THe Journey Continued and Reflections from a Man at Rest

If a man seeks the something that has penetrated his dreams for a decade or more but loses grip on the self that he was when he first had those dreams, what then, do his dreams offer him? I asked myself this question too often, with each new experience, I came closer to a realization, a chance to see myself for what I really was, but in the beginning of this journey I held my character with white-knuckled grip as I hurlded towards each new destination. The clarity of my experiences had been blurred by the creation of a arrogant persona. The confidence I exuded only made me weak and reluctant to experience the world for what it truly was and what I felt after this realization was regret for the first time in my life. Regret not for the moments that had passed, but for my inability to absorb the moments with honesty instead of a false sense of confidence.

When a person takes this sort of journey, away from everything they know to be a reality, the greatest challenge is to experience the experience for what it is and neither make it to be something it's not nor refuse to open yourself up to the cultural exchange. It can daunting, and I've seen young kids, spend their European vacation drinking and partying just as they would back home. I have also witnessed men and women both in their 20's and 40's leave everything at home, to spend 6 months immersed in a new culture to learn the language. I found myself somewhere in the middle on average. During my stay in Paris, I was still a New Yorker. Brash and sarcastic with no sense of awe or humility..."Oh Really? that's Notre Dame? Yeah, too many tourists, you've seen one church you've seen 'em all!" That was my reaction. Why bother? But if a picture is worth a thousand words, then the real thing should leave you with none. I cannot express completely the feeling of mounting the Eiffle Tower, climbing every step to the summit and looking out over a sun kissed Paris with Edith Piaf ringing in my ears. I just do not have the vocabulary, and can't spell wind or smell or the taste of sweat on my lips after 700 steps. But you can imagine, and you can see photos, but though you might find 1000 or even 1,000,000 words to describe the sensations you imagine to be true, when you are there, you mind opens, and your mouth shuts. There is no point to say or write anything in that moment. That is why planes were invented. To go and see these things. (probably not the reason planes were invented, but I speculate to make a point.)


So you travel and you see these things, these many and great things. They change you, in ways that you can't expect. Looking at the Coliseum, I did not see the wonder of construction and the daunting question of "how did they do it?" but rather I saw myself. I saw myself reflected in the many and abundant things across Europe. It was a poppy littered field at 150 mph, a cloud filled sky at dusk, a crescent moon over Biaritz, a hug from a stranger, a smile from a child and the embrace of the Mediterranean over my tired body. All these things, so brave of me to have seen, never cared to ask me what I thought of them. They existed for the same sake a tree grows, it does because it does. And thus I found the secret to my self. I must do what I must do, because like the tree, its what I do.

I believe I left off somewhere on the Road to Budapest, and for your patience I continue the Road to Budapest, Part 2. Enjoy...

Its dangerous and I toss my head back and close my eyes to the night and just accept that this moment is what the trip was all about. I have no place to be but here in this seat, and though I have been traveling since 8 this morning, almost 14 hours so far, I don’t care. Why waste this sweet Italian night on rented sheets?

VERONA

A stopping place while I wait for the night train to Munich. Stepping outside into the night air, I found no comfort in Italy, just tension and excitement that comes only from the truly unknown. The night it was thick, not quite humid and not quiet hot. It was in between and soft. The hour approached and my train would arrive soon. I found a spot on the curb outside to smoke a cigarette I had bummed off an old man that smelled of sweat, wet wool and diesel fuel and stared up into the heavens for something. One solitary star reveals itself to me and I find no solace in the lonely light. I am alone tonight, and the though my phone and computer and other electronic parts will run out of energy, I feel that I will not. Not tonight, I am awake. I am living and full of life tonight. I charge the quiet darkness with no real concern for logic. Its in the darkness that the truth of this trip will reveal itself and on the this rambling train to Germany I can see that there is no logic. No sense exists, no true rhyme or reason for the events of an adventure to occur. I believe that the algorithm for adventure consists of the following components; 1. No direct desire to achieve anything in particular, other than of course adventure. 2. Fearlessness to bear yourself to the world, whatever the consequences. I speak of fearlessness not just of events, places, but of people, animals, foods and all other facets of the life that exist in their various forms across the globe. And lastly, (3) A mind open to all the strange possibilities of life, the ability to change your mind, perspective or plans at a moment’s notice. It is with these three basic elements that truest and purest adventure can occur. The cost of adventure is a function of the three elements. For example those who are not afraid of the weather, I speak of fear of exposure to the elements not ignorance, might take the chance to walk across the Gobi dessert, or climb mount everest. Those who fear has encapsulated their habits might find that a cruise be a proper form of adventure because their proportional open-mindedness is far greater then their fearlessness. But as one develops this analogy further, one realizes that grade of an adventure is relative and thus flawed and especially unique. The difficulty with adventure is that in this chaotic scheme no two adventures are the same for any two given people. This allows for a freedom beyond any other formulaic expression because without a correct answer that can apply generally to all bodies in motion, then no one can be confined to generalization. However in this analogy their is one limitation, and that is the comparative fearlessness before and after the adventure. If the adventure fulfills the three basic principles, then the level of fearlessness will absolutely decrease. This certainty is due to the experience of said person in an environment outside of their normal existence and thus a broader feeling of capability grows and personal confidence and `worldly-ness’ as described as an overall ability to navigate the globe with reasonable ease increases its presence in that person’s motivation towards life. The greater the adventure, the more the person might be inclined to seek out opportunities that can provide alternative adventure as well as to expand the common sense of the individual. Having to communicate in other languages unknown the person with only the means of facial and body expressions can create a sense of personal awareness that boarders on obsessive.
The sleeper car I have found unfortunately has no place to sleep. The sleepers are wise and prudent to lock their doors, but it leaves me little to no choice as to where to rest my head. After a couple of late trains from Venitimilgla and Genova, I am stranded with only my Eurail pass. The cost of this consequence is never more then 5 euros, but there is a difficult feeling involved with trying to find a place to sleep, a comfort and relaxation. I will be in Budapest Soon, and hopefully will have a place to stay, but the constant state of adventuring into the unknown creates a growl within me. A silent roar that pushes me through my own discomfort and into the new. A thick layer of fog moves in to cover my mind as I vibrate like a bead of water on a smoking hot pan. The train banks hard and fast like a 100,000 pounds of thrust from a jet engine. The force of these fast turns is beginning to make me crazy. I never have felt so consecutively sick as I have on the trains in Europe. The cars are fitted with race car suspension, fit to take corners at super high speed and every French and Italian driver finds the hidden desire lurking behind their thick coat of cologne and wrap around glasses, a burning and unnecessary desire to drive like they were on a race track, and thus causing the prepackaged sandwich I bought from the vending machine just hours earlier to start a fight with my stomach and my throat.



It is the most gratifying thing to know that I can just keep on going. And so I do, sandwiched between two large packs I write and roll with the passing things before me. Time, a good friend of mine, has given me a secret to keep and I won't let it go, not for anything. Time has taken me in under its wing, and I don't think I'll be coming home soon. The sun creeps up beyond the summer alps, now green and lush with forestation and life. Their winter selves cast away as high hot winds from the valleys and blasts of sunshine shake the ice from their cold slumber and throw down the melted life down their slopes, the rivers beneath the tracks swell and the torrent currents plows against the clay banks of Austria. It had been almost 32 hours since I had left Marsaille. As the sun came up, my complete and utter lack of sleep began to play with my mood. I began to salivate, hungry, tired and restless, I just wanted something to do. Soon, I had something to do, give my passport over to two men walking in the bar car. It was the German Secret police, and it was just me and two other middle-eastern guys awake in the car. The cops looked at me and then to my compatriots awake. He took their passports, and with German Shepard (sort of gave away the secret if you ask me) in tow, they began to make phone calls and searched these men head to toe and their luggage as well. It was embarrassing, because though a world of dangerous and merciless men exist on this planet without a conscience, even on a basic level dignity can be snatched from those without their consent solely based on their complexion. This is nothing new, not by a long shot. But to be in the same lineup, so to speak, and not be selected because I'm lighter skinned, made me uncomfortable. These gentlemen were clearly used to the routine, and though I am used to racial profiling and long standing history of social injustice, I quietly stood aghast as the state of affairs I was witnessing.

We raced across Austria and into Germany. Munich approached as the sun gained confidence in the morning sky. I found the terminal packed with Burger King, Starbuck and other capitalist labels. A huge red sign above the Eastern entrance to the red Trink Coca Cola! And so thousands of miles away from home, I took a seat in Burger king, had a cup of coffee and a bagel for 2 euro and waited the two hours for my train to Budapest. I made a reservation at a hotel, and continued to wait. The hours passed by quickly and my express train to Budapest would depart momentarily. I found my seat, and plugged in my ear phones and let Bob Dylan cooly sweep away my worries. I ride on a mail train baby, can't buy a thrill the train pulls away from the station with a gentle tug, don't the moon look good momma, shinin' through the trees the departure rattles me back to reality and I realize that I'm heading to see my gal in a foreign land. Covered in sweat, filled with love, sitting still at over 150 miles and hour, I am bound for her and myself.



....continued in Budapest

Marsaille to Budapest Pt. 1

(the following posts will be directly from my daily journal. In the fast paced tracks of my own, often disorganized mind, the order of a typical book form, where form meets function and beginning middle and end colide into a safe linear order, I often find that task to be herculean in its demand on me. So as we move closer to the near east, I have kept track of my movements and my thoughts in this journal. To give you a basic outline I followed this line of cities from point A to Point B.

Marsaille to Nice
Nice to Ventimiglia
Ventimiglia to Genova
Genova to Milan
Milan to Verona
Verona to Vienna
Vienna to Munich
Munich to Budapest

this portion will cover the first leg of the trip to Milan (bolded). It is good to note that this trip was a consecutive movement from one city to the next. I had some layovers, and some troubles, but mostly I was on the steel lines that cross Europe. I hope that there won't be too much confusion, I tried to illuminate everything that I saw with the words I know. But unfortunately, I can't write smell, and I can't write as well I wish I could. I will paint the scenes I have seen, and I will cook what I have learned, but to be one with a journey means remembering more and writing less. Some of these stories I won't reveal and they will remain relics for my children to theirs someday. And so I give you leg 1 of a 41 hour journey to spend 24 with the woman I love. Some will be told, some will not, some will make you laugh, some will make you cry, but its what I saw, what I said, and what I lived. I will continue this form as it best describes what I see, and since I have already written it, it saves me the agrivation of trying to write the same feelings I felt after I have felt endless others. Enjoy.)


I had arrived in Marsaille after my experience in Lyon with the big B (Paul Bocuse) I found a bed and wonderful company, with Andre Benattar, the cousin of friends. I had spent only one day in Marsaille and felt somewhat snubbed for lack of a better word at the fact that the beauty and I woke up early after a nice evening with Andre and his friends Pierre and Sandrine. I had reviewed the hours for the train the night before and was well prepared to depart from the station Gare St Jean at 9:30 but when I finally arrived at the station there was no train. There are two major types of trains here in France as there are in the states, the TGV which would be something like the Accela and the TER which pulls a close second to the Metro North. So because Marsaille is a big port and hub in the south of France, the station houses both TER and TGV. I had checked the schedule but had failed to check the days for the departures and whether or not the same trains that depart on Fridays depart on Saturday. And so I had trouble figuring out what the best plan of action was. So I check the board and found that there was a TGV departing at 11 and though there was an additional 10 euro fee for the seat sans reservation, I decided that it was worth the 10 euros to get on board and make the trip to Nice sooner rather then later. I had originally found that all the first class seats taken, but luckily I found one and was comfortable in the quiet car and typing in no time.



But the train curves around the winding tracks carved directly through the soft limestone. Beyond the windows that only partially reflect the quiet passengers inside lies the Mediterranean sea. Its salinity and azure tone have long drawn the bronze skinned Europeans for sex and sun. The listen to the delicate sound of the water kiss the shore. Its lips are soft and supple as are those of the many supple bodies which frolic and float in it, and the kisses are more passionate then those of the burly and boistrous atlantic. The click of the tracks is almost inaudible from the cabin of the train. As the charger banks and rolls into each turn at high speed like a jet fighter, i can see out the window the many tile covered roofs of Mediterranean decor. At this first approach, I can see that the beauty of this part of the world is not that there is an individual culture but a melange of associated towns that share the same culture. Theirs is of the sea and nothing more. Marsaille has cliffs of bramble and limestone that shed the sea side towns from the heavy rains approaching from Lyon and the Alps. The tan faces of north africans speckle the sea shore and it becomes obvious that Africa is near. The worn faces of old fishermen impress upon me just how far away from home I am. I see their faces and want to paint them, immortalize them in some kind of golden frame in which each wrinkle of their dark faces can be analyzed and cherished for its history and nuances that reveal the age of a time now lost to capitalism and desires of the flesh. Passing vineyards long since passed their last harvest, rest and lie in wait for the next chance to grow and make the journey from vine to bottle. Red Poppy speckles the overgrown grass alongside the tracks like shining drops of blood on a canvas. Their color pure and filled with fresh passion. Their only crime is being to beautiful, they will be picked and discarded, but the great irony of nature will no doubt reveal a new flock of these fluttering pedals next summer. In other places, their color paints the patches of green with long and languid brush strokes. I can look out the window of this train and imagine that I am not here. That I am just going somewhere I know, to New Jersey to see Melinda, or to New Haven to visit with Nick. But no one would be home if I were to arrive. They are all gone, and then I remember that I have never seen anything before. I have never tasted life until now, and the satisfaction of this adventure reveals itself again. And yet, still yet, I have not found the thing that eludes me, freedom. I can smell it and listen to it whisper to me from dark corners of cobblestone streets. I chase the sound around every corner and hope to find it uncovered and waiting. But the reality is that I am free, my chase obliges my freedom. It is my mind that remains captive. I will attempt to find the key, and life, which has already begun to accelerate, will reveal the great truth to me very soon, and when it does I believe that I will be ready to receive the message. This crusade for truth in food will change the world for me, and hopefully in turn I may be able to shape the clay when I have the opportunity. I must begin however, with my own form, my own mental state of being. For without my confidence and a sense of altruistic sentimentality to surround my journey, the task will be difficult and such important descions I would otherwise instinctualy react to, would be besmirched unknowingly and could potentially deter me from what I believe to be a great opportunity. I speak only in generalities at this point, because the opportunity has not yet revealed itself. But I imagine then when my mind finds its freedom, then too will my momentum be great enough to break down the barriers that have held me captive. I have been learning through the windows of my mind. My eyes only partially open to the experiences because of my own familial dementia. The blinds were down but open to let in the light.



The traveler sees the world before him and jumps into the unknown fully. I think that french enabled me to a certain extent. Because of my ability to describe the feelings in my head, albeit, infantile and crude, I felt that I had a place in France, but now for the first time, I am alone without a language to communicate and its a fierce feeling. The feeling is so different now, I am in another country, the coast I leave behind and its suntanned flesh for the prada covered bodies of Milan.

Passing the mountain villages on the way to Milan, I see the greenhouses stacked upon one another, built to take full advantage of the terroir and precious sunlight.
loano really pretty. Half asleep and speeding pass rice and wheat fields open to the suns last winks of light for the day. The poppy’s still speckle the landscape and somewhere france is still with me. But I arrived in Milan late, and thus felt the wrath of full italian brutality. Its not that I don’t appreciate the work of state workers, but seriously, I was standing at the window speaking to the woman at the ticket desk. With a semi-pathetic tone in my voice (might explain her response) she never made eye contact with me and proceeded to flick the switch or release the lever that slowly closed the blind in the window. It was like the curtain at a peep show, sorry no hard feelings but the day is over and its time to go. So standing a little flabbergasted, having already waited in an entirely different line for 20 minutes I was not sure what to do. I did a little head bang on the ticket window, and decided it was time to move on. So I found the man who had shooed me away only moments earlier at the former window, and said, “Sir, the window is closed, I need to get to Vienna.” To which he replied in what must have been the first english phrase he was taught, “Vienna close(d), no ticket, go somewhere else.” A little shocked I tried logic, after all it was an Italian age of Enlightenment, “Where is the closest station to Vienna in Italy, Tell me how to get there, anywhere closer to the Austrian boarder is fine. Tell me anything that gets me out of this station, por favore.” To which he looked at me over his half moon glasses perched on the tip of his sun stained nose, “Line 22 upstairs, they help you.” The lesson here, when an Italian is screaming at you, that doesn’t necessarily mean that you are being yelled at. The language is latin, it has machismo, and more then that, and this is entirely personal, I don’t understand the language. And with that experience, I found the first moment of insight into the world that is Europe. The French, though arrogant have a method. Maybe they learned it from the Germans, but I have taken over 20 trains in the past month, and each one left either precisely on time, of a minute early. My train to Milan arrived 20 minutes late and I missed the last high-speed sleeper out of Milan. This is an adventure and tonight, I am sure will prove interesting. I am sitting on a regional train heading to Verona where I will pick up another train to Vienna. I don’t really know when I will arrive in Austria, but I can be sure that I will be tired and worn out. But now sitting in a comfortable chair next to a window open half way blazing through the hot italian night towards a city I have never visited. The tension is unbelievable. A blast of air screams through the car as the high speed train on the next track runs its fingers across the window. It momentum pushing the air ahead of it to thrust the windows back against the interior of their guides. The power is palpable the excitement builds. LIke standing on the top of a mountain in the dark of a moonless night, the breeze hits you from the unseeable and you can’t help but wonder if the next gust will toss you off your feet, though you are sure you are safe. Ibrahim Ferrer chanting spanish in my ears, Marieta, a woman he begs to for love, and the latin beat pulses through the nerves and pushes me further on down these Milano tracks to the city I don’t know.

Also to Note*

I will be organizing the photos most likely this weekend, so don't sweat it, there will be ORDER!!!! I cannot really take too much pity in your disorganized viewing, these pictures are pretty bad-ass.

Later.

More Posts Are Comming I Promise

Okay so I am here in Italy and its amazing. I realize that you, my doting fans wait patiently each and every morning for this page to load before you can regard my lovely words as you sip your morning coffee. I also realize that it has been almost 3 weeks since the last post, but don't sweat it promise it will be worth the wait. Just to give you a little update, I have visited the following cities since last we spoke.

Pau
Montpillier
Lyon
Marsaille
Nice
Ventimilligia
Milan
Verona
Munich
Vienna
Budapest
Venice
Florence
La Spezia
Sarzana...and the list will continue as tomorrow I am heading out to Cinque Terre! I miss you all and will upload everything. I have photos, videos, words. You name it ,I got it...talk soon

Ciao

Aarona Flores

(sigh)....shit!

And so the final day of my time on the farm had arrived. It was a cool fog covered morning in May, and the market was bustling in Rouffignac, but the coffee I had earlier that morning was strong, and well...something had to be done. Don't cringe yet, I promise nothing graphic, but as you can imagine my first thought was, 'I will find a bathroom around here somewhere and all will be well with the world.' However, when I did find the WC as it were, I was puzzled when I discovered this strange device in the room where a seat should be. Is this a joke, some kind of inititation to the farmers life? I had no idea but let me tell you I was not even sure if I was in the right place, so I checked the other stalls and there were urinals. 'Hmmm! Nothing strange there,' I assured myself. So I walked back to the other side. SHIT!!! And so I began to think, all the while my bowels turning knots and my patience withering by the minute. Here I was, standing in kimbo staring at a hole in the ground. I took a closer look, and found there were little foot sized parts just about hip distance apart in the front of the hole. Could they be serious? Where am I supposed to sit? Looking at the walls I saw no handle-bars, no notching to get a grip, nothing!!!!! And so, with years of athletics behind me, no pun intended, I figured I could squat for a few minutes without having too much trouble.


Let me tell you that it was not my legs I was worring about, not directly at least. The pants dropped and things began as usual except there was nothing to support me if I made that tragic fall. And so with one eye on the bullseye, things began to happen, and they happened fast. Too fast, and I found my knees getting weak, each movent of this odorous opus was taking more and more out of me, finally I had to resort to attempting to stick my hands to the walls. Everytime I thought it was over, I was too wrong, and because of the morning dew (seriously not trying to make this many puns) the walls were slick with condensation causing my position to slip ever so slowly and painfully southward towards the awful pit of despair to my rear! And so in a last ditch effort, I thrust my arms around the toilet paper holder, and with my shoulder dug into the right wall, balanced for the final notes. A sigh of relief came over me, finally, the dennemont come and I was prepared for a relaxing finish. I reached for the paper, and it felt light. Too light, and sure enough, with a soft tug, the remaining 5 squares fell limp in my grip. I was battered but not beaten, and so naked from the waist and with jeans wrapped neatly around my ankles, I waddled to the next stall and shut the door. Using my jeans as an anchor? i held the bunched up bit in between my feet as a saftey robe and called my self on-belay to begin clean-up.

It was an awful and jarring experience, I was wiped out and my thighs were burning. I used to think the french were just snotty, but now I know, its contempt they hold for us, those who shit sitting down.

Leaving Perigueux and part of myself behind

I have to say that this past week has changed something in me. I know my last post was somewhat preachy and if nothing more, overcharged with idealistic ideology. But its hard not to want to take the time to see the way life was and continues to be in the rural parts of the world. I can't say it was all moments of bliss and ecstasy, I managed to mess up a few times, and even learn a little french. There were moments of frustration and aggony which accompanies inability to communicate. But then again, people who speak the same language have the same crux to consider in their native lands. The week was, in a word, Funidmental. It taught me a lot about myself, and where the boundries lie for me, between satisfaction and overcoming insecurities. To get a little serious for moment, I promise laughs before this post is through, for me the line grew clear between working to impress and working at my best. The results are fractions apart, nearly the same, but the mental reservations that can overcome ones mind in a state of thrusting movements motivated by pure insecurity and desire to show one's prowess can only be construed as immature. I will not argue with the need to impress others. However I regard the act of impression just for the sake of impression leaves nothing more then a footprint in the sand. A momentary figure of what strength and presure one can exude, and yet nothing can prevent the great force of the ocean from obliterating the object which so proudly defined its owner. I learned of myself, and beneath the great wide open skyscape of Southwestern France, I found that the clouds and the sun, cared little for those it covered, and the land neither toiled nor spoke out to whose hands tended its bussom. Nature will not speak back, and shout and exclaim its dissatisfaction with those who work with and without it. Paul and Genevive Jacques, my hosts both lived alternate lives before they entered into the country for a live with the land. But Paul especially showed no real expression, save for his eyes; which both blue and bold gesticulated to even his smallest emotion. It was in his eyes that I saw my futility and my weakness. I hold no contempt for Mouissuer Jacques' eyes, because it was by his land that I found myself alone, in a field with sky above, earth below and the labor of my two very own hands giving opportunity to new life on the farm. It was an experience that has changed me and gave me the chance to witness the difference between the self I habitutally exude, and the one which lies within me. The one that has belonged to my father, and their fathers before them. If you want to find out just who you are in this life, then make something before you take something. Deal with the responsibility of overseeing something from seedling to harvest, and the decisions you make to kill, feed, and sell that life will reflect greatly in the reflection of the self you wish to be.

Oui-uh Oui-uh...non!

Ah the life of a french farmer, not really a terrible thing if you ask me. How would I know, you ask? Oh well I've been spênding the past week on a farm in France, (click here to see the farm) and its been amazing. I have alwaysz been the kind of person to enjoy getting my hands dirty, maybe thats why I love to paint and cook. Now of course you can add farming to that list. Its been wonderfuly impossible to find words to describe all the beauty that still exists in this really huge world. When I have visited Montana or Wyoming, I have seen the big skies that have called to the endless hearts and souls of cowboys and cowgirls with their endless tracks of clouds, but yet, there is something petite about their grandure, because you know that just down the road is a Mcdonalds or a KMART. It is hard to say whether those same cowboys who've spent their lives dedicated to the ways of a harmonious existance close to the ground would be proud of those commercial ventures that are taking up so much of their precious land. However, that is the cost of living in a country such as ours, with its wonders come tradjeties (spelled wrong. The same thing is happening here in France and the Roman holiday/La Vie en Rose sort of life I was expecting to find has now been replaced with Would You Date My Mom dubbed over in French, and the Le M. Its funny too because the French are so proud of their culture, but its kinda hard, I think, to declare originality when your skin tight jeans are sagging down to your knees and your emo-haircut is slowly drooping to one side of your face. With a baguette in one hand and a Mcdonalds shake in the other, its a confusing time for everyone thats for sure. BUT ENOUGH of complaining there is plenty of beauty to go around, and spending time on a farm is something I would recommend to everyone who is in search of a little more then just a typical vacation.

I have been picking, and ho-ing (not that kind) and fishing in lakes boiling with trout, (see picture below of the trout I cooked and caught!) But its a choice of a lifetime, I think, I can say that a certain amount of sentiment has crawled its way into my synical and sarcastic brain. Because to look up from your mower or spade or other sort and see the clouds of southwestern france floating over head, it is hard to long for civilization. The life is simple here, there is no capitalism. For 4 euros you can buy yourself a KILO of white aspargus as thick as your wrist, and they only charge what they need! Needless to say the whole experience has changed me for the better I think, making me more aware of my surroundings and to be more careful of how I think of my food and from where it comes!


I will update this again soon, I love you all.

Bon Journee

*To Note

(those are sandy feet people, i did not start growing fur)
I apologize, but their will be gaps in this blog. I am not interested, as I am sure you can imagine, in spending the better part of a day in a computer cafe. So understand please, my friends that there will be a story told, it will just be in pieces; Use your imagination a bit, I have sent all of you post cards. So those should clear up some stuff, enjoy your weekend everyone.


**also if you are reading these posts and you see Z's where you should see W's, its just these cursed keyboards, so replace those.

Catching Up with Everyone

Part II. MEETING NEW PEOPLE
*(I will not have pictures to accompany this post and most likely the next post, there are roughly 400 pictures on my ipod that I will not be able to upload until after I return. I will offer you the best that I can in literary illustrations)


And so as lunch ended, Alexandre had to return to work and Nathalie offered to show me around town a little bit before she had to return to work. As we walked through the beautiful cobblestone streets amongst the limestone facades that reflected every ounce of sunlight that touched it, Nathalie explained to me that the government of France has required that small towns like this which have traditional limestone facades comme ça, are required by law to clean them to their original cleanliness. I will have the pictures for you as soon as I return; but the city was the most futuristic Ive ever seen. But seriuosly, they have made such an attempt to fortify their history with laws that they have even installed a tram way, which makes no sound, (personally I think it floats) and looks totally awesome. ...Wait here is a picture. So you see this beautiful thing comming towards you and I swear I almost got run down I was just staring at it sort of saying, 'its soooo preeettyyy' before I realized that the driver was french, and thus wouldn't be stopping for any pedestrians anytime soon. Thankfully he was on tracks. Cars had been limited to side streets and for routes leading in and out of town, but other than that it was covered with these trams and buses. We walked through what is known in France as the Artisan part of town, basically the zone of kitch and local decor. When my mother reads this, she should note, that interior design is huge in this part of France. Unfortunatley, its all French country style, go figure!

So walking through the streets, the sun tries to hide behind the 2 and 3 storie homes but always leaves a little beam behind and its hard not to want to plant your flag as you stand their and just live the rest of your life waiting for the next shadow to cross the street. Truly beautiful. So we stopped by Nathalie's office, which was beautifuly laid out in a 200 year old building with french windows (they're just called windows in france) and soft sanded planked floors and glass desks; just three in the flat each with a chair and a mac. Trés cool! She brought me to the center of the town and showed me a cathedral zith a tower that had a viez of the entire city, so for 3 euro I took another trip the stairs. (When I was in Paris I walked up the 700 steps of the Eiffel Tower and took pictures, you can find those pictures, which are not completly loaded on flickr in 'PARIS pt. DUH' towards the end) the steps were once again smalls and extremely high for steps, maybe a foot and half between each step. I know that doesn't seem like much but after 250 steps, everyone gets a little tired. So finally I made it through the mouse hole they had managed to carve out of the top of the stairway which I had to remove my day bag, jacket to fit through. But the view was amazing and though I can navagate the city like Jason Bourne where I just look at the map and the bench across from me and I know zhere I am, the breeze was amazing, the clouds breathtaking, and I had a nice little moment by myself.

I made it down the stairs and across the village just to explore. I was to meet Nathalie at the train station across from the river at 7 so I took that time to walk around and see the village. I made my way through the Grand Theatre plaza, and over towards this huge fountain in the middle of the town. There are two actually one on either side of a larger obilisqe. One is dedicated to the philosopher and former Mayor of Bordeaux Michel de Montaigne. The other one is dedicated to Charles Louis de Montesquieu, one of the architects of the "century of the lights". He was not only an intellectual, but also a winegrower, which of course goes hand in hand with spending time in the region, there must be wine consumed. Directly besdie the fountain there is a large flea market housing not only the best in French artifacts from the past century, but also there is food. They make these doughnuts the size of my head seriously filled with none other than nutella. So of course I had one, which I almost couldn't finish. Seriously, I can eat, but that thing was huge. Of course I had a local proveyers jambon and rilletes sandwich before that. I also grabbed a bottle of some local Bordeaux superior, for 5 euro and headed to the Jardin de Public (thats the Public Garden) and consumed myself solid quarter of a cup of nutella before falling asleep in the grass. I woke up and met Nathalie at the agreed upon stop and found that she and Alex lived right around the courner, and more importantly she had a dog. I tough and rough little dog with no personality...(not true!) The dog was called Meg; a little springer spanial, pictures of which I have on my ipod and have not been able to get to an apple which when I do I will be able to download, but trust me she is gorgeous. With long eyelashes, and a big floppy ears and a coat almost chestnut brown, her skin too big for her aging body that she often times needs a good roll on the floor to get the kinks out. I followed Nathalie and Meg up the stairs of their building to find that the inside of the building was a remarkable limestone cave, that nathalie explained was once used as a cellar for Porto. Alex and Nathalie had to go out to dinner that night, so I was on my own and was fine with that because I wanted to explore a little bit.

I found my journal and hat and made a tour of the town only stopping for a little bite to eat at a local taven. Nothing wonderful to report other than the fact that I had the first good nights sleep in a while.

The Next day was May the fisrt and what is called Fete de Traville and the custom is to give everyone these little white bell shaped flours called Muguet Because there was not work, Alexandre, Nathalie and Meg had agreed to take me along with some of their friends one of which spoke perfect English, to St. Emilion. Aparently, they grow wine there?! We made good time to Brita and Christoph's house, just on the outskirts of town, where we exchanged pleasantries, but Brita and Christoph had found a little spot, which I have pictures of, and had carved out a little love nest and their happiness was clear and present. It was so lovely to be surrounded by such lovely people on such a perfect afternoon. We made haste to get to St. Emilion, and before I could say anything, the garge door was opened to reveal this little beauty, apartently a gift from Brita's father. Her name was Guilia. She was loud as shit and no radio, but I can tell you it didn't matter. The sun was out and we made a day out of eating and drinking. I did not take pictures of my food on this day only because it didnt last long enough. I was hungry. We walked around the old wine village and Alex and I even found an old abandoned wine cellar deep underground, which is along with the other pictures from that day on my ipod. But the weather could not have been better and after that day at the vineyards we all headed back to Britas and Christoph's and while we sat by the pool the afternoon slowly walked towards the horizon into dusk and we decided to stay for dinner. I asked if I could make dinner, and everyone was kind enough to oblige my musings and after an hour or two and a couple of drinks later we were all eating. I decided to make a cassoulette with tomatos, mushrooms, white asparagus, onions, some cream, and goat cheese. The oil I used was so spicy that I had to, (had to mind you) crack an egg over the top before it came out of the oven to add a little more texture. That was accompaning, some grilled pork shoulder, and a couple of duck breasts. All well and good, and the wine Christoph selected from his own cellar which was absolutly fantastic. I donùt remember if I took pictures of them, but I will update all stories as soon as I return to the states. The evening ended in great conversation, more wine and another great night of sleep for yours truly.

The following day was for me to prepare for the next part of the journey. Which you will all get to hear about later this week. I have been sitting at this terminal for a few hours now and need a little sunshine. I will leave you with this for next week's post. I have been spending the last couple of days in Biaritz surfing with some new friends, but this is what it looked like last night as we caught the tide on the way out. Think Keanu Reaves and Point Break

Back to Report

A lot has happened since my last message to all of you and I know that you've been waiting patiently, so let me lay it down.

1. Leaving Paris
I packed up my bags from where I was staying with Matthiew in Les Halles and took the tube to Montparnasse station to grab the 4pm TGV (french for Ludicrus Speed Train) and make my approach into the countryside of France for the first time. The first thing that I can tell you is that the train was beautiful, like the Accela but with an accent. I took my seat and we were off within minutes we had reached warp 5 and I was beginning to get dizzy looking out the window ( just kidding) but the speed of the train does something wonderful and terrible at the same time. Because you are moving at such a terribly fast rate, the gorgeous world outside the double-pained glass looks surreal, almost fake and in that respect you loose some of the elemental beauty of a train ride through the country. There is no glunk-caclunk of the wheels of the train as they pass over the welded gaps in the track, no gentle rocking and no connection with the outside world. That being said I will say the view from my window was spectacular. Large fields of grass, mint green would cover vast areas of lanscape, rolling and undulating with the terrain and then would smothered by a million small sunflowers checkering the view from yellow to green and back again. (there are some shots on flickr that attempt to show this but as you will also see it was difficult to have the proper words for what I was seeing.) I tried to write in my journal, but fell asleep soon afterwards.

2. BORDEAUX - NOTHING TO WHINE ABOUT!
I arrived in Bordeaux under grey skys and a cool breeze that shook the wonderlust right out of me as if it to say, HEY wake up you need to find a place to stay. I was having trouble getting in touch with my contact in Bordeaux and was on my own for the night. I happened upon a hotel near the station and just checked in and dropped my bags off and immediately left in search of a bottle of wine and consumables. I had read in the dead-weight piece of shit book that I bought called Europe on a Shoestring (seriously it should be called, Europe - If you had a time machine! Nothing was where it was supposed to be, and a little genuine brain power could have saved me 50 bucks and about 1.5lbs) said there was a place called Cassoulette which was affordable and good. I stopped over to find it near the Place de Victoires where it was located which essentially was a piazza that housed a university and boarded the good part of town and the not so good part of town. I was a little disoriented, because a part of me expected to find a train station made of grapes or something. I really wasn't expecting so much of a city, but then again, I've never really been anywhere, and I don't think I had any real idea of what to expect. So I found the place and the food good, nothing ground breaking, but solid and good. I had a bacalou which, if Ignacio or anyone from Il Buco reads this, I will tell you it needed salt. I tried to get drunk that night and ended up drinking a whole bottle of some house wine which wasn't bad to tell you the truth. Everything over here tastes different, not always better but different. For example, I have a guilty pleasure, TWIX. I admit it, however, when I tasted the twix here in France, the cookie part tasted like it was just baked. It was amazing! I couldn't believe it. So there you go. I wandered home, succesfully inebriated and with a belly full of typical french food.

3. BORDEAUX PART DEUX - ALEXANDRE THE GREAT

The next morning I met Alexandre, the childhood friend of a friend of mine at the train station. Alex played rugby and as soon as I sat down in his car, I noticed a ring from a Cohiba cigar. I could tell that he was the kind of person who had his passions. He was kind enough to take me for lunch and was letting me sleep at his apartment for a couple of days while I explored the town. As soon as we got into the car, I realized how stupid I was. The town of bordeaux was small, but once you crossed both the proverbial and literal tracks, you found a whole new world of limestone facades and spires and copper fountains spitting in every direction. The weather had changed and the skys had turned from Grey to a powder blue. As Alex and I struggled to understand each other, he not speaking much English, and I not speaking much french. I figured this out early on in my excurtions, that I may have thought that I could speak french, but I cannot. I can however understand 90% of what is being said, which only allows me to point affirmingly at what I want. We parked the car and sat down to a really great bistro right in the middle of the town with Alexandre's wife Nathalie. She is a lovely woman and they immediately made me feel at home in their company. It was easy to feel at home, especially since Nathalie explained how the French love to drink during their lunch. I agreed and took another glass of wine. Its easy to enjoy yourself in France especially when a bottle of Bordeaux is readily available.


This is part one of this post and stay tuned, this friday I will upload the rest of my photos, and finish this blog posting. Sorry everyone to cut it short, but its 80 degrees here in Biaritz, and I'd rather be surfing then typing. I know you'll understand.

Talk soon,

Aaron

Comment tu dis? Le Computer Nerds....uh...zey smell

please bear in mind, the weather in paris is beatufiul and I don't want to spend any more time then I have to in these internet cafes.

I posted the link for the photos in my blogroll to the right of page, but click on collections and 'Paris part DUH', to see the newest photos. I am leaving for bordeaux today and will post the rest of the pictures (roughly 40 more, plus video) today or tomorrow.

Talk again soon!

L'Aaron

EXCELLENT!!! From Bill and Ted to Serge Gainsbourg in 12 hours

And so I was on my way. The supsense for this trip has been building and building and true to form, the flight took off about 4 hours late, transforming a 7hour flight into a 12 hour escapade. Actually it was disconcerning how non-chalant the pilotwas when he told us all the following statement, "shhhhhcht (thats the mic coming on) Hey there everyone, just wanted you all to know that were doing our best to get ourselves underway here. Were just waiting for some parts to arrive from the hanger so we can take off....just be patient and we'll get this bird in the air....shhhct!"

:!!!!!!!!!!!! I don't freak out on planes, my father is a pilot, I've flown plenty of times, but when your pilot tells you that he needs to wait for some parts? First of all, I have no idea what they teach these pilots during the 15 minutes they spend in pilot school on announcements, but they must leave out that it's not a good idea to discuss the following...


1. Weapons
2. Airborne Illness on Board , or a terrible cough you're sure you zon't give to the co-pilot because you took some killer cold medicine.
3. Never mention the following word in the same sentence; Parts, fix, mechanical, difficulty, forgot
4. Never use any modals when describing your intentions, (i.e Should, may, could...etc) For example, we should be taking off soon, or It could be nothing, but I forgot my contact-lenses.

So finally when we were airborne, you can imagine my excitement when the meal came. For those of you who don't know, my secret guilty pleasure is airplane food. So when this beautiful platter was presented before me, I was truly excited!
I am not sure what exactly the sauce was but, serioulsy i loved it!

After a short nap I looked out the window to see the following beatiful sight; a sky full of perfect little cream-puff clouds. Its funny that when you have an image of something in your mind, it's funny how sometimes the reality is exactly what you had in mind. The beauty of the painted landscapes beneath the plane lined and boardered with stone hedgerows can be seen from 25,000 ft above and they gave me persepective.
I thought of Hemmingway and Oscar Wilde, and Singer-Sargent who came to Paris by ship and could not gain the perspective I could in the air, but their focus was exponentially finer, which made me realize that this trip is about being prepared to absorb the moments i encounter in a full way, to let the wave crash completely over me. So I decided to take the first night to myself and check into a hotel on my own. And this is what I got for 40 € a night! Not bad. So I dropped the stuff and went for a walk, snapping off pictures like crazy which you can see if you visit the link on the blog. And after hours of walking I came back and had my first real meal while listening to a little Serge to calm the nerves. Enjoy the photos everyone. I am sorry that these letters are few and far between but as you can imagine I don't want to spend all day in this basement of an internet cafe with smelly french video gamers! So check out the links and I'll talk to you all later, next stop BORDEAUX!

Inventory Management and Mark Twain's Distaste.

The Gear, the Stuff, the Jam, Everything...it's all there. I have never traveled in this way before on my own. Once, and my sister will be the testiment, I, volunteered for an 11 day hike from my camp to a location outside of the 7,600 square kilometer park. It was a torturous event, but I survived and have a few lovely tales of hypothermia to spin because of it. However, the packs were arcaic then and i was only 13. So now, being older and wiser, I chose my materials wisely.

But let me clue all of you in on something, Though this trip has yet to begin, i will tell you that when you pack stuff think to yourself before it goes in your bag, 'will i use this? and should i lug this thing around for X period of time?' I found that asking outload, though making me look like a lunatic in my room, was the most helpful. So I brought everything, I bought everything, and now I am packing for the last time before touching down in Paris tomorrow morning. My first impression of the bag totally packed (it has been for 24 hours) is that the F-ing thing is heavy. It makes me feel old. Weak knees, aching back, sore legs, but hey this trip is about growth right? So I will forge on and get stronger or hire a caddy (just kidding)


Today is the last day in NYC so I will pack up now, and then head to Park Slope for the final meal with my old roommates. It is exciting now, really exciting. So I will talk to you all later and the next time I speak with you I'll be in Paris, France.



"France has neither winter nor summer nor morals. Apart from these drawbacks it is a fine country. France has usually been governed by prostitutes." —Mark Twain

Packing...and Unpacking

We could all learn a little from the greatest travel packer of all time... Indiana Jones.

Hat? Check
Leather Jacket? Check
Kahki Tux? Check
Shoulder Bag that Holds Sacred Stones? Check
Bull Whip? Double Check
Gun and Leather Holster? Check

That's it the man was consistent.



Packing for me, is usually a act consisting of throwing all my belongings into a bag until it overflows and then straining to zip the duffel closed. But for this journey of Dr. Jonesian proportions, the packing needs to be a little more organized. In most aspects of my life, this task would be difficult. But I took a little wisdom from the good doctor and came up with the following must haves on a trip like this one...

1. Jet Boil Burner

Essentially, hell fire in your hand. This bad ass little stove boils 2 cups of water in 90 seconds. How you ask? I have no bloody idea, but I timed it and it's to the tick. Also, this little puppy comes with a french press for coffee and tea making. Perfect for those days when buying a cup of coffee just isn't tough enough.

2. Leatherman

Bringing the juice along helps when you're not too sure just how many tree's you'll need to cut down to make that raft for sailing away from the Pigmy's. Or it could be useful to open a bottle of wine or keep my newspaper from flying away. Either way, it's a knife and I really wanted to have some kind of sharp thing with me. If for nothing else then to carve my name in a tree. (which is most likely going to be it's primary use).

3. Zinc Oxide

Nothing says, "I love powdered doughnuts" like a smear of zinc oxide on your lips. This chemical has the highest UV absorbtion of any element on the planet, (that won't cause your head to explode or leak brain matter) so it's often seen on mountain tops or in the 1980's when dudes from Cali used it on their lips. It's unnecessary as anything and perfect for the over-packer.
---------------------------------------------------



Tomorrow is going to be a long day, and I will take pictures of the packing and unpacking. I have decided to go through the process at least 3 times before I leave, so as to develop some sort of system. (that last one was for you dad.) The plane leaves in exactly 4 days and i'll be on it for sure with a bag full of all sorts of junk.

Signing off for tonight, see you all soon.


Aaron

Pre-Flight Check List...

So the time is approaching rapidly and I'm rushing to get everything organized for my first few locations. The hardest thing seems to be maintaining spontaneity while keeping myself somewhat organized. Somewhere along the way I must have been convinced that organized and spontaneous are mortal enemies. When I stared at the map of Europe that came with my train tickets, it immediately occurred to me the I am a complete novice on the art of traveling. I have amassed a huge pile of stuff that will somehow have to fit into a pack which I will be lugging around Europe and Asia. Hopefully all will go well and I will return with everything plus some stuff. But the planning of travel has got me more nervous then I would have thought. Good thing I brought a compass! :) 10 days left!!!

Can Aaron Stand to be with Aaron for Three Months??? Tune in here!

The following facts are currently true.

1. I am going to Europe.
2. I am going to Turkey.
3. I am going to India.


I have done a lot in my life, but traveling has never been on the agenda. This trip has been in the works for a years now, and I'm finally going to depart this city on a true adventure. I don't know much about what's going to happen abroad, but I will have this blog and all of you to witness the expedition as it unfolds one train ride and meal at a time!
My tickets are bought and I'm leaving the 22nd of April. I will fly to Paris, of all places, to begin the journey and will then head somewhere else, where I don't really know just yet.


I will be updating this blog weekly with picutres, videos and tales from the road. I look forward to sharing the world with all of you!


See you in Paris!

AJO