in Europe. I would trade the streets of Rome for a night in the mountains, I think to myself. The sun dries my body as I bask on the shore. But Annette heads for the car ready to push on.

The thermometer in the car creeps past 33 for the first time I have noticed. 34. 35. It keeps going to 38 before some long tunnels bring it down again. We stop 30 km from Rome at an Internet cafe. We use our 1 Euro 50 and the twenty minutes it buys us sparingly to see if we have any lodging responses through couch surfing. "Declined" is all we find. We move on to hostels and settle on one of the cheapest - Peter Pan Hostel. In my haste, we don't map directions to it. Instead I try to memorize the major roads (which I do, but cannot find) and Annette photographs its location on a map.

Thirty kilometers and two hours later we stop at a hotel. We have to be buzzd in to get to the reception area. In broken English the man suggests we go back up two lights and take a left. "I don't know," he repeats. BUt he is right. Annette spots a tiny sign with Peter Pan and an arrow on it.

Rome's suburbs are ugly. And this hostel is too. After some discussion and groaning about the price and lack of air conditioning, we use our VISA card, drop some stuff, and search for food. Within three blocks, we find good pizza and wine with a VISA sign for fourteen Euros. It turns out above the VISA sign was written, "machine is broken" in Italian and we spend what's left of our cash.

We find a bankomat (ATM) and Annette's card newly authoried to make international withdrawls works (thanks to her mom). So, we spend some of our new money in the Metro and ride into the city.

We are greeted by the Coloseum lit up beautifully at night as we exit the Metro. Columns, arches, domes, ruins partially lit in the night call me forward. I studied Latin for seven years. In college, I majored in Classics, focusing on ancient Roman literature and Roman and Greek culture and politics. And here it all was before me - Corinthian columns nearly two thousand years old. An arch Roman generals marched through triumphantly, showing off exotic spoils from distant wars. While in the Alps, I often thought about Hannibal marching his elephants. But now, it all began coming back.

Dr. Harl was one of my favorite college professors. He taught ancient history seminars of no more than 18 students. And he taught it as if it was a mxture of a current events and acting course. He once gathered us in a wedge and had us march on our classmates to demonstrate the brilliance of the hoplite phalanx military formation. He brought ancient Rome and Greece to life.

Here, as we walked around the circus maximus, I could see the well-oiled athletes showing off their physical prowess. Ancient Rome was alive. Ancient Rome is alive.

I marvel at how little we have changed. Our governments, our social activities, even our arenas, are similar. The building materials have changed, but humans haven't.

We wander on toward the national museum and the layers of Rome emerge. A sixteenth century chapel stands next to the ruins of a first century temple. The saying, "Rome wasn't built in a day," makes much more sense now. Rome wasn't built in 2,000 years. Rome is still being built. But its magnificence is unparalleled.

Tomorrow, Tuscany.

Turning the Other Cheek

Today we left Rome in route for Tuscany. After I packed up my backpack contents I walked out the gates of the Peter Pan Hostel towards our car which we left parked on the street in eyeshot of the hostel. Still covered in a solid layer of red dust from Hvar, I walked up on her to find four 30ish looking men all with short haircuts checking her out. One was carefully drawing something on the trunk so I called out laughingly, “Ah, I caught you!” Thinking he had written some Italian version of “wash me” to accompany the “see you in Barcelona” note left by the Spanish girls upon their departure from Didier's place. Instead as the “artist” walked away I locked eyes on a perfectly executed swastika. I looked up at the cowards as they slowly rounded the corner with smirks on their faces. “Thanks, very nice, assholes,” I shouted after them. I then went about my usual routine of packing the trunk. I grabbed my canteen from the passenger seat and poured water over the trunk, and while I am overly tired of drinking the various waters from bathroom sinks across the EU, I was grateful for this fresh reserve that allowed us to avoid brandishing this polarizing symbol of hate. I wiped it clean with a napkin, its life on my trunk was less than a minute, however hours later, this image, the act, the upset was still fresh in my mind.

I went into the hostel to gather Ham and met him on the stairs carrying the last of his stuff from the room. After we made it out of the gates I relayed what had just occurred, and his first response was “were they Indian guys?” I quickly snapped, “No, this wasn't an ancient Hindu symbol they left, these were four dumb ass Neo-Nazi skinheads!” He seemed unfazed. While I decided at that moment that this wasn't going to ruin my day, I made no such commitment regarding my thoughts. I thought about the random spray painted swastikas I've noticed during our time in Europe. They have been few and random, on a road barrier in the mountains, a small handbill in Berlin, the words “white boys sprawled on a wall in Croatia. I had asked about the presence of hate groups when we were staying with the girls, the two doctors in Berlin. Their response was that they're not allowed to advertise or organize publicly, and that was that.

As we rounded the corner leaving the hostel, I fantasized about catching them at the bus stop, pointing them out to Ham and shouting yet another obscenity at them as I hurled a grapefruit that I planned on eating for breakfast. I also pictured them catching up to us at the light, kicking and denting our car or worse. Our Italian guidebook made mention of a hate crime just a few years ago where several Italian men killed an African immigrant in the streets. I thought about Susan Glisson and all that I had learned from her about racial reconciliation work. I thought about my mentors and friends in Philadelphia, MS and Tallahatchie County who had experienced real fear, hatred, and physical violence. I appreciate that on the scale of atrocities this is a minor violation, however overlooking acts such as these small ones almost endorses it, remaining silent implies acceptance and tolerance for racial hatred—this is never okay. My mind continued to race on, with the images of St. Peter's Cathedral still fresh from the day before I thought of the teachings of Jesus regarding turning the other cheek.

Turning the cheek is all about letting transgressions go, and forgiveness, not for the benefit of the transgressors per say, but to free the victim of the weight of life killing anger. I thought about the racial reconciliation work that must be occurring across Europe and how to ally with those folks should we choose to remain in the EU and the challenges of communicating about such a hard subject across languages and cultures. This strikes me as rewarding work.

We never saw those guys again, but I'm sure we'll continue to encounter them in various corners of the world. While I believe they were guests at our hostel I didn't know if they had seen me and Ham or how they could know this was our vehicle. Perhaps their motivation had nothing to do with us at all, and was merely due to the irresistible invitation a dusty car surface provides.

Paradise Found

We found paradise. Its at the end of a bumpy dirt road that won't let you out of first gear. Then you go down a trail. It is about 5 km past Zawala on the lavender and grape-covered island of Hvar. To get there, you take a ferry, drive through a mile-long single-lane tunnel and on past where the pavement ends. It is a private south-facing pebble beach tucked in a cliff side that provides shade even in midday. Thousands of of pebbles populate the beach worn smooth by the sea. The waters and winds are still in the morning like a lake and more lively in the afternoons until an hour or so after the sun sets.

It is the home of Didier, a friendly guy from Belgium whom we met through couchsurfing. His mom was Croatian, his dad Belgian. His parents began building this house to fulfill their dream of a bed and breakfast nearly three decades ago. Suddenly, his mom fell ill. It was lung cancer, metastasized in the intestines. Despite their best efforts, she was dead in four months. His dad stopped construction on the house. That was 1986.

What remains are two rooms, a small solar panel, a deck, a well and an outhouse. And Didier has hosted more than 30 couch surfers already in two weeks of his holiday here. It will undoubtedly be fifty by the time he returns to Belgium at the end of the month.

I consider this paradise a gift of sorts from cancer. Part of the silver lining that surrounds its thunderclouds of suffering. Thunderclouds, however, are beautiful and powerful in their own right.

Aside from long days on the beach sunning, swimming, soaking and snorkeling, we thoroughly enjoyed a great cross section of the couch surfing community. In addition to Didier, there was his friend Adrian, a personal trainer who wants to go back to school to study nutrition. He is from Belgium, speaks better English than he thinks, and has come with Didier here for some time every year for the last eight years. He is hilarious and made for the best evening of Go Fish I have ever played.

Then there is Alessandra, from Sardinia. She is beautiful, a diver, maybe 40. She works in the public works department for Italy and hates her job almost as much as the Italian bureaucracy that comes with it.

And Robin from Sweden. 28 years old. Handsome. Blond hair and a beard. Loves soccer. He cooks tuna and eggs three ways two times a day (omelet, fried eggs, and scrambled eggs). When we met, he was three days into a year and a half o traveling. Within fifteen minutes of meeting him, I knew we will see him again somewhere.

Then there were five from Poland. Three boys: Martin, Paul and Patrick. Two girls: Anya (Patrick's little sister) and Rose. They are maybe 20 years old. Both girls are “knockouts” as my mom would say in reference to their beauty.

Then came Galen, the 20-year-old from Alaska who left me feeling annoyed by Americans. (That probably has more to do with me than him). He has already traveled widely and just finished an intensive Croatian language program. He likes to share what he knows on all topics. I wonder if I was like that at that age.

Galen met three spunky girls from Barcelona on the ferry – Nuria, Anna and Raquel. They quickly turned our private beach into a nude beach and made fast friends with Annette in the dance clubs of Hvar. We will see them in a few weeks in Barcelona.

And on our last night, two very sweet girls from Berlin arrived – Carol and Julia. They brought peaceful spirits and an appreciation for paradise.

It was truly a beautiful little momentary community formed there just southeast of the village of Gromin Doloc on the island of Hvar. I write this from the overnight ferry from Hvar to Ancona, Italy. The other members of this community are already spread across the continent – Dubrovnik, Budapest, Romania, Monte Negro.

A Morning Walk (written 8/17/11)

My friend Neil introduced me to morning walks in foreign places. We were riding an overnight train from Delhi to Pathankot, India. It was about 6 am., perhaps July in the summer of 2005 when he invited me to walk the train with him. We sat on the platform between cars and watched people's morning rituals. The image that stays with me is people dotted across the fields, every 20 meters or so, squatting with no toilet.

So when I woke up this morning at our campground just north of the entrance to Paklenica National Park in Croatia, I decided to go for a walk. The tent is shaded in the pines while the sun bleaches the sea and rocks. After a good night of sleeping with the doors open in the tent, the cool morning feels good.

As I walk along the water, I notice the people. A few are fishing with huge fishing poles. A few swim. Three jog. I take a few photos that inspire me. I fin a wall in the sun and take a seat and watch the water.

The Adriatic is meditative. The waters are still, sheltered by any number of islands and peninsulas. I notice the clearness of the water. I ponder the ripples on the surface, wondering just how they form and remain so constant. The sun glimmers off of them. Then I turn my attention to the bottom. I notice the rocks. I notice some algae. Then a small fish. As I watch the fish lazily glide among the rocks, I notice another. Now three, four, five, six. They move as a school, zig zagging around together toward no place in particular. Then I notice a larger fish, the size of my palm. It is brown and white with vertical stripes, kind of like a zebra. I follow it with my eyes. Soon, I have discovered an underwater ecosystem just under my nose. Moments ago, it seemed to be a desert of rocks and water. It is the Adriatic's morning message. Be still. Pay attention. And much will be revealed.

Tonight in Croatia (written 8/16/11)

The moon peeks over the mountains to the east, mainland Croatia, Bosnia, Turkey, Afghanistan. It is two days past full. One edge of the circle is obscured just barely. The moon's face is smiling north. It's a knowing grin. The glimmer tells northern Europe just how beautiful Croatia is. Bur that's a message only understood by the few who can read the faces of moons.

The Adriatic stretches before us. Its waters lap calmly at our feet. Friendly, warm, a bit of a tickle, like when my dad's dog, Max licks my feet for some reason perhaps only he and the moon know.

I tie a line around the top of the Lambrusco bottle we picked up in Italy four days ago. I gently nestle it among the pebbles and cool waters, tying the other end of the string around a rock on the shore.

We sit in silence and trace the constellations in the stars. I remind Annette how to use the big dipper to identify the North Star. As she traces a line from the end of the dipper, a brilliant shooting star flies across our path. Our excitement is audible. We often have seen shooting stars, but never the same one at the same time.

After some time of admiring the stars in silence, we open the Lambrusco. Despite being cooked in the car and jostled in the waves of passing boats, it opens with a pop and no foam. It tastes like the warm sun coated vineyards of northern Italy. We take turns drinking from the bottle like a couple of teenagers who sneaked out of the house with most full bottle we could find in mommy and daddy's liquor cabinet. But the Lambrusco tastes better than anything teenagers could find.

A boat motors by in the distance – a sound with a red, green and white light attached to it to suggest its shape. The path of a light from an island across the water is obscured for a moment by the passing boat. The moon has risen now in the sky, casting our shadows long and crisp on the rocks and water. I can see the label on the Lambrusco has peeled and chipped from its brief time among the pebbles and salt water.

Another boat passes in the darkness. I wonder about its size, its purpose, its captain, where it is coming from and what brings it toward this marina at this hour. I watch the waves crawl to shore. “Whichever way you look, it seems like the waves are coming from that way,” I observe aloud.

“Wow. You're right. That's cool,” Annette responds peacefully. She rubs my back and kisses my neck as I point the bottle of Lambrusco toward the big dipper with a final sip.

“Do you want to walk?” she asks.

“Sure. Which way?”

“Oh. I was thinking toward the campsite, but let's go further down the beach.”

“Ok. Let's take the path.”

We scurry three meters over some rocks to a trail. While we were sitting several people passed – a family with children excited to be out with their parents in the dark, two teenage boys and a girl shouting excitedly in a language I don't know enjoying the freedom and adventure of being a teenager on summer vacation at the beach. But nobody had passed in at least twenty minutes. Nor had anybody returned. For now it seems we have the moon and the trail and the sea to ourselves.

Annette leads. The moon lights the way. The trail winds along the water, under fig, olive and pine. I am sure people have walked this trail for thousands of years. To our left, the moon climbs in the sky, watching over our peaceful sliver of the planet. To our right, white rocks reach out to the calm sea. I think of Steinbeck cataloging marine life along the great chasm in the sea off Monterey. These rocks must shelter so much marine life that I don't see in the darkness and shadows. Mollusks, barnacles, any number of species of fish.

As we walk on in the moonlight, the path opens onto a pebble beach 100 meters long. Two fishing rods point to the stars, mounted in the rocks. A man underneath a lean-to watches the water while talking with his friend in low tones. He fidgets with a pot and a stove. There are no fish in sight, just a beautiful fishing camp.

We walk on, south. A bonfire glows and crackles below us to the sounds of a few young Croatian men and women celebrating life.

We walk on for another ten minutes until Annette stops in a clearing. I look to our right. Two meters below us, smooth rocks stretch their stomachs into the water. I flash on my headlamp to check the footing and climb down to a comfortable perch in the moonlight. Annette follows. “It is beautiful, isn't it?”

“Absolutely. So calm and peaceful.”

We sit in silence for some time.

“We should go swimming,” Annette suggests.

“We could,” I say hesitantly. “If you go, I will go with you.” “Skinny dipping,” I add, after a moment of puzzling what to do with the car keys, money and other belongings in my pocket.

“There's no good reason not to. Full moon. Clear water. Nobody around,” Annette adds, as if the decision to swim had been decided as our fate long ago in the stars.

We strip and scramble towards the water. Annette is completely naked. I have only a headlamp and sandals. I shine the light on the water. The ripples and waves glimmer and dance. I can see the rocky bottom but it is impossible to tell how deep it is. Could be two feet. Could be ten. So I lower myself in slowly. The water is cool. I am up to my shoulders by the time my sandals touch ground again. I swim out a bit and shine the light back for Annette. She attempts to back into the water but abandons it in favor of a belly flop and a squeal of excitement when she hits the water.

We swim away from the rocks. I can see my toes through the clear water in the moonlight. The water feels great.

Tomorrow, I am sure the sun will wake us up to a cloudless sky by 8 am. as our tent becomes too hot to sleep. And we will navigate our way off of Krk Island toward the tumbling waterfalls of Plitvice Lakes National Park. We will return to the crowded roads of Croatia, fingers crossed the traffic passed with the long weekend in which Europe celebrated a Monday holiday whose name I don't know. Tomorrow, we will drive past more roadside vendors with cheese wheels stacked in display and olive oil, honey and wine for sale in recycled bottles and jars. We will pass roadside restaurants with whole pigs on spits. But that is tomorrow. This is tonight. And tonight is perfect.

My Mom's Presence (written 8/13/11)

Tuesday was my mom's birthday. She would have been 67. I have felt her presence often in Europe. I have pictured her sitting out front of a cafe overlooking a canal in Amsterdam. I saw her in the knit bathing suit for sale in the window in Verona. When she was in her 20s, she started a business selling knit swimsuits in New York City until she could save up enough money to return to Europe as often as possible. Her spirit is in the adventurous spirits of the ex-pat community in Prague. And she is definitely in our lunches of salami and cheese on a baguette.

The stories and photos we shared in the days following her death seem to have inspired each of her children in different ways. My brother Jay bought a BMW Enduro motorcycle, much like the kind my dad was riding (or rather camping while waiting for repair parts) when he met my mother in Morocco more than forty years ago. My sister Mara bought a catering business and became her own boss, “channeling Vicki” as multiple family members have described it. And here I am, undoubtedly tracing some of her steps from forty-four years ago across Europe. Surely, with a similar spirit of adventure, letting the destinations reveal themselves as the journey unfurls.

Today we are bound for the much anticipated clear Adriatic waters and white cliffs of Croatia, Puli campground to be specific. I am sure my mom will be there on the beach in the sun from sunrise to sunset.

The Secrets of Venice (written 8/12/11)

As we ride the 25 boat across the 2 km of green Adriatic waters that connect the mainland to Venice, I noticed a small shrine. Ave Maria is perched atop three wooden piers in the middle of the water. She is decorated by a well-tended flower box at her feet, a sea green frame surrounding her like a halo with 1979 written above her. I wonder who paddles out here daily to tend to Mary's needs and if that person has been doing it since the year I was born.

After thirty minutes or so, the ferry drops us at our destination – Venice. We quickly find ourselves in narrow alleyways of streets . Not a car is in sight, but many a bridge or boat. Within minutes, I am enchanted. We walk past windows with cooking, conversations, delicious smells wafting, wonderful songs chirping. We walk underneath laundry that hangs two stories above us, flowers dangling from barely-visible window boxes. The secrets these cobblestones must hold. The stories the shirts on the line above us would tell, if only we could speak their language.

As we meandered through the streets and canals of Venice this afternoon, the brilliance of its magic dimmed. This was aided by high end retail shops and crowds of tourists that require you to either dash around them or dilly dally behind them. But I realize that the magic of any new place is at its greatest when you have no destination in particular and you don't know where you are. As soon as I started to orient myself to the map and the guidebook, Venice lost just a bit of its magic. Once its limits can be accounted for, its lands and waters and mysteries no longer endless, its routes explained, mapped, deciphered, the magic fades. I think the experience of the magic of a place is tied to not knowing anything about it for certain. It is definitely tied to not having a destination and not knowing just where you are.

We have been staying at the toes of the Dolomites now since Monday in the small town of Caltrano, Italy. We have been staying with Emanuel and Rainie and their two children, Emiline and Emile. When we arrived late around 9 pm. on Monday, they were complete strangers. We found them via couchsurfing.org with help from Annette's friend and veteran world traveler, Adrienne. As we leave Saturday morning, we consider them friends. Emanuel is Italian. He is 28, does office work for a family-owned truck repair business in Caltrano. Rainie is Estonian. She is 23. Currently, she looks after their two beautiful children – Emiline, almost 2, and Emile, five months. They met in a castle in Estonia. Rainie was working there at the time. Emanuel was running a youth camp there for a week as part of a year-long European Union volunteer program, much like AmeriCorps back in the U.S. They got married in that same castle four years ago. Emanuel loves movies and has a collection in the thousands. Rainie loves cooking. Annette and I indulged in both.

With our evenings filled with good food and movies, we spent afternoons day tripping from Caltrano – to Asiago, Vincenza, Verona, Venice. Each town is more charming than the last, declaring its existence with a sentinel clock tower next to the church at its center. We ate cheese and speck (regional cured bacon-like meat) in Asiago, marinated fish and pumpkin sea bass in Venice. We admired the Romanesque architecture of Palladio in Vincenza and quickly came to understand why Shakespeare chose Verona as the setting for Rome and Juliet. If Shakespeare's muse was Verona with its roman amphitheater still in use, Hemingway's was Venice.

A Mountain Love Story (written August 8, 2011)

When I first saw Annette from behind the crawfish pot at my house, I was mesmerized. I wanted to get closer. When my mom first met Annette on the beach in Florida ten months later, she knew I was in love and I would marry her. When Annette first watched me glimpse the Alps with our toes in the Sternberger See, she could see it. I was safely married, but she knew I was in love.

We spent the evening drinking beer on a dock overlooking the water, the white cliffs of the Bavarian Alps captivating me while Annette participated in conversation with our new friends. We hiked in the Bavarian Alps, but it always felt like we were still in the top layers of skin while the limestone bones and craggy cliffs called me deeper. We mostly drove through the Austrian Alps and Italian Dolomites, my neck craned to peer out the window and up at the waterfalls, to see the cliffs meet the clouds.

One day we drove ten turns and thirty minutes from Caltrano to the Grenadier's Trail. Here carved in the cliffs of the Dolomites are miles of hidden trails and intricate caves. Here is where more than 12,000 soldiers attempted to defend the fertile fields below in World War I – le gran guerra. When it was clear they were losing, Italians grabbed their enemies and lept to their deaths by the thousands, bringing their opponents with them.

Mountains back home contain miners' remains. Mountains here hold the blood of the deadliest war in the history of Europe.

Mountains here also have gondolas. Thanks to companies like Siemens, you can forgo five hours of hiking for a dramatic ten minute ride to the top. This makes the mountains particularly accessible. Back home, I scoff at mountains with roads to the top. I seek the mountains for the crisp air, the solitude, the beauty, the adventure. The gondola seems to be an interruption in that, but it isn't. These mountains have happy cows with bells around their necks in what seem to be the most remote of places. They have for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Nearby the end of any climb seems to be a guest house serving cold beer on tap and delicious food to people as they admire the views. These places don't boast. They operate as if they are on the old square of some small European town. Simple. Affordable. Convenient. Historic. Hard to imagine those words together in one place, much less half way up the highest mountain in Germany.

The Alps beg for lifetimes of play and exploration. For now, it will be a few days. Italy and the beaches of Croatia and eternal sunshine await on the other side.

Prague and Farewell (Germany)

There is gold in Prague. I saw it in the steeples that rise above the red lake rooftops like craggy peaks splendorous in the evening sun. And I saw it in the astronomical clock with its hordes of tourists crowding toward the top of the hour, cameras out, as the skeleton rings the bell and the apostles process. There is gold in Prague's chapel of the baby Jesus. It literally lines the walls, leaving me to wonder just how much gold is too much gold with which to worship God. And there is undoubtedly gold somewhere in the Old New Synagogue (the oldest in Europe, but named new when it was built ten centuries ago), but we settled for its simple outsides and keeping our 200 koruna each. And I saw it in the architecture; decorative doorways and archways. It taught me to always look up, for the embellishments at the building tops make the most intricate Gothic gargoyles seem unimaginative.

Meanwhile the cobblestone streets demand I look down, for fear of tripping again. They left me thinking about Dr. Kurz in New Orleans, the loquacious chiropractor who hugs his patients, sells Z-Coil shoes, and pounded my feet to make my back better in May. “One step can put hundreds of pounds of pressure on your feet and do real damage if you strike your foot wrong,” he warned before bopping on to his next patient like a gracious jester.

There is green in Prague. Its sold in the hallway between the men's and ladies' rooms at the Chapeau Rouge, as reliably as the astronomical clock dances on the hour in the Old Town Square.

And there is crystal in Prague; storefronts and storefronts full of it. Each time it elicits conversations about what we would buy if we were rich. Conversations that inevitably end in photos rather than purchases.

It is the home of Kafka and Pinnochio, castles and revolutions, all metamorphasized into tourist attractions.

But I can't help but feel like a late comer to the Gold Rush here in Prague. I read articles in an ex-pat magazine reflecting on the glory days of the 90s in Prague. Back then, it was some new frontier for Americans to explore. Now in August the city is crowded with faintly familiar faces attached to foreign tongues. The tourists seem to be mostly European.

We found our best times in the winding alleys of Nove Mestro (New Town) and along the Vltava River, where our sightseeing walks turned into pub crawls as the sun turned the city rose.

We left the city to raindrops for a final night in Tutzing and farewell to Germany. The yacht club felt home-like to return to today. Our flowers are fully bloomed now in the windowsill. We picked them down the road almost a week ago. “Blumen,” the signs populate Southern Germany alongside rows of gorgeous flowers waiting to be cut by the passerby for .50 Euro (75 cents) a stem. Annette picked them. I don't know the flower's individual names, but the most beautiful ones seem to be in the foxglove family. Perhaps a distant cousin, a niece, step son, maybe a grandparent. I first saw foxgloves on a framed botanical garden poster on the wall of my parents living room. That was the only place I saw foxglove for the first 31 years of my life. Since leaving New Orleans, I noticed foxglove growing wild in Zion National Park and in the Northern Adirondacks and now a relative here in Germany.

Meanwhile, Italy is busy preparing for our arrival tomorrow on the other side of the Alps. Presumably we will trade in our Bavarian beer steins for wine glasses, sweatshirts for shorts, and pork knuckles for seafood.

Dreams to Remember

The quality of my sleep has declined since arriving in Tutzing, which is surprising because our small apartment is facing the Starnberger See lake with its beautiful clear waters and waves that rock loudly at night. Each morning we're greeted by the sounds of seagulls, German being spoken off in the distance, and this week since school is now out the sounds of children gearing up for their fun filled days at that yacht club youth week, a sort of summer camp where they learn how to sail, make sport etc. And although I am sleeping, it is not peaceful as I wake up several times a night to readjust pillows, covers, my bladder, or simply my dreams.

I continue to dream about my grandmother Wilma, this is the 2^nd or 3^rd time this week. I cannot remember the first dream, but I have since talked to my parents and learned that she is having a tough time with arthritis in her hips, that its painful and has limited her mobility, the doctor gave her a walker! Although, my grandmother just turned 92 on July 14^th it is still quite unsettling to picture this strong, independent farmer unable to move about her old country home to cook her meals and sew her quilts, to answer the phone calls of her many friends and associates. My father says if she makes it through this one she'll be okay. The IF is the unsettling part, I've perhaps naively always assumed that my grandmother would be around much longer. That there would be some opportunity down the road the pay all of those visits I should've made, that her yet non-existent grandchildren would have an existent great-grandmother, unlike myself who was born after the deaths of both grandfathers, and who grew up far away from my grandmothers when both were still living.

My dreams are beginning to jumble now, but they have been an interesting mix of Mississippi, mostly about my family and the friends and life I've left behind on the Gulf Coast. There was an incident with a teenage black boy who had killed somebody, was taken into custody by the police, and then magically disappeared (according to their reports). In a valiant effort which took all of 12 minutes to coordinate, roadblocks were set up at a point in the city (some sort of large metropolis) where they could anticipate the assailant making a run for the border so to speak. Without much more than a description of black male in a black car, the police plucked from a road block a young man with a name that echoed clearly in my sleep state but evades me now, something long an invented by a mother who took full advantage of creating his name. Something in the spirit of Anteronephus Jones.... I was still an attorney, and was able to speak with him immediately after his detainment, however it was a private conversation between friends in a living room. He shared the mistakes of the police, how they merely detained the first black male who ft the description. He had an alibi that was somehow related to his mother's heavy drug usage, that he was tracking her down at the time of the murder and was taking care of her, his mother the only real witness and not particularly credible.

Flash forward I am then in my office at the Mississippi Center for Justice writing out a memo about our conversation, in summation asserting that the police engaged in erroneous racial profiling and that their mistakes would soon be exposed. The office was brighter and sunnier than I remembered but still full of the bustle that accompanies the first day back after a good weekend. I could hear John talking to Denise about his weekend shenanigans and setting out their plans and tasks for the week. Bonnie was quietly milling about the office with a kind acknowledgment on her face. Reilly even stopped in to share that he went to the bowling alley that we had discussed the week prior and that while it was a bit trendy, it was completely empty and he was able to bowl several games in peace. Its seems that it took me the better part of the day to write this one and a half page memo. Even in my dream state I recognized that feeling, of the pressure of seemingly easy legal tasks that I always felt took me too long to accomplish. My self imposed inability to ask for help left me feeling quite alone in a yet another task that I knew was pushing the limits of what fell outside of MCJ's mission. I was going to use my memo to really push for developing a “Know Your Rights” training for youth in the Biloxi-Gulfport area, but one with teeth and legal support once they had been involved in altercations with the police. I knew that these efforts were in vain though, and could feel myself not entirely in it. From what I recall there was no Kiya around either to bounce my ideas of feelings off of, she too was no longer in it.

Cut to the next day, the police scandal is all over the newspaper with a description of their approach to basically stop the first person driving towards the border of the city who somewhat fit the description after their suspect's disappearing act. Their acknowledgment of having arrested the wrong person was splattered across front page news along with a less then flattering mugshot of my client's mother, her hair scattered about her head as if a cat had been sucking on it. Again I was talking with Mr. Jones, and while he was affirmed in his alibi he was concerned that his mother would be embarrassed that the details of her addictions were exposed. Fortunately, and quite sadly she was not, in some deluded way she was proud that her exploits essentially bought her child back his freedom, giving her leave to continue to abuse.

Now this has all passed and I am sitting in a house in the country that reminds me of my grandmother's house but it is much nicer. I am talking to Nelson Walker about the Jones incident, and he is sharing his own experiences with profiling, strengthening my desire to pursue the “Know Your Rights” (with teeth) campaign. We go on to talk about Tina Salazar and the last time either of us had seen her, and she appears on the couch and engages in our conversation. These are two young people that I've mentored and love deeply. In familiar fashion I am inviting them to come out to Foxfire Ranch, bribing them with food and great blues. I suddenly remember that there are videos all over YouTube and proceed to hook my laptop to the tv and show them one of Bill Perry Jr. and Cadillac Funk rocking out on two large perpendicular stages. While the appearance is slightly off, the feel is all Foxfire. At this point my mother comes in the house, after an evening spent playing cards and reminiscing with Bonnie Nunnally somewhere down the road. I quickly instruct Nelson to put out his cigarette (in real life he doesn't smoke), and introduce him in the context of the Jones case....I run some bath water for my mother....Then I woke up.

This morning I lay in bed wanting to call my parents and grandmother, although right now the time difference prohibits it. I also want to call into the MCJ office and just say hello, and while I'm sure that everyone would be happy to hear from me I still feel guilty about leaving, as though I had abandoned my post at a time of war against BP, against Haley Barbour and the Port of Gulfport, against brain drain.

There are many other posts that I wish to write instead of this one. Europe has been an amazing experience, very comfortable and somewhat familiar, but also very foreign at times or what the US should be. There's that SHOULD word again. I've mostly left the blog writing to Hamilton, reserving my varying observations, admiration, and sometimes harsh critiques of his writing for the internal monologue in my head. Its hard when one doesn't have a girlfriend around to vent to, although a husband SHOULD do just fine. So here are my small additions.

Paris:

An undeniably beautiful city, ancient in its layout and in the style of its citizens. We were greeted with a society of racially and ethnically blended people, so much so that I could not tell from where they originated. There were beautiful shades of olive, pale, and brown skins. There were white looking people with hair textures as nappy as mine. Part of what I can't help but track are the mixed race couples throughout the world, and being in Paris left me feeling as though this were the norm and not the exception in a way that was comforting, as if we were all doing our part in bringing forth the next race of brown and completely indistinguishable people. And then there is the fashion! The beautiful Parisian women with their slightly pouting lightly applied faces, their chignon hair styles, short funky crops, and sleek ponytails. Lots of classic horizontal stripes, be it on shirts or pants, a white top or pair of trousers, and always always brightly colored shoes the funkier and higher the heel the better. The men were gorgeous with their well manicured hair, tailor cut shirts, and also the occasional pair of white pants, and super funky pointy toed shoes or fancy sneakers. I walked throughout Paris wishing I had stepped up my shoe game and had a leather jacket in my wardrobe for this year. And while I am not yet allowing myself to shop for anything really, one of my first clothing purchases will eventually be a striped loose fitting shirt that shows off my collar bone.

Our Air B&B host Corinne was particularly engaging. A white Tunisian woman living in Morocco among Bedouins, a true nomad in the since that I will never be. We talked of her early life growing up in Morocco with parents who lived out of a suitcase, and how even now she has to move every year or two. She shared about living in Barbados with her husband, a "blue-black Barbadian man", for 15 years and the difficulty of inter-racial relationships in the 1970s. She asked about our experiences with family and friends in the Deep South, and we happily relayed that it had all gone relatively easy with a few minor exceptions. We spoke at length about children, her life and interior design work in the U.S, and often returned to the subject of her son Scotty and his wife Natsuko as she glowed with motherly love. She spoke of the Arabic principle Maktuob, that our destiny was already set in the stars from the day we were born, but that where we end up is all a matter of our choices. She then dug out two necklaces with the Occidental Star, used by the Bedouins in navigating the desert, to bring us luck and remind us to choose our destiny well. She complimented us on our decision to take this year long trip, and in a familiar sentiment, entreated us to do this trip for her as she was no longer healthy enough to go where we are headed. For me, our conversations with Corinne were Paris.

She also helped settle (temporarily) an ongoing argument we've had about Africa. In planning our travels I've been routinely disappointed about how people spoke of our plans to travel the continent. It was always, oh well you can do this this and that in Europe, but when you reach Africa all bets are off essentially. Oh you can't camp in Africa, despite the fact that we met a couple of Barbadians in December who did just that for a year. Hamilton was advocating for 2 months to explore the entire continent, despite the fact that I had regularly expressed my interest in potentially living in Western Africa (Ghana) and a desire to stay longer. He has accused me of romanticizing the Motherland as many African-Americans do, and I have pointed out that his overall lack of enthusiasm is unfortunate considering how moved he will be by the experience. I shared this with Corinne, and although during our stay she had made a handful of less that flattering comments about black Africans, she helped to settle things in my mind. As she spoke her eyes filled with tears, she was moved by the spirit of her people. That Africa is the cradle of civilizations and the birthplace of all nations, and that you can feel that when you are really present in the country whether you are Swedish, Asian, whatever. Those distinctions melt away when you encounter people in some areas that have so little in comparison, and give so freely of themselves, their love and hospitality. I am tired of arguing about how distinctive an experience it will be from India or Southeast Asia, or how the ancestors take hold of you in Elmina slave castle, or in a late night conversation. I will let it unfold for him as it has unfolded for me since that first visit when I was 12 years old.

Amsterdam:

Finally we were off to Amsterdam, a city that I was particularly curious about, my husband had been when he was 19 years old with a motley crew. Hamilton was initially trying an extreme party pooper, selecting a campsite that was almost an hour outside of the city. Even though were would be making it in at around 7pm he was advocating for waiting until the next day before heading into the city to indulge in the local fare. I was steadfast in my desire to head out that night on the metro and finally won him over. We once again had Donner Kabab and french fries with mayonnaise for dinner, and proceeded to wander through the red light district, examining the women in the windows who seemed occupied with texting and phone calls, and not the least bit interested in a handsome young American holding his wife's hand. It was only afterward that I had the thought that maybe we both would have enjoyed the walks more had we not been so clearly spoken for.

The next day we slept in late and went into the city in the afternoon with the intention of finding truffles and heading to the Van Gogh museum. We arrived at the museum an hour before it closed, and opted to just go for the truffles instead. Hamilton has quite elegantly relayed a partial account of that trip, however I would like to supply the remainder. The truffles came with a detailed instruction guide of how to take the dosage, what to expect and how to know when you're having a bad trip. It advised that it is common to have a singular reoccurring thought, and that to interrupt this or a bad trip to take a walk or eat something. After taking a few hours before we ate the full quantity, we ended up in the Bulldog, a bar that has many chains in the city and leaves you with the feeling of having been there before. This particular bar was designed as a jail cell, we sat on benches without cushions that prisoners would typically sleep on. There were cell bars forming the walls all around us, and behind the bars were pictures of imprisoned mob bosses. There was also a bar in the cell, leaving me with the impression that just as depicted in the movie Goodfellas, this is what prison is like for the mob, bartender included. While I was busy taking in the scene of people rolling joints and listening to music, I was slowly becoming aware that my husband was having a text book bad trip.

There was a period of about 10 minutes (or at least it felt that long) where he was trying to figure out the point of life. His voice was slightly cartoonish, a tone that he and Mara often play with, which led me to believe at first that he was joking, however as I watched the wheels of his mind work in that way that leaves him to question absolutely fucking everything, I realized that he was quite serious. “The point of the life is just going with the flow...the point of life is being in the moment...the point of life is being happy....what is the point of life?” And so he continued on in this monologue for some time, and I was actually able to suspend my usual annoyance and have compassion for him.  This is what he does, he has to figure everything out....or else he becomes a scared little boy. He went from siting across the small table from me to sitting right next to me on the small bench, hemming me in between the table and the cell wall, slightly claustrophobic even for me. Somehow this was more comfortable for him as he was growing more and more scared. “Amsterdam is a trap” he proclaimed, “you come here to have fun and smoke weed, but then you spend all of your money and have to work at a cafe just to get out of here.” He looked at the pretty brown skinned bartender and other women who were present and accused all of them of trying to sell sex, that this was an evil place, and the end result was prison (which was a logical conclusion considering we were sitting in a jail cell). He then confessed that he was scared, and asked quite earnestly “why do I always want to go home? I want to go home, we have to go back to the tent now,” he kept repeating. “I'm going to pass out, if I pass out would you leave me?” I assured him that I wouldn't do that. “Please don't leave me baby, I don't know much but I love you and I just want to make you happy. I'll follow you anywhere, just promise that we won't leave each other.” I was grateful for his voicing a fear that lurks in the back of my mind as well. And eventually he returned to his earlier sentiment of wanting to go home.

I began to appreciate what I perceived was happening. My smart confident husband, with his plans and lists and incessant questioning, was really underneath just a scared little boy. I am grateful to the truffles for moments of revelations like this. Quite often I mistake his questioning of my every thought or action as demonstrating his lack of trust of my own judgment or reasoning. In actuality, if he doesn't have it all figured out he doesn't know what to do and wants to recoil somewhere safe, home. At this point, feeling very much the mother in the situation, I comforted him assuring him that its okay for us to leave this place, “its a jail cell after all, and I'm scared here too. But we can't go home yet because its early, the tent is all wet, and we haven't danced yet.” I stood up, placed his hand on my hips and led him out of the bar, which for him was a maze, for me was a choice of 2 doors. We walked in the rain, feeling noticeably better, without a particular direction in mind. I made a few turns and magically it seemed we came across a pirate themed bar that was bumping great dance music, I led him inside. As the music played and the lights flashed, I saw the look on his face transform from fear to joy, as we looked around and realized that everyone in the club had thrown their hands in the air and were singing in unison the new Pitbull and Neyo song, “Grab somebody sexy, tell them hey! Give me everything tonight! Give me everything tonight, for all we know we might not get tomorrow!”

In that instance all of the annoying pop/dance/club music that we'd been hearing on the radio waves from California to Amsterdam wasn't so bad anymore, particularly if all of the world really just wants to dance and sing together. Give peace a chance. Since this experience, we've both been a little more tolerant of Katy Perry, J-Lo and all of the other icons ruling the airwaves.

Hamilton started in again, “Oh this is what you mean about living in the moment, right? This is what she means. Just trust your wife, just trust your wife.” After we started sweating, but before I was fully satisfied, we were headed out again. My husband still subscribing to the just trust your wife camp followed me obediently until we came across a small cozy bar (God knows where) and were beckoned in by a cat sitting in the window. We headed upstairs and grabbed a table in a lightly populated room. Although Hamilton had sworn off anymore drugs, I went downstairs with the intent of grabbing us some snacks and a beer. The bartender was an older man attentively awaiting my requests. “May I have cheese please?” At this he raised his finger in the air and asked, “Ah, de very old one I sink?” I agreed. He reached into a small refrigerator and pulled out a large sandwich bag of cheese and dumped it onto a small saucer. I was slightly concerned that this was too much cheese, however I then asked for sausage. “Ah, dee Spanish one,” he cooed, pulling out a larger bag of sausage, and slightly larger dish and emptying the sausage and the very old cheese chunks on it. I thanked him and looked over at his beer taps. I asked to sample the Palm, and upon meeting my approval I ordered 2 of them. After poring the beers he then pulled out a round tray and placed the beers, sausage and cheese there. This whole display of musical plates was quite entertaining for me. I returned upstairs with the goods to Ham's delight. Eventually, once we had settled down from the pace of the dance club we were able to appreciate the soft jazz music that was coming through the stereos, sweet and low. The set ended with a live recording of the Staple Singers doing gospel music.

It wasn't until it was time to catch the bus home that Ham and I switched roles, me reverting to the confused pedestrian and him to the confident navigator. After some time and with some sprinting we were finally on the night bus headed back to our soggy tent and sleeping bags. That night we slept in the car.

Hamburg:

Hamilton did a pretty good job at recounting Hamburg, which was an amazing time. We stayed with Nancy, a friend from our Landmark Community in New Orleans. We stayed in a really comfortable flat in the Altona neighborhood, at the top of 6 flights of stairs, whew! The décor inside was an eclectic mix of a fantastic library (unfortunately all in German), Buddhist prayer beads and bowls, framed pictures of children from a previous marriage and travels in India from a previous life. By the window in the room where we were sleeping was a small 4x6 picture of a scene from Roman Holiday, with Audrey Hepburn's skirt billowing in the air after receiving a shock in front of a statue with her leading man Gregory Peck looking on. As a lover of classic Hollywood Cinema, I took this as an omen that we will in fact make it to Rome.

This was also my first period while on the trip and more than anything I just wanted to be left alone, to rest and be silent in whatever manner I saw fit. Unfortunately, when living in close quarters one is not afforded such luxuries. So instead I was forced to engage in the expected niceties (anyone who really knows me is aware that I detest early morning chatter), and sharing our room which housed the only computer with access to the internet. There is something about being around someone with similar Nola roots that is difficult for me. In Nancy, Hamilton had someone to compare everything we'd seen in Europe thus far, to New Orleans. The lay out of Paris was like New Orleans, downtown Hamburg which is a city of the future was like the CBD, how Octoberfest was like Mardi Gras!! Its taken an amount of control not to call my husband out every time he tries to make that which is brand new, fresh and unknown some close cousin of New Orleans. I have to think back to Amsterdam and appreciate that this is how he makes himself most comfortable, if a city is “like” New Orleans than this means that he has it figured out, he is instantly more reassured.

I also find it hard to be thrown back into a context with all of the Hamilton fans. Granted, I'm one too obviously, perhaps the biggest one because I married the guy. But I hate to be forced to indulge in certain behavior or else feel like the evil outsider/loner, while he is the glory boy. I realize in writing this that its all ego talking, and that I have to get off of it. But this feeling was only magnified by my current menstruation cycle which was heavier than usual, clearly my body could sense the intensity of our current travel plans. I had to share the task of hunting for pads with Ham, and he followed me to several stores as I looked for Always with wings (wings being the essential point). I had to explain once again for the upteenth time why I as a woman will always use more toilet paper than him. Upon Nancy's generous offer to perform Reiki treatments on us, Hamilton quickly suggested that I go first in the hopes that it would fix me. Not understanding that the last thing I wanted was for someone to touch me, while I lie flat on my face hoping that my pad didn't leak.

The visit with the Heidelman family was a nice change of pace! The family was delightful, the dinner delicious, and the libations flowing. We talked about their life in Nashville, and their travels in Ghana. Hugo, the father, sent us on our way after sampling alcohols from around the world. The rest of Ham's account is on point, except he was not present when I disappeared with Hannah and Errol to have my first drink at an absinthe bar, despite the warnings that it makes you go blind!

Our final day there I was finally able to connect with my god-brother William Delano Scott IV (Billy) for dinner. We all met up at a nice Spanish tapas restaurant in Altona, which was also his neighborhood. He spent 12 years dancing on cruise ships around the world until his partner, who was not really a team player, “broke his biceps” he shared as he showed scars from his surgery. He had been living in Hamburg for almost 2 years now and was teaching English language at a local university. He detailed the process of emigrating into the country, and going from working “black” to having the appropriate visa and paperwork to remain in Germany. He spoke with the authority that comes with having personally experienced the ineptitude of government immigration services, enlightening us all. I had the reoccurring thought that a law practice that caters towards helping expats navigate local systems would be really interesting work.

After leaving the restaurant we joined him back at his apartment for some wine and a smoke. He continued to share funny stories about his experience teaching his students, and the nuances of German culture that he has observed. He clued us into some local slang, and now whenever we here “Ganow” in a conversation we know that this means exactly, right on, I dig it. We started talking about people of color in Germany, and he spoke of riding on the metro one day and the entire car being completely silent as they listened to 3 young brown girls speak in a patois that is for the most part extinct. People were in awe, and his friend had to explain that this was such an old way of speaking that is rarely ever heard anymore. My mind went wild thinking of all of the patois of all of the places we will visit, or even the high German that we will never hear spoken. As Hamilton likened it to New Orleans' Creole speech, I sensed a loss of culture and languages that must be occurring all over the world at this very moment. What a documentary that would be!

Although Billy is my god-brother, the age difference between us is significant, so much so that as a child when we would visit his parents' house my sister and I would play in his room an rifle through his things, as he was already out of the house at this point. He is an artist, and his room was the first place that I can recall really seeing sketches of the Xmen and other Marvel characters along the walls, along with comic books, and lots of super hero swag. Upon entering his good sized room in Hamburg, I was pleased to see that he still had a superman emblem on his wallet, a Wonder Woman figurine on the shelf, and other treasures, although fewer than in his childhood bedroom. The night was cut shorter than I would have liked, but it was awesome to catch up with him. I failed to take a picture of him, but he is as handsome as ever, with his high cheekbones, and sharp eyes accentuated by his well manicured facial hair.

Schwitzingen:

Our next stop brought us to the Bush household just outside of Hiedelburg. Ham was super excited to see his old friend recounting some of their former escapades, which in hindsight were pretty dangerous. In the courtyard outside their flat we were greeted by an Explorer with a bundled baby inside and all of the doors open. Matt appeared shortly thereafter with a create of empty beer bottles. I jumped in the backseat next to Dahlia, Ham got up front and we were headed on our first beer run of the weekend. Dahlia, is gorgeous and within seconds its seems she was flashing me her amazing toothless grin, her stunning blue eyes sparkling. And as I stroked her undecided strawberry blonde baby hair, I had that increasingly familiar twinge, I want one of these. Young children have a way of pulling me out of my head, and making me live moment to moment.  As impressive a baby as she was, I had no doubt that I would love the woman who contributed a fair share of these lovely Irish genes.

We returned to the house and met up with Clare, and instantly she became my new favorite wife. I can't remember the initial conversations but she spoke with such passion, and a mastery of words like “fuck” and “shit” (true to her blood) that I was instantly a fan. We had a great weekend full of beer, hiking to an old Nazi auditorium in the mountains, and the even older ruins of a monestary overlooking Heidelberg. However, the most memorable evening for me was the day of the Oslo bombing and shooting spree. We learned of it that morning and throughout the following days kept checking for updates on the culprit, his motives, the fatalities. However, shortly thereafter we learned about the passing of Amy Winehouse. I think that Clare and I took it harder than the guys, and that evening Matt hooked up a projector screen and we pulled up videos of her off of Youtube. There were plenty of drunken performances to see, however Clare instructed me to pull up early interviews with her when she was 19 years old.

Those interviews revealed a young woman who was raging against the pop icon machinery, and principled in her stance to write good music that speaks to her experiences. We continued to watch as she got older, more popular, skinnier and addicted. Her chilling rendition of “Rehab” took on a melancholy feeling, no longer an upbeat club banger. We took mental health breaks and pulled up Beyonce performances to raise our spirits and aspirations. We continued on to look at more videos of those who met tragic ends (and a few exceptions) Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, then Jethro Tull, Jefferson Airplane, Issaac Hayes, R.L. Burnside, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and a bunch of Hill Country shows and artists out at Foxfire Ranch (never missing an opportunity to bribe our friends into coming to see us in MS). It was quite a fitting memorial which kept us up until 3 am.

I will skip over the return to my childhood stomping grounds of Bad Windsheim for now, as I have only written that post in my head, and continue on to hiking.

 Hiking around the Eibsee near Garmisch (Bavaria)

At the start of our trip when discussing our dream jobs that would enable us to travel the world, my husband and I espoused very different preferences. For him, he'd be happy to adventure hike across the planet. For me, I'm more interested in meeting people and hearing their stories. Needless to say we have been getting an admirable mix of both in without the salaries. Today we went just outside of Garmisch and climbed the edge of Zugspitze mountain range. There is nothing that brings as much excitement into my husband's being than the approaching view of a mountain range. He becomes absolutely giddy, the air smells clearer, the foliage is greener, the views evermore expansive. I do not share the same excitement, although I do find the mountains beautiful and remarkable and am in awe of creation. I agree to go on these hikes because I know that it makes Hamilton happy, and because I welcome the exercise. However, as long as I can remember I don't really like running or walking up sharp inclines, while I appreciate the benefit for my ass, heart, and lungs I just don't enjoy the inclines.

For me a mountain is a never ending incline, a drawn out exercise routine that I look forward to finishing although I don't really now how much longer or further I have to go. On our last climb, I pushed on and went to the top of the highest peak that Ham could point out, despite the endless uphill climbs.This time, I decided that since this was a workout (and a place for solitude according to Ham) I would bring my Ipod and listen to some motivating music, mostly new stuff that I downloaded from Jason when we were passing through Phoenix. I listened to the Diplo album Florida on the ascent, and to the Marie Antoinette Soundtrack on the descent. I was wearing the purple Nike Dri-fit workout tights that I bought in the 11th grade and a straight face.

Diplo was a perfect mix of bass heavy tracks and sort of pensive melodies, whenever yet another series of uphill battles arose (at least 2 hours worth) the rhythms helped to push me a little bit further, further still. Ham stopped periodically to wait on me while I caught my breath or a drink of water, pretending that he didn't mind me slowing down his natural pace. I appreciate it when he lets me hike in front of him, it helps to push me a little more than when I'm lagging far behind him, imagining how sorry he'd be if I busted my head on one of these rocks, or slipped off the edge of a hill leaving nothing behind by our new camera (how convenient). He frequently stopped to snap pictures of the scenery and of me struggling up the hill, urging me to pose for the picture. I decided that I was done posing.  Why should I smile when I'm sweating profusely, my heart is beating out of my chest, and almost nothing can slow my heaving lungs. I decided to keep my face however it was, which more often than not is not a bright smile. Enjoy those authentic pictures coming to a facebook album near you.

After reaching our destination, I explained to Hamilton that for me hiking was exercise and my goal was to get through it and get it over with. I explained that I have friends who run marathons, but hate running or training, but they still do it. I confessed that I make these climbs because he likes to and its really the only form of exercise that we get to do together, which before our trip was not nearly as often. He challenged me to enjoy the journey, the beautiful nature around me, and be more in the moment instead of trying to get it over with. Its funny how the context shifts, I'm the one who can't be in the moment when hiking, sometimes its so difficult for him to just be in the moment in a conversation without jumping to what needs to be done for dinner, what emails to send etc. The story I recite is that I'm not a mountain girl, I didn't spend my summers leading outward bound trips, and I might never be that type of woman. I prefer a long walk over a steady climb, and while he might kick my but on mountain exploration, I kick some serious ass riding horses in the wilderness.

The truth is that I mostly live inside of my head and am rarely present in my life. I am still learning how to turn off the autopilot machinery that reacts to Hamilton and circumstances as if they really MEAN something.   Its my ego clinging to my opinions and values as if that was who I truly am, and that any challenges in those areas are life threatening. As I climbed I kept thinking of the words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr about reaching the mountaintop, getting to the promised land.  For most of the climb I was enthralled with this monologue, what does my resistance to reaching the top mean about my work ethic, my stances, about me?  How can I seek justice without appreciating struggle and blah, blah, blah.  I guess I'm just not there yet, who knows what this year holds. I will look back at these posts and be embarrassed at how selfish and hardheaded I was being. For now, I think its enough that I make the climbs with him, who says I have to love it too?!

I attempted to be more present on the climb down, but as Ham blazed ahead or downward that is, leaving me almost out of earshot, I put my earbuds back in. The Marie Antoinette soundtrack is just beautiful, with lots of harpsichords and a mix of 1980's style pop songs that may have been more appropriate for the French Alps. The mellow sounds were a nice contrast to the rocky steep downward trail, that threatened to come out from underneath me, every step daring my ankles to pronate a little harder. Once we reached the end of our hike we stripped down and jumped into lake Eibsee, bathing ourselves in the crisp cold water for about 3 minutes before deciding we'd both had enough. This is the part of the hike that I most enjoyed, the cool down.

A few days later I read this excerpt in my Eckart Toole book A New Earth:

"The mind is more comfortable in a landscaped park because it has been planned through thought; it has not grown organically.  There is an order here that the mind can understand.  In the forest, there is incomprehensible order that to the mind looks like chaos.  It is beyond the mental categories of good and bad.  You cannot understand it through thought, but you can sense it when you let go of thought, become still and alert, and don't try to understand or explain.  Only then can you be aware of the sacredness of the forest.  As soon as you sense that hidden harmony, that sacredness, you realize you are not separate from it, and when you realize that, you become a conscious participant in it.  in this way, nature can help you become realigned with the wholeness of life."