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