Thumbs up, and away ...

                  Hitchhiking in Spain is a bit like fighting in the Spanish Civil War.  Ok, it’s not, but if you happen to be reading Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls and recently hitched from Madrid to Barcelona, you could be forgiven for thinking so.  You’ll see what I mean later.

                  When I made my decision that I was going to hitch, I was literally seconds away from buying a damn 45 euro bus ticket from Madrid to Barcelona, when I thought, and remembered a quote on a hitchhiking forum saying simply, “Hitchhiking in Europe is fun.”  ‘Why would I pay 45 euros to have less fun?’ I thought.  And then I also thought, “This fucking line is taking forever, I’ll just buy the damn thing later.”

                  So it was/was to be decided, I was going to hitch from Madrid to Barcelona, a 600 km journey that, according to my research would take me about six hours to complete.  With this new plan, I had to ask Cristina to put me up for one more night and then I’d piss off.  She was happy to host me, but uneasy about me hitching.  Despite her reservations and best intentions, I told her it was something I felt I had to do, at least once (but maybe more) in my life and I could see that she understood that.  “I’ll text you when I get to Barcelona” I said.

She also suggested that if I planned on making hitchhiking a frequent hobby of mine, it might be worth me considering dying my hair.  Apparently my flowing blonde locks would make me a more expensive sex slave, thus more sought after along the side of road to perverts and underlords … not that I’m trying to brag or anything.

                  I researched hitchhiking from Madrid to Barcelona a bit, and by “research” I mean I read hitchhike forums, and by “a bit” I mean two of them.  Each writer had their own route.  Both authors stated, and every other hitchhike advisor on the web confirmed, that getting out of the immediate city was best for finding a ride.  They both agreed that in hitching from inner city A) it is unlikely that anyone would pick you up and B) it is more unlikely that they could take you any helpful distance.  So, with this in mind, the first author suggested to a hitch point in San Fernando, by the airport, just outside inner city Madrid and on the highway leading from Madrid to Barcelona.  The second suggested taking a bus to Guadalajara (the next city-ish municipality along the line to Barcelona, 45 km away) and then a second bus to a small town named Taracena where I would be right on the highway in a rural area.  I opted for the second.  The hitch-point at the airport seemed too close to Madrid.  I was willing and wanted to commit an entire day to this hitch, successful or not.  I did not want (or want to have the option) to spend 2 hours standing at San Fernando, then give up and catch a metro to the bus station and cop out.  I either wanted to spend the six hours of a successful hitch to Barcelona that my guides wrote about or spend the entire day not getting there and then … well, then I’d finish that sentence later.

                  So I got up at 8 o’clock and scrounged up what food I could from Cristina’s fridge without looking like I raided it to pieces and gave Cristina a hug goodbye as she woke up shortly before I headed out.  From Cristina’s place, I took the metro to the bus station, bussed to Guadalajara, and approached the ticket office for a ticket to Tarecena.

                  “Necessito comprar un boleto para Taracena.” I said, sounding like an idiot, of course, but it wasn’t my Spanish that incited the ticket attendant’s bewildered look.

                  “Taracena?” He asked.

                  “Si, Taracena,” I replied back.

                  “Taracena?” he kept re-confirming.

                  “Si, Taracena,” I re-confirmed.  I was even doing the weird ‘th’ sound with my ‘c’ in the word

, but as this merry-go-round kept spinning, I soon realized Taracena is another word for “The middle of fucking nowhere, Spain” and that I didn’t exactly look like I live there.  But, despite not being a local, he sold me the ticket.  On the bus, I asked if the driver could give me a shout when we got to Taracena and he said, ‘do you want me to just drop you off at a petrol station along the highway,’ to which I immediately said ‘Si’ and then wondered why the ticket attendant wasn’t this helpful.  After thirty minutes, I hopped off the bus at the petrol station and found what I was looking for, miles of highway in the middle of fucking nowhere, Spain.  Not bad, considering it was already 12:30, and here I was thinking that I would be in Barcelona in an hour and a half.

                  The petrol station was pretty much empty and with no one to ask for a ride, so I took to the highway, backpack on my back, thumb stretched freely outward and my feet stalking backward as I crept down the highway, if only at a couple feet at a time towards Barcelona.  I remember I had a song stuck in my head the entire hitch.  It was “Wagon Wheel” by Old Crow Medicine Show, a classic tune about hitching, but I substituted the words of “Heyy, mamma rock me,”  “Heyy, Barcelona.”  Witty, I know, but it helped kill the 45 minutes it took to catch my first ride.  That wait felt long, longer than expected, but I was so enthusiastic and committed to the hitch that turning back never crossed my mind.  A Spanish man of Indian descent pulled up in a white van and told me to hop in.  He looked honest, kind and when I first looked in the car, I saw a backpack and a djembe drum resting his back seat.  ‘He’s one of us’ I thought, and I hopped in.

                  Raul, his name, was going as far in my direction as Zaragoza, which marked evenly the halfway point of my journey to Barcelona.  As we were driving, Raul and I talked.  He spoke no English, so I had to hold up my end of the conversation in my poor Spanish.  We talked about Spain, travelling (‘mi adventura’ as he called it), music (he was in a band) and literature (I mentioned my writing ... yeah, I know, but, to my credit I didn’t talk about Gulliver’s Travels).  He was my first ever hitch-ee (well, second if you count Italy 3 years ago, but that’s another story).  I thought about something I read in For Whom the Bell Tolls just days ago:   “You had to trust the people you worked with completely or not at all and you had to make decisions about the trusting.”  Now, I’m not Jordan, but I still had to either trust this guy completely or not at all, and I trusted Raul.  I’m not saying I would have given him my kidney, but I trusted him not to murder me and drop my dead body off in the middle of fucking nowhere, Spain.  Because, in order to do that, he’d have to turn around to get back to Taracena and that would have made him late for his band practice.

After awhile, I grew tired and fell asleep.  When I awoke, I found the van driving steady on the highway, about 30 km from Zaragoza.  It was then where Raul was headed due north to Huesco and I was headed due east to Barcelona.  He pulled the van to the side of the road and gave me a small piece of quartz, pointing the one hanging around his neck and started an eloquent (or it sounded eloquent) speech in Spanish.  I did not decipher the words correctly, but I got the gist.  ‘When you are at a crossroads, hold the quartz in your hand, do not worry about the direction, just go forward.’  I picked up my backpack out of the back seat and slammed the door, but not before an “adios” and a “gracias” up to Raul in the front seat.

                  I was back on the road, and not in a very good spot.  With Zaragoza being a relatively major city, the section of highway was far busier than the spot where Raul picked me up at around Taracena. Also, it was about three thirty, getting near four, i.e. getting near rush hour.  I got out my thumb, but in vain. I saw truck drivers make eye contact with me and give an exaggerated shrug through their windshields:  “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”  There was six lanes of traffic, speeding by fast.  I would not be getting a ride anywhere near the place I was standing, so I started walking quicker, and just moving further down the road, getting to a better spot became my main goal.  I just hoped that a better spot would come before Zaragoza.  As I walked, my Old Crow Medicine Show tuned I hummed in my head did nothing to hide the very real possibility that I might be un-pick-up-able until after I passed Zaragoza.

In a mixed process of walking forwards with my thumb out, tracking backwards with my thumb out and standing with my thumb out, I sluggishly moved towards Barcelona at an almost negligible pace.  I looked at the kilometre markers at the side of the road, just for something to read other than the faces of disinterested drivers, shaking their heads or something just being downright impolite in their refusal.  I walked a good long time along that road.  I passed bridges, I passed construction sites, I passed road signs and mile markers and I watched traffic congest and decongest in front of my eyes with no sign of a “hop in” from anybody.  I was probably into my second hour, when I came up to another construction site, by a bridge, with a road sign in the distance, or the ultimate in scenery of my hike, and I stopped asked the one of the construction workers, “Is this the E-90?” but that wasn’t my question, it was just all I knew how to say.  What I really asked was, “Hey man, look, do you know what I should do?”

He could see how tired and non-local I was and he answered my real question with “Si, es la E-90,” or, translated, “Sorry brother, no.”

Three hours, three motherfucking hours.  10 kilometers,  10 of those bitches.  And I’m still on the goddamn road!  That’s what I would have named my book if I was Kerouac.  It’s fucking 6:30.  I walked more and I see a road sing signalling a highway rest stop, 5 km away.  I will make that before dark, I thought to myself, I’ll still have a couple of hours to figure out what to do before it gets dark.  So my plan became to reach the rest stop and ask where the nearest bus stop that would get me to a place that could get me to Barcelona was.  And then of course, I would need a ride from someone, and of course, I’d be in the same boat I’m in now, but still, at least I wouldn’t be walking anymore.  And who knows, maybe someone would take me to Barcelona from there.  More walking, walking, walking and thinking “No, fuck it, I hate Old Crow Medicine Show” and I’m only 2 km from my rest stop haven.

                  But then, lightning strikes my thumb.  I forgot I even had it out.  I mean what was the point?  But sure enough, I looked up and saw a large, rickety, dirty white van with spots all over it sat parked along the side of the road in front of me.  As I tried to run up to the driver, but instead realizing I could not do such things anymore today, I walked and peered into the back of the van.  There was a mattress, a couple of lawn chairs, a large, long plank of plywood and some food.  The dude did not own a house.

“Adonde vas?” the driver asked as I reached the passenger window. 

“Barcelona” I replied.  He looked apologetic, as well as scruffy, bearded and as dirty as the van.  He kind of looked like Saddam Hussein, but, despite being a rampant conspiracy theorist, the thought of him actually being Saddam, never crossed my mind. 

“I’m only going 25 kilometers further,” he said in broken English, which surprised me a bit.    I hopped in.  I didn’t even think about it.  Hemingway’s maxim seemed irrelevant now.  It simply did not matter if I trusted him or not.  Sitting now was a hell of a lot better than sitting in thirty or forty five minutes.  As we pulled away, I realized I had forsaken my rest stop in my fatigue and who knows how close the next one would be in 25 kilometers.  I guess, I made a decision about the trusting and I guess I trusted him a lot.  I guess trusted him completely.

                  We drove down the road and talked.  It had an odd beat to it.  He kept talking in his broken English, and I continued in my poor Spanish.  I think we each understood each other better this way.  And we talked about things heavy things.  We only had twenty-five kilometres, so it was as if we both knew we had to delve into the deep shit right away.  Maybe that’s just what you do with hitchers.  We covered things like the meaning of life, we each gave our spiel, the unimportance of money (this he led, but I agreed), literature, the problems with the world and why drivers were scared to pick up hitchers and the importance of living abroad (he had lived in Portugal, Brazil, Venezula, France and Spain).  He was right on my wavelength.  And I became grateful to have hopped, despite now coming to realize that once I would hop out, I wouldn’t know what the hell to do from that point.

                  But that’s not what happened.  It was after about a half hour of driving and conversation when I did not exit the car, and instead I became worried.  My driver took an exit from the E-90.  He was not driving towards Barcelona any more. 

“Voy a Barcelona,” I said twice.  He sensed the panic in my voice as he continued driving.  He did not tell me he would be exiting the E-90.   “No comprendo” I said even more times. 

“Cinco minutos” he said replied, “Cinco minutos.”  This guy was up to something, and I guess in five minutes I’d find out what.  I tried to calm down.  Maybe he forgot he needed to drop me off on the highway and he’s turning back now, which will take about five minutes and then I’m on the E-90 again.  But I was still nervous.  I made a second separate attempt to calm down with marginal success.  I remembered my second Hemingway For Whom the Bell Tolls maxim:  “To worry was as bad as to be afraid.  It simply made things more difficult.”  “Well, fuck, I’m worried and afraid, Ernie!  I’ve got five minutes until I either find out this guy is cool, or if Cristina was right about my blonde hair!”  The van kept cruising over new and different roads, with no sign of turning around, back to the E-90.

It was in five minutes time, I saw a sign pointing to the direction of Lleida, but benath it was Barcelona, and the driver turned and we were on it.  “This road,” he said pointing, making sure I saw the Barcelona under Leida, “better for autostop” and he gestured with his outstectched thumb.  As we carried on along the road, and as I recalled my hitchhiking “research,” I could easily see he was right.  The road lead all the way to Barcelona and it was a two-lane highway with dirt areas on each side where cars could easily pull off.  My fears melted instantly.  Looking back at the miserable three hours spent on the E-90, I had so much gratitude for the tip and for this man going out of his way to help me out. Though he only took me 25 km, this Saddam Hussein lookalike served as undoubtedly the biggest help in the process of getting me to Barcelona.  He pulled in at the first gas station, got out a pen and paper and wrote down a name of a book and its author, suggesting I might like it. 

“Leyera este verano” I said.  “Muchas gracias, adios,” and I shut the door.  Saddam turned around in the gas station parking lot and headed back down the highway in the direction he came.

                  And I was back on the road.  But, as the man stated accurately, the road was great for hitching.  Many trucks passed and their only possible destination from this point was Barcelona.  After less than ten minutes, a driver took note of my thumb and gave me a “get in” head nod to his left and pulled to the side of the road ahead of me.  I ran after it. 

“Adonde vas?” Iasked.

“Barcelona” he said. 

“Barcelona!”  I shouted enthusiastically and jumped in.

                  We took off down the regional highway, at a slower pace than on the E-90, but I didn’t care.  I had a passage to, “Heyyyy, Barcelona!”  The driver seemed nice enough and the thought of a part-time truck driver part-time serial killer seemed ludicrous, but honestly, through the whole journey my safety was never a major concern.  We chit-chatted in Spanish, and I noticed a significant difference in my ability in speaking to when I talked to Raul at the beginning of the day.  It was heartening, getting back into the Spanish language a bit.  I made him laugh even.  As this is usually my goal when conversing in English, I told of couple of anecdotes and said a couple funny things in Spanish and he laughed at them.  “From Lisbon, I bought a ticket to Madrid.  12 hours overnight.  With bed, 85 euros.  Without bed, 40 euros.  So, I bought the ticket for 45 euros and I bought a litre of beer for 1 euro and I slept better than anyone on the train.”

                  After a couple hours driving, he said he had to stop for dinner for an hour.  Not wanting to be an annoyance and knowing of truck driver’s legal obligations to take a stop every so many hours, I found no objections, “Esta bien” I said.  At this point, I realized again that I was starving.  The prospect of a gas station bag of crisps seemed appealing to me and the thought of going back on the road with my thumb out did not.

                  When we pulled in at the truck stop, I got out of the truck, and headed for the gas station shop, when he said, “un momento.”  He took out a baguette, gave me half, and then two sausages.  Then he produced a container of gispatcho and poured half of it into a bowl.  I chomped down the bread and lapped up the gispatcho eagerly.  As I ate, I thought about some things I saw throughout that day.  I thought about my impression of people.  For the most part my misanthropy prevailed.  I probably spent a lot of time thinking, “People are in general stupid, apathetic and stubborn.”  And I thought about when you pass someone like me, while concealed in your frame of steel and glass you think about that person for two seconds and about the reasons why you are not going to pick them up.  Then you speed passed them and your thoughts go back to the fine leather interior of your Audi and it makes you feel secure once again.  But, when you meet someone, when someone takes chance on you, not because they are obligated, or have anything to gain, but just because you are a person in this world and so are they, that is people are at their finest.  And what became so compelling was the one act of Daniel, or Raul or Saddam was enough to cancel out the hundreds or thousands that passed on me.  It’s a rigged game, I suppose, even for the cynical, bordering on misanthropic, American junior studying abroad.  As I finished the gispatcho and bread with vigor, feeling contented and sated, I thought about how this was the single most bizarre and astounding day of my life.  Then, Daniel gave me a nudge, winked and handed me a beer.  “Salud” I said as we clinked cans and then we were off.

                  As we drove, it grew dark and Daniel drove faster.  The remaining 145 km to Barcelona passed in under an hour.  He pulled to a rest stop on the outskirts of Barcelona, we shook hands and parted company.  “What a guy,” I thought.  I went into the rest stop to ask for directions to a bus stop.  I saw three policemen, and I asked them.  This was evidently a complicated question, for they consulted each other for a couple minutes.  “Come with us” they said and led me to their car.  Evidently, the nearby train station was an hour walk away, and closed in thirty minutes.  They drove me there, talked to the man at the train station about getting me a train into the station.  They were so nice and helpful.  I bet if I said I didn’t have any money they would have paid for my ticket.

                  I took the train into el centro and from there, I relied on my tried and true method of finding a hostel.  I walked into the nicest hotel I could find, approached the receptionist and said:  “I don’t have nearly enough money to stay in your hotel, but do you know where I can find a hostel?”  He took out a map, drew where I needed to go and minutes later I was walking down Barcelona’s La Rambla towards the hostel area the receptionist indicated and I was approached by Red.  Red was a 19 year-old Australian, “bumming around” Europe for the past year and ran the Stoke Hostel, or its unofficial nickname of “G-Spot,” and is probably the most naturally charismatic person I had ever met.  I said I was interested in staying anywhere, just needed to get my back off my back.  He told me not to get my hopes up about the hostel and walked me to it.

                  I followed Red into the hostel, and it was a piece of shit.  I mean, it was a fucking dump.  There was a filthy kitchen, a cluttered room of 4 bunk-beds (seriously that is the entire size of the hostel), a common room (equally dirty as the others) and an uninviting bathroom.  “The thing is,” Red said, “it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but the G-Spot is so shitty that only cool people will ever stay here.”  I loved it and said I’d stay.  “Great!” he said and with one swoop of his arm, he cleared a bunch of things lying on a top bunk off of the bed and onto the floor, “check-in complete.  Where are you coming from, by the way?” 

“Madrid” I replied. 

“You take a bus, or what?” 

“No, I hitched.  It took all day.” 

“Oh shit!  Then you could probably drink a couple of beers tonight then” he said. 

“Yes, that would be an accurate statement” I laughed. 

“Well, my mate runs this bar crawl and I work for it too.  It costs fifteen euros, but since you’re staying at the G-Spot, I can probably get you in for free.”

                  I dumped my shit amongst all the other shit lying on the floor of the hostel and headed back out the door.  After the thirteen hours it took to get to Barcelona, it felt like I had a beer in my hand within seconds of being in the city.  And at the first bar, Red introduced me to Daniel, Jessica, Matt, Mikel, Ramono, shit everyone that worked with them.  All travellers bumming around like me, and I was one of them after two beers.  I was just in.  And I had a job working with them the next night if I wanted. 

I forget who it was, but when someone asked me how long I was staying in Barcelona, “Indefinitely” was my answer ... LW

Full circle ...

5:00 am. The jazz/electric funk band's (consisting of a singer, guitar player, saxophone, trumpet and a dj) set at the Sugar Factory draws to a close. I exit the club along with my work colleagues I came with and say goodbye. My two weeks in Amsterdam will be over in just four hours, I’m leaving. As attached as I became to Barcelona after two weeks, leaving Amsterdam proved much more difficult, there were so many more opportunities, but not for now. The people I met there were great, and, if I’m being honest, I might have to rethink my philosophy on goodbyes. It’s nice to wish someone well and say thanks, even if you've only known them for a couple weeks. The city served me well, and I am grateful to its loyal servants.

I check the time. My bus leaves in four hours and my hostel serves breakfast in two hours. I leave Leidseplein and walk back to my hostel through the gorgeous Vondelpark, glimmering ever more brightly, slowly unveiling itself as the morning creeps in. I enter my hostel, grab my journal and a pen and head back outside to Vondelpark. I find a comely spot by the lake and dig right in; I start writing:

As this is my last night in Amsterdam, it marks the end of my travels abroad (of my junior year). I've done the math, added up the figures and I have spent over 13 weeks of my ten-month abroad course outside of Norwich; or, in other words, travelling. 4 weeks in London, a week in Northern England, a week in Prague, 3 weeks in Spain/Portugal, 3 weeks in Belgium/the Netherlands, weekend trips to Edinburgh (2x), York, Cardiff and London (3x). I have spent over 3 months away from my flat in Norwich, meaning that just under one in three days of my study abroad have been spent travelling. Sometimes my home has been the Arran House in London, or Fabric nightclub staying up all night, or the Muir’s home for Christmas or a moth ridden mattress in Barcelona. Really, the experience of this year has been a constant adjustment of what defines my home. Throughout this year, I have felt American and I have felt English. I have ‘been from’ Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, England, Norwich, America, in Czech Republic I was from New York, but just as a means of saving time, and just once the whole year have I 'been from' Carlisle. But this is not true solely for me; the identity of a ‘home’ is an elastic and tenuous one at best. What is your home? The four walls in your parent’s house. The small town in central Pennsylvania? Your dorm room? Your frat house? As I look at it, your home is where you are right now. Everyone seems to think that ‘home’ is such a permanent word; while I find it to be one of the most temporary concepts in the English language. I must have called twenty different places ‘home’ throughout this year. Simply put, if you are not going back to it anytime soon, then it is not your home. I have been away from the states for 10 months now, and that justly reflects itself in my conception of home. When I was staying in Barcelona, I quite literally forgot I was a university student, a university campus is a home of sorts. As a third of this year has been away from it, Norwich too has shared its irrelevance in matters ‘home’ as well. But it seems paradoxical and inconsistent that we (or maybe just me) adopt all this elastic reference towards ‘home;’ for, when you are travelling, it becomes a dreaded word.

The concept of travel is very loaded and hard to define. My basic definition, travelling is the act of putting oneself into a position. This can be mental, emotional, physical or geographic. It can also be a new or old position, but it must require a change or alteration of sorts. For me, I feel that all of the above apply to my year abroad. I picked up my body, my mind, my emotional ties and took myself away from America some 10 months ago. I embraced the new, the changed and the altered. Sometimes I got a nice warm hug back, sometimes I got hit on the head. Both are very positive experiences.

As I see it, when you travel, you are not exploring geography or famous monuments and cities, you are exploring yourself. You are putting yourself in a physical position at some far and exotic point on the tip of the earth just to see how you react to it. And in this isolating condition, you react differently and think differently and in this state of newness, you learn things about yourself. You learn how daring and gullible you are. You learn how smart and uneducated you are. You learn how your little amount of AP Spanish you learned in high school actually makes things more difficult for you in Madrid because you cannot understand the words coming back to you. You learn about the different people, how they live and how it affects you.

This is an enormously constructive process for a growing mind. If you place yourself in new and exotic surroundings, alter your conceptions of what is a home, what is a job, what is my consciousness and in it, you learn. If you do it right, you can’t not learn. Well, you don’t exactly learn, you relearn. Relearning how to walk down the street in Barcelona is an easy one; relearning how to construct a friendship with a language barrier is more difficult. It’s jostling at first, even though fun. You revert to the things you know at the most basic level. Those preconceptions might be: “Oh, he’s from Pakistan ... I don’t know about him” or “No way am I going to eat that.” But then you relearn the things that you know how to do. It just takes time. When you have a couple days in a city, you won’t relearn much, so you’ll see the famous cites and be threatened by every brown person you see, thinking they are going to snatch your camera. But if you stay longer, a week or two, you can relearn quite a lot. And you can adapt what to know, apply to your new surroundings. It’s a constructive, healthy process for any mind.

Travel brings out the most basic instincts from inside yourself and you can either accept them, or change them. Travel tells you things about yourself and it always tells the truth; you can accept them or change them. It’s just about putting yourself in that position, that physical, mental or emotional position, then you can explore yourself, what defines you and determine what you want to change.

Throughout this year, Socrates (along with George Carlin and Cat Stevens as close runners up) has been the most influential person on my life; for, he has said, in my opinion, the wisest words ever known to man. In his trial, which ultimately leads to his execution, when he is being accused of thinking himself the wisest man in Athens, Socrates defends himself by saying, “I know I am the wisest man in Athens because I know that I know nothing.” People often misattribute this quote and think that it is a quote on wisdom. It’s not. It is a quote about ignorance, for there are no wise people in this world. One man may be wiser than the next, but that is only a measure of the degree to which that the first man knows of his ignorance, the degree to which that man knows he knows nothing. You can think what you want, but every person reading this blog, including its writer, is an ignoramus. But there’s nothing wrong with that, everyone in the world is. It’s only when we fool ourselves, when we try to convince ourselves that we’re not, that we know something, that’s when you get into to trouble. And, don’t get me wrong, sometimes it is hard to convince yourself that you know nothing. Out of all the things I have learned this year, it is a tiresome task to keep saying: "Luke, you're a dumbass."

Socrates’ poignant ignorance has become a maxim of mine for travel; and, as life is just a ride, life too. When you wrap yourselves in a comforting blanket of wisdom (unaware that it is a blanket of ignorance) and never take a step out of your door, you think that you know things about the world, because you are not challenged and you don’t challenge yourself; therefore, in your infinitesimal bubble, you know a lot about what is going on within, so you say to yourself, ‘Damn! I’m smart.’

But if you venture out, you realize, instantly, you don’t know shit. And as you see more and more, the point becomes ever clearer. It is an inverse relationship. The more of the world you see and hear and feel and touch and taste, the more the world convinces you of your immense ignorance. When you see the world, you can begin to conceive, albeit ignorantly, of its vastness, that each city contains treasures not available to the passing tourist; in other words, that you don’t know shit about this place.

If one was to come to Barcelona or Amsterdam (I stayed in each for 2 weeks), stay for three days, they would think, ‘Well, I’ve seen all the things that city has to offer, beautiful places, now off to Paris.’ After spending a week in each city, for a brief moment, I thought, ‘You know, I love it here, but I could leave.’ In both cities, I neglected that impulse, and, after a second week, when I had to leave, I thought, ‘Damn. I could stay here for years.’ And, school notwithstanding, I really could have.

When it comes to travel, I really frown on the “Ooh, Rome? That’s lovely, do three days there.” Or “Brussels? Great place, but you can do it in a day.” All that shit is nonsense. What makes you think that you can determine how long it takes to see a city that you’ve never been too? Fuck that noise. That type of thinking reduces travel to solely a visual experience, when it is so much more. Travelling is mental, emotional, social (a HUGE part of it), intellectual, physical and (for me, despite being an atheist) spiritual.

***

So the year’s up. Over. Done with. Finito. And what strikes me as odd is that I am not as distraught about leaving England as I thought I would be. If you were to ask me 4 months ago how I felt about returning to the states, you’d get an answer riddled with hatred for America and denial that I would ever have to return. But ask me that question now, and I’ll tell you that I’m ready for it. I think back to my disdain for Allegheny and America during my spring semester sophomore year and through the summer, and I think that it basically all comes down to me not being content to remain in one place, be it physical, mental, social, emotional or geographic. I constantly desire to ‘put myself into a position.’ I’ve also said that travelling does not have to be within a place you’ve never been before or a place that you do not know well, so as I've been gone so long, America will definitely be a change or alteration.

Life is journey and we are constantly travelling through its mazes and riddles. We are all restless travellers embarking on the greatest voyage known to humankind, called life. Regardless of what you do with your life, always realize that you are travelling. Life is a journey. From when you are born until you die, you will always find (if you look for it) that you are constantly putting yourself into a postion. Life doesn’t last, but for a fleeting nanosecond of eighty years or so, so if you remain in your blanket of wisdom, thinking 'I've seen enough,' if that is how you choose to travel, you’re wasting your journey on expensive houses and cars, feeling safe, hoping that these material possessions (along with faith in God) can stave off the inevitable, the unavoidable, the dreaded thought of ... home ... LW

When life gives you lemons, you might as well see Antwerp ...

“You kinda have to hitchhike to Amsterdam,” I reasoned to myself as I sat planning my route to Amsterdam from Brussels in the apartment of Enrique, my couch surf host. I felt that simply hopping on a train would not do, and I wanted to take advantage of Belgium and the Netherlands very friendly drivers. Legal in both countries, hitchhiking is a common practice in Belgium and the Netherlands. In fact, the Dutch even have allotted spaces on the sides of roads specifically designated for hitchers, known as the Liftpunt.

Secondly, I did not really want to arrive to Amsterdam via train. I guess my ol’ timey travel maxim –to travel is to work – crept into mind. I wanted some work before arriving in Amsterdam, I wanted to earn it. Perhaps the reason I had not been to Amsterdam earlier in the semester is because I did not just want to hop on a plane and go there for a weekend; that’s just seems like cheating.

So after the Champions League final, I planned my route, woke up early, and thanked Enrique for everything and was on my way. After thorough research on hitchwiki and digihitch, I found a hitch-point I liked, and left the apartment to take my spot. I get there, and the spot is pretty dead, on account of it being a Sunday. However, after about 15 minutes, I get a ride.

She wasn’t headed to north to Antwerp, but was leaving town towards the airport. I was eager to take her ride, because, with any hitch, getting out of the city is the hardest part ... and she was hot, so that sealed the deal.

She took me about seven minutes out of town, not quite at the ring, not quite at the E-19. I stood by an onramp (always avoid being on the motorway itself, and most countries prohibit it), sign reading “E-19/Antwerp” (you usually never write your actual destination on your sign if you use one) and after ten minutes or so, a car pulls over. He is going about five minutes on the road, towards the airport. Despite being very friendly and appearing trustworthy, I decline his offer. I like the spot I’m in and am confident of finding a ride further north to Antwerp.

Twenty minutes later, I found one. A Scottish man and his wife, Flemish, were heading North to Antwerp to meet some friends. “I used to do this kind of thing when I was just out of university,” the man told me as we drove along, now merging on to the E-19.

“There’s so many things to do in Antwerp” says the wife, “It’s really a lovely city.” At this point, I start to say that I’m actually headed further north, to Amsterdam, but the husband continues. “Yeah, it’s a lovely city. I got my first hitch out of Antwerp. Lovely, lovely place.” ‘Ok, this will become more difficult,’ I think to myself, but Amsterdam was still my destination. “I’m actually headed to Amsterdam” I reply, feeling somewhat like a spoil sport.

“Oh, you really should see Antwerp,” the wife pleaded with me. I felt like a jerk. “Well, I would like to see Antwerp, I’ve heard its really beautiful ...” I stammer as I’m trying to claw back some respectability from these two strangers I felt the need to impress. “I suppose we could drop him off in front of the Cathedral” the husband reasons. “Yes! That’d be great idea. I’ll just ring [their friends] and tell them we’ll be a couple minutes late” the wife says as she turns around to look at me, “You really must see the Cathedral.” Was this really happening? Was I being guilted into seeing this city?

“You know, what’s also worth a look is the rail station” the husband continues. “Oh yes!” agrees the wife readily, “It took ten years to restore.” The husband chimes back in, “and there’s a zoo as well.” “Hold on,” laughs the wife, “He’s only going to be there one day.” ‘Oh, am I now?!’ I think to myself. I was unaware that I was going to see this city after all; and I guess I was going to, what with my inability to disappoint these people and now a slight desire to see this place.

They drive into the city, and drop me off a block from the Cathedral. I thank them warmly for the ride and they wish me a lovely time seeing the city. I exit the car, backpack on my back, and manically start snapping photos, making sure they could see me doing so. ‘Oh what’s this? A tram?! Wow!’ I mimed with my body until I saw their car drive out of sight. From there, I walk the block to the Cathedral and take a look. I admit, it was quite remarkable. I was quite taken with the Cathedral Flemish architecture and rank it highly among the Cathedrals I’ve seen. I take a bit of a walk towards the rail station, and you what else? Antwerp is lovely too. A very quaint Flemish city, I quite liked its streets and buildings and at this point, I resolve that I might as well see a bit of it. The only question on my mind was, ‘What the fuck am I going to do in Antwerp?’

I stopped into a bar (pretty much all of them were closed – Sunday) and grabbed a beer. More tastes of sweet, Belgian frothiness. I left the bar, took a walk around, saw some shit and angled my path back towards the rail station. On my way there, I realize that I’ve got a decision to make. I can get back on the road and try to hitch the rest of the way to Amsterdam, or I can take a train. I weigh the options in my head and by the time I get to the station, I’ve got my mind made up, I’ll take the train.

I may be ballsy, as maybe an hitchhiker should be, but I wasn’t stupid. Trying to hitch out of Antwerp was stupid. It wouldn’t be dangerous, no, but I was about to attempt to hitch out of a city I know nothing about, on a Sunday when no one was about. I knew that the outcome of that would involve me standing with my thumb out in a horrible spot, spending all day looking for a ride and the spending the night in a hostel. If I took a train, I’d be there in an hour and a half, get a hostel there, and an added bonus was that tickets to Amsterdam from Antwerp were significantly cheaper than tickets from Brussels.

I get on the train, read a couple pages of Woolf, take a nap, and after an hour and a half, I’m there. Amsterdam. I leave the train, aware of my goofy smile, but unable to suppress it, and I feel like a goddamn stud. I’m not sure why I did this, but when I took my first step out of the train station, I cockily say, “bitches” and carry on into the city. Breathe deep, you’re home now.

I’ve been in Amsterdam two days and the thing that has surprised me is its impeccable beauty. Out of all the things you hear about Amsterdam, you hear regrettably few times that the city is a gem. Gorgeous. I’ve been to Venice and Bruges and Prague and have heard everyone rave about their beauty, but I cannot understand why Amsterdam is not mentioned in the same breath.

I’m getting flashbacks from Barcelona regularly here. It feels the same, and its got that ‘I’m here indefinitely’ vibe to it. I look back on how I got here, (because how you got someplace is the best compass for where to go with it) and its kind of funny, but I feel I earned my passage to Amsterdam. A couple thinks I’m this desirable creature of traveller, but so what if I only spent a few hours in Antwerp? It made their day and didn’t fuck up mine. The universe works ... LW

In Bruges ...

It is fair to say that my visit to Bruges ended better than Colin Farrell, Brenden Gleeson and Ralph Fiennes trip to the quaint Belgian city did, but I must admit to a bit of partiality. Bruges is known as the “Venice of the North” and when I was told by my couch-surfing host, Enrique, that he would be studying for an exam all day, my day trip to Bruges was instantly cemented.

Bruges lies a short, but pricey train ride, 90 km outside of Brussels. I reached the train station about an hour after I intended, a bit weary from not too much sleep the night before. The train ride is a bit longer than I expected; but, after an hour, I’m there. I walk out of the train station, taking eager glances to my right and left, ready to catalogue this small quaint city that is to be my home for the day. Immediately outside the station, I find that my eager glances fall upon a busy highway. “Where’s Bruges?” I wondered to myself softly. As it would turn out, I exited the wrong side of the train station ... it took longer than is defensible to sort myself out.

But, minutes later, I knocked down the stone mosaic paths, smoking a positive cigarette, and tried my best to unfold myself to the city ... didn’t quite work. I carry along the alleyways, making a quick turn here and there, knowing from my map (yes, I had a map and managed to get myself lost leaving the train station) that the city’s streets were not laid out in a fashion entirely conducive to efficient paths to the city centre.

I found myself walking away from the city centre, tracing the curved path along a river through a park (again) but I was not bothered about that. When you open yourself to a city, you also open yourself up to its city planner (or lack of one); however, when I rediscovered my place on my map, I noticed that my location was tediously close to the train station. “Damnit” I said, half scolding, half laughing at myself. I needed a plan. I smoked a cynical cigarette, checked out the flipside of my map (a guide to Bruges made by locals for young travellers) and after a quick skim, instantly found my destinaish.

The bar was called De Garre, which is famous in Bruges for being the only place in the world that serves Garre beer, a thick, creamy, luscious, amber beer. My mouth was watering by the description of it. I flipped my map back over and plotted my route to De Garre, a nice 15 minute walk, I estimated. Six minutes later, I found myself lost, frustrated and smoking a perplexed cigarette. However, when I located the source of confusion, I found that I was not entirely at fault. I had walked passed it. Well, not passed De Garre, but passed the groovy alleyway that leads to the tucked in bar. This was due to my failure to adjust to just how small of a city Bruges is. What looks like a fifteen minute walk in a normal city turns out to be just around the corner in Bruges. I had just misoverestimated my walk to the bar.

I get inside, order the fateful beer and take a seat, eagerly awaiting its arrival to my table, lips, tongue, mouth and stomach. It arrives, I taste it. “Oh, god.” It’s like beer-candy. Not being particularly prone to Belgian wheat-beers, favouring the dark Czech lagers instead, Garre instantly rose to among the peaks of my European beer tasting experiences. The sweetness, typical of Belgium, mixed with the dark, heavy body of it and rich amber colour, struck a balance that demanded both laudation and repetition. “Another Garre, si vu ple.”

As I left De Garre, smoking a rejuvenated cigarette, I was finally able to unfold myself into Bruges in the manner that I intended from the get-go. The alcohol may have helped a bit, sure, but it was more the feeling of authenticity, of engagement with the city. I had tasted its treasures, twice, and I had a pleasant rest-of-the-day to spend at my leisure in the most picturesque (while tolerably touristy) wonder of North Western Europe.

That familiar, tangible feeling is back. I did not expect to get a third crack at continental Europe, but The Stud is back in full effect, prancing along through this tremendous playground built for 21 year-olds. That cocktail of apathy and cynicism that I felt in Norwich has been washed down by two glasses of Garre, and while more treasures lie ahead for me in this sacred playground, more revelations will unfold ... LW

STUDying abroad 3: saying goodbye ...

3:15. My weakly supported argument on Marx and Weber comes to close (yes, I recycled the same essay question from my all-nighter paper in STUDying abroad 2) and my first and only exam is finished. One hour after its starting time, my essay is the first to be handed in. When you’re as unconfident about the subject as I am, you’d be worried if you weren’t so apathetic. I leave the classroom and head to the paper shop to see if they have notebook extenders since my journal is nearly full. They don’t, I head back to my flat.

As I walk back to my flat, I realize that this was my last exam, no more papers, or portfolios. I was now completely finished with my academic obligations for my year at UEA. Strangely, this doesn’t sink in. There is no sense of completion, no sense of finality, no feeling of fulfilment to this year; the only thing that feels finished is my shitty writing about Marx and Weber. Surely, I should feel something at this particular moment, for the feeling of leaving UEA has slowly snuck in over the past few weeks, but no. There is no real significance to being done with the academic portion of my junior year abroad. But why? I should feel something, some completion, I did come here to go to college first of all ... and I’m leaving England tomorrow. What’s going on?

I think about when I finished my fall semester and again recall an empty feeling for this arbitrary measure of the year. This find it odd that I do not feel anything. At Allegheny, when you finished your last final, you felt like a million bucks, that the entire world is in front of you know that you are done with 25 pages on English Restoration comedies. But now, I walk back University Village, knowing I am leaving it tomorrow, and the sense of completion of this year is not there and this supposed marker of completion feels hollow and pointless.

I reach my flat and have a cotch. I wake up, cook dinner and before I really realize anything’s happening my mates are drinking in the kitchen before heading out to the LCR. ‘You coming out tonight, Luke?’ Hat asks. ‘No, don’t think so’ I reply, ‘I’ve got laundry to do and then a bunch of packing before I leave tomorrow.’ ‘Oh, alright’ Hat says softly, masking her disappointment.

Now, that my (school)year has ended, I leave in the morning for one last hurrah of continental Europe, my favourite playground in the world, visiting Brussels, Bruges and Amsterdam before returning ... (it’s even hard to type it) ... to America.

This is my last night in England with my friends and, yes, despite it being the LCR (a bloody hole) something tells me I should be going out with them. Throughout the day, I have seen loads of my friends, done with their exams as well, and it is an awkward goodbye, every time. Surely, as a traveller (for that’s what I have really been doing this semester, I haven’t been going to college), the people you meet are the paramount aspect of the experience (as all my travelling affirms is true), so surely the aspect of ‘saying goodbye’ fits into, plays some vital part of travelling.

I cannot say goodbye to every single one of the people that I have been so close with, and (un)fortunately I have far too much packing to do (my room is an absolute hole) and I cannot go the LCR. What’s a lad to do?

I sit in my room, listening to Nujabes, doing periods of packing (to my credit I accomplished laundry), and think about the trip to Europe to come and the people that I am leaving for it. I get a call, Hatty: “Luke, Come out tonight! I don’t know when I will see you again.” I explain that I’m lame; that I have to pack for both Europe and going home, and that I have been living in squalor for the past semester. I should be at the LCR, I guess ... nah.

A bit more packing, another call: “Come out man!” Two more calls and a text. What’s wrong with me? I should be getting drunk with my friends at the LCR, despite that being a dubious prospect at best. But I don’t. The all too real packing is too much, I’ve literally got hours of it and an early train to catch. Sorry guys/gals, but I’m staying in.

I’m not a ‘goodbye’ kind of guy. That is not to say that I am just bad at them, but also, I think they’re stupid. What is so significant about the last time you see someone? Is it supposed to encapsulate entirely the relationship you’ve had with that person and the wonderful times that you’ve shared? What happens if it doesn’t? Because, it never will. It absolutely cannot. If it does, that means you obviously have a thin relationship and haven’t done much fun stuff together.

Sure, maybe it’s nice to say, ‘it’s been nice knowing you, wish you the best’ to someone, but if you have to say it, or if it comes out unnaturally, it means less. The people I’ve spent time with and made countless memories with know that I wish them the best. They know. I don’t have to tell them that. Likewise, the people that wish me well don’t need to tell me either. What makes the last time you see someone so special? Sorry to be such a heartless bastard, but it’s trivial, the quality of that last time is completely random. And why, in a sense, celebrate the last time you see someone? If I’m leaving and someone and happen to see you, great, I will wish you the best in person, but if I force it, it just means less.

So am I trying to hollowly say goodbye to everyone via blog? Absolutely not. I’m just explaining my views on the matter and giving an explanation for my cynicism. This time spent in England was the best year of my life, and this is due to all the people that I’ve met here. Maybe it’s just me, I’m too sentimental, but that’s something that I shouldn’t have to say, and I don’t, because all of you know if I feel that way about you. If you’re not sure, I probably don’t. (Oh, come on, lighten up!)

Anyway, lads, blokes, lasses, birds and shanters: It’s been real, more than just real, a feeling that I can’t explain, so why try to? If I try to describe it, it means less. Wish you all the best. Catch up with you later on along the ride. I’m out ... LW

The Stud stops giving a shit ...

If any of you followed my travels across the Iberian peninsula, waited eagerly for my next post, “The Stud’s Summer Reading List” (maybe you gave a shit about that post ... I know I didn’t) and waited and waited for the next one (it’s hard for me to imagine who is doing this, but the statistics don’t decrease) I am disappointed (no wait, that’s not the word) apathetic to report to you that ... I don’t give a shit anymore.

This is not to say that I’m going to stop blogging, I did indeed think about it and was very close to doing so in Madrid; but, I told myself that I since I started this blog, I might as well see it through to the end, and of course I need to write a classy signoff when I’m back home.

But the thing is: On Wednesday, I leave for Brussels and Brugges, maybe Luxeombourg and then Amsterdam and the thought of sitting over my laptop, watching the city pass me by does not seem to appealing to me. There are so many things that I want to do, the burden of writing about them seems ... well, I just don't give a shit if I publish a silly blog post about them or not. Then it hit me: If I don’t give a shit, does anyone?

According to my most recent statistics on blogger, over a thousand people in each of the last three months give a shit. This staggering figure sits uneasy with me, and it seems a bit disingenuous to be constantly peddling this “Stud” lifestyle, but, when it comes down to it, I’m the one who gets tired of it? That cannot be right, and it isn’t, I love and partake in the life of a Stud as much as ever and of that my readers can rest assured.

But basically, I thought about it, and it had been weeks since I even thought about writing something. I really didn’t give a shit. Last Thursday, two mates and I went to Fabric (you can read about the first time I went to Fabric here), London's best Dubstep/Drum & Bass club; and, in effect, the world’s best club, the most fun you can have ... this is not a point of debate. Easily the best “night out” of my life, if not best “night” of my life. As soon as I got back, I filled pages upon pages of journal in with small details here and individual specific thoughts there. The pages (not really even measurable in words) flowed out of me. Then I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down at my computer, knowing that a night like last Thursday had to be included into the blog. It had to. But, I typed not a word.

After my cup of coffee, which I followed with a cigarette and more procrastination, I sat down, away from my computer and reflected. If I were to write about Fabric, would it make the night any better? Conversely, If I didn’t write about Fabric, would it make the night any worse? But then I reach the key question, the philosophical crux of my or any blog really, which I had asked myself in Madrid (postponed answering in Barcelona) and then dug it back up: Do I live this “Stud” lifestyle, do I do all of the things that I do to write about them? Or do I do them because I enjoy them?

Surely I do them because I enjoy them. Sorry to my readers, but I did not go to Fabric for you guys, the heaping lot of you; rather, I went because I absolutely needed to. My mates could tell I was a bit down since I returned to Norwich from Barcelona, and Fabric was the easy, excellent, magnificent fix.

So where does this leave the blog? This is not a post saying I’m quitting, nor is it a post saying “Don’t get your hopes up about my Belgium/Amsterdam trip” (Even though you shouldn't). But instead, it’s just another post. I write about how I feel in Prague, Edinburgh and London and Lisbon and keep you all updated on the goings of this year abroad; so, in all honesty, this is merely just another update, one that happens to be about ‘The Stud’ not giving a shit. Accuse me of reading too much Joyce this semester if you will, but if there is truth in the excitement I felt when I published The Prague Chronicles upon my return from the Czech Republic, surely there exists some truth in my not giving a shit.

So, is this a cop-out post? Of course, but I’m just trying to give a full picture ... and grab another thousand page views this month. Sell out, I know. You'll probably hear from me again in Belgium ... LW

The Stud gets his garden on ...

Gardening is one of the most beloved English pastimes. Kate Fox writes that every English household, (house, manor or apartment) must have its “little green bit.” This English love of gardening, I believe, translates into city planning as well and accounts for London’s expansive green bits (Hampstead Heath, Epping Forest), mid-size green bits (Hyde, Regents, St. James, Green Park) and small, square green bits (Bedford, Bloomsbury, the list is too long Square), making London one of the “greenest” cities in the world.

In correspondence with my independent stud-y, I chose to spend my mandatory 20 hours of volunteering with the Norwich, Grow-Our-Own sustainability initiative and get my garden on.

My getting of my garden on was to take place at the G.O.O. (I don’t think anyone calls the initiative that except me) allotment, just a short walk from my flat down The Avenues (a great name of a street in Norwich). The allotment consists of two acres of garden, split up into dozens of 5 x 30 ft. plots, which are rented seasonally by Norwich locals, who grow their own fruits, vegetables, flowers or whatever they please.

On my first day, I was given grunt-work; or, basic manual labour that matched my competence in gardening. I spent about five hours at the allotment, transporting wheelbarrows of compost and muck (manure) to various beds, dumping the barrows and mixing the compost and muck. Despite the undistinguished nature of these tasks, I did not at all mind doing them. I was very taken with the concept of the allotment and the way that it worked, as well as the very friendly atmosphere buzzing throughout.

I was in inadvertent good fortune that it was the first Sunday of the month, meaning that all the allotment’s various gardeners brought in food for a shared lunch. Having worked all morning, I was warmly invited. The food was delicious. It seemed that each dish was cooked with the same passion for food as it was grown. I helped myself to a heaping plate, taking a small spoonful of each of the numerous dishes, and sat down to mix in with the veteran English gardeners. We talked about this and that, and at the end of the meal, I think I attracted 8, 60+ year-old new readers of to blog. Maybe I’ll have to keep this demographic in mind.

As the thoroughly enjoyable morning afternoon drew to a close, I found myself eager to volunteer again, and so did the remaining number of my required hours. I headed back the following Wednesday where I moved up to some more intermediate work (Ok, still entry-level, but this time it was actually gardening). Part of the initiative’s protocol involves providing plants for others to plant and grow. It was my job to sow seeds into small black trays, containing 84 small holes for seeds, after I had filled each tray with dirt. Dorothy remarked, “It’s so rewarding to plant a seed and see what can come out of it.” I sowed two trays of 84 seeds of sweet corn, 1 tray of sprouts, and two trays of squash. In total, that is a lot of food that all started with me. It’s so rewarding to plant a seed, indeed.

At one, I took a break for lunch, but before that, the initiative supervisor, Mahesh, showed me what would become my task for the remaining twelve hours of community service. Running the widths of four plots, is a span of grass 4x30 feet. It is my task to clear it out, making it available for planting. I walked back to my flat, ate some beans on toast, walked back, and then got to work, clearing the space of overgrown grasses slowly but steadily. I then worked again today. When I am on the allotment, digging out, reclaiming this space of land, my space of land, I cannot express the satisfaction of knowing that once I have finished, a seed will be planted, and someone with vastly more competence than me at gardening will grow a lot of food.

My work at the allotment has the feel of good, honest volunteering. And it feels English, especially when we break for tea. The fact that it is 15 degrees outside does not stop the English gardener from drinking tea. We boil water over a fire; then, into the hot water, freshly picked mint leaves are placed in. They have been picked from a couple metres away. At the allotment, they really do grow their own ... LW