Fascinating, electric, vast. Still sketchy Internet. Return to the States on Sunday. Life is good.

Beautiful, exciting, restful. No Internet.

This morning, as I was waking up from anxious dreams, I discovered that in bed I had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug. I lay on my armour-hard back and saw, as I lifted my head up a little, my brown, arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections. From this height the blanket, just about ready to slide off completely, could hardly stay in place. My numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of my circumference, flickered helplessly before my eyes.

Literary in-joke. Sorry. Some of you may have recognized the (adapted) opening lines of Franz Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis,” a story I once threatened to teach a whole semester on. I invoke Franz because he lived here, and I was near his house today. It is an odd city: beautiful but crumbling in places, ancient but new, classically European in some ways and oddly not in others. I am not sure what to make of it, but I did have a wonderful day.

It began with a walk to Wenceslaus Square, which I missed completely the first time because the city is so small I misread the scale of the map. I walked up to the statue and entered the National Museum, which was lame. Then it was off to the hill overlooking Prague and then to the castle. There is a tram that takes people up to the top of the hill, but I wasn’t going to do that. I walked it pretty easily. It was rainy today, so I had my only rain jacket on (because you must know it never rains in southern California). It’s a Prestigious University jacket, and I had a Prestigious University shirt on yesterday as well, but it’s gone. I brought shirts that I had in Boston that are now one or two sizes too big for me, so I’ve been wearing them a couple of times then tossing them and buying new clothes. I find European clothes fit me much better, and on my first night in Berlin, my walk took me straight to a new mall there in the former East Germany. It was odd to see it around all those buildings from the Communist era, but they had good prices at C und A.

I wandered around the hillside on the many trails and eventually headed toward the castle, but I found that I had to go back down the hill to go back up to the castle. And I found myself on an isolated trail that hadn’t been used in a while. Eventually, it followed a wall down that led to a guard-shack. No one was there, but I looked at the gate and saw a sign that read “US Government Property. No trespassing.” I translated it to Czech Government before I realized it was in English and “US Government” actually meant the United States. “What the hell?” I wondered. Some military installation in the middle of Prague? As I continued on the trail, I saw the back of an ornate and elaborate building with immaculate hedges and well-kept grounds. “Where the hell am I?” I thought. I was happy to see a single, narrow, cobble-stone street that wound down a hill. People were around, but they were being very quiet and not moving much. Then I saw dozens of police checking cars and questioning people. I looked back and read the sign on the ornate building’s front and discovered that it was the German Embassy. The sign I had read before was for the American Embassy. Okay, that explains that. I kept my head down and walked quickly through the police officers.

The castle was okay, but I’m not much for castles or homes. I did enjoy the Royal Gardens and had a lovely walk there to the east side of the hill. I had a twenty-four hour transport pass, so I jumped on the nearest tram. Number 18 went back into the city and right by my hotel, the lovely Eurostars Thalia, but I kept going. It was rainy, and there weren’t any particular sites I wanted to see, so I just thought I would ride the tram for a while and see what I found. I went pretty far out on the 18 then got out and walked around for a while. There were no other tourists here, and it was not the best part of town from what I could determine (don’t tell Dad bro and sis). But I liked it because real people lived here, and I got to see them buying groceries, playing with their new puppies, and talking about life. Eventually, I found another tram station and jumped on the 11 because it connected to the 18. But I got on the 11 going the wrong way and ended up at the end of the line, so to speak. A bleak stop in the middle of a decrepit industrial area. The tram made a U-Turn, so I didn’t get off, but the driver kicked me off anyway, then drove twenty yards and parked the tram. I walked across the street to the next station and waited while he smoked a cigarette and talked on the phone for fifteen minutes. Then he pulled around again, and I got on, then off at the 18, which took me home

I needed a bite, so I stopped at the Národní Havárna, just a few doors down. A man by himself was drinking a beer at one of the street tables, so I thought it would be a good place for another man by himself to have a drink and some dinner. Of course the first man was shortly joined by a beautiful Czech woman, so the second man listened to the new Counting Crows on his iPhone, tapping his foot as he watched people go by on the street. I had a Czech beer (not Staropramen, which is good, but Budvar, which is better). The Czechs are especially known for their beers, and I’ve never had a beer so cheap: 18Kc, which is about $1.25. It was good, and I nursed it lovingly as I waited for my “blue bowl,” a baked bowl of potatoes, chicken, vegetables, and cheese. It was the best meal I’ve had all trip, and people stared at my blue bowl as they passed. A group of students came by and checked out the restaurant, but one guy just kept staring at my blue bowl. “That looks incredible. Let’s eat here,” he said to the rest of the group. So they did and sat down beside me. Travel lore is that you will always meet a Kiwi (New Zealander) and an Aussi wherever you go. The student was an Aussie, and the woman on the Eurostar from Paris was a Kiwi. She, too, reminded me that “Kiwis are everywhere” between stories of her infant. The Aussie ordered and said he wanted what I was having, but he couldn’t find it on the menu. I told him it was a blue bowl, small, and he looked happy and indicated that’s what he wanted. The other students were American, and the Aussie kept glancing at me as if he wanted to talk. I acknowledged the glance and silently offered myself for conversation, but he was busy with the others, who were American, and decidedly uninterested in talking to another American.

I couldn’t finish my blue bowl, so I pushed it aside and waited for the check. During this time two men dressed in white shirts and black pants asked through gestures if they might sit with me. I had the Crows on again, so I couldn’t have heard them anyway. “Please do,” I said happily. Françoise spoke a little English, but Tony spoke none. They were both fluent in German and French though, and Françoise facilitated the conversation. Tony saw my Prestigious University jacket and told me, through Françoise, that his son was doing a graduate degree there. We spoke about his son and my work there. They asked me what I taught and where I was now, and I learned that Françoise worked in a post office in Switzerland and Tony was, as best I could tell, a hydraulic engineer. I also learned that they were musicians in town for a concert, which explained the similar outfits. “What kind of music?” I asked. Françoise hesitated: “How you say in English . . . uh . . . yodeling?” He told me that some people laughed when they played, but people who understood the music appreciated it. I told him that American country music had it’s own yodeler in the form of June Carter Cash and that I was related to that family. “Really,” he said, “like Johnny Cash?” Everybody knows Johnny Cash.” And he eagerly explained to Tony about the American yodeler and my connection to the family.

View from my table at Narodni Havarna just before Françoise and Tony appeared

We talked happily and at length about religion, language, education, and music, and the students next to me kept looking at me in amazement. I have to say I was pretty amazed too: two random guys dressed alike sit down at my table and begin talking, and we don’t stop for almost an hour. Tony asked for my name to see if his son might know me. I smiled, knowing that there was not a chance given the size of Prestigious University, but I was happy to provide my email address anyway. Françoise sang in the choir and Tony played that long horn-like thing that sits on the ground. There is music all around in Prague. My taxi driver on the way in was playing a country music station, and I heard the chords to “Why me Lord?” and said “That’s an American song. I know that song.” But the words were Czech and sounded strange. He replied laconically, “Yeah, American, Czech: they play all kinds of country music.” But Françoise and Tony were thrilled to talk about their music, and they mentioned the Carter Family again. “What’s that song that is so famous? I can’t remember it now,” Françoise said as we began to say our goodbyes. And I started singing “Will the circle, be unbroken, by and by Lord, by and by?” Françoise eagerly joined in and the entire sidewalk turned to look at us. We laughed and said au revoir, and I came back to my hotel while my new friends went off to do some sightseeing.

It is a good day when you ride a tram to the end of the line, walk by Franz Kafka’s house, then get to sing a country song on the Prague sidewalk with a new friend. By and by Lord. By and by. Good night Prague.

and trains–especially on this trip. We jumped the train in Oxford and saved ourselves $160. When I got on the Berlin subway at 5:35 am yesterday, the train was pulling into the stop, so I jumped on, and while I had my money ready, no one asked me to pay. I got off at FriedrichStrasse for one more stop to the Hauptbenhof station, and I decided not to push my luck and bought a ticket and validated it, but still no one stopped me and no gate required a ticket. Of course these trains have ticket inspectors on them, in theory at least, so I just got lucky.

I boarded the 6:46 to Prague, showed my Eurail Pass to the agent, then immediately fell asleep, a fitful sleep but one I could not wake up from. I hadn’t sleep at all the night before for some reason, so I was very tired. When I awoke for real, we were pulling into Usti Station in the Czech Republic. The landscape was mountainous and green, and the train followed a river south. It was lovely. The new agent came by and asked for my ticket. I showed him my Eurail Pass, and he said “This isn’t valid in the Czech Repubic. Check the back of the pass.” I did, and he was right. Then he ran off to the front of the train. Just afterwards, three Czech Policeman, dressed all in black with guns and jack-boots, came in and sat right in front of me. I tried to convince myself that they weren’t going to arrest me for an innocent mistake, but it’s hard, when you’re traveling alone and in a foreign country, not to imagine the worst. The train had started to pull out of the station but stopped. Now, several minutes later, clearly something was wrong. They wouldn’t hold the train because I didn’t have the right pass, right? Right. People got out and started using their cell phones, and I considered running to the station and buying a ticket for the rest of the trip through the Czech Republic. But I had come this far, and if the train left without me, it was another hour before another train came through. I decided to chance it. Worst case scenario: I would have to pay an extra fare. Right?

It turns out the train engine had broken down, and the agent was going through and explaining it to everyone with his deepest apologies. He asked me what language I spoke, and after I told him, he explained that we were going to be an hour at least. I told him it was okay. He didn’t seem to remember me, and he certainly had his hands full. The other passengers were getting upset. The policemen napped. Finally, and to his great relief, a new engine arrived and was being installed. We would be on our way shortly. Another chance to buy at ticket, but I passed. Even if I bought a ticket from here to Prague, there would still be the matter of coming all the way across the Czech Republic. Let’s roll the dice.

View from Usti Train Station, Czech Republic

The train started again, and the agent came back to me. He said, “Would you like for me to open your window? We won’t have air-conditioning to Prague. I apologize.” “Yes, please,” I said, “Thank you.” And he was gone. I saw him on the platform when I left the train, and he was talking with the other agents about the breakdown. Another free fare in Europe.

The taxi driver at Holesovice station took me to the wrong hotel. Fortunately, the right hotel was only a few blocks away. It’s a terrific place with a black, marble shower and modernist furniture. I love it. I decided I would figure out the tram system, so I got maps and did that. I made my way back to the station on the tram because I was going to buy a ticket out of the Czech Republic. No reason to push my good luck. The train to Budapest required a reservation anyway, and one of them went through Slovakia, another country that does not accept Eurail. I needed to go through Vienna. The queue was incredibly slow, but I got my ticket to Vienna. From there on my Eurail pass is good, and I won’t have to jump any more trains. Plus a get a short layover in Vienna. How bad can that be?

View of Prague Castle and the Vltana River

I came back on the tram, which afforded lovely views of Kafka’s home town, and had dinner at a nearby restaurant. I wasn’t especially hungry, but I was extremely tired. Then I realized I was doing this on almost no sleep. I had rabbit and those potato dumplings that Yanna recommended in Middleborough. I will have to write her and tell her they were delicious. Today, castles, gardens, and Kafka. Tomorrow Budapest. I am staying in Budapest and Istanbul longer than my usual two nights, and Internet looks spotty and expensive, so I don’t know if I will be able to post. All told, the train ride is seven hours tomorrow, so I am going to try to get some long-overdue work done. All shall be most well.

Who knew Berlin would be so cool? I got up around 7:00 and decided it was ridiculous to be up so early on vacation, so I went back to sleep in my wonderful bed with no top sheet and the window open. Then, I was awakened to bells. I immediately thought, in my haze, that I was actually in an Edgar Allan Poe poem: bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells. Jesus. And I guess it had something to do with him. The same thing happened in Amsterdam, but it was afternoon, not morning. Okay, Lord, I thought. I will get my ass up.

So I went to the lobby where there is free Internet and chatted via email with Robby, Vivien, and Monique, along with several others on Facebook. Thank you for all the birthday wishes. I stopped at the front desk to get change for the subway and confirm the details, and it was a good thing I did. I was about to get on the Tram, which apparently goes nowhere. What I really wanted was the S train, up the street a bit further. There are also U trains. The nice woman a the desk recommended a day pass for six Euros, and that sounded good to me. She gave me my change and said “You’re not going to use this for cigarettes are you?” I smiled and said “no, I’m not.” We smiled. I made my way to the station, and it wouldn’t take my debit card, so I put in my change as I had prepared. I got my day pass and headed toward the Tiergarten via FriedrichStrasse. Easy enough, but curiously, there was no gate on the subway entering or exiting and no one took my ticket on the train. Apparently, I could have ridden all day for free. I found a cafe and ordered coffee, pain au chocolate, and a bagel. It was great. I sat and looked at the map and onto the Berlin crowds. I also read a book of short stories that was complimentary from the Amsterdam Hotel. Winners of the Mario Vargas Lloysa Prize for short fiction. So far they are excellent and make me feel a little less badly about paying so much to stay there (though I don’t feel that badly). I get my bearings fairly easily and decide what to do. Tiergarten to the west, Checkpoint Charlie to the South. I decide on south and reach the checkpoint fairly quickly. It’s and odd confluence of nostalgia and embarrassment. I watched people take photos in front of a piece of the Berlin Wall and wondered what it must have been like to live behind the Iron Curtain. There was plenty of memorabilia for sale, including East German uniforms and sentries at the post, now only symbolic, except when they were giving directions to tourists or helping direct pedestrian traffic.

I decide to go on down to the Jewish Museum, only a few blocks away. I really dislike museums. I really like the art in most of them, which is what makes me go, but I dislike the museum experience. It exhausts me, and I feel a dissonance at looking at stuff on walls in the standard form of display. I was at the Getty in Los Angeles recently, and I found myself feeling the same way, Great works of art but in a context that is somehow hard to experience. I found this at the Louvre and the National Gallery in London as well. There’s just something not right about the way we view art, but I’m not sure what the answer is. Well, maybe I do. The answer is Daniel Libeskind, the architect of the Jewish Museum in Berlin. I have never had a museum experience like this. I paid my five Euros and walked in waiting for that same experience, which I was willing to tolerate to learn something new. But this was completely different. He lays out the museum along three axes: exile, holocaust, and continuity with “voids” in the interstices and hollow places made by the layout. It was brilliant, and the building was the best exhibit of all. Then I went into the Holocaust room (I think it was called). A museum employee stood at the door and opened it for people to go into and out of. It was heavy and black. He creaked it open for me, and I walked in. I was expecting the usual representations of the unthinkable, which always fall short, it seems. As soon as I walked in I shuddered, and there were bumps up and down my arms the whole time I stood there. It was a narrow chamber with concrete walls several stories high and only a small sliver of light to be seen in the highest corner. I have never experienced anything like this in my life: I was terrified. Two other women were in the room with me, and they were stunned as well. The oppressiveness, the helplessness, the terror. I will never forget it. A group of people came in, and I stumbled out, visibly shaken. I had previously been amazed by the end of the axis of exile where a monument beyond description gives you an amazing experience as well, but I was not prepared for this. The upper floors were much lighter and included some hands-on exhibits, but I was moved already. I skipped out of a film on Jews in the Middle Ages and headed to the shop where I was able to buy The Reader and a collection of Primo Levi stories in English.

Next was the Berlin Museum of Modern Art, and I looked forward to another wonderful art experience. Unfortunately, it was closed for some reason, and the young boy playing soccer in front of it tried to tell me several times before I understood. Another group of kids kicked a soccer ball my way, and I feebly kicked it back. “Thank you,” a girl said in English. We smiled at each other. I did the Guggenheim, but only after I walked right past it. I almost went into the law school at Humboldt University, but a woman who was a student there told me that the Guggenheim was down at the corner. “You’re going to be a lawyer?” I asked her as she smoked a cigarette. “Yes,” she said, and smiled. “Good luck, and thank you.” We smiled. The Guggenheim was a bit disappointing, a contemporary exhibit of American art that was only one room and included an audio of Jane Fonda explaining why she opposed the Vietnam War and an interesting LA piece by Raymond Pettibon.

By now I had walked about four miles, and it was late afternoon, so I was considering what was next. I walked west to the Reichstag and the Tiergarten, my original destinations and tried to board one of those open-top buses that tours the city. Fifteen Euros but I thought I would give the tourist thing a try. They told me it was too late; the last bus had run. I took that as a sign and kept walking into the Tiergaten. I walked over to the Bundestag and along the river as well, marveling at this most interesting and vibrant city. It was remarkable quiet downtown and pedestrians observed the crosswalk signs religiously. This city fascinates me. Then I went to the memorial to the destruction of European Jews and was stunned again. Heavy rectangular blocks of various sizes with intersecting paths between them as you go down, down, and down until they tower over you. Amazing.

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe

Eventually, I made my way back to the Unter der Linten S Station and once again did not have to show my ticket to anyone or pass through any gate. My station, on Osolostrasser, looks like it came right out of East Germany, which I guess it did. What a wonderful and odd city. I dropped my books in my room and headed back out. I had enjoyed my brief encounters during the day and was eager to talk to some more people. I noticed a Turkish grill on the way in via taxi, so I headed that way when I saw it again on my walk. I entered and stood at the counter trying to order from a menu in both Turkish and German. I told the man I didn’t know what I wanted because I was pathetic and was fluent in only one language. He could not speak any English, but when I shrugged my shoulders, he cut some meant from a pedestal hanging behind the counter and gave me a piece to see if I liked it. I did, and he fixed up a sandwich in pita bread for me. Meanwhile, I went over to the cooler and picked out a Turkish Diet Coke. When I returned a young man stood at the counter and helped with the English. “He wants to know where you are from,” he said. I replied, “I am an American, and tell him on behalf of about seventy-percent of Americans, I apologize for our president. He is what we call a ‘doofus,’ except that he is more dangerous than that. I did not vote for him, but if I had a vote in it, I would vote to impeach him and imprison him, Dick Cheney, and Donald Rumsfeld.” Okay, I just said the first line, but I wanted to say it all. Besides, I’m pretty sure there’s no translation in Turkish for doofus or impeachment. Instead, they smiled knowingly and asked where I was headed. “Istanbul,” I said, “through Prague and Budapest.” The young man looked at me incredulously and asked me to repeat it. “Istanbul? I’m from Istanbul. So is he.” He related this to the man behind the counter, and then some other men in the cafe heard it and marveled as well. “You’re really going to Prague, Budapest, and Istanbul?” he said. “Yes,” I replied, and I just came from Amsterdam. They shook their heads in wonderment. “Have you been to the United States?” I asked the young man. “Yes,” he said, “but I did not make it to the United States.” Clearly, something was getting lost in translation, a movie I had watched on my iPhone on the train yesterday. “I was born in Berlin, but I am from Istanbul,” he continued. I think I know what he meant: culturally, he was from Istanbul; he just happened to be born in Berlin. I ordered something on the counter that looked like a donut and paid. It was just over four Euros. The meal I had last night in the restaurant was 25 Euros, and this was as good as that. I loved it. I sat and ate and watched the Turkish men come and go, some stopping to eat, others sitting at the outdoor tables drinking Turkish coffee and arguing about something. I smiled and ate my mystery meat in pita bread, happy that I had finally made some kind of contact.

I left the Andolu Grill and headed for a Beer Garten, but no one was in there. I was not in the mood to drink by myself, so I continued on. I passed a place called “The Golden Coiffure,” and a young man looked up at me passing by. “I need a haircut,” I thought and turned around and went back. I walked up to the young man at the counter and said “Could I get a haircut?” He looked outside and yelled “Papa!” I said again, “Could I get a haircut?” gesturing like one who is trying to be understood. “Papa!” he yelled even louder. I went over and sat in a chair, unsure of what was going to happen next. A little boy was getting a haircut and his father waited for him. Turkish television played in the background, leading me to deduce brilliantly that I was probably in the Turkish section of Berlin. There is a certain appropriateness to that, I thought. Eventually, Papa came in and said something that indicated I could take a chair if I wanted a hair cut. It was a wonderful exercise in language trying to discuss a haircut. This is something I fail at in English, and I have never gotten a haircut to resemble what I asked for in English. But what the hell, no one was going to see me. I explained that I wanted it short around the sides and gave him an representation with my thumb and forefinger. He pointed to the trimmer, and asked if I wanted that. “No, no” I said, though I had considered shaving my head. The problem is that I fear my head looks like a rock, and I don’t want to look at it. He understood then I wanted a trim and got to work. He was, in fact, a magician, a true artist, and a craftsman. While his son shut the door because they were closing, this man used his comb and scissors like a paintbrush and easel. I watched as he worked on me and realized I was getting the exact haircut I asked for and wanted, for the first time in my life, from a man who did not really speak English, while is wife and children waited for him. It was a lovely thing. In fact, it was so good that I am going to post a photo of myself for the first time in the history of this blog. Most of you know me anyway, but you should see me now: happy, traveling, well-coiffed. Here you go: click. I thought he would hurry, but he took his time and did it right, providing all the small touches that a real craftsman does. He checked with me all through the process and at the end showed me the back of my head in a mirror and asked again if everything was okay. “Perfect” I said, making the “OK” sign with my fingers. I went to the counter and he asked for ten Euros. I gave him twelve, and he smiled. The little boy smiled at me too. It was a nice encounter.

Now I sit writing and emailing, exhausted in that wonderful way a good day does. Amazed at this city: this strange confluence of nostalgia and embarrassment, the lack of a usable past and an uncertain future, and communist and Bauhaus architecture with baroque sentimentalism. I love this place. It fascinates me. Tomorrow Prague.

In less than an hour, I will turn forty-eight.

After a six-hour train ride, I arrived in Berlin and made my way to the hotel I booked online. It looks like my change of approach is already being rewarded. This hotel, the Grand Central Berline Mitte, is costing me less for two nights than the Amsterdam hotel did for one, and it’s a great hotel with a wonderful restaurant and right across the street from the subway. It is also right on the site of the Berlin wall. Tomorrow I will do the Tiergarten, the Reichstag, and other things that interest me. My train to Prague on Wednesday can be a later one since it is only four hours, but I have to get up early on Friday to get a train to Budapest because it is a seven-hour ride. I decided to fly to Istanbul from Budapest rather than waste a full day on a train. I can be there in an hour by air, but it is something like twelve hours by train. I have great hotels in Budapest and Istanbul lined up, so my trip is pretty much planned out now. I resist, but I think it is a good idea. This isn’t Blue Highways, and I’m not rich, so a little planning helps with the money and the time. I am happy with the way things are looking and going. I forgot about the loneliness, which is exacerbated by not being able to strike up conversations with just anyone because of the language barriers, but I will try a bar tomorrow night, and see what happens there. Dinner tonight in the hotel restaurant where I treated myself to a lovely steak and a great glass of wine for my birthday.

I caught a reflection of myself in the train window a few times today and ended up smiling. I am amazed at my life. It could easily be read as a tragedy: three major relationships, all ending in failure. But frankly, I read that as a success. I loved until love ran out, and then I was released–one way or another. Now I am free and traveling Europe, going places I never thought I would see, and doing things I never imagined. Life is good. I have had good fortune professionally too and have gotten to do most everything I wanted and some things I never imagined. I find myself becoming an administrator more and more, and I learned an incredible amount this past year about that. I have good friends and family and people who love me. I am happy. I have lived. I continue to live. The choices I have made that have hurt me have also been choices to live, and therefore, I don’t regret them. I will, therefore, continue to choose life over inertia and death.

The greatest gift I have received in the past year or so is the knowledge that I can survive anything. The loss I suffered last year was the most devastating blow I could have imagined, but I made it through it. The difficulties I have had professionally this year have been the most trying in my career, but I survived and even thrived. I made it, and because I made it, I can make it through anything. That is an amazing gift for a forty-eight year old: to know that you can survive anything. It puts everything else into perspective and makes choosing life that much more vital. Life is good.

St. Judy and I got up at 4:00 am as scheduled, vacated the Sheraton Heathrow before they found new things to charge us for and basic services not to provide (air conditioning), and got into the Citroën C4 Picasso for the last time. I realized that I had come to dislike the car. It did not feel comfortable, the air conditioning did really work, and it was apparently uncomfortable for the ladies as well, except for Caitlin, of course, who luxuriated in her navigator’s seat. I was also dreading driving again. The last few days were not the enjoyable kind of driving, but that’s what happens when you have a destination and are coming to the end of a trip. So I was happy to be dropping it off, but I dreaded navigating Heathrow, even at 5:00 am. Fortunately, the streets were almost empty, and I wound my way through the many roundabouts to Terminal 4. It was a labyrinth, but I don’t think I missed a turn, the only time I can say that about any city or village we visited over the last week. I dropped my sister and said goodbye and tried to find National Car Rental. I had studied the map previously and had a general idea of where it was, and after turning into a deserted parking lot and asking the attendant to let me back out again, I found it and dropped Picasso. The shuttle took me to Heathrow where I jumped on the Tube to St. Pancras. Then I went to the Eurostar terminal and paid my fifty pounds for a ticket to Brussels and had just enough time for a scone and jam with coffee.

Only two hours to Brussels where the station was madness. Finally, I was able to find a train to Amsterdam and got my Eurail pass stamped. The train was empty but filled up quickly as it stopped frequently on the way to Amsterdam. I was able to nap a bit and enjoyed the transformation of landscape to waterscape as we approached Amsterdam. My plan to walk from the train station and find a hotel was quickly revealed to be flawed. First of all, I realized that walking around major European cities with my duffel and backpack looking for hotels was equivalent to wearing a sign reading that I am a tourist and therefore a mark. And I realized that it was going to be hard to find a hotel, especially since I was arriving in Amsterdam on a Saturday night in July. I found good fortune when I saw the Tourist Information office just across from the station where they sold museum passes, public transport passes, and hotel bookings. I asked for a hotel, told the person what price range I was looking for, and waited. She thought I meant a total for the two days, so she found a typical hotel that students would book, but when I told her I meant per night, she said I could do the hotel across the street. It turned out to be a five-star, and I had mentally calculated what I would be willing to pay for hotels on the remainder of the trip, recognizing that it was holiday season and Europe and I was paying with weak American dollars. The price was actually less than my highest estimate so I told her to go ahead. She explained the five Euro booking fee, and I smiled at the trap I had just walked into. It’s okay, and my hotel is fine, but I spent the day today booking hotels for the rest of the trip.

Amsterdam is amazing. I really like it. There is an energy here that feels right, and a city built on water with canals is just too cool. I walked out last night and immediately found myself in the Red Light District where sex clubs, marijuana, and public urinals dominated the sidewalks. I am a single man here in Amsterdam where I could get laid and high at the same time so easily, but all I want to do is walk around and absorb the city, have dinner, and go to bed (alone). Today was the Van Gogh Museum and more walking and lots of thinking.

As soon as I settled in on the train to Brussels, the loneliness set it. It is hard traveling with others, especially family, but we did very well together. Now I am alone, which I was looking forward to, but I always forget about the loneliness that comes with solitude. It’s good and reminds me of why people do couple. It’s hard to be alone and traveling, but there are definite advantages. You don’t have to manage other people’s time, luggage, or desires, and you can move much more easily wherever you want to go. But there are disadvantages. I always forget that the world is made for couples. Walking in Amsterdam I see all kinds: gays, lesbians, older, younger, happy, unhappy. Having dinner alone I feel like what I am: a single person traveling across Europe. So tonight I had dinner in my hotel at the empty cafe and downloaded some new apps for the iPhone. Is this sad? Not really. A group of Americans was playing the piano in the lounge, and they were really terrible. Actually, they were good musically, just their taste was terrible. I laughed silently at their selections of Barry Manilow and Judy Garland. Then I laughed out loud when they played and sang “Desperado.” Was that for me? I hope not. I’m not desperate at all: just alone in Amsterdam and happy. I love my solitude, and I love my life, and I am in Europe on my way to Istanbul. Life is sweet.

Buffalo in Amsterdam (and it's not even a head shop)

I love the British names for roads and such: verge for shoulder, diversion for detour, and orbital for bypass. We got up in Canterbury and Angie and Judy left to shop before I even woke up. Caitlin and I had breakfast together then showered. By the time I had finished, they were back and headed east to Dover. The White Cliffs were worth a stop, despite the fact we were headed in the wrong direction. Amazing vistas and a great landscape as well.

White Cliffs

We drove on down the A20 along the coast, then picked up the M20 into the M25, also known as the London Orbital. All was well until we approached the M4 and Heathrow, where we slowed to a crawl. Since I have gotten lost in every city from Oxford to Canturbury, I thought I would try to take us right to our hotel near Heathrow. No such luck. I got on the M4 toward London and was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to get off when I saw the road I wanted, the A4. We were going the wrong way, so I did one of those wonderful full roundabouts and headed back toward Heathrow. We saw the Sheraton and pulled in, and the porter unloaded our bags for the first time in two weeks. I smiled as I looked at the enormous luggage stacked on the trolley. No rooms for us of course. After some ten minutes of searching for my reservation, they tell me that I’m actually at another Sheraton just down the road. “Another Sheraton?” I say. Sure enough, two miles down the road is the Sheraton Heathrow, not the Sheraton Skyport. Right. No porter this time, but there are lifts.

We meet back in the lobby and discuss dinner. It’s early, but Judy and I have to be up early (4:00 am), but none of the restaurants are open. We decide to go to McDonalds across the street, except it’s a dual-carriageway that is loaded with traffic. We somehow manage to make our way across and have American food for the first time in two weeks. Really, we’ve had American food all along. British food is just bad American food. It began to rain, so we made our way gingerly back to the Sheraton where I have the privilege of paying $30 for Internet access. This on top of $10 a gallon petrol, and I will be happy to get rid of the car and use my Eurail pass. Tomorrow I will catch a train to Brussels, then Amsterdam. Here’s the deal: wake up at 4:00 am, leave the hotel by 5:00 am, drop St. Judy at Heathrow Terminal 4 (the orphan terminal, she calls it), drop the car at National (where I expect to be screwed again with hidden charges), get a shuttle to Heathrow, take the Tube to King’s Cross, get a ticket at Eurostar in St. Pancras (adjacent to King’s Cross), get on the 7:00 or 8:00 am train to Brussels, get another train to Amsterdam, walk from the train station to a hotel, sleep. Wish me luck.

The ladies got up in the morning and took a taxi into the city centre to see Edinburgh Castle. I’ve seen it three times, so I went in the city and looked around. Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities I’ve seen, but I have a feeling I’m about to see more. I stayed in the hotel and worked while they were gone. We ended up leaving about 1:30 and had an unremarkable drive to Middlesborough, an unremarkable city. Janna, however, at the Grey House Hotel, was magnificent. We ordered in and she brought us trays and plates for our fast food. It was a rainy and ugly day, so we went to bed early.

Today we got up in Middlesborough and had another lovely talk with Janna, who is from Prague. She asked me to write her when I get there, and I will. She told me to try these Czech dumplings, and I will. We had about a six hour drive today to Canterbury, motorways mostly, including a terrible traffic jam at the London Orbital junction.

Canterbury is lovely, and we just had a terrific dinner at a tapas restaurant. We celebrated my birthday, which is Monday, and I had a great glass of wine while the ladies sipped on sangria. Tonight we will watch Braveheart, and I at least will have some single malt scotch. Tomorrow night we stay near Heathrow so that St. Judy can head out early and Angie-con-Zoloft and Caitlin can leave in the afternoon.

It’s been a great trip, but it’s time for this portion to end. The ladies are ready to go home, but they’ve been great. We’ve gotten along very well, and I even got into the bathroom now and then. They’ve left lights on throughout the United Kingdon, and there may be some panties in the whirlpool in the Lake District, but no one will ever know for sure. Tomorrow Dover and back to London. Saturday the States for the ladies and east for me. Life is sweet. Travel is good. Family is nice. Solitude is sacred.

The road service in the UK drives little orange vans with the word “Rescue” on them. There are signs at construction sites that read “Free Recovery. Wait for Rescue.” In Onich when we had the flat tire, I was happy to be rescued, but now it seems a bit overdrawn. In any case our rescuer arrived as promised one and one half hours after he called. On the phone he had said that he would look at the tire, drive back into Ft. William, then come back out to Glenfinnan and put it on. I told the ladies not to expect to leave Glenfinnan until 6:00 pm. We looked at booking rooms there again, but the Kildonan Lodge in Edinburgh would not refund the prepaid lodging, so we decided we would head to the city of castles and kings no matter what time it was. He looked at the tire and immediately decided he could give me enough air to get to Ft. William, so he hooked up his compressor, filled me up, and we set off with him behind me. We kept it to 40 to Ft. William where I turned into National Tire. They were waiting and put on a new tire in no time. I told the ladies to walk on into town, and they managed to find lunch and called me to tell me where they were eating. The lad who was changing the tire asked me where the lug nut key was, and I told him he wouldn’t believe it. Along with a jack, it is in a little compartment under the back seat floorboard. “How do you open it?” he asked. “Do you have a 50p?” I said, and showed him how to open it with a coin. I never expected to be so familiar with the Citroën C4, but I could tell you a lot about it now. What I cannot tell you is why a car rental agency would rent a car without a spare tire. If a tire were with the car, I would have made it to Glenfinnan and driven into Ft. William the next morning. It would have saved about six hours. But all is well. We enjoyed our time off the road, and I was really proud of the ladies for not worrying too much. There were bouts of concern, as there was with me, but we all made it.

The drive to Edinburgh was lovely through Glen Coe and Rannich Moor, but then it turned rainy, and everyone started yawning. The previous two days the young one slept an average of fifteen hours each, so that evening in Glenfinnan she was bouncing off the walls. Add to that the pint and a half of cider she drank in the pub, and she quickly became intolerable. She went downstairs to look for her grandmother and fell on her ass, so she came back up. We had two rooms, so I ended up shutting the door she was so annoying. She will be one of those people, like me, who talks incessantly when drunk. Look out Northern Arizona University. She’s coming.

But she’s a hell of a navigator, I will tell you that. She got us right to our hotel in Edinburgh, and we dropped our stuff and got ready for dinner. The hotel restaurant was closed, but our hostess was so concerned about our troubles that she arranged for a taxi free of charge to a lovely restaurant called The New Bell. Our hostess had called ahead and reserved us a table and Gabor, the manager, came over and greeted us. Gabor is from Hungary, and when I told him I planned to go to Budapest, he brightened and told me some about his country. We had a wonderful conversation about travel, language, haggis, and California, and he eventually revealed that our hostess is his partner. “Tell her I will be home as soon as I can,” he said, smiling. The haggis was outstanding, and I even convinced the ladies to try a bite, and the company was good.

I walked the ladies back to the hotel then headed right back out to the city. I have been here several times, and they wanted to go to the castle in the morning, so I thought I would check it out. I walked about three miles into the city, enjoying the rhythms and smells of a great European city. A band was playing at a venue, and I almost went in to listen, but I decided to keep going. I walked all the way to the castle then got some pounds and took a cab back to the hotel. Angie and Judy were still up, so I talked to them briefly before we all dropped off to sleep. My bed was a cot, and my feet hung off the end.

Tonight Middleborough with perhaps a stop in lovely Durham. Tomorrow Canturbury. Friday a hotel next to Heathrow for the return flight home for the ladies. I will be Eurostaring it back to the continent: Amsterdam, I think.