Chapter 6: The Stud gets a new passport ...

"I've been crying lately, thinking about the world as it is,

why must we go on hating? Why can't we live in bliss?"

It’s a funny story really. Well, it’s not too funny, considering that it was a bit of a hassle and cost to get a new passport, but if you catch me in Norwich or back in the States, ask me about how I ended up outside a club with no pants on and I’ll tell you why I had to get a new passport.

But, after all this, 7 days later, I’ve got a brand-spanking new, 10 year passport ready to rock. It feels new, it feels exiting, it feels like travel, and I can’t wait to break it in, though, unfortunately, its virgin use will be a flight home to England. Still, there are worse places to go to.

In the days preceding the collection of my new passport, I felt liberated to be without a passport or valuables, on my person or at all. People would ask, ‘how long are you in Barcelona for?’ and I would say, quite honestly, ‘no clue. I’ll know when to leave.’ But it was more than just not having a passport. My wallet was also stolen (though my cash was not). I would roam Barcelona’s streets without ID or credit cards. It felt great to not be watching my wallet all the time (Barcelona is the petty theft capital of the world) and it felt great to be without these ties to the material/real world while I was on holiday. When I would leave my flat to go anywhere, the only thing I would carry with me was maybe 5 euros (most often none) and my cigarettes. I did not take a key to the hostel with me, because I knew where to kick the bottom of the door to get in if it was locked. Soon, I stopped carrying my phone and I would refuse people my cell number when they’d ask. But then this got too much. It got to the point where I grew almost obsessive compulsive and simply could not tolerate carrying anything in my pockets. If I wanted a cigarette, I’d roll one for the road and take my lighter. If I wanted a slice of pizza from Lechuga (Best damn pizza in Barcelona), I would carry exactly two euros with me, nothing else. I was living and working completely off of the grid, making 30 euros here, 60 euros there, 0 there to keep me afloat, pay for food and to pay for my bed at my beloved shit hole of a hostel. I fell into a groove of European traveller subsistence and I forgot I was a student. But as soon as I got a notification from the consulate of my passport’s arrival, I said, “oh, right ... I’ve got to go back to school sometime ... shit.”

The arrival of a passport signified this re-realization of my role as student, and subsequently revealed to me that I was not a traveller. I had travelled a bit, sure, but I was just a stud-ent on his spring break. When my passport arrived at the consulate, the world was saying to me: “get the fuck back to school, that’s your job.” There was so much stuff I wanted to do this weekend with my friends, but I understood the message clear enough, and I’m flying back Friday night. However, in addition to retying me to the material/real world, putting me back on the grid, I find other significance to my passport. I think it marks a shift, a beginning, a new era. I came to Europe to travel, yes, but more to study travel. To find out what travel is, how it works and how it differs from tourism. In anticipation of this, I hinged an argument on authentic experience. I found authenticity in Barcelona and stopped moving and started travelling, albeit for only two weeks. With this new passport, I feel that it marks the death of Luke the tourist and the birth of Luke the traveller. Passport issue date: April 20, 2011.

As I look at my passport, one thing jumps out at me. The front cover, in a sea of navy blue, PASSPORT in written in bright gold capital letters. Below ‘Passport’ there is a big Gold crest with an eagle, and under it, proudly written, United States of America ... fucking America. The message is clear, I’m American. As I received a new passport, now enabled to return to England, back in the mix of society, I apparently needed first to identify myself as American.

The passport is something everyone needs to posses in order to travel internationally. It is a necessity. It is mandatory. But what does a passport really do? What is its purpose? What is the difference between a person that is not admitted entrance to a nation for not possessing a passport and someone that has one? Don't get me wrong, I'm buzzing to travel with my new passport, but why do I need one? As far as I can discern, the passport’s only function, as it appears to me as I look at it, is to say, loudly and candidly, “I’m American.” Or I’m from the EU, or Russia, or Canada etc. To state nationality. But why is this statement of nationality important? If you are a living breathing human, you are a citizen of some nation around the world, so why does stating where you were born suddenly reduce the risk of admittance to a nation? If I cross the border with a passport, it is called travel, but if I cross a border without one it is called illegal.

Nationalism becomes an increasingly prominent aspect of identity when travelling. “Where are you from?” “I’m an American.” “Oh, ok, from where?” “Philadelphia.” (The further east I go, the closer to Philadelphia I am from. When I was in Prague, I just New York left it there.) Finding out the nation of birth of someone is the first question asked of any traveller. It signifies your journey throughout your life. You get a starting point. If you’re in Barcelona and you meet someone from France and someone from Australia, you may be more intrigued with the journey from Australia to Barcelona than from France. However, what does this actually say? Are we really asking the details of one’s life journey when we say, “Where are you from?” Or do we want to know someone’s nationality to get an idea of what they are like, another starting point, but for how they think and what they are like.

Nationalism becomes the paramount mode of identification of the traveller, whether you are meeting someone for the first time, or showing your passport at check-in. But why? If you’re nationality is meant to define your life as a journey or who you are, then why don’t I answer, “where are you from?” as “I’m an American studying in England.” Or, “I started in Lisbon, trained to Madrid, chilled with my friend there, and then hitched to Barcelona a week ago.” If I’m giving information about my life and myself, which of the three gives you a better sense of my life’s journey? When I arrived in England last fall, I felt like I was from America. When I got to Prague, I felt like I was from England. When I arrived in Barcelona, I felt I was from Lisbon. ‘America’ is too loaded, gives too strong of an instant impression, paints a broad picture, but maybe that’s all we’re really asking when we say, “where are you from?” We don’t want a lifestory, just a starting point, and then we get to know someone. So, asking someone where they are from is not an insidious question, though it is hollow; but, if all we’re asking for is a starting point, why does it always have to be where we’re from? And why a permanent characteristic? It can be anything, permanent or otherwise. “Hey, I’m Luke. I’ve been listening to Cat Stevens a lot lately.” The statement, “I’m from Philadelphia,” implies that I’m in love with Pennsylvania and America, when in fact the opposite of those statements are closer to what I honestly believe. If someone is a very patriotic American from Philadelphia, chances are we may not really get along. If someone also listens to Cat Stevens, then let’s roll that joint right now.

This is why nationalism is just a bunch of bullshit. If you define yourself by whatever straggly patch of earth that you come from, you’re a reductive-thinking moron. If you think a nation can define a person, let me ask you this: What defines a nation? A border? A language? A government? Think of nations with border crises; or, think of the United States’ original borders before we realized our ‘manifest destiny’ of stealing Native American’s land. Language? The Swiss comfortably share four. Government? Don’t get me started on that one. Any nation that elected George W. Bush ... TWICE does not represent me. If you identify yourself by where you’re from, then you can only ever hope to be an infinitesimal fraction of a national stereotype.

As I’ve met people from all around the world, I receive varying senses of patriotism and generally, I find that I don’t really like people that are patriotic. “What’s the point? Why do you feel so attached?” Are the initial questions, but then “Does being from x define everything you do?” “Is thinking that way a requirement of citizenship?” are the follow-up questions. Then “Ok, give it a rest, it doesn’t mean anything” is my conclusion. As I recently capped my last blog with a rant of religion, I find nationalism to be a similar drug. (Dropping FS 102 knowledge here) Cultural scholar Benedict Anderson argues that all nations are merely “imagined communities,” his point being that one will never come close to knowing even a fraction of people in your nation, but we just feel the “imagined” connection of a nation, a loose, problematic construction at best. We ‘buy into,’ we ‘imagine’ a nation for various reasons: comfort, security, belonging ... and to kill people, of course.

If you dissect the ideas of nationalism and patriotism (the latter, nationalism combined with idiocy) then you know whatever “imagined” connection you have with someone is meaningless as it is imagined. We all buy into a nation, and generally agree that nationality is the best way to define someone, but why? It saves time I guess. It helps promote stereotypes, another positive impact. It gives people something to believe in ... and, like religion, it gives people a reason to kill other people and that’s something that all humans need, so ... another positive function. We buy into nationalism (and I’m not talking about a government) like we buy into religion. Deep in ourselves, it fills in a hole, covers a wound.

If you have been a diligent reader of the blog, you will have easily deciphered by now that I hate America and love England. Here is where an Englishman claps me on the back and buys me a pint, and where an American jumps in, distressed and angry and starts spewing endless shit from their mouths about ‘England did this, England did that. This is worse, so is then that ...’ “Oh, shut up,” I groan apathetically. I do not love England because it is a “better” nation than America or anywhere else, but I love England because I hate religion and patriotism and England does not contain much of either. Ask an American Christian how much they love America, start reading War and Peace and you’ll finish it before they shut their lazy, ignorant, most likely obese, faces. Ask an Englishman the same question and they say: “S’alright. Mustn’t grumble.”

I find compelling the contrast of Madrid to Barcelona. The two cities are nothing alike (Madrid a clean, model-city, Barcelona a gritty awesome city), speak two different languages(Spanish and Catalan respectively), and are in the same nation. During my 2 weeks spent here, Real Madrid has played Barcelona FC 4 times. It has been unreal. As I work in the office, flyering on La Rambla, each time Barcelona score a goal, I hear an eruption of voices from every direction. After the match(es), I see hundreds of supporters flowing out onto the streets. Most are wearing the dark red and blue of Barcelona and sporting gigantic grins whenever they are not shouting and singing, but I also see a fair share of disappointed Real Madrid fans (well, last night. The week before, after winning El Copa del Rey, they were the ones going nuts). As I often argue that football presents a better insight into culture than politics, I find these two weeks of amazing football to be very telling. Barcelona and Real Madrid are two of the biggest clubs in the world. They are both (and all Liverpool and England biases aside) unqualified giants of the biggest thing in the world, commonly known as football. I’m a Liverpool fan which, at this current time, is perhaps not as exciting as being a Barcelona fan, but it is an unchangeable loyalty that defines me as supporting Real and Barca define the crazed hooligans I see on the street each night. I think you can tell what argument I am making, and I know your argument back, and maybe you are right. Maybe it’s meaningless to let anything define you, but my problem with that is that’s not really how things work. If people need a starting point, I would prefer it is something about you that you really care about (it could be nationality, but shouldn’t be, even though it always is). A choice you have thought about and made, or something you’ve earned, not an arbitrary fact of life that you were born with. (Think of how the place you were born changes as you travel: Carlisle, Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, New York, America). I guess all I’m really saying is I'm tired of all the hollowness to nationalism, and I despise patriotism in the same manner as religion. I wish we were all just people, you know? I know, I know, I’m a dreamer ... but I’m not the only one ... LW

Chapter 5: The gang ...

"I get by with a little help from my friends."

The plan was to leave at 2. But, as I have discovered from working on the bar crawl, in Spain, the time of day is meaningless and all activities are geared toward occurring later in the day. So at 2:15, when I reached Micahal’s hostel, it came as no surprise to me that no one was around. Jess was around, I arrived with Simon and Red, but Micahal was in bed. He had gone out (at 6:30 in the morning, after the crawl) and got back to the hostel an hour ago. But as Sloane and her friend Olivier arrived, we had a group and were ready to go, Micahal included. It was probably about 3. We picked up groceries, met up with Matt and Jenna, and waited at the Boqueria for Maria and her friend Emilia. Then we found the bus stop and hopped on. It was slow, but we were in no rush. Movie quotes with Matt helped pass the time. As the group of us filed out of the bus and trudged up the hill to Park Guell, we met up with Phil and Jake and Nicole, who had arrived a couple minutes before. It was 4:45. “That’s kind of always the plan in Barcelona,” Phil said, “Plan for 2, meet at 5.”

We reach Park Guell at 4:45 and work our way up through the park. It is gorgeous. Throughout the park, Park Guell exemplifies the famous Barcelona reputation of astounding architecture in its Parks as well beautiful plantlife. Through the trees and palm trees, we followed the lavlishly and ingeniously designed paths, walkways and buildings. Designed by the ingenious Antoni Guadi, Park Guell reminded me of a resort more than park; and more of a fairytale than a vacation. An emblem of Catalan modernism, Park Guell contrasted greatly with El Parque del Retiro of Madrid in areas of style, location in relationship to the city and in its topography. Where El Parque del Retiro was centrally located in Madrid and was as flat as the city blocks surrounding it, Park Guell was a 30 minute bus (Or, as we discovered on the way back, 8 minutes by metro) outside central Barcelona and was located on a mountainside. As we neared the end of the masterfully manicured section of the park, we faced a last 10 minute push up the side of the mountain and we were at the top. I gulped down a bit of water (ok, I finished my beer and smoked a cigarette) and looked out over the city. As I had been in the city almost 2 weeks now, I could recognize certain places and found the general location of the G-Spot. All of it seemed so far away, both in distance and in the fact that had taken us 3 hours to get here, but I wasn’t bothered about that. The mini-travel to Park Guell seemed to mirror my journey to Barcelona; no rush to get there, no rush to leave.

So we sat down at the top of the mountain, ate our food and drank a few beers to spend our day off in leisure as well as style. Partying six nights a week can really take its toll on your body, so it’s a good idea to relax whenever you get the chance and work isn’t bogging you down. On the mountaintop, we played “Telephone” or “Chinese Whispers,” which is a much more fun and exciting game when you add an international background and alcohol into the fray. The first phrase, “East African Ivory Hunters,” got horribly botched. Indecipherable at its end, but when I came to me, I heard: “Emilian African Arian Scholars” and I passed on this message to the best of my ability. The second one: “Don Simon says ‘Sangria is boss,’” turned into “Damn! That Sangria is warm!”

It was a laid back afternoon, but the best part of it wasn’t that we were in this amazing park with a great picnic, it was that we were all a unit. We were all a gang. Each one of us works on the bar crawl and we are all colleagues. Our office is La Rambla and we share a cubicle. We work together 6 nights a week and I think it really says a lot about what we do and how much we love it that on our day off we all get together to hang out. Our group contained people from Vancouver, Utah, Liverpool, Tennessee, Toronto, Australia, London, L.A., Germany, Sweden and France. And as scattered as the background of our birthplaces, where we are headed in life is equally diverse. Some have graduated college, some are in college, some haven’t been yet, some aren’t going, some don’t give a fuck. Some are travelling. Some are here to stay for years. But through some forces of nature, through the tripped out way that the world works, here we all were, colleagues (I really like using that word) sharing a beautiful day together.

It was such an entrancing day that I failed to recall or note that the day, that Sunday, was Easter. Raised Christian, this Sunday marks the first time in my life that I have not gone to church on Easter. In America, this should matter, but I wasn’t bothered. Through the many revelations and epiphanies that I have encountered on this year, one of the things that living in England has done is made me a staunch atheist. In England, people generally don’t give a fuck about religion and I generally didn’t give a fuck that I missed out on going to Church. I feel as though that time in my life has moved on.

Long ago, I used to believe in God and I went to church just about every Sunday. In America, this weekly act lets other people know that you are a good person and not a social deviant, but in England it means you’re a bit odd. Going to Church doesn’t mean you’re a good person, it just means you go to Church. I find it odd, frustrating, annoying, infuriating the role that religion plays in American culture, politics and society and nothing gives me more pleasure than scrutinizing its ideals, locating the many hypocrisies and spewing my ideas to my friends, who say, “Ok Luke, I fucking get it!”

My basic view on Religion (and note here that I am not talking about spiritualism ... which I also don't believe in, but that's another matter) is that it is just a bunch of lies, made up to give people strength and maybe (because everyone has the need to believe in something) here is where religion scores a few points in my book. Kurt Vonnegut’s construct of Bokononism in Cat’s Cradle has always seemed spot on to me. But when I think about religion in practice and how it functions within society, I view it as just a reason to kill people. As I am in Spain, the Spanish Inquisition comes to mind. As do the crusades and terrorist attacks of today. If religion is a just a reason to kill people, it is a bad one at that. Humans do have a physical need to kill people (we’re shitty animals and cannot change that), but can’t we find a better reason for killing people than over shit that doesn’t exist? Say we killed everyone with bad table manners? At least then we might have more pleasant meals.

In all the logical fallacies and hypocrisies of faith, any argument against faith I entertain, enjoy and probably agree with. But, the 10 Commandments jab at religion – “It’s sad that you had to have them written down.” – I don’t think holds much water. The thing is; if the Moses needed to write down those rules, the Jews probably weren’t the only people who needed to adhere to them. If we live in a society that in theory prohibits rape, theft and murder, just imagine the chaos of a world that does not. It’s easy to think of that world today, but I imagine thousands of years ago was quite different morally. As I mentioned before, religion gives something to its followers. Something they desperately need. Not everyone has the need to believe in God, (24% of England believe, 84% of America), but if it gives strength to people that need it, gives them something to believe it, then maybe it isn’t so (inherently) evil after all. People will kill people no matter what. We suck in that way.

So as I think about my views on faith, both former and active, I keep this in mind. Religion as a lie that serves a purpose. A source of strength and reason to kill. “Beleive in the foma that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy,” says Bokonon. For about more or less 18 years, I more or less believed in God, so what purpose did that serve me? Surely it had some effect on the person I am today, and while I’m on this year, that’s kind of what I’m trying to figure out.

When I was 14 (and this phase went on for a few years), I was a Michael Jackson fan. That’s what the fuck I was and what the fuck I would do. I had (and still own) 25 of his cds, 5 dvds and a couple books. I would listen to his music all day and practice my dance moves in front of the mirror. MJ was all I could talk about; and, to me, he could do no (and did do no) wrong. Today, I still dig his music, though I don’t listen to it as much and find more meaning in other artists’ songs and I accept the fact that he was an exceptionally strange individual (I still don’t think he molested kids and could back up that opinion, but that’s another matter). MJ is still my boy, but when he died last year, it was surreal, not heartbreaking. My childhood figure was gone. If this happened when I was 14, I would be inconsolable.

As I look back on my years of faith (I’m trying to make a point here, not just rambling ... ok, yeah maybe I am, but stay with me here) I am certain that they must have served some sort of purpose for me. MJ was there for me in not necessarily a weird time of my life, but he no doubt served a purpose. I think religion did too. It had to. As some may mock religious texts for “needing to write down don’t rape, steal and kill,” maybe these texts (and religion too) were just serving a purpose. Maybe people did need that guidance or we all would have killed each other centuries ago. As the world is growing more progressively atheist (the stats don’t lie), perhaps we are all realizing the truth, disregarding the hypocrites; and, in two thousand more years, this whole “religion” thing may pass. It may have served its purpose and stand as a bizarre, antiquated ideology that people used to believe in for whatever reasons. Think Greek Mythology, or Salem witch trials. Perhaps.

On the picnic, God or Easter was not brought up once. I like that. As an atheist, I like to keep religion out of my daily interaction. I don’t feel the need to spend hours a day talking about something that I do not believe in (I just write long winded essays about them), but as I travel the world and see new places, Religion is a thing to be observed. What purpose does it serve in society? In Spain and Italy, it serves the purpose of tradition and ceremony. All Italians are catholic even if they don’t believe in God, an interesting segregation of religion and faith. In England it just serves as a punching bag, and I love that.

As we were a group of travellers (working in tourism, I cite the paradox), it seems as though religion is an ideal that does not fit into the traveller’s ethos. Of everyone I have encountered, I have met few (zero, to be precise) travellers of faith. It seems interesting to me. In order to travel, does one need to shed their faith? Or is it a self-selective group? Are people of faith more likely to remain at home and do a bit of touring here and there? Is there a part of travel that entails giving up everything you have (spiritual, national, material) and accepting whatever comes your way? Hmm, if this is true, then I would not fit this mold because I am just on my (month-long, I know ... it’s awesome) spring break. I have not given up everything I have in England. I’m touring here in Spain.

But yet, though I am student, I gave up a ton of what I knew, thought I knew and people I knew to come to England ... and I left them for a year. If I am touring in Spain, then surely I am travelling in England. So many damn questions, so much time to think about them, no time to write. Barcelona is so amazing that these questions will bounce around in my head for another week and when I get back to England, I hope to provide some answers in an epic conclusion to Booked Porch. Stay tuned ... LW

Chapter 4: Tourism ...

"Everyday I'm hustlin'"

It is unavoidable. It is inescapable. But does the ever persistent presence of tourism mean the death of travel? Amidst the enormous sums of money that come flooding in to Barcelona (or any city), carried in the pockets of tourists from all over the world, there arises a quandary of how to best spend it, and this is the foremost question of any tourist: how to spend their money. For whether they have arrived via plane, train or automobile, while visiting Barcelona, it is unlikely that these tourists have any real ties to the city; therefore they rely on other people, natives and locals, for information, with which they carry the expectation of achieving authentic experience.

Information is the first key to tourism. Tourists lack the information that they feel is necessary in order to decide properly how to best spend their money, so the first investment of a tourist is one of obtaining information. This initial investment of information can come in the form of a map, a hotel recommendation online, directions from the city centre to a cheap hostel, a 2-hour walking tour of the city, or recommendations of good bars and clubs to spend an evening out. All of this is information and can usually be obtained for free; but, it is not the goal of tourism is to provide information, free or otherwise, it is to convert that information into experience, one that makes money. Tourists lack information, and need it as much as they lack it. Tourists are so devoid of and dependent on information that they are willing to pay exorbitant prices for a cocktail of information and experience; so, simply put, if you know your shit, you can make money, someone is always willing to pay you for it. Though tourism is rampant and affects every travelling person, a critical difference between tourist and traveller lies in their reluctance or willingness to pay for information.

But information is a one step business, so tourism thrives best when it is tied into a service/experience, i.e. something to do. (“Hey come take a walking tour, it contains all the places you can go for free, but I’ll tell you loads of information about them for 5 euros.”) This exemplifies the easy transformation of information converted into a service, but even this is poor tourism. Knowing the city well and can giving an informative walking tour for five euros is a good starting point, but starting up a tour company, giving free tours , and along the way, mentioning the Prague Pub Crawl, the Prague Ghost tour, the Barcelona biking tour, the Barcelona wine tasting experience (all of which are not free, but “really worth the cost. You’ll have so much fun! A great experience!”). When tourists find information, then they can always pay for that information, packaged in a service (there is always someone willing to accept your money).

A service/experience can be anything there is a market for. People like ghost stories. People like famous sights. People like drinking. It is the aim of tourism to incorporate the badly needed information into an enjoyable, profitable service, producing an end product experience that is worth the cost. ‘You could go to this bar, and this bar and then this club, but we’ll take you there (and give you free shots and drinks along the way) for 15 euros.’ A tourist needs information to gain experience, but the market of tourism packages that information into a service; therefore, obtaining that information (by means of a service/experience) will cost you. One can achieve both information and service separately, but there is a tendency (and it’s just a lot easier) to pay for both at one spot. It is less work. Remember my third (non-Hemingway) maxim for travel: to travel is to work. Tourism, simply put, charges money to take the work out of travel.

During my extended stay in Barcelona, I have been working amidst tourism, promoting and working as a guide for a bar crawl. My job entails four hours of handing out flyers promoting the crawl and then guiding each night’s crawlers from bar to bar, making sure no one gets lost, and being a fun person to party with. It is the latter part of the job that I quite enjoy. The constant partying 6 nights a week has turned me semi-nocturnal, but meeting people from all over the world and just talking to them is something I find very rewarding. These people on the crawl are just looking for a night out, (paid for the service/experience, taking the work of the night) and I gladly take on the duty of ensuring it is worth their precious tourist euros.

But there is a part to this job that I find a bit tedious. Before the bar crawl kicks off, I spend four hours handing out flyers, and it is handing out flyers and getting people on the crawl where I make my money. To get people on the crawl, you have to sell yourself. You have to be fun, funny and full of energy ... alcohol helps. You have to make the passing tourists to want to party with you. You are a better representation of the crawl than the silly flyer you hand out, so more often than not (with the people that actually end up coming on the crawl) you talk about yourself rather than the crawl. You talk about where you’re from, what you’re studying in college and how the fuck you ended up handing out flyers for a bar crawl in Barcelona. There is a skill to promoting the crawl, and some nights, it can make you a decent spot of cash. For each person I get on the crawl, I get five euros (and a 10 euro bonus if you get 10), so when it’s a good night, you can lump up some cash, but really it is just a job to break even. So far, my numbers are 4, 10, 2, 2, 4, and 10. Not bad, considering my hostel costs 15 a night and food for a week is even less.

The main problem with this job is that the bar crawl is blatant tourism. When I flyer, I stand out on La Rambla and talk only to tourists. If a group of people are speaking Spanish (even if they are dressed to go out to a club) I don’t bother them, it’s a waste of both of our time. This reality of solely targeting only tourists means that I myself have become an extension of the hegemony of tourism that I despise. Whether or not I am a tourist or traveller is irrelevant, for I depend upon the business of tourism for my supper. There are dozens of bar crawls in Barcelona, and they are all basically selling the same thing, but I hawk I Heart BCN nightly, not because it’s the best of all crawls, but because I happened to make friends with the people running it and now they pay me.

I believe in what I’m selling to some extent (it’s a cheap night out with new people), so I don’t exactly have a conscience crisis in pedalling my crawl to passersby; but, I feel don't exactly like what I'm selling. I'm selling generated experience, not authentic. I stand on La Rambla amdist the busy shops and stalls and hawk my crawl all night to passing tourists. The majority of them walk on by, but some stop, and some hand over their money. I think about other places I have been, Lisbon specifically. There you will walk down a street and be harassed by drug dealers. The majority of people walk on by, but some stop, and some hand over their money. I don’t feel like I’m duping or stealing from anyone, but I feel like I'm dealing drugs. The crawl is an experience that people want, but they need to pay someone for it. I have the experience that they want, and they have to go through me to get it, and I will make a bit of cash too. I can consider myself a traveller, but I work in tourism, and right now, the money behind tourism is helping me out. This connection to tourism I disdain, and it is the basic practice of all tourism that I find parallel with drug dealing. The paying for information and experience that is unobtainable. (They want to party with new people in Barcelona, but they pay to get it) What people lack (prevented by society (the authentic experience) they will pay to get. (‘Yeah, I’ve got a tour going on right now, you should come!’).

At its heart, how it functions, in theory and in practice, tourism is drug-dealing. Tourists are the steady customers and travellers grow their own, but both are addicts to the same high of experience, you can call it travel. But, to be fair, tourism is not the only aspect of society that functions in this manner, fucking everything does. And, in all honesty, there are more reprehensible aspects of society (I mean profiting off of information and service in general, not drug dealing). These information-service economies are just a reality of the world we live in and manifestations of the paramount role that finance plays and the importance that our society gives it. I would like it if everyone could travel the world and not have to pay for experience, but I’m not an idealist and I accept the world's realities. Learning/earning experience is hard, so many institute money to facilitate this process, but at a financial cost and to the detriment of the experience as an ideal. A fair trade, I guess, or why would everyone keep perpetuating this process? The world functions to the smallest extent on what people know, but it works more largely upon what people don’t know. And when someone wants to know something (it can be a tour, a high, a down payment on a car) they will pay someone with information for it. So then they get it at an inflated cost to themselves and a twenty slides down the grimy pocket of a toothless man standing on the street, the cycle of tourism is complete and the world keeps turning. I guess you just have to go through life and separate the drug dealers from the thieves and you’ll be alright ... LW

Chapter 3: Authentic experience ...

"Once upon a time, dressed so fine,

you threw the bums a dime, in your prime, didn't you?"

It doesn’t have an official name. Rather it is one large room with 3 bunk beds, a dirty common room a dirtier bathroom, and even dirtier kitchen located above a tattoo supplies shop in Forrann Calle just off of the Plaza de Reis in Barcelona. There are 6 of us staying there. We call it the G-Spot.

It got its name about two years when it was run by three 25 year-guys that all had names beginning with a G. Then, after that, it was run by a Scottish guy named Gregor who took over for the next 2 years. During this time, the nickname G-Spot had been sealed and it had been cleaned maybe twice.

I found the G-spot by word of mouth. There were/are no advertisements and you could go right passed it and not know it was there. I had gotten into Barcelona at about 10 at night. I walked into the nicest looking hotel I could find and I said: "Hello, I don’t have nearly enough money to stay here, but would you know where I could find a hostel?" He drew a dot where we were (Plaza de Catalunya) and then an arrow down the La Rambla, leading to the Plaza de Reis. I trekked down La Rambla, taking in the wonderful, new atmosphere, but looking to rid myself of my pack quickly. La Rambla was, and is every night, a gorgeous area of Barcelona. Tall poplar trees and elegant lampposts line either side of the pedestrian walkway, cars drive on one lane on either side. People walk up and down, shops and stalls and street performers dot the street periodically.

Along this walk I met Red. A tall, charismatic Australian with a long crop of red-brown hair. “Are you looking for a hostel?” I confirmed that I was. “Well, there’s a hostel just down the street here that I can take you to. It’s a bit cheaper than other places in Barcelona, 15 a night, and it’s basically a shed with a bunch of people sleeping over top of each other.” “Sounds alright,” I said. “It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I’ll show it to you and you can see for yourself.”

He led me down Ferran and up to a door that said “NS tattoo supplies.” To open this door he, pushed on the door and kicked the bottom of it. It opened. We walked upstairs and he showed me the bedroom. There were three bunkbeds, one heaped with various items (sleeping bags, a couple hats, an ironing board ... who would ever do ironing in the G-Spot is beyond me). “You see, it’s shitty, but it’s so shitty that only cool people would ever stay here.” I was already in love with this shit-hole. “Yeah dude, I’m down.” “Great!” said Red and with one sweep of his arm, pushed a whole bunch of junk off the top bunk onto the floor, “check in complete. Where are you coming from, by the way?” “Madrid.” “Well dude, if you want I run this bar crawl, I could get you in for free there.” I dumped my shit among all the other shit and headed out, looking to take the edge off of the day and meet some new people.

I’ve been in Barcelona 3 days now and the G-Spot has been the focal point of my experience here. It’s where I sleep, hang out. If you slogged through my 4,500 word theory on travel, you would know that the goal of finding authenticity and authentic experience is the core of my trip here and (as goes my general consensus supported by travel scholars) is that authentic experience is what separates the traveller from the tourist. In my travels, my goal was to find this challenging and ambiguous ideal and transcend the label of tourist to traveller (But these ideas are explained in greater depth in Booked Porch).

I feel I have found authenticity in Barcelona due to the G-Spot. I’ve been here 3 days and I haven’t seen any of the famous shit in Barcelona, but I’m in no rush. Those places aren’t going anywhere. I planned to stay in Barcelona 2 or 3 nights and then move on to Paris, Brussels and Amsterdam, but those cities aren’t going anywhere either. Instead, I’ve got a grimy mattress in a shit-hole hostel, a job working on the bar crawl and no plans to leave any of this anytime soon.

The G-Spot obviously does not serve as an authentic experience of Spain. If I was looking for that, I’d stay with a host family in a smaller city than Barcelona. Instead, what I have found at the G-Spot is authentic experience of travel. I did not come to Western Europe to conduct an anthropological study of Portuguese, Spanish, French etc. culture. I came to travel. When I look around at the G-Spot, there is no a single inch that presents even the faintest glimmer of tourism. It reeks of travel. Well ... travel, beer, b-o, cigarettes and 75 other things. As Red said, “It’s so shitty that only cool people would ever stay here,” he could have said, “It’s so shitty that only travellers would ever stay here.”

There are rules of conduct to the G-Spot that are concerns of the traveller, not the tourist. 1) If someone is in the bathroom or it is being cleaned, then you can just pee in the sink in the laundry room. 2) ALWAYS check for toilet paper before you poop. It is not always a guarantee that it will be in stock. On my second night, one traveller named Ty (a 34 year-old American) told me about the protocol if someone brings a girl back and he then continued in detail to relate his protocol for when he has brought girls back. These were all codes of travel, not tourism.

Today, for the first time in maybe 4 years, I have no idea, I took a bath ... with bubbles. Call me vulgar, or say that I have been reading too much Joyce lately, but it is these basic acts (taking a dump, peeing in the sink, having a bath) that really jumps out at me in my quest to define travelling. All these things you have to do every day of your life; and, along with physical relocation on the globe, you have to do these things differently, because you are not in Kansas anymore and life is different in Barcelona than it is at home. Brushing your teeth, doing laundry, it doesn’t matter; they cannot be done in the same manner in Barcelona as in Norwich. The world is too vast and there are too many variables to life that unconditionally exclude crapping in Norwich from ever being the same as crapping in Barcelona. Tourism aims to avoid these moments. It aims to ignore these differences in life and incorporate the familiarities of your home life into your 3 night stay in Paris or Venice by means of people’s dependence upon familiarity and willingness to pay for it. Travel not only devoid of this intention of tourism, but it actively embraces difference and change (in my opinion the only times in your life that you can learn experientially) and looks to pass them along to those able to accept them. The tourist has an expectation of what the experience will be and pays money to ensure their expectation is fulfilled. The traveller, very Socratically, knows of their own ignorance and views to gain knowledge from people, not with their wallet.

Barcelona feels great. I finally feel like a traveller. But it seems paradoxical to me that I now feel I am travelling when I have no plans to leave ... LW

Chapter 2: Of neither tourist nor traveller ...

"Oh, very young, what will you leave for us this time?

You're only dancing on this Earth for a short while."

Destination number 2, Madrid. The capital of Spain. I, like Lisbon, had never been before, but as I stepped out onto the sidewalks, there was an immediate juxtaposition of newness and freshness to Madrid. It was that familiar, tangible feeling all over again. I felt like I had arrived in Chicago, coming from Gary, Indiana. For my English readers: I felt like I had arrived in London, coming from Essex. Madrid was an exciting new chapter for my theories on travel; but, if I'm being honest, I was not concerned with my traveller/tourist dilemma. I just wanted to see my friend Cristina, a fellow stud-abroad in Madrid. I got to her flat and it was great to see her and give her a big hug. I was not a tourist or traveller anymore, but an old friend. Something I hadn't been for months now.

As Cristina had class, I spent the day seeing the sights that Cristina told me see and skipping the ones that she told me to skip. And through the course of the day, my impression of Madrid grew and grew. As I strolled through Madrid, I found myself saying things to myself things that I would never say in Lisbon. Things like “Well, this city block is very well maintained.” Or, “The city is so clean.” Or, “This looks like a nice place to live.” It’s not my style to rip a city, but hours after my arrival in Madrid, Lisbon looked (and felt) a fragment of the past. Madrid was a far more pristine city than Lisbon, and also more visibly economically stable/thriving. All the buildings were immaculately maintained and block after block looked like great communities. I was, in a word, impressed. In comparing the two capital cities of Portugal and Spain, Spain’s gave the nation a much more positive impression, Portugal’s seemed to represent the nation’s widely reported economic downturn (but enough ripping on Lisbon, I am still quite fond of the place).

Also, I felt good to speak Spanish. Though my study of the language had not continued into college (there I instead dedicated myself to the mastery of the English language, as you can see here), but I still knew a couple of phrases. More so, I felt liberated to be speaking the native tongue of a city and not be dependent on others to know English. Simple phrases like, “Donde esta el stacion del autobus?” were fun to say, but it became difficult when the directions repeated back at me were in rapid Spanish that I was hapless at deciphering. “Gracias” I would reply blankly and pretend (unsuccessfully to understand). On 0ne occasion, when buying a coke, I said: “Necestio comprar una coca-cola, par favour.” Or: ‘I need to buy a coke, please.’ Honestly, now who speaks like that, anywhere?! But, she understood what I meant and handed me a coke along with a bemused smirk. “Gracias,” I replied blankly.

After a sufficient spell in central Madrid, Cristina was done with her classes for the day so we met up back at her flat, ready to spend the night on the town.

The first place she took me to was Plaza del Sol, where we drank glasses of red wine and talked. It was the first time we had talked in some nine months, and though we were obviously still the same people, we had obviously changed too. We went back and forth on the experience of studying abroad, its pluses and minuses (there are a few, I suppose. One of them is that you have to return home when its over), but we focused most closely on living abroad. Similar to how I had lived in England for two years when I was younger, Cristina had lived in Spain from when she was 7-10. We both found it odd how much of yourself is forged during those years where you live in another country. Those young, crucial years. "What's even more weird to think about is that we're now we're doing it all over again," I added. Those young, crucial years.

I mentioned how I found it odd whenever I would mention that I lived in England as a kid, people would say, “Oh right,that explains it then.” But, for Cristina, her ties to Spain were much stronger than mine to England. Her mother is Spanish and she has many family members that live in Spain. She has been bi-lingual her entire life. But in discussion of both of our experiences we reached the conclusion that living in a foreign country defines the way you live in your home country. Odd how that works, and hard to explain, but we both felt it was true.

After plaza del Sol, Cristina took me to some tapas bars for dinner. It was about nine thirty or ten o’clock and I was starving, but she said eating late at night was a very normal thing to do in Spain. ‘Right with the siesta and all’ I added. We ordered more glasses of wine and with it came two plates of tapas and bread, all for three euros. The next tapas bar gave us bigger glasses of wine and an excellent portion of chorizo and bacon over potatoes and bread for four euros. At both of these places, though I paid, Cristina ordered. English was not spoken, nor were there foreigners at these places, but the people there were quite welcoming all the same.

The next day, I spent most of the day in El Parque del Retiro, a park right in the heart of Madrid. It is as beautiful as it is enormous. I hate to say it, but Hyde, Regeants and St. James Parks combined do not equal El Parque del Retiro. There, I read Hemingway and wrote and entry in my journal. I acquired a beer from a chino in the park and was tempted to smoke a cigarette along with it, but I was out and didn’t feel like buying another pack. As I read, I found For Whom the Bell Tolls a great compliment to my travels, Iberian or otherwise. Hemingway captures the work, the determination and danger of Robert Jordan’s journey beautifully and romantically. In my journal I jotted down a couple quotes that I found relevant for me: “You had to trust the people you worked with completely or not at all, and you had to make decisions about the trusting.” And “To worry was as bad as to be afraid. It simply made things more difficult.” As I move on through Spain, hopefully in a very Robert Jordan like manner, I vow to keep these things in my head as maxims for travel.

Madrid had brought me the experience of the perfect city, the model of Western Europe and a great reunion with a great friend. Two days well spent, but it is time to move on. Time for a new place and new methodology of thinking. Time to see how the buildings and streets of another place changes me and what it leaves the same. I do not feel restless, like I felt at the end of my time in Lisbon, but just ... ready ... LW

Chapter 1: Eurotrash ...

“Ooh baby baby, it’s a wild world,

It’s hard to get by with just a smile.”

Yes, I was in Europe. The Stud was presumably in full effect, but as I was yet to take in Lisbon, the shiny gloss on my arrival in the continent had not yet worn off.

April 10th, when I woke up, I had to get a European power adapter. This is something I should have already possessed (as it would save me time and money), but yet I was without one. I got directions from the helpful and flirtatious Tatiana to a shopping mall where I could acquire one. I left my hostel in a lazy stroll, my mind eagerly swallowing Lisbon city centre and letting Tatiana’s directions sift out. I knocked down Lisbon’s beautiful white and black tiled streets in the general direction Tatiana told me, but, due to my head still being in the clouds, I didn’t find the shopping mall.

I didn’t really mind, if I’m being honest. I was really just looking for an excuse to get out into the cool, crisp, warm morning (I know, a morning cannot be all of these things, but trust me, it was). And as I carried on down the street, digging the feel of the breeze between my Birkenstocks, I figured I could pick up a power converter from anywhere and I didn’t need it now. I turned around, and headed back in the direction of the hostel.

But wait a minute ... hold on ... shit. I forgot where my hostel was. ‘Luke, are you fucking serious?’ I laughed, but I was still content to walk. But after 20 minutes ... you can imagine I was a bit fed up. I was turning this way and that. No wait, this way ... yeah ... shit. Ok ... fuck. Eventually, I admitted defeat, asked for directions, and in exchange received a sheepish look and a lazy point to a building twenty yards from where I stood.

At 11:00, I checked out of the hostel, for I had other arrangements for my second night in Lisbon, gave Tatiana a big hug, and headed out to get stuck in to the city. The first thing I did, as is always my method of getting to know I city, was have a smoke and drift aimlessly. The Portuguese tobacco was strong yet smooth and I rode the nicotine buzz from block to block, carving into the black and white tiled streets and narrow alleyways, free to get lost and found and lost again.

Lisbon is a very striking city. It possesses its share of gorgeous buildings, art novae facades, and balconies for every window, but even its slums and run-down parts of the city possess distinctive character. It is in the latter streets of Lisbon where you can avoid the constant annoyance of drug dealers. There are scores of them in Lisbon, and with the city lacking any real police force, they conduct most of their business in the main tourist spots, where the people are. They are absolute pests, and the main problem facing the city.

After a sufficient wron-der, it was about mid afternoon and I hiked up the city streets to see the Castello de Jorge. Upon viewing the Castello, my commendations go out to the city of Lisbon. Instead of preserving the Castello exactly as it remains, the caretakers of the Castello maintain it more as a park. Lush green trees are planted everywhere, street musicians playing, and a couple of cafes, the Castello was not just an amazing exhibition of Portuguese history, but a genuinely pleasant place to sit and relax. After seeing the castello, I found a seat on one of the castle walls, got out my journal and wrote an entry. It is a very wholesome experience to be thinking and writing about the joy of being in Europe and then to look out over your shoulder and have everything you see confirm that it is true.

With the evening drawing to a close, I was excited to meet Alexandre, my first ever host found on couchsurfing.com. Couchsurfing is a network of host all over the world that donate their couches, spots on the floor, whatever they have to travellers for a night or two. It was an organization that I had heard much about, but never tried, I was eager to see how this experience would turn out.

Upon meeting him, he was the most consummate host I have known. At his flat, he had a bed (not just couch) for me. Then he cooked an amazing dinner, was always eager to top up my glass with more beer, rolled me cigarettes and gave me very helpful advice about Lisbon. He recommended the village of Sintra and also told me that I could stow my bag in pretty much any train station in Europe. Having seen much of what central Lisbon had to offer, and having carried my pack around all day, I was eager to take him up on both of these points. Alex had both surfed and hosting many times, and I could tell he generally enjoyed hosting me. He said, “I don’t host tourists. I just host travellers.” “Then why did you host me?” I joked. He replied, “You may feel like a tourist now, but I guarantee that at the end of your journey you will be a traveller. I’ve met a lot of travellers and not many of them are doing what you are doing. By the end of your journey you will feel this way, I am sure.” Any couchsufer would be lucky to have him as a host.

The next morning, I was sunburned and on a mission. I wasn’t keen on staying another night in Lisbon, so I headed into the city to Santa Apolonia to book my ticket to Madrid and drop my bag. I reached a station in the general area of where Santa Apolonia was located on my map, but it was closed. I looked through the windows, no one in there. A bit frustrated, but still carrying my pack, I headed back towards to city to another station. The man there was helpful. He revealed that there were 3 stations at Santa Apolonia, and told me to go back there. I took the metro back and booked my ticket to Madrid and stowed my pack in a locker. The only trains to Madrid was an overnight, so I had all day to kill.

Free and unburdened, I walked back to the first station to leave for Sintra for the rest of the day. I bought my ticket and got on the metro. I took the line a bit, and after a while, it was apparent that it was not going to Sintra. I asked a fellow passenger what stop Sintra was, and she said I had to go back two stops and change lines. I did so, and when I exited the metro station I found myself nowhere near a train station and, according to my map, fucking miles (not really, but far) in the outskirts of Lisbon.

I was getting tired of this. Too many times I didn’t know where I was, didn’t know how to get where I was going, and was far too dependent on getting directions in broken English. I leaned up against a wall outside the metro station and smoked a couple cigarettes. I thought about where to go to get to Sintra, but I really didn’t care if I got there. Lisbon had made me apathetic. I didn’t really give a fuck if I saw Sintra at all, I really just wanted to move on. As my mind rode the buzz from one thought to another, things became clearer. I wanted to be in Madrid. I wasn’t keen on being a tourist or a traveller, but rather I just wanted to be in Madrid to play the role of old-friend, and see my mate Cristina, who I had not seen in 9 months. My head was already there, even if my body wasn’t. I was restless. I had not lost a day, for my trip was open-ended, but I had lost a day’s momentum, which was twice as important.

***

I did end up making it to Sintra that day, which was fortunate, for it was fucking beautiful. A small, quaint village, 45 minutes away from Lisbon, it packed a lot, and generously offered. Containing both the summer home of the royal Portugal family, Parque de Pena and a Moorish Castello, Sintra proved a glorious afternoon. With the increase in elevation, Sintra’s heat dropped a couple degrees to a very tolerable temperature and its rampant foliage offered shade that kept my sunburned fair skin out of the sun.

I followed the signs around the village indicating directions to the Moorish Castello, hiking up Sintra’s glorious streets until saw two signs indicating diverging routes to the castello. I asked an official looking man, why this was so. He said if I planned to walk go this way, there was a steep path of about 3 or 4 kilometers; or, if I wanted, there were busses the other and gestured to a crowd of people waiting at a bus stop. Instantly, I picked the former.

The hike up the mountainside was steep, long, and gorgeous. El Parque de Santa Maria, it was called, led up to the castello by carving through the mountainside, generously adorned with lush green trees. The path was as ancient as it was beautiful. As I hiked up the side of the mountain, I could feel momentum seeping back in. Towards the top, I was skipping up the steps. Upon reaching the Castello, I spent a good hour tracing its ancient walls and taking in the breathtaking views of Sintra. Sometimes, being a traveller is not about avoiding all of the things tourists do, but experiencing them in the right way.

I hop on the train back to Lisbon, and 45 minutes later, I was back in Lisbon. I stopped in a grocery store to pick up bread, cheese and chorizo and I ate by the seaside, smoked a cigarette and wrote in my journal. As the tide moved in, I watched the long shadows of the buildings cast their arching shade across my page as I wrote. I reflected upon my time in Lisbon, and though I tried my best not to have any expectation, I found that I couldn’t escape feeling that the experience (authentic or not) did not match my expectation.

I get to the train station and wander to the lockers to retrieve my bag. It is upon arrival that I discover I have lost my ticket necessary to get my bag out. I panic. I mean, I really fucking panic. Along with all of my shit in my pack, my train ticket to Madrid and passport are in there. I need to get into the locker. There is a number on the lockers to call if one is in need of help. I dialled, the man only speaks Portuguese. I had my phone to another man nearby and he explains the situation. The man (not on my phone) comes to the lockers. I explain again the situation. “I see,” he says in broken English. “But without ticket, I cannot open the locker.” I underscore the severity of the situation, but in English, and it proves of no use. I slip him ten euors. He opens the locker promptly.

As I took my seat in on the train, (I opted for a seat over a bed, saving me 40 euors), and I drank a couple beers. I wanted to sleep right through to Madrid. Whether this was a traveller or tourist, or perhaps just broke college student behaviour, I was not bothered.

Lisbon was a very productive city to get my feet wet, though I felt it controlled me rather than me controlling me, or me controlling it. I thought more about the idea of experience and expectation, and I concluded that it is not that experience can never match expectation that is crucial, but that experience will never match expectation. The world is too vast and too great and there are too many variables out there for one person’s mind to correctly conjure an accurate expectation. Yet we all do this, and we cannot help doing it. It’s not something to resist, just something to think about.

I slept uncomfortably through the night, along with daylight, morning brought Madrid. I trudged with my pack to Cristina’s flat, and a big hug greeted me at my new city of residence... LW

That familiar, tangible feeling ...

“Headed down south to the land of the pine,

Thumbin’ my way into North Caroline,

Starin’ down the road and I pray to God I see headlights.”

Travelling starts the second you leave your home. Granted, I exit Larch building in University Village several times every day; but, when you take those first steps out of the door, and can feel the weight of your backpack on your shoulders, it’s different. It is different because, you know that you are not merely headed onto campus to go to class or to the pub, or to take the bus into town spend another unfulfilling night at Mercy; but rather, you are leaving your shitty flat, unmade bed and squalid room with clothes lying all over the place for an extended period of time. And you will not be returning back to it that night.

Each time I have taken these initial steps away from my door towards the bus stop, whether it be for 3 days in Edinburgh, week in Northern England, 7 days in Prague, I have felt the difference of these steps of travel from those other times I have left my building. But with that said, this one in particular was special. Special because, unlike Edinburgh or Prague, I knew I would be gone much longer, but still, I had not the slightest idea of how long it would be.

At 14:00, I left Larch building, backpack straps heavy on my shoulders, “Wagon Wheel” playing in my ears, ready to embark on my tour of Western Europe. I was headed back to the continent, again. And as I walked out of my building, door shutting behind me, I hoped it would be weeks before I would take out my key, unlock it and walk back in.

From there, you can guess the rest, and it was as uneventful as it was impatient. I was buzzing to get to Lisbon. Bus to the train. Train to Heathrow. Along the way, I wrote an entry in my journal and started reading For Whom the Bell Tolls (an ace decision on my part, if I must say ... I had been saving it since January for this trip). And then I got to Heathrow, got on my plane, read some more and landed at about half ten.

I was in Lisbon. Why Lisbon? Well I’ve never been there, or Portugal, before; and what was more, I didn’t know too much about it. This aspect appealed to me the most. I knew I wanted to do Western Europe, and I had pretty solid notions of Spain, France etc., but where did Portugal fit into that? How was it different/the same? And lastly, it made geographical sense.

After exiting my bus that took me into the city centre, I was on the lookout for a hostel of some sort. I stopped in at one hotel, too expensive, then another, it was full, but then I was given directions to a hostel (by a guy who later turned out to be a drug dealer, I declined his offers, but he was helpful anyway) which was perfect. I get in to the hostel and check in with the very lovely Tatiana, who gave me a beer on the house. I liked the Portuguese already.

At the hostel, I sat in the lounge, sipping my beer, writing a bit and chatting with some American students studying abroad in Spain, who were in the midst of a pre-drink session before heading out for the night. A couple minutes later, we were all taking shots, I had changed my shirt and we were headed out.

We strolled through Lisbon’s quintessential-Iberian streets, kicking down its black and white tiled sidewalks, meandering with a purpose of reaching a specific street some time and with beers in hand. We were not headed out to a club or bar, but when we reached it (Sorry, don’t know the name) we found the street littered with people milling about, sipping their beverages, drifting through the crowds down the street.

It is amazing how an image can have such an impression of being distinctly European. Bars lined each ground floor of the balcony-covered buildings, but few people were inside of them. Rather, you would go inside, order your drink, served handily in a plastic cup, and then get back to drifting through the crowds down the street. When you were done with that one, stop in at another bar, get a gigantic mojito, and get back out into the warm, sweet Portugal night, sipping that fine blend of limes and mint leaves that quenched so generously.

It was an interesting exercise to stand still in one spot and watch all the people pass. As I stood mingling with my fellow stud’s-abroad, I saw three twenty something year old guys, dressed in almost identical short-sleeve button ups with matching hats, stride purposefully down the block. (Ok, we’ve got those guys in America; the going-out-to-get-laid guys). Then there was a couple. A woman in a very Portuguese-looking dress (that’s as best as I can describe it) and a man in a tuxedo. Then there was a street vendor selling flowers. And followed by that, a homeless man that was seriously hammered.

And so the night gradually drifting into morning, meandering on like our group of students through the streets. I checked my phone. It was 02:11. Twelve hours ago, I was still in my flat, lying on my bed, trying to think of what I had forgotten to pack. (It took me awhile to think of it, but I knew there was something. There is always something I forget when I travel). It turned out to be my phone charger.

It shocked me the ease in which I had relocated myself on the continent. As I told my mates, I had gotten into Lisbon an hour before we headed out. In America, travelling anywhere takes up the day, if not more, due to jetlag. But I had a two-hour flight, a bus into the city, a short conversation with a drug-dealer and there I was.

I woke up the next morning in my hostel. I heard churchbells strike nine times. I got out of bed and took a sublime shower. After, as I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, I noticed a cheeky grin start to form, and then grow into a full-out smile. That familiar, tangible feeling was back again. Yes, I was back in the continent, the best continent, again ... LW