I See You Building the Castle with One Hand

View from the Tate Museum of Modern Art in London, U.K

Music for the Day: Nujabes
Some of you may recognize the name or the beats from the show Samurai Champloo. Nujabes is a very lyrical, rhythm-based sound with piano tones. These tones are intertwined with drums and guitar strokes and even a bit of flute now and then. Check them out! Dance a little, or maybe bob your head to and fro.

Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2sML2bq_WGw

The Final Day: Where Reflection Lives in London

It's easy to think that because this is my final day I should be out partying or making the most out of every second. This could be true. But I don't want to conclude this trip in that fashion. The Vagabond Project has been more than a vacation, a holiday, an assignment, or a process. It has been a challenge, physically and mentally. A hearty one at that. And you know what? I'm proud to say I have overcome everything that has been thrown at me. I'm proud to say that I have grown and adapted through life as a traveler. I am proud to say that I am a better person because of the people I have met and the sights I have seen along the way.

A "Secret Place": The Reservoir of Peckham Rye
I don't mean the famous sights like the Colosseum, Big Ben, or the Manneken Pis. They are great, sure (well, maybe not the Manneken Pis!). But I've been inspired much more by what lies off the path. These out of the way locations are the sights that I call Secret Places. Places like the King's Woods, the Paradise, and the Reservoir. But what is a "Secret Place" really?

Currently, I'm staying with a CouchSurfing (CS) host in London. His name is Duncan and he is a fantastic, cheerful, and interesting guy. He's been incredibly kind to let me stay here. Duncan advised me to stop by the Reservoir and gave me basic directions on a map to find it. I first visited it for a run and workout, but I returned to it this morning to really take it all in. It fits my idea of what a Secret Place is- which means that it is a location of mystery, beauty, and while not really known, it is a place that tends to be right in the middle of everything else.

To get to the Reservoir you have to follow this small footpath that looks like a dark alleyway. Notice the demon head sticker, and above, on the left-hand wall, graffiti marks the territory. Maybe a slight sense of danger is also an important inclusion to the definition of a Secret Place.

Graffiti! Nothing creative though. Just numbers and signatures.

So you eventually find a hole cut out in the fence. It's just big enough to slip through, so you do. You want to see what is on the other side, why a fence is there in the first place, and perhaps, more importantly, why someone would cut a hole in that said fence.

The other side of the hole in the fence. A hill, huh? You climb it. You notice the trash. The empty beer cans and condom wrappers. The additional graffiti on the reservoir caps.

You reach the top of the hill and follow a concrete outline across the plateau and to a littered staircase. When heading to a Secret Place, height and elevation are your friends. They somehow add a little extra to the location.

At the apex of the staircase, you're here! You're on top of this wonderful space of grass. The clouds are just above you and below you, houses and trees and farmyards expand into the distance. But then, you decide to turn around.

And you understand why this is a secret place. Why your jaw drops just slightly. Why you stand there an extra second or two and take in the entire skyline of London. Why you know, even when you take a picture, it isn't going to do it justice. Because Secret Places aren't meant to be experienced by photographs- they are meant to be found and experienced in person. 

Informal Musings of a Changing Adult (me!)

As much as this trip has been about the homeless and travel experiences, it has also been about self-advancement, discovery, and development. I have changed and grown in these 84 days and I would like to register some of my changes in thought. This may end up sounding like one of those advice philosophy books. If it does, I apologize.

1) Find the "Pause" button. Hit it.

I move quickly, especially with a physical deadline ahead of me. I have a flight? Better stress and make sure to get there two hours ahead of schedule. I want to go see this museum? Better plan the next few things to do while walking there. That was the old me. It's weird, because I always thought I was a more "do it as you go" kind of guy. And while I am, I like to have things planned, too. But I've learned, through this trip and with the patience of Chris, that you can't plan and make everything perfect. Sometimes the best choice is to "Joe-Cool" it up and relax on the beach for three hours. It's really paramount to be able to find this "Pause" button and hit it. It lets you soak up the experience instead of seeing it in the distance.

Taking this to the next level, I've learned it is important not to rush life. I used to believe it was of the utmost importance to graduate in four years, to sprint to medical school, and to gain my final degree. But honestly, it isn't. Life is about what you make of it and how you enjoy it. This is very counter-intuitive at first to the goals I have set in the past, but I am learning to pursue what I love instead of force feed myself what I want to become. I'm not taking a sloth approach by any means, but I am doing my best to take the right and most favorable route in life.

We can always stick to our primary routes, sure. But then we'll never see what is off to the side of the road. If I didn't take the time to hit the "Pause" button, I never would have hit golf balls with a 6-iron in the middle of the mountains in Austria. I never would have danced a very clumsy waltz to the Fleet Foxes at an outdoor stadium late at night. And I never would have hitch-hiked in Norway.

Your road is always going to be there. A bulldozer isn't going to scream by and strip the asphalt from the earth. Take the time to hit the "Pause" button and explore what's out there. It's all beautiful, man.

2) Your life isn't set in stone, no matter how good of a sculptor you think you are.

When I was a really little kid, I wanted to be an author. I wanted to write fantasy books like Brian Jacques and Garth Nix and help little kids like me grow their imaginations. But I heard being an author was incredibly difficult and took a wild amount of luck. I didn't want to gamble with my life, so I changed the career that I wanted to pursue. I switched to an interest in architecture as I started to draw more and more. I would imagine wild building designs and sketch cities from films and pieces of structures that I thought were unique and powerful. But I started thinking more and more about what I wanted to do in my life and I realized that I wanted to work with and help people. I read the book, Mountains Beyond Mountains by Paul Farmer and I immediately urged to become a trauma surgeon and travel to third world countries. I wanted to be modern-day superman.

This was all before I turned 16. I was so confident in who and what I wanted to be. 

3) There are good people and bad people. But the good people are or so wonderful.

This is to be continued. I'm writing this as I get ready to leave to the airport, and frankly, I've run out of time!

I'm going to leave to fly home now! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

I'll finish this later. I just wanted to get some thoughts out there. There is a new batch of pictures up, check 'em!

Here I come, Arizona!

Cheers!

-Sam

Airport Blues

Have you ever heard or read or watched anything by Dr. Seuss? The man is silly and wildly creative, yet through all of his abstract characters and rhyming lines, he makes very sound points about life and how to live it. As a kid, I read everything from "Red Fish Blue Fish" to "Green Eggs and Ham", but as an adult, I don't remember too much of what the good doctor had to say. Last night, I came across something I think is a real gem. It is a reading of "Oh the Places You'll Go" done in a musical fashion by a man named Tim Moore.

If you've ever thought about traveling or are thinking about going on any kind of adventure, listen to this with an open heart. I think it is really powerful.

"Oh the Places You'll Go"

Airport Blues

Note: I've uploaded more pictures (08/08)

Weight Changes:

Me: 162lbs -> 149lbs

My Bag: 24lbs -> 31lbs (somehow...)

Dublin, Ireland was great. We ended our trip by taking a twenty-minute train ride to a peninsula northeast of Dublin called Howth. It's rather small and it has several trails that you can follow to walk all over the island. Because we arrived at Howth late in the day, the sun began to set as we began to hike. It was, I think, one of the perfect last memories to have of Ireland- the cliffs, the green hills, and the orange sun beating down on the ocean.

Currently, I'm living out of the Oslo (Rygge) airport. I feel a little bit like Tom Hanks in the movie, The Terminal, but with just a bit less drama in my life. Did you know there is a blog dedicated to reviewing airports for how easy it is to sleep in them? There is: Link.

Today will be my third and final night here. It's been an interesting experience, but luckily Oslo (Rygge) airport is one of the better rated airports for sleeping and staying. It has free WiFi, fast WiFi at that, and access to wall outlets. At night, people pull out floor mats and sleeping bags and basically make camp on the first floor. I was pretty surprised when I saw this- I thought I would have to sleep in the shadows. I've managed to sleep on the second floor these past two nights and I pull a giant advertisement near the corner in which I sleep to block out the light. Luckily, I am able to sleep up here until around 06:30 to 07:00, whereas downstairs, I would have to deal with more traffic and people coming in and out of the airport.

What do I do to kill time?

I've realized that when you're on your own and without a home, this can be very difficult. Having a laptop and the ability to charge it is a big deal. I've listened to a lot of music, done a bit of writing, browsed reddit a bit too much, and taken trips down nostalgia lane to watch my fair share of Johnny Bravo episodes (Whoa, mama!). A lot of my time at the airport has been spent researching future plans and organizing my schedule and how I am going to handle school next semester. It's been a nice break  as well, and I even spent some time learning French and trying to meditate in the lobby of the parking garage.

Don't people ask you to leave?

Surprisingly, no. I haven't been bothered once or told to move, or even really been talked to. But, when you think about it, it kind of makes sense. I don't think I've seen the same person two days in a row (granted I've only been here for three days). Everyone coming in and out of the airport is a fresh face. People fly in, they leave. People wait for a friend's plane to land or drop a family member off so they can make their flight. No one stays, no one comes back for the shopping mall or the restaurant (there aren't any, but just for example's sake). To them, I'm just another dude in the terminal waiting to catch his flight.

What do I eat?
On our last day in Ireland, I bought two loaves of bread for a total of 1600g of food. This cost me 1.5 Euro. I haven't spent any money in Norway, instead, I've only eaten this bread. I refill my water bottle using the bathroom sink, and when we arrived in the airport, they gave us some free chocolate. I eat that, too. Oh, and blueberries from the nearby bushes.

You must get sick of the airport, right?

Heck yes I do. I don't just sit here next to the outlet on my computer. The first day I spent most of my time exploring what was in a three kilometer radius around the airport. I debated about jumping a fence that said "No Access Allowed" for a little too long, found some wild blueberries and chowed down, and made a valiant effort to help a lady call her family using my computer (I failed, sadly!). I felt that it was very important to get a strong feel and understanding of the area so I could be extra safe.

The second day, I woke up to the sound of people moving through security and curled out from my spare sheet like a grizzly bear waking from hibernation. I had a crook in my back from the way I slept, but I shouldered my backpack, ate a two-slice-of-bread breakfast, and did some final research before heading out of the airport on foot toward the city of Moss. It took me about three hours to walk there. I chose not to hitchhike because I needed the exercise and I stopped off every now and then to try and take the perfect photo. I eventually came to this wonderful bench at the edge of a lake. I was pretty beat. I put my backpack on one side, curled up against it, and took a nice snooze in the sun.

I hitchhiked home, though. This was my first time hitchhiking and it went smoothly! It took me about thirty minutes to get picked up and when I did, it was by this funny Norwegian dude in his early-thirties. He was already retired, had really rusty English, and spoke more in grunts than words. He was very nice though, and when he dropped me off at the airport he offered his blessings and the best of luck to me. I couldn't be happier with how it went.

What is next?

I'll meet up with Chris and Laura again later today. They took a bus into Oslo and explored the city while I chose to make base-camp here. We'll all sleep this final night in the airport. Tomorrow, at 07:00 Norway time, we will fly to Poznan, Poland. Here, the Homeless World Cup will begin on August 11th. Hopefully we can help with any remaining set-up they have to do and get a strong idea of how things are going to work in the next day or two before it all starts.

I'm really looking forward to it, but at the same time, I'm sad I won't be able to experience the entire week of the HWC event. However, I'm going to get to see many friends that Chris and I made previously in the trip, so it is going to be so wonderful from that alone.

Guess what? 

We fly home in 9 days! That's countable on your fingers, folks! Thanks to all y'all that I've talked to, even just a little bit these past few days! It's nice to chat with someone when boredom starts to creep in at the airport!

Best wishes,

-Sam

Inward Thinking

Taken in the Netherlands, near Eindhoven

Hello there. How are you doing? I hope you're wonderful. Oh, and thanks for stopping by to give this little blog a read. Listen to some music while you browse the page. Try Zaz, a French artist that is a fresh mix of jazz, soul, and acoustic.

Let's try and do this post slightly differently. I have a topic I want to write about but I also want to toss out some updates. Chris and I have moved through Brussels and the Netherlands and now we are in Dublin. Lot's to say!

Ah, I posted a bunch of new pictures, too. I think fifty or so, maybe more. Some videos as well.

Kindness

Okay, so, onto the topic. I recently read the transcript for George Saunders speech at Syracuse's 2013 graduation. Here is the link to the speech. It's worth a read. 

This is George.

It got me thinking. Most graduation speeches have this purpose at their core- to make students that are no longer students contemplate their lives and how they can improve them and live with quality in the future. The focus of George's speech was his understanding of what he thought is most important in life- kindness. While this fits with the general theme of the graduation speech, it is unique in it's simplicity.

The core of George's speech revolves around an anecdote he tells. When he was back in school, there was a girl in his class that was made fun of. He didn't take part in the jibes, but he didn't stop them or go out of his way to say hello either. Then, one day, the girl moved. Out of everything in his life, this was one of George's biggest regrets. Why?

Because it is so easy but so difficult to be kind to others. Naturally, we only look out for ourselves. We don't push past the invisible barrier that surrounds us so that we can make another's life better- not initially, at least. But once we start to realize how nice it feels to make someone's day, well shit. We get addicted. Okay, not right away.At first, we are so shy. We poke, and prod, and gradually step outside of our boxes.

This is important, critical, I think. It's what I like most about George's speech. He doesn't tell the audience how to make money, how to be successful, or how he became who he was. He gives what he considers to be the best advice possible: to be kind, or to keep being kind.

Why is this important to me? Maybe it is because of my recent work with the homeless and how I've taken a greater interest in those that are struggling to make a living. Maybe it is because people have been so kind to Chris and I on this trip, that they've shared their lives with us as if we are part of their family. I'm not sure of the exact reason, but I just wanted to make a note of it.

Trip Recaps

The Netherlands

Rental car! Not the best idea inside Amsterdam, but for getting around the country, it was awesome. Chris rented the car with his card, so technically, he was supposed to be our driver. So, we go into the garage, next to that "We try harder" sign in the picture. This guy gets our car and we all do a walk around, looking for any dents or scratches that aren't listed on the contract. After checking, the guy leaves and it is just me, Chris, and our rented motor vehicle. I can see Chris getting a little nervous. I had been asking him if he was going to be able to drive stick or not, or if he needed advice, for about a week at this point. He was always cocky. But with the keys in his hands, finally, the man starts to crack.

Avis in Amsterdam

We throw our bags in the backseat of this diesel, four door, brown, eco-machine and I hop in the passenger seat while Chris gets behind the wheel. We take a minute to admire how nice it i, and then Chris turns the ignition and lights up the engine. Then he tries to go forward.

We stall.

I ask if he needs any help and he's laughing. He tries three or four more times, and the guy that gave us the car comes over to check on us. We're both laughing. "It's his first time driving stick in years," I say. "He's a little rusty."

The guy gives us a nervous smile and walks away and Chris and I make the wise decision to swap seats. I put the car in gear and we zip out of that garage and into the bike-infested city of Amsterdam.

But how was the Netherlands?

Fantastic. I have to say that it may be the prettiest country we have visited. Everything is so lush, so green. Driving on the highway and through the small towns and cities, and walking along the beaches at Zandvoort and Noordwijk was something else. Oh, and thank you, Cassie. Without you teaching me how to drive a manual car, we would have been pushing the vehicle around the country.

It's the kind of place where I can't believe that this is my picture. But it is. I took that. I was there. It's just. Wow.

One memory that I don't think I'll forget was our last night in the Netherlands. We had driven, music blaring, windows down, from Noordwijk to Amsterdam, then Amsterdam to Eindhoven, and found a place to park the car so we could sleep in it overnight. This place was something out of a film. On the fringes of the airport there is this small lot where cars can park next to a chain-link fence. People drive here to take a break, to relax, and to talk about life. They get out of their cars, sit on their hoods or on a nearby bench, and watch planes fly just over their heads and land on the tarmac. So the last night, Chris and I parked here. We ate the last of our bread and peanut butter and we just sat, listening to music, seats reclined, car doors open to maximize airflow, watching the planes fly in and the sun fall down.

It was one of those secret places.

Brussels, Dublin, and Next Steps:
I'm not going to write down any stories from Brussels or Dublin in this post, but let it be known that Brussels was wonderful and Dublin has been treating us great so far. Chris has enjoyed the chance to drink his favorite beer, Guinness, at its source, and we've had our fair share of adventures. Laura, a friend of Chris's, has joined Chris and I for the remainder of our journey- so we are now a lovely trio!

On Tuesday at around 06:00, we will fly to Norway. I'm going to be spending my time there in the airport, as funds are a little to low to afford a place to stay in the city for three nights. So camping it is. It will be an interesting bit of the trip, that's for sure.

We have just thirteen days until we head back to Arizona. My gossshshhhhshshshshshshsh.

<3

Sam

Vignettes in France

Vignettes in France

I sit on the edge of a beaten up bed, pressing my bare feet against the dusty wooden floorboards. My legs are sore from wading through the weeds and fields of the farm and my pants have more and more holes from the thick spines on the more dastardly plant stems. On the edge of the wooden frame is a comic and I read it over and over. It’s in French but I love the characters. The boy with his sword, the dancing elephant, the worried girl driving her car. I feel like a kid making up stories in a picture book.

Maybe that’s all I am. A kid thinking up different stories for everything I see, hear, and touch.

The horse rears and pulls hard to the right. I’m shocked, at first, and I let it drag me against my saddle until I realize to grab the reigns and regain control. I laugh to myself and rub the neck of the animal, scratching with my fingernails. Over and over, in French, I say that it’s okay, that it’s good, it’s good. I look ahead and see Chris smiling. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he got on his horse, err, pony. And he thought he was going to crush it. I guide the horse back to the line, readjust my helmet, and go back to daydreaming about galloping through the farmlands that surround us.

Sebastian prepares the lamb meat for the fire outside.

Dominique runs into the kitchen, Sebastian close behind. He has a worried expression on his face and I ask what is wrong. In Spanish, he replies that a sheep, a young sheep, just drowned in the river near the rest of the herd. I watch him grab a long kitchen knife and the whetting stone. He starts sharpening it. We have to get the meat, he says. Well. Shoot.

I approach her restaurant and pause to straighten my shirt. For the final time, I check to make sure the bouquet looks perfect and the flowers are in order. I move an orange berry closer to the center. I decide to step forward. I move past the final set of tables and look ahead. There she is, fifteen feet away, taking the plates from a pair of customers. I take the last few steps and touch her on the shoulder and gently spin my fingers through the ends of her hair. I can’t hide my smile and as she turns around, she’s beaming, too, just beaming. She doesn’t know what to do with the plate or what words to say and she mutters in French and English and I foolishly hand her the small bouquet of flowers I collected earlier in the day, even though her hands are completely full. We look like a pair of goofs, standing there with these big, fat smiles on our faces. We don’t care, either, and I feel so darn happy.

Chris and I stare at our flight papers in disbelief. We fly tomorrow, not today. Whoops. We stand in the middle of the airport remarking at how bad we are, how we are nooblets at traveling and that we should just go home. We aren’t mad, though, we think it is just so funny and embarrassing. We laugh at how silly we look to ourselves, to our good friend that was so kind to drive us to the airport, and to the clerk that just found out we came to the terminal twenty-five hours in advance.

We make the decision to drive to the ocean- it is only a mere forty minutes away. We load our bags in the trunk and eat some banana chips. We get in the car. We cruise with the windows down and soak up the Bordeaux sun that we thought we were leaving for good. I’m in the front seat and we spin through another round-about. A truck is in front of us. In the other lane, a car swerves, just slightly. Boom. I’m yelling, “Holy fuck. Shit. Shit. Jesus.” as our friend slams on the breaks and pulls to the side of the road. The car hasn’t stopped yet, but Chris and I burst out of the doors and sprint toward the sedan. Oil drenches the asphalt. Debris, dead car parts, are scattered everywhere. We reach the car and see an old man. His scalp is torn and sliced, his eyes are lifeless. He’s pinned, hard, into the heated metal of the car and the plastic of his steering wheel. He’s bleeding. Shit. Shit. Chris reaches for his pulse and I bolt toward the other vehicle, the truck that drove off the side of the road.

It is wrapped around a fence.  The driver is dazed. There are cuts under his eyes and on his forehead, but he’s alright. He’s in shock, but he’s alright. A French man comes up with me and we try and pry the fence off his door. No luck, it’s melded onto the metal. We rush around to the passenger door, grip the chain-link hard in the palms of our hand, and yank it down with the power only adrenaline can grant. It’s off. We call to the driver inside and he confirms that he is alright. He gets on his radio and starts talking to an authority.

After the clean-up begins. The sedan, to the left of the man, the debris to his right.

I go back to the first car, jumping over metal chunks and letting my shoes slide on the slippery liquids. I turn to Chris. His shirt is off. There is a guy next to him, looking troubled. I look inside the car and see the old man again. Dead. Gone. Nothing left and certainly no pulse any more. Chris takes his shirt from his hand and puts it over the man’s head to hide his face, to offer him that slight courtesy of respect.

Shit. This isn’t like the movies or the news stories. There isn’t anything we can do. For the first time I watch a man’s life get ripped from his chest. The instant, that accident, feels so normal. Like toast coming out of the toaster kind of normal. But the aftermath is what is unreal. Seeing the nothingness on the man’s face, the panic in the truck driver’s expression, the will to help in the movements of those that came to the scene after Chris and I. I don’t think I’m scared of death, but I’m scared of my life getting torn away like that.

I hand the attendant my boarding pass and empty my pockets into the bucket for an x-ray check. I’m wondering how goodbyes are so hard and so easy and how you can leave people who have come to mean so much to you by just walking fifty steps in the other direction. I look through the glass panel and I suppress the urge to run back and grab her hand and sneak her through security and on the plane and find some way that she can join me. But, I put my bag on the conveyor belt. I tap my pockets one last time. I pass through the doorway of the metal-detector and fumble with the clove of garlic her sister gave me an hour ago as a present.

I’m at a desk on the third story of a brick building in Brussels. Again, I am sliding my bare feet against the wooden planks of the floor. These ones are clean and smooth. Music fills my ears from my worn headphones. Orange light, from the streets below, tries to make it to the edge of the window but it can’t quite make it inside. The breeze can, though, and it does.

Here is where I try to mix nostalgia and reality so they blend into just the right cocktail. These are just a few of the thoughts rolling across the meadows of my mind. The ingredients are all there, somewhere. I just need to figure out how to get my bartender’s license…

Au revoir.

Sam

PS: Pictures and videos are updated from 7/22 (July 23rd). Chris and I are in Brussels and all is very well. We will leave for Amsterdam by bus on Saturday, where we will rent a car and sleep in it for a few days as we explore the city and the countryside. We fly out for Ireland on the 30th from Eindhoven. 

Recollection

The Italian Lunch!

Hello!

I managed to do a long video update that catches up on most of the trip so far. It just hits the surface, but I am able to touch on many of the concepts and stories that have been sitting in my head and waiting to make their way to the blog.

The "Less than 30 Days" Update (YouTube Link)

Chris and I are in Brussels, Belgium now. We were welcomed by some great hosts and had a nice beer and a summer pasta dish before retiring to some comfortable beds. We're excited to press forward in our journey, but it had been sad leaving France.

Okay. I'll be writing up a blog post in the next few days, so look for that soon. For now, all I have are these videos. I've also updated the pictures section with a few more photos.

See you!

Sam

The Chris Cronin Experience

Waiting for a train, Chris decided to give a brief update on his time in Europe. Here it is.

The Chris Cronin Experience, YouTube Link

Also, Chris and I were able to experience the French National Day. Like the 4th of July, it represents a day of pride and patriotism for their country. We watched the fireworks near the river in a small city called Périgueux.

The French National Day, YouTube Link

That's it for now. I'm going to ride a horse.

Best,

-Sam

The Italian Lunch

Hey everyone!

I am currently in France, just east of Bordeaux for a WOOFing program. I am trying to catch up on topics that I have yet to write about, and I thought there would be no better way to do that than some videos. Here is the first of the series. It is longer than I intended, but I have not done a video in a long time and was quite nervous! Anyway, here it is!

The Italian Lunch, YouTube Link

Ciao!

-Sam

Roadtrip

Positives and Negatives

I wrote down a huge list of positives from the trip the other day. I turned the page and began writing a few bullet points for negatives I had in mind. Then I realized- each one was just a simple complaint or me whining about the temperature. There haven’t really been any downsides to this trip. Sure, there have been hardships- but nothing we haven’t overcome that has made us better as a team or better as individuals. This section is now just positives. I don’t want to moan about the weather or how something was unfair. I want to tell stories and fill readers in on details from the trip!

Time for a Story

We sit there, necks sore from trying to sleep in the kind of contorted positions that only an acrobat could pull off, in the back of a Volkswagen van. It pulls a boat, a competition boat specifically, prepped to sail the southern coast of Italy for some sort of World Championship. I put my book away and watch the mountains dissolve and blend into the city of Florence- or as the Italians say, Firenze.

Our drivers are three German fellows. Two wear wide-rimmed glasses and the third wears sunglasses of the Elton John variety. They departed from an area near Hamburg, Germany and had been driving for over thirteen hours. Each one was a machine, though, and the mixes they burned into CDs kept them in high spirits- especially a light remix of the Band of Horses’s Funeral.

Firenze was our destination.

We enter the city with the boat trailing behind. Traffic became difficult to manage, as the size of the trailer and van combined was nowhere near optimal for rampaging through a metropolis. The Germans apologize for this, and we pull over. After a series of solid handshakes, good luck wishes, and farewells, Chris and I part from the trio that had taken us on the long road from Innsbruck. We watch the Volkswagen turn the corner of the rain-washed asphalt and then set our minds to locating the nearest street signs and figuring out our bearings.

Onward.

Motor bikes, drizzling rain, and a variety of spray-paint vignettes welcome us. A dog in a police uniform and mustache stares at the road from the shelter of his doghouse. A frog, with a rifle and beret, points a fist at the clouds. An ominous trident, colored in fire, rises from the concrete. The imaginative side of me wonders who designed these wall-tattoos and what they represent. The realist in me laughs at their variety and artistic intrigue but continues to make headway toward the Stazione.

Surrounded by hotels and galleries (underground malls), Firenze’s central train hub is a stone fortress. We quickly climb its steps and head to a side entrance. A woman, with black hair packed into a pony-tail, is the first a victim of our F-rate Italian, C-rate Spanish, and A-rate English.

We question her about how to get to Arcidosso, a small township (actually a castle on the top of a volcano) near the midpoint of Firenze and Roma. There is an Anarchist community there that invited me to stay with them for two nights- an offer, and opportunity, that I couldn’t decline.

The woman responds to my Spanglish with befuddlement. “Are-cheh-drosso?” she asks, more to herself and less to us. A nearby man in glasses stands up from his chair and heads to the counter. He tries to help. “No, no. Arr. Che. Do. Zo.”

He says the “ss” like a hard “z” sound and nods as the clerk repeats his pronunciation. She appears as if she understands and we follow her pen as she scribbles on the backside of an old receipt. She tells us to take a tram and then catch a nearby bus and that the bus should take us to where we need to go.

Cool.

We took the tram. We found the bus. Then we missed the bus.

Damn.

But, another came by five or seven minutes after. We step onboard and ask the driver if it will take us to Arcidosso and he says it will. In the back of the bus, we sit in two seats a piece and wait. The driver turns the ignition and the engine roars. The bus starts to move.

Now, I begin to doubt the directions we were given. This bus wasn’t the kind of bus you’d expect to travel over 100km to reach a location, which is what we required. Also, two of these buses came by the same stop in under ten minute’s time. Unreal, considering Arcidosso is by no means a popular (or even known, by tourists or Italians) location. Even Microsoft Word doesn’t believe it exists and makes an attempt to correct my spelling. So, I vocalize my doubts.

While Chris and I discuss what is going on, everyone on the bus eavesdrops. Not in a bad way.  One by one, from an old lady to a young mom to a dude in gym shorts with Skin girls on his shoes, all of them approach us and ask to help. Well, some of them yelled at the driver to see if this was the right bus, or insisted that we come with them at the next stop- but all the same, it was help that they offered. In disbelief at their willingness to assist two stupid travelers, Chris and I gladly accept their proposals for aid. At the next stop, Chris and I follow the guy in the athletic shorts onto the pavement.

He points to his left. “Arcidosso. There.”

“There?” I point ahead, obvious hesitation in my voice.

“Yes. Only three kilometers.”

He guides us to the end of the road and questions us as to what building number we need. I keep stating that we need a town, not a building number, but as I continue to repeat myself, I realize how completely we were misunderstood. The trickster of a street sign, five meters away, confirms it. It reads, “Arcigrosso.”

What. Shit.

When in a bad situation on the far side of a city you’ve never been to before, the best thing you can do (if you need to know where to go) is to find the nearest local pub and storm inside with all your gear.

That’s what we did.

We enter the bar like two downtrodden kids after they failed their first big exam at school and walk in circles in a measly attempt to hunt for the barkeep. A local with tattoos on his face gives us the stink-eye, but at this point we only have the mission objective on our minds. The bartender speaks Italian, so I point at the now-crumpled receipt and say, “Arr-chi-dosso.”

She gives me a confused look, points in the direction that we came, and says, “Arr-chi-grosso?”

No.

She shows me the palm of her hand, the universal sign for calm down and wait, and searches the bar for a guy that speaks English. It’s an elderly man with a beer and a red sweatshirt that reads, “London” in multicolored letters.

Him, and all the other Italians, laugh at our little mix-up and tell us to haul it back to the Stazione so we can catch the last bus out. He points to his wrist, where a watch would be if he was wearing one. “You don’t have much time, though.”

Yeah.

We scurry back to the center of the city by foot and by tram and spend the next fifty-five minutes finding where, in the name of George Washington, the regional bus station is hidden. About to give up, Chris and I try one last time to communicate with some train gurus and finally, we send the message home. They get it. We don’t need a train, we need a bus. They write the name of a company and tell us it is close by.

We leave the station with the pace of a rising maelstrom as it shreds the water behind it. Power mode activated, time to hustle.

Vroom.

Jumping tram tracks, diving between cars and packed one way roads, and juking tourists like they are incoming linebackers, Chris and I rush to the bus company. We get there, sweating and stressing, and slide the piece of paper to the clerk sitting at the information desk.

“Arcidosso.”

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“The last bus left at 19:05.” I look at my watch. 19:20. Fffffff.

“Gratzi.”

Disheartened and frustrated, we leave. We search for alternate train routes and buses from Grosseto or other stops, but nothing exists.

When in a bad situation in a city you’ve never been to before, the best thing you can do (if you need a place to stay) is to find the nearest ritzy hotel and storm inside with all your gear.

That’s what we did.

Hotel Aurora. It is about 100m from the train station and has polished marble steps and glass windows that look like crystal. We enter through sliding glass doors and meet the embrace of loving air-conditioning and make a sharp left to the reception desk.

Riccardo, a man with a scruffy beard and brown hair, greets us with a smile. “We have a problem and some questions.”

“If you need a place to stay, you’re out of luck. For a room around here, you’re lucky if you get one for 200 euros.”

I look at him, incredulously.

“Yeah, I know. But with fashion week going on and the first weeks of summer, we have a big crowd here. What do you guys need?”

“Well, we need a place to sleep. We missed the last bus out to where we needed to go, so we were hoping you could help us out with a map or something.”

“Not a problem. Why don’t I look something up for you here and if we find something cheap, I’ll just book it.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

I get that feeling I imagine a Disney princess does when they get saved or they find the man of their dreams. Salvation. He hands me the Wi-Fi user name and password for the hotel, then searches through booking websites for a bed nearby. It isn’t long before he finds one. He calls and makes us a reservation before we can thank him.

The hotel is a five minute walk from Aurora. We get inside, drop our bags, and relish in the serenity of sitting down after a day of travel, mishaps, and problem solving.

Reflecting:

Adventure isn’t about everything clicking and working just right. It is about the problems that come up as you try to get to where you need to go or do what you want to do. These problems make life interesting. They force mistakes, misunderstandings, and they challenge us to work harder and figure out an answer- even if it is an incorrect one. Coming up with these answers and facing these problems is how we grow as travelers and people. We don’t always succeed, either. This isn’t the first time Chris and I messed up while traveling and it won't be our last. Even though we followed the wrong directions, got lost, and had been traveling for hours and hours,we somehow ended our day with grins on our faces, happy to have a bed to sleep in and pillows to rest our weary heads on.

That, I think, is incredibly important.

Location Update:

We made it to Arcidosso and spent the day there- but that is a whole other story. We’ve spent most of today traveling, but now that we are in Rome and at the hostel. We did our best to see all the big sights here in just a few hours, but man, it just wasn't enough time. Tomorrow, at noon, we head for Bordeaux via a Ryanair plane- our first flight in a long while. We’ll be in Bordeaux for two weeks, farming and tending to sheep. It’s going to be a big change of place from the recent days of hard traveling that Chris and I have endured.

Wishing you the best from Italy.

Buonanotte.

Sam

European Homeless Cup

Ups and Downs

When you’re traveling or working or playing on a team for a sport, you have positive moments and negative ones. You learn things as you go and you figure out what works and what doesn’t. I realize, now, that an 84 day trip is an incredibly long time. Currently, I am 36 days into it. While that is more than a month, it is still less than half-way through. I’ve had a bunch of ups and downs, and I would like to share a few. I believe it is important to reflect on both the good and the bad in an adventure like this.

Landing in Spain [POSITIVE]

Lost like a three-year-old kid in the clothing section of the department store, Chris and I stumbled around the city of Madrid after getting off a shuttle from the airport. We had no map and we were just getting used to the clunky weight of our backpacks. With no phones, we had to find some sort of Wi-Fi in order to get our bearings. Problem was, everything was closed as it was only six in the morning. Luckily, we tried a nearby hotel. Inside, the clerk helped us get access to the internet and the bartender helped me adjust my Spanish. Thankful, we felt like we should order some drinks or something. I asked for a nice beer and Chris got water. We sat down, opened up our emails, and took a sigh of relief. We had made it. We were across the ocean. I sipped the beer. It tasted like the best drink in the freaking world.

Leaving Barcelona [NEGATIVE]

This was the most hectic travel situation you could imagine and it was our own doing. Chris and I went to a concert for Knife Party, a dubstep/electronic artist, on the day of our first Ryanair flight. Two problems with this. First, our flight was at 06:30. Second, Knife Party opened at 00:00. Nevertheless, we went for it. We left the show, dripping in sweat and with our ear drums thoroughly worn, at 03:30. We booked it back to the place we were staying, grabbed our backpacks, chugged some water, and ate a quick snack. Heading to the bus stop, a thirty minute walk from our residence, Chris and I began to argue. We were low on sleep, but even so, we had problems to work out. I wasn’t giving Chris the amount of trust I should have. Instead, I was attempting to do everything myself. This was wrong and, rightfully, Chris was pissed about it. I was upset because he was belittling the importance of making it to the airport on time. We yelled like two little girls over a stolen Barbie doll and each had a little tantrum at 04:30 on the Barcelona streets. Drunk passerbys, heading home from bars, gave us awkward glances as we stormed by with our huge backpacks, nagging at each other. Yet, we made the bus to the airport. We sat there and let out a sigh of relief and apologized for our antics. We helped each other reach our water bottles (cute, huh?) and put our bags down. We shook hands. God, we were tired. But, we had issues. We agreed to do our best to solve the problems we had with each other and take a strong step forward. I’m glad that Chris has my back and is here on this trip. He is a strong asset and it would be incredibly different without him. We may have our differences, but we are both very different people. It isn’t about being similar- it is about using our unique skills to be the best combination of travelers possible.

Note:

Shoot. I’m realizing that I have a TON of positives and negatives, and while I have an urge to keep jamming them out on this page, I don’t want to clog this post with them. I have other things to say below! However, I think it would be a good idea if I started all future posts with a positive and a negative. That gives me more time to share different things going on and put them in a collected light. I’ll continue with more positives and negatives on the next post.

Europe Together: A Homeless Cup

From June 24 to June 27, thirteen countries joined together in Munich, Germany for the first continental program between partners of the Homeless World Cup organization. The event was coordinated by the host country and team, Germany. They worked to place a street soccer pitch in the center of Munich at a wonderful plaza called Odeonsplatz.

They put on a flawless event. The only problems were the usual tussles between players, coaches, and referees, and that ended up being positive, anyway. It is important for the players to accept the calls the referee makes, even if it is a poor one, and move on and continue playing with a good attitude.

Chris and I did our best to assist with the tournament in all possible ways. It was an incredible sight to see and, in my own opinion, it overshadowed the monuments and churches in its location. It was a spectacle that was more than just a view; it had a purpose, too.

That purpose was to bring the homeless to the forefront and to help eradicate invisibility by showing the value in each individual represented. The European Homeless Cup was not only a tournament of sport- it was also a privilege for the players. Only those with a solid reputation in their home countries were selected to be members of their teams. This “good reputation” comes down to many factors: sportsmanship, willingness to improve (physically and mentally), and strength of character.

Chris and I were lucky enough to stay with the Switzerland team during the time of the tournament. This was especially nice because we had previously worked with the Swiss program and we were familiar with the players. It was immersive, too. The first day we woke up with the team and traveled to the pitch from the hostel. I felt a little bit like an adoring fan, as I was wearing my Surprise Strassensport shirt with the Swiss logo ironed onto the front of it. I was proud to wear it, though, as I have a huge amount of respect for the Switzerland program, its players, and most of all, their coordinators and coach.

The tournament lasted two days, each day full of competition (09:00 – 19:00). There were no lulls in the program- as soon as a match was over; another match was started within two minutes time. As an outsider working with the program I strived to network and spread the word about the Homeless World Cup. Many people came by to watch- after all, it was in the middle of a very popular plaza- and I attempted to bring them up to speed on the rules of street soccer as well as the mindset and attitude of the Homeless World Cup as a nonprofit organization. Everyone was very polite, but I think this was because they were genuinely interested. They took time out of their day to stop walking and watch from the sidelines of the pitch. They seemed more than interested to learn about the program, the players, and what the Homeless World Cup was all about. I was able to talk with travelers from abroad visiting friends, business men staying in Munich for conferences, and curious locals wandering about their own city. Some of the observers even stopped to watch at the start of the day, and I didn’t see  them leave until the event was over. The pitch had that kind of magnetic pull to it.

I believe it is very important to recognize the strength of visibility in light of the problems affecting the homeless. It is especially critical to highlight the fact that they aren’t worthless. They aren’t bums. They are people, too. They are people with value and skill and the willingness to change for the better. The Homeless World Cup is all about this and it sends a powerful message. Soccer, or futbol here in Europe, is highly active. The rules are easy to pick up on and the fast-paced aspect that the street environment brings really snags a crowd’s attention. In a way, it is flashy. But, its ability to draw attention and genuine curiosity from a crowd is unmatched in my eyes.

After working with the European Homeless Cup I am a definite advocate for the program. I think that in a few years the Homeless World Cup will be very well known. It is a powerful program that, while it began many years ago, is starting to reach a turning point. It is growing larger and larger with more countries and more partners. These partners and countries are becoming more like individuals, each more organized as time goes on. Now, they can put together greater local tournaments. These local or regional or continental events garner even more attention from the public. If the Homeless World Cup becomes a household name, these events will be immensely popular. Currently, though, the organization is in the process of becoming that big name. And it’s getting there quickly.

I have so much to say on this, but I don’t want to leave out other aspects of my trip. This blog, I’m finding, only reaches the surface. It is especially important that I track my thoughts and feelings because after this trip I will be writing an evaluation and study of the Homeless World Cup as an overall program and nonprofit. I want to analyze how effective it is from an outside point of view. The good. The bad. Where to improve. All of it. At the moment, I am unbelievably positive and excited for this project. It has a meaning and a purpose and it is right in the center of what I am interested in.

About to leave Igls, Austria now! Talk to you later!

Ciao,

Sam

Innsbruck and Next Steps

European Homeless Cup Pictures:

http://imgur.com/a/9OUAY

http://imgur.com/a/wKrZg

Looking Forward:

Wow. Innsbruck  is beautiful. We are right in the middle of the mountains and everything here is green and vibrant. Fog hides the peaks in the early morning, but as the time hits afternoon, the snow-capped, upper-fringes of the Alps look down below.

We've made it through Munich, and now we are here in Austria for one more day. We will be heading to Italy next, though where in Italy I am not so sure. We haven't bought a train ticket yet- we will pick one up on the fly tomorrow and head to an unknown destination.

Chris and I are at that point where we have realized we need to conserve as much money as possible. Because we don't have any programs or living stays lined up in Italy, this is going to be hard. Hell, we may end up sleeping in a park again. We'll just have to play things as they go!

Current Deadlines:

July 4th- Begin staying at the community in Arcidosso, Italy

July 7th- Flight from Rome, Italy -> Bordeaux, France

For now, time to enjoy Innsbruck for the rest of today and tomorrow morning. I uploaded new pictures from Munich and from our first day here, so check those out! The video above is from part of a hike near where we are staying.

I have another post on the way soon. It is halfway written and I will probably finish it tonight or on the train tomorrow.

Hope you're having an awesome weekend.

Best,

Sam

Rainy Day

Location Update

We’re in Munich! We arrived late last night to a hostel called “The Tent.” It has been raining all morning, but it finally stopped. Time to explore the city.

Items Lost of Discarded

Chris’s very nice (but bulky) poncho

My let’s Go: Europe travel book

A Nalgene water bottle

The cardboard Wilbur cutout L

What do People like in Budapest?

Answer: The Walking Dead

Minor Statistics [before Budapest]

Average daily walking distance: 6.5km (4 miles)

Estimate # of times public transportation* was used: 28

Locations where public transportation was used: Madrid (1), Barcelona (1), Basel (26)

# of times Ryanair was used: 3

# of times international trains were used: 2

# of times regional rails were used: 8

# of times inter-city buses were used: 5

*Public transport accounts for local buses, subways, and light rails. It does not account for regional rails or international trains

Sayonara: Saying Goodbye

Chris and I are traveling through places so quickly and meeting tons of new people along the way. We get only a glance of the entire picture. While we try to see as much of the city as possible, we always miss certain aspects that are said to be incredible. We didn’t make it to the Swiss Alps. We ran out of time and had to skip an amazing museum in Madrid. We just couldn’t find a way to slip into a kayak and paddle around the Baltic Sea.

Of course, we don’t expect to pull off the grand tour in every city we pass through. As we circumvent portions of the places we wished to see, I can’t help but think that I will visit these spots again, without a fat backpack, and take my hours and minutes slowly to really soak up what characterizes each country. For now, the amount of seconds between the handshake and goodbye-hug are too few. But, this trip isn’t a novel- it is a series of short vignettes. It is about exploring and adventuring and most importantly, leaving the lowest quantity of regrets in the tank.

This thought of goodbyes makes me contemplate lost friends and those that are drifting away. It comes across as an emotional maelstrom and I can’t say I am an expert at handling and working out my emotions. Sure, I pride myself on how I can logically and rationally process information. But when it comes to feelings, I’m out in a forest, no compass, and I can only hope to push, push, and push in the right direction. In the end, I am disappointed by my own reception to my sentiments and how I respond to them.  I find that the balance between emotional and logical evaluation is a mastery few have obtained. Those that have this balance are recipients of a trophy or reward associated with the professional control of yin and yang.

My best friend lives in Arizona. At the moment, our lives are progressing in alternate directions. We struggle to say goodbye. No matter how many times we utter the word or phrase and no matter how many different ways we say it, we find ourselves talking and laughing again in the next few weeks or months. We’ve shared a hell of a lot and we know each other too well to just disappear, and in the end I believe this is what always pulls us back. I’ve processed the situation multitudes of times with logic and emotion, but it is a battle on a mental front that never sees a winner. I find it funny that the pathways we can’t imagine meshing together continue to intertwine. Sometimes, I wonder if goodbye is the correct choice.

Instead of mourning over a complete goodbye, I would rather say “See you later.” I think this is better. Just like with the cities we pass though, I don’t want to close off the people I meet (especially those I know best) for good. I want to see them again and give them a wonderful hug. I want to hear all about how they’ve changed and listen to every new detail in their lives.

But then again, maybe the loss (or breaking of) that connection is why goodbyes are so hard?

Jack: Making Friends

The first hostel that Chris and I stayed at in Stockholm was called 2Kronor. We made it there a little after 17:00, checked in, and fell into the nice comfortable catch of the bunk beds in the dorm room. It was a wonderful change from the previous night, which I spent awkwardly sleeping against the side of a chain-link fence in a park.

Shortly after we settled, a guy who had been staying at the hostel for a few days already walked in. Around the same height as me, wavy blond/brown hair, good shape, wearing a blue jacket. We shook hands and said our hellos. His name was Jack. He was 22 and had just graduated from a school near Orlando, Florida, but his hometown was just outside of Boston, Massachusetts. I have to say, it was great to see an American, especially a friendly one.

We grabbed dinner at a restaurant that was approximately thirty feet from our hostel- they had a special where you could get a burger, fries, and a beer for under 90 SEK. Our other dorm mate, a scientific, tall and skinny blond dude from Estonia, joined us too. His name was Ott (pronounced: Oh-ight). I felt a little bad for Ott though, as he couldn’t keep up with our conversation. We talked about a bunch of American things (like Jimmy  Kimmel and the NBA Playoffs) and while I did my best to fill Ott in on what he didn’t understand, I could tell he was out of place. After dinner, he hung out with us a short while longer before heading back to the hostel to retire.

Jack, Chris, and I went on to explore the city and we ended up at this new microbrewery, Brew Dog. I have a coaster from the place, it’s pretty sweet.

We sat next to a pair of Sweden guys who were big on skiing and laughing. Ultra-friendly and welcoming, they immediately began conversing and joking around with us. One looked incredibly similar to Gerard Butler (even his hand motions and the way he leaned his elbow on the table).

Anyway, we eventually glanced at the menu. It was an in-your-face kind of thing, with sentences challenging your manhood, saying that you wouldn’t dare drink specific kinds of beers because they would be “too tough for you.” The place was a little expensive, though, so Jack, Chris, and I opted to each buy a single drink before heading out.

We read the menu as if it was a textbook and finally selected our beverages. We found these brews that were insanely high proof (34% and 42%) but really small quantity (5 centiliters). One was called the Tactical Nuclear Penguin and to be honest, I can’t recall the other one’s name. It was something feisty and related to a bird like a crow or falcon, I think. We drank the brews, as slow as you could for that volume, and all made quirky faces at the strength and flavor of the liquid. The Swedish Gerard Butler ordered a burger, which looked immensely tasty, but we left before he could remark on how delicious it was.

For the rest of the night, we hung out with Jack. It was a good change of pace for the two of us and he had his own wild stories to contrast ours. Jack is heading home soon, but before that he is doing one last tour the Netherlands. Best of luck in the future, and safe travels to the man from Boston.

Peace!

Sam