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

On the ball, City ...

A fitting conclusion to what has been an amazing season for Norwich FC, the Canaries have been promoted to the Premier League; and, next season, they will be playing in the highest standard of domestic football in the world. It has been an amazing season to follow, to watch (I was at Carrow Road for Norwich’s 4-3 thriller against Leicester) and support as the city that I have now spent 3 years in have now booked their place in the top flight of English football next season.

But, to gauge this achievement properly, we must go back a bit. In the eighties and early nineties, the Canaries were perennial Premier League contenders, and good ones at that. In the early nineties, Norwich were league leaders for most of the 92-93 season and were contenders in the UEFA cup. With players like Efan Ekoku and the lot, Norwich were comparable, by today’s standards, to a team like Arsenal. Good players, good manager (Martin O'Neil got his start at Norwich), brimming with confidence and playing great football, citizens of Norwich would flock to Carrow Road to watch their beloved Canaries play.

But it was not to last. Norwich FC chairman Robert Chase (who is despised by everyone that has lived in Norwich for the last 15 years) started selling the club’s best players. Efan Ekoku to Wimbledon. Soon Norwich was relegated to Division 1 (now known as the Championship). When I arrived in Norwich during the summer of ’95, Norwich were in Division 1, where they remained for each of two years I spent in Norwich.

Since then, the club has lost their reputation of a top flight perennial and gained the reputation of a Division 1 club, changing to a Championship club with the renaming of the leagues, but meaning the same thing. Since the mid-nineties, when I left Norwich, the Canaries have remained in the Championship, but for one season, 2005-2006, where they were promoted to the Premier League, only to be relegated at the end of the season.

Norwich were back into the Championship, but things were still to get worse. Norwich endured a disastrous 2008-2009 season, changing managers three times and finding themselves relegated to the lowly League One, the third tier of English football. This was an embarrassment. Norwich City, formerly a Premier League title contender was now subjected to playing in the third tier of English football. What is worse is that Norwich’s stadium, Carrow Road, stands as one of the best in the Championship, the reason being that it is a Premiership ground, built when Norwich were Premier League heavyweights, but how embarrassing it must have been for City fans to arrive to Carrow Road to watch them play League One football.

But things were to get better. In August, 2009 Scottish manager Paul Lambert was appointed, and, nine months later, Norwich had won the League One title, sealing their return to the Championship. It was a no-nonsense approach to Lambert’s management that had been the difference. Instead of revelling in being league champions, Lambert insisted that they had accomplished nothing, but spare the city’s blushes.

In the 2010-2011, the goal was simply to stay in the Championship, to avoid relegation, and, from there, make a push for the Premier League in the near future, but this was not to be. Norwich played excellent football, staying in the top six the entire season. This is crucial, for the top two teams in the Championship achieve automatic promotion, and the next four enter a play-off for the final ticket to the hallowed Premier League. As I had the privilege of speaking to many City fans, their expectation or goal, after viewing City's impeccable start to the season, was to make the play-off, and whether or not they won promotion, they would be very happy, considering that they had just been promoted from League One last season. But after Monday’s 1-0 win against Portsmouth, City capped an amazing two-year run of form, leaping two divisions into the graces of the bountiful Premier League, the promised land. This is an amazing accomplishment for any football club, players and ownership; but, the most commendations go to Lambert who has simply gotten the best out of his players and, since his takeover, has gotten the results, an incredible two year, two league leap frog of the English football scene. I’m not being biased here, what Lambert has achieved with Norwich FC is the biggest accomplishment of any football club in England of the past two years.

Now it’s time for the reason anyone reads my posts about football, my outlandish, yet discerning, football predictions (In State of the Union, I made 3 predictions and it’s looking like they will all come true). First, next season, City will stay up. The Premier League is Norwich FC’s rightful place, and they will not give up their place without a fight. Lambert is the man to take the club into the Premier League, and keep them there. Second, I back Grant Holt to score at least 10 league goals. Holt was Norwich’s leading scorer in 2008-2009 with 24 goals, but all the critics claimed that he was a League One player and would not score in the Championship. This season, he has bagged 22 and 14 assists. I back him to keep scoring and get at least into double digits, which is an accomplishment for any player. Third, I back Simeon Jackson to be Norwich’s leading scorer next season. With 4 goals in the last two games and a few years younger than Holt, I think next season will be his breakout season, and I back him for 15. Fourth, I want Liverpool loanee Dani Pacheco to stay with City. He is a cunning prospect and someday I expect him to shine for Liverpool, but next season I want him with Norwich. I guess this is not really a prediction, but I think it would be best for both Norwich and Liverpool. And last, after surviving next season, I will be back in Norwich (hopefully getting my master’s degree) and there’s no way Norwich will be going down then. So my last prediction is a bit of a long term one, but Norwich FC will play at least 3 seasons in the top flight, and probably more. Count on it. You heard it here first ... LW

The Stud's cynical (of course) response to Bin Laden's death ...

Since my rant on nationalism/patriotism in The Stud gets a new passport, the observation of patriotism has become a growing theme of my year abroad, both at home and in America. Taking a momentary break from travel, I now find myself thrust back into fray of politics, culture and the endlessly fascinating comparison of America and England.

The first example is of patriotism is the royal wedding. Prince William married Kate Middleton and, while he is likely to be the next King (screw Charles), what really has changed? Not much, and one could argue that point even if it was his coronation, or if he was directly next in line. Of course, people went mad in England, but there were many who found it all a bit of a fuss, much ado about nothing. I personally know some English family friends who flew to America to visit my parents because they wanted to miss all the fuss of the royal wedding; now if that is not desperation, what is? It is unfortunate for them that, from all reports, the royal wedding was a larger deal in the States than here. Personally, I did not watch it.

But as I woke up on the morning of the second of May, I read a bunch of ambiguous facebook statuses regarding Bin Laden and was asked to ‘like’ ‘Now that’s how the US outdoes a Royal Wedding.’ I hopped onto BBC.co.uk and, sure enough, I read for the time, Bin Laden had been killed.

Both events have inspired great amounts of joy (I guess that is the right word, I’m not sure) and patriotism, both in England and America. The traditional English revelled in the marriage of Prince William, but more in the pageantry and distinguished honour of the royal wedding, a sentiment that I feel matches the reason for the existence of the monarchy. The monarchy does nothing, but it looks honourable and distinguished. The Queen “rules” in theory, but has no official power and no official duty besides looking nice, in a national, symbolic sense.

But now onto Bin Laden’s death. It has brought out many facebook statuses, profile pics of the American flag, the works. It seems patriotism is a drug best served lazily. Are we so overjoyed that we dedicate one facebook update to Bin Laden’s death. If you’re so overjoyed, plant a tree or some shit, I don’t know. But what strikes me odd about this ordeal is that all this patriotism comes at the hands of the death of one man. I wrote extensively about America’s lust for power, intolerance to appear at all weak/ coke addiction in American terrorism and a subsequent comment, so it strikes me odd that A) we define our national image by who we have killed and B) that all this hubbub comes down to Bin Laden. I mean, we still have troops in Iraq and Afghanistan ... just saying. Today, outside the White House, crowds chanted "USA! USA!," for hours on end.

I would like to say that, despite being adamantly opposed to the death penalty, I don’t give a fuck that we killed him. In some perverse manner, I think it is better that he resisted arrest and got shot doing so, instead of getting captured, tried and hanged. I think back to Saddam’s capture and execution. As barbaric as that practice is, it was more barbaric that so many people watched it on youtube. If Saddam brought out so much hate in Americans that they craved the opportunity to watch him die, what sentiments would Bin Laden’s execution bring out of Americans? There were parties in the street for the Royal Wedding, would there be parties celebrating Bin Laden’s execution? That's not far-fetched, we're already celebrating his death. If so many of us watched Saddam’s death on youtube, would the DVD of Bin Laden’s hanging sell more copies than The Lion King?

So England’s (probable) future King just got married and America killed their most wanted criminal, ten years later, not in a cave, in Islamabad. The cynicism in me would ask if all of the deaths in Afghanistan and Iraq were worth it, but I won’t go there, Bin Laden's death (to an undeniable, if small, extent) has made the world safer. Rather, I would just like to juxtapose the pride, the glory and the patriotism behind these two events; for, after these events, we as citizens, now feel a greater sense of self-image and all our bad feelings have turned into good feelings.

I could ask, what does it say about America that we measure our national pride by who we’ve killed when England measures it on meaningless ceremony, and I could rant (once again) about how depressing it is that America has rested their self-identity on the death of a terrorist for the past 10 years, but I won’t. Rather, I just find it interesting the way that people get their fix from patriotism. I’m not going to say that England or America’s showing of patriotism is better than the other, but all I would really ask is that my readers think about why they feel the way they feel. The Royal Wedding is undisguised, meaningless patriotism for the sake of patriotism, but my area of concern or suggestion of disingenuousness is that Bin Laden’s death is disguised as national security, but, make no mistake about it, both events have produced the same high. Do you really feel safer that Bin Laden has been killed? If that's the truth, have we been holding our breath for the last 10 years? Or have we just gone on with life, thinking "that sun-bitch better run n' hide." Or is that, 10 years and thousands of deaths later, we’ve finally got the man we’re after; we can now spare our blushes? Does this mean we’re leaving the Middle East? Such a question seemed idealistic at times, stupid at others, but irrelevant always and that’s what is most depressing. Simply put, Bin Laden's death means absolutely nothing to me if it is not a step forward for bringing our troops home; and, right now, I see little signs of that ever happening ... LW

Another trip and back, another moustache ...

As fast as it all started, it stopped. The rapidly spinning gears that drove me from coast to coast of the Iberian peninsula slowed, halted and started spinning in the other direction. After 3 weeks in continental Europe, the Stud had no plans of return; but, in a whirlwind of two days, flights were booked, taken and dormrooms were unlocked. Then a nap was taken, followed by a shower and a pensive look in the mirror. Then, without afterthought or hesitation, the Stud’s three weeks of straggly growth on his face was sliced off, falling into the sink below.

I look at my for the first time in 3 weeks clean-shaven (and clean for that matter) face. As is parallel to my return from Prague, this moustache contains truth. It contains all of the facts of life, tid-bits of truth and meanderings of my own thoughts that accumulated in my mind over the previous three weeks, but funnelled and refined upon reflection, centrally located between my upper lip and my nose.

As you may have read (but I don’t blame you if you didn’t slog through it) I framed my Western European travels in Booked Porch as not just a trip of leisure or self-discovery (it was indeed both of those things), but also a journey into the core of travel, into the art of travel, into its ideals as well as subtleties and skills. It was a journey into the abstraction of travel in its theory as well as its practice.

I framed my argument on travel around the dichotomy of traveller and tourist identities, focusing on the concept of authenticity, contending that where authentic experience is found, so is travel; and, conversely, where authentic experience is not found lies tourism. The dichotomy traveller and tourist is a problematic and ambiguous one; and, in the many scholars I researched and concepts that I carried with me, bouncing around in my head, finding relevance here, irrelevance there, the idea that I found to be most compelling also happened to be one my maxims for travel: “To travel is to work.”

This idea comes from twentieth-century cultural scholar Daniel Boorstin, an impassioned supporter of the separate identities of traveller and tourist. Boorstin analyzes the historical connection of the words travel and travail, effectually arguing that to travel is to work. Another very useful scholar on travel, Jeffrey Melton, adds to Boorstin’s point: “The traveller is active, while the tourist is forever passive. Travellers seek to earn experience, while tourists sign up for a program and sit back to wait for experience to come to them. For travellers there is work to be done; it will not be easy, but it promises rewards worth the discomfort.” As I have found, spending the last three weeks travelling on my ones, travelling is hard. Travelling is work. Cities with different languages, different city layouts, and different customs make you think harder and relearn everything you know all over again. Travelling (physical relocation) forces you to relearn and adapt what you already know about life at home to life in Lisbon, Madrid, most critically, in Barcelona (a couple quick examples: walking down the street, easy to adapt, speaking, not necessarily). It is not easy, it is work, but it’s the best job I’ve ever had.

The goal of tourism is to take the work out of travel, and this can be most easily accomplished / is accomplished through money. Tourists are willing to pay to take the work out of travel, and businesses readily lap up the incoming cash supply. An example of this can be seen in a night out of bars and clubbing. As was my job during the two weeks I spent in Barcelona, I worked in tourism on a bar crawl. I would spend four hours rounding up people to come on the crawl and then at 12, I would help guide the group from bar to bar and then to club. Each person would pay 15 euros for bar crawl, which included free drinks and club entry as well as a massive group of people to party with. In effect, these crawlers would pay 15 euros to take the work out of the night. ‘Leave it to us. We know our shit’ is the basic concept behind any bar crawl. It is not that a night out is particularly taxing, but it requires relearning and adapting everything you know about a night out in Norwich to Barcelona, a stark contrast (though the latter is infinitely better) but some tourists would rather just not think about this and that and leave it to us. I wrote about the parallels of tourism to drug dealing. I felt as though I stood on a corner and the drug I dealt was parties, but whatever it was we did, the work was lessened for our crawlers, and it paid for my hostel and food for the two weeks I was in Barcelona.

I also wrote about the antithesis to tourism, loosely referred to by scholars as authentic experience. Melton argued that authenticity exists in foreign cultures, but is inaccessible to the tourist/traveller (he argued that both identities were the same). I thought that authenticity is indeed accessible, though I knew not how. Now I do. Authentic experience in travel should more appropriate be called authentic experience of travel, for that is really what a traveller is looking for. Before I left for the continent, I viewed authenticity to be a product of the nation in which the traveller in currently located; it is, but only to a small extent. A man that works on the corner selling beers for one euro and goes home at 6 in the morning is indeed an authentic experience in Barcelona, but it cannot be more irrelevant to the traveller (unless they are on a night out). Rather, a traveller primarily seeks authenticity not from the city’s inhabitants (that, like Melton says, is impossible) but from other travellers. A traveller does not wish to conduct an anthropological study of Barcelona, but wishes to meet new people, share exchange stories and see the city.

During the two weeks I spent in Barcelona, I lived in a heap of a hostel. Or, not to be crude, just to be honest, a shit-hole. Dirty floors, dirtier bathroom and bed bugs, I’ve got several (too many) bugbites. When I asked Red (a 19 year-old Australian that runs the hostel) about them, he said, “Yeah, they’ll bite you, but only for the first couple days, then they leave you alone.” The weird thing was that he was right. After a couple days, though my bug bites still itched, I found that I had acquired no new ones for the rest of the two weeks. I wrote about his hostel as authentic, clearly not of the Spanish/Catalan lifestyle, but of the traveller.

Furthermore, at the hostel, I met other travellers. I know the tourist/traveller dichotomy is ambiguous at bestand indefinable at worst, but if you met these guys I lived with, you couldn’t call them native and you surely couldn’t call them tourists. One of them was Jacob. Staying in Barcelona for five months, a German, he studied Spanish and volunteered. He had little time to go on bus tours, though the time he did have we often spent it playing chess and smoking cigarettes. Mike, to date, is the most Californian person I have ever met. He surfs, skates and uses “gnarly” and “rad” more than the words “the” and “it.” Mike works for the company Stoke Travel, making bookings for surf camps, festival (Las Fallas, Pamplona, Tomatina etc.) and studied abroad in Barcelona before coming back to work in the city. Lewis, I only got to meet for a couple days, but was an epic dude. A German hippie, he has been travelling in India, New Zealand and all over Europe for the past two years. Loves to meditate. Simon came from Liverpool, planned on staying two days, has been here for 2 years. And then there are all the people I’ve met from working on the pub crawl. Students, ex-students, soon to be students, or fuck-it-just-bumming-around’s. In its abstraction, the traveller is a loose concept; but, when you meet people (while travelling, you absolutely cannot do this from reading books about travel) you realize, there’s no way these people are goddamn tourists. Their goals are not to remain forever passive, their goal is to work, and, quite literally, they all did, as did I.

The hostel I stayed in and the bar crawl I worked for were focal points of my experience. Though I got paid to party six-nights a week, my job was still a student. Religiously, I would write in my journal, write for the blog and think. As a student, to think is to work. In Barcelona, I went through a major creative and personal development and it is this, I believe that also separates a traveller from tourist and labels me a traveller. Being in a city, changes the way you think, simple as that. To travel is to think. You could debate me, but you’d either be wrong or had not had one thought in that city. As I would look out on the balcony of the hostel over Ferran (despite being a dive the hostel had a great location), writing in my journal or not, I would think and everything around me would influence me. Everything, no matter which way I looked, would grab me and shout loudly, “Barcelona!” Do you know why this is true? Because all of it is fucking in Barcelona!

This is another point that I feel is missed by cultural scholars of travel, and to me, it suggests that they perhaps have not done much travel, just studied a lot of it. Physical location is paramount. It is the first requisite of travel, and, without it you are not travelling, you are at home. Just the process of taking the bus to train station; then the tube to heathrow, the flying to Lisbon preps your mind for travel and prepares it to soak up experience, authentic or otherwise. Any film critic/scholar would argue definitively about the importance or the effect that physically going to the cinema to watch a film has upon the experience of the film as the viewer watches it; it is likewise the same notion in travel, but times 5,000!

So being that I have to offer a defintion of traveller/ tourist dichotomy (cos that was the whole damn point of this shit) here goes: A tourist explores cities, countries, geography, languages, food and cultures. A traveller explores himself. The food, the wine, the architecture and the pople you meet are all just stimulants to spark self-exploration. We're travellers, not explorers, and the "Discovery!" exists in your mind; thoughts that you did not think before, drams that you had never before realized.

I struggled as traveller in Lisbon, I was just visiting a friend in Madrid, but when I got to Barcelona, I started travelling even though I stopped moving. Why because I started thinking; or, I let Barcelona think for me. If you read my entries about Lisbon or Madrid, they are about what I did. In Barcelona, my blog is about what I thought about there. Each experience spawned a domino-effect of thought; and, to me, what I thought became more important than what I did, so that’s what I wrote about. To travel is to work, to work is to think, to think is to live. So have we reached the statement that lies embedded in my moustache? To travel is to live? Home is death? I think the former is true, but the latter is overstated, for I plan to do more travelling (the northern leg of my intended trip of W. Europe), so I can’t be dead. I guess I’m just asleep. Which is good, for awhile at least, cos I’m fucking exhausted ... LW

(A Note From The Stud: As another trip has concluded, I know what all my loyal readers are thinking: “Luke, will you be writing The Barcelona Chronicles?” I am delighted to say that, in some way, shape or form, I will be. However, in order to write these properly (which to me is my most important task) I will need the assistance of my journal; which, if you do not already know, cannot be read by myself or anyone until I return to the states. So, bear with me, but The Barcelona Chronicles will happen. I’m not sure how I feel about posting to Stud Abroad from America, but we’ll work something out. That, or I’ll just let you know when it comes out on paperback.)