This post will be a long one and it may be the last entry on this blog. I leave for the airport in a few hours and so I’m going to start with a brief summary of the last month in Copenhagen and then conclude the train trip. I’ll update this with a link to my photobucket once I upload more pictures. I hope you’ve enjoyed this.
On the Way Home
On the way home there is a month that goes by like a blur. There is a strange return to what feels like normalcy. I fall into a routine waking up to take the train to Copenhagen, classes that pass by incredibly fast, and then a train ride home. The season wanes and it gets darker earlier, making me feel tired during the day, but for some reason I have trouble sleeping at night. The city slowly decorates itself for Christmas and there is more talk about the Cop-15.
On the way home there is a trip to Norway to visit my friend, Hans. It’s last minute so the plane ticket isn’t cheap, but I have a free place to stay. I pack a bag and take a train to the airport early on the morning of the day before Thanksgiving. The plane, reached by a bus across the tarmac, is tiny with propeller engines and I have to gate check my carry on bag as the overhead compartments are too small. Near the end of the two hour flight the plane dips below the ceiling of solid white clouds and the snow-covered mountains of Norway spread out before me. The plane wheels above Trondheim and then flies up the fjord to land.
A short bus ride later and I’m standing in the rain looking for Hans, who I haven’t seen for four years. He arrives, we shake hands stiffly, and at first it’s awkward. Then we forget about the time that’s passed since his last visit and it’s like he never left. He’s an architecture student now and has to work in the studio during the day, but we spend plenty of time together at night and see a jazz trio play their renditions of Norwegian folksongs. During the day, which is short because the sun rises at 9:30 and sets at 3, I acquaint myself with Trondheim. The city is small with a population of 150,000, but it is large enough to have a wide variety of theatres, bars, and restaurants. I enjoy myself and can’t wait to return there when it’s warmer.
On the way home there are nights out, a last Whiskey Tuesday at Streckers with Steffen coming along. There are final papers and tests and the chaos of the Cop-15, which covers the squares with displays warning against climate change. It fills the city with foreign visitors, some of them protestors of various affiliations. A few target American chains and a 7-11 near DIS boards up its windows just in case. At one point a large demonstration marches by my window and I watch the procession loudly move toward the Bella Center where the conference scrapes to a standstill.
On the way home there are many glasses of glogg, the Danish version of mulled wine, as the temperature drops and the sun sinks lower in the sky. There is a date (?) to Tivoli, which has draped itself in beautiful lights that along with its Christmas market put me in the holiday mood. There is a final trip to Christiania to see its take on the Christmas market and there is a last night out to drink fiske and to finally visit the ritzy cocktail bar 1105. I have wanted to go there since coming to Copenhagen and it does not disappoint. The bartenders are hilarious and put on a show as they mix our excellent cocktails that are not cheap.
On the way home there is a closing Ceremony at DIS and goodbyes, so many goodbyes. Today I packed and cleaned and somehow managed once again to fit everything into two suitcases and a backpack. The trains have been screwed up because of snow the last couple of days and it has been brutally cold, which only complicates things. The Cop-15 ended anticlimactically yesterday and so the airport is sure to be packed with departing negotiators. Tonight I bid farewell to Steffen, who begins his own journey to visit Sofie in Thailand tomorrow, because I’ll have to leave incredibly early in the morning. Maybe it’s the chocolate I ate or maybe it’s excitement, but I find myself unable to sleep. I’m nervous about making it to the airport tomorrow, though if all goes well I’ll get there with plenty of time to spare.
Four months have gone by and I’m still not sure what to take from this experience. Perhaps after a few days in America I’ll be able to make some sense of everything that has happened. At the closing ceremony, a couple of speakers told us to remember the lessons we’ve learned here and to teach them to others. They said that now we are global citizens. I’m not sure if I learned anything here and I still have no idea what it means to be a global citizen. I know that living in Montana was a life-changing experience and maybe I only get one in this lifetime. Regardless, now I’m on the way home.
And now for the rest of the train journey.
Estar-to be (located)
Barcelona. A quick walk to the taxi and once again a city’s traffic consumes me. The driver weaves in and out of traffic, crushing the toes of tourists who stray into the street. Completely without bearings, I simply look out the window and let myself be lost. Finally, muttering to himself, the driver cuts across what seems like 5 lanes of traffic. Horns protest and he curses them as he turns to demand payment. With this loud introduction, I have arrived. Through a barred door, stealing glances over my shoulder at what would otherwise be an ordinary red building capped with a halo of disordered wire, up the stairs, and into the hostel.
A heavily bearded young man greets me in heavily accented English. He shows me to my room, which would be quite cozy if not for the other 4 beds. “My” bed is the one that is not part of a bunk, which is great. He leads me the living room with the two computers, which are “free for everybody,” the Wi-fi password, which is “free for everybody,” the cable TV, which is “free for everybody,” and the kitchen, which is “free for everybody” unless if you want them to cook you breakfast, which is 2 euros. In the kitchen sit “our amigos,” a black woman who gives me the hostel’s sticker, a man cooking at a stove, and another man playing a guitar excellently. I am handed a ring with many keys and a map with the best sites circled in pen and then I head out into the warm November afternoon.
I walk down the famous la Rambla shopping street feeling very pleased. The hostel, which proudly displays a “Best Hostel in Spain” certificate from, well, somebody, seems like it will be a nice place to stay and Barcelona is beautiful. Thick-trunked trees form an arch over la Rambla and “performers” painted to look like statues—a pair of skeletons riding boney bicycles and a giant golden dragon—draw crowds. I duck through an arched doorway and enter the food market one of “our amigos” told me was a must see. The market is enormous with many different stalls selling fruit, vegetables, nuts, chocolates, meat, wine and ridiculously fresh seafood. A crab at one stand is so fresh it’s still alive and tries feebly to crawl away. I sip fresh, unfiltered raspberry juice and meander through the maze of stalls before deciding to sit down for a late lunch. I eat a baked chicken (not quite in the mood for the seafood yet) and trade my knife for this pencil to write this as I sip wine and watch Barcelona go shopping by.
–
Down to the waterfront. Bench by a palm tree lit up by the setting sun. A guy in the hostel said this was one of their first cold days, but I can’t remember the last time I didn’t need a coat. Looking out at sailboats, their bare masts made gold by the sun, I wonder how far of a walk it is to the beach? And my old loathsome loneliness returns. Where do I go now and what should I do? Last night Rilke told me to embrace this solitude without question, that in these moments of uncertainty, my fate would enter me for later expression. He stressed patience. All will happen of its own accord. But I feel that I have worked idly without truly thinking about my future for two years and the impatience returns.
My shadow stretches out before me to the water, mingling with others and becoming lost.
–
I’d walked father than I realized and arrive back at the hostel after dark. I open the door to American blues blasting in the lounge and the smell of something good cooking in the kitchen. A different smell accompanies the scent of food and it drifts in from the balcony. At first I think it’s pot, but then figure it’s some of that pungent tobacco I’ve smelled so much here. Then again, who knows and who cares?
The door to my room is ajar, but I don’t pay attention and sink onto the bed, removing my laptop from the locker in the process. The wireless won’t work again and I start to worry that it’s my computer because the wireless stopped working in my last hostel as well (now back in Copenhagen I know this was not the case). As I ponder technological problems, a dripping girl in nothing but a towel walks in. It turns out that she’s staying in my room too. I introduce myself and tell her I’ll get out of her way. I go to the common room and check e-mail, meander about the web for a while, and listen to the excellent blues playing nearby.
Eventually I hear her open the door and I go back to discover that her three friends have arrived. They are all studying abroad in Paris and came down for the weekend, so for at least two nights, I will be sharing a room with three girls. So much for solitude, but I could think of worse arrangements. It turns out that one of them knows Cortney and I know one of their friends from Copenhagen, proving once again that it is a small world after all. They’ve gone out for dinner and I’m left sitting here listening to a random selection of Beatles songs issuing from the kitchen.
–
Into the night for a late dinner, copa de vino. The girls return to get ready for a club, so I excuse myself and go out to find some tapas. Sitting on a “terrace,” which is what they call the outside seating area on la Rambla, I order squid and potatoes after momentarily considering lamb. I’m not that hungry, but I know I should eat. The waiter sets up a gas heat lamp to ward off the slight chill, but it keeps going out. I watch them comically try to keep it lit throughout my meal and try not to laugh at the lamp’s stubbornness.
A waiter brings out the wine I ordered to open at the table. The cork breaks just as he has almost removed the cork, leaving a small piece in the neck of the bottle. He attempts to extricate it, but it only crumbles more. I find his clumsy attempts incredibly humorous for some reason and have to choke back laughter. I ask him if he wants to use my knife, but he refuses. Finally, flustered, he takes the bottle back to the waiter station for further surgery, which allows me to at least crack a smile.
Two old Spanish gentlemen smoking cigars seat themselves nearby and loudly order some kind of tapas and what appear to be two highballs of vodka. As I watch them gesticulate and talk over each other, slight grab of the arm to draw attention, as if they are engaged in two threads of conversation, the waiter returns smiling sheepishly with my wine and pours me the “copa” I had ordered. I chose the wine because it’s from the same region in Spain as one of my favorites from back home. This one turns out to be too dry with little flavor and tastes a bit strong in terms of alcohol. A rare miss for a Spanish red. I regret not ordering a Crianza from Rioja as I had been inclined to, but I slowly drain the glass anyway.
The meal concludes with café con leche as so many of my meals have and I return to the room, which is full of dressed-up girls who take shots of vodka in the short pauses in the conversation. I’m tired from the train ride and struggle to keep up with their rapid chatter, but they amuse me. It’s strange to be surrounded by Americans again. The hostel has organized a trip to a club, but the metro stops running at 2, when they are leaving, which means I would have to stay out until the trains open at 5. I’m too tired for that and beg off, reading Kerouac as the hostel empties and contemplating sleep.
11/7 Sketches
This balcony overlooks a busy street, Barcelona passing by. Warm enough to sit here comfortably and plan the day. The girls came back sometime in the early morning, waking me for a moment, and are still asleep. I think it’s time to get up, go out, and discover more of the city. Time to say Buenas días, as it were.
–
Went down into the metro, a strange maze, and rode north to see Gaudi’s still incomplete masterpiece, Sangrada Familia. I wonder if it will ever be finished or if it was always meant to be a work in progress, a constant construction of a monument to God. The eyeless angels and Christ on the cross surrounded by machines building higher and higher. The alternatively sharp and smooth lines catch the sun in different ways and cast shadows that give the spires their shape. Walk around and around, circling it as if on some pilgrimage, sticking my camera through the bars of the gate surrounded by tourists waiting in line to go in.
And back down into the metro on a line to the beach. Emerge in a nearly deserted neighborhood, no idea where to go. I pick the street where the city seems to end eventually, open horizon, and guess right. Walk a long way, longer than it looked n the map, but eventually I reach the beach. The sky is speckled with clouds, some threatening. Now I sit on a stone bench after walking down the strand, looking out over the calm sea, some swells lapping at the sand. The sea is a washed-out blue gray, sails are scattered across the horizon.
A family—father, mother, two boys—try to fly a kite on the slightest breeze. The red triangle with a long trailing tail quivers, struggling to rise. It shakes and darts, alive, or at least that’s how it seems to the yellow lab that chases it, leaps, and crushes it in his jaws. The dog shakes its head to make sure the job is done. The dog’s owner runs over, scolding it and pulling it away from the kite. There it lies, crushed and torn. The parents have yelled at the dog’s owner, a child has cried. The parents are angry, but I think the other boy, who stands dry-eyed holding the string and trying to make his broken-winged bird fly, will always remember today and how a dog sailed through the air to kill his kite. Perhaps that is some consolation. A memory made.
–
Lunch on the beach consists of overpriced, unpeeled shrimp that are a hassle to eat and now my stomach is upset. Who knows if the shrimp were bad or if it’s a reaction to gluten? Do I chalk every discomfort up to gluten now? Not sure if it’s worth going out or if I feel like eating anything. Perhaps I should try. These odd Spanish eating hours have thrown me off.
11/8 A Moan
Visions of Barcelona at night. Wind blows through palm trees and down la Rambla. There’s a chill to it and the natives wrap themselves in coats and scarves. Copenhagen was colder when I left it. The tapas bar is full. Two Italians, both of whom need reading glasses to see the menu but don’t have them, squint at the small print and then crane back to read the chalkboards advertising the night’s specials. I order paella with partridge and artichokes, but my stomach refuses to accept more than a few bites at a time. It is beginning.
Outside figures hunch over in the wind, walking briskly to their revelry. A girl in a white coat and a short skirt shivers at a traffic light. Sirens and Spanish on the wind that winds through the dark city below the lighted castle on the hill. It swirls past me as I too walk briskly, returning to my hostel.
–
This morning my roommates leave not sure how to get to some distant airport chosen not for convenience but because it was cheaper. Now it’s 2 o’clock and I still haven’t eaten or even left the hostel, crippled by a horrible gluten reaction. Fingers of flame jab mercilessly at my gut, wrapping around in their grip to the small of my back. It helps to lie down, but I’m starting to get bored with this. If it sounds like I’m whining, I’m sorry, but I have no one else to moan to.
I pull myself together enough to engage my new roommate, a Korean-American girl who has been traveling for three months after graduating college. She’s already been in Barcelona for a week in a different hostel and in a couple of days she will go to Granada and then Morocco. Her plan is to travel for 2 years and spend a year in Korea teaching English at some point. She fascinates me with her huge glasses and chipper attitude, but at the same time she makes me feel somehow inadequate as a world traveler. It’s hard to concentrate on the conversation as my gut spasms, however. I’m not sure what I ate with gluten in it; it could be a combination of things. My plan is to wait for a lull in the pain and run down to a store to try to grab some food. My new roommate dumps the contents of her purse on her bed, fingers through them, plucks out some choice items to be returned to the purse, and then bids me farewell.
–
Out into the wind, stray leaves scraping the streets. Cut down past Gaudi’s house of bones and toward the looming Corte Inglés, which apparently carries a large selection of gluten-free food. I cross the busy street to find it closed, but having nothing else to do, I press on past a row of tents selling crafts and Africans standing over carpets covered with knock-off purses. They hold strings tied to each corner, ready to pull the carpet closed in case the police should happen by. It seems that selling knock-off designer purses is either illegal or the Africans themselves are here illegally. I’ve seen them, bulging carpets flung over a shoulder, running through the metro tunnels, perhaps fleeing a nosy policeman.
On into the Gothic Quarter from which all Barcelona sprung, someone told me. Dark and narrow streets. Some kids notice my camera flash and try to pose vomiting, but I’ve put it away. A Cathedral appears out of nowhere. It’s surrounded by a sunken garden where pigeons scratch. I see a gray cat eyeing them from the bushes. Past wine shops—oh, how I’m tempted—tapas bars and restaurants, patrons pressed inside as no one wants to dine out in this cold breeze.
Wandering aimless, peering into gift shops—an FC Barcelona thong—wondering do I buy food in a restaurant, which my stomach might reject? I think about my latest roommate, her eyes wide behind her oversized glasses as she expressed lament for the lack of a travel culture in the US. I envy her for being able to drop everything and travel for two years with vague plans to join the Peace Corps or teach in Korea after that. I’m not sure I could be that impulsive.
Suddenly, I see an open grocery store. I pop in, buy turkey, cheese, coke, water, and chips for under 10 euros and head back to the hostel for a light lunch. I soon realize that I am basically lost and only know the general direction back. I trust my vague sense of direction (Frazer told me that men have more iron in their noses and can sense north better than women, which I’m not sure is true, but it’s an interesting idea) and head out through the narrow streets. Jagged Gothic buildings loom over me. Angels and saints leer from high vantage points. A man, half a man really, just a poorly dressed torso in a wheelchair, glares from a doorway. Somewhere in the maze there is a fountain, no longer flowing, with a mosaic of a topless mermaid that reminds me of the Little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen. And there are pigeons, always pigeons, eyeing my groceries. Finally, I’m in front of Gaudi’s house, which is my cue to turn left toward my hostel. The wind has picked up and I’m glad to be back inside.
I arrive in my room to find that a new person has checked in. His name is Kwan and he works as a sports’ editor for USA Today. He is friendly and he and I talk for a long time. He’s a Broncos fan and we both express our surprise about their success this year. I wasn’t sure I would like hostels, sharing a room and all, but so far I’ve enjoyed how easy it is to meet new people from all over the world in this setting.
Darkness falls, my other roommate, whose name escapes me right now, returns to change into warmer clothes because it is “freezing” outside. She is from LA, so I’m not sure if I can trust her prognosis, but the wind was getting brisk the last time I was outside. It’s something to keep in mind if I go out to dinner later. I’ll have to check with my stomach before I decide anything.
11/9 Faces from the Road
It’s hard to believe I’ve been on this trip for over a week and that I’ll soon be back in Copenhagen. The fact that I’ll be in school again was suddenly brought to my attention when I received an e-mail from a professor with a paper assignment attached. My gut is calming down now, but it is far from being normal, which is irritating. I want back to the store Corte Inglés that was closed yesterday and was shocked by how many gluten-free products they have. I bought bread, muffins, cookies, and a lot more. I might have bought too much, but it was cheap and I was hungry. Now, with my belly fed, I’m preparing to go to the train station. If I can’t buy a ticket to Baden-Baden, I might just buy one for Copenhagen and cancel my hotel in Germany to go home early. I would like to see Baden-Baden, so I hope it works out.
–
The first station turns out to be useless. The man at the ticket window squints through dirty glasses and assures me that the train for Freidburg only leaves on Tuesdays and Sundays, which I know is not the case. He also tells me with absolute certainty that Freidburg is not in Germany as I claim, but in Switzerland. He finally consults a map on the wall and silently affirms that I am right. Not satisfied with this failure, I hop on the metro to the other major station where a man tries to book my tickets, but also fails. He says something about how he cannot book seats on French trains, so I end up buying a ticket to Montpellier, where he says I can make further reservations that will get me to Baden-Baden. All of this takes a couple of hours due to long lines and the end of my trip is still up in the air. I may end up paying for a hotel room I don’t use.
I go back to the room where I meet additional roommates, two Australians named James and Amelia. After a brief conversation I head back out and am lured into Gaudi’s Casa Batlló, which turns out to be totally worth the price of admission. There are no straight lines in the house, which at times resembles an undersea landscape. The so-called Courtyard of Light, where the stairwell is located, took my breath away. Gaudi incorporated many mosaics into his works and the Courtyard of Light is decorated with a mosaic of blue tiles. There are also a lot of large windows that flood the house with natural light that plays off of the colored tiles as if the house were under water.
I somehow time my arrival on the roof perfectly and emerge from the stairway at sunset. I take some great pictures of Barcelona at dusk and then lean on a railing watching the night that waits as a purple shadow on the eastern horizon descend upon the city. Finally I enter a small room with a fountain. A light shines directly down onto the stream, projecting a film of dancing light and shadow on the walls and ceiling.
Reluctantly leaving the Casa Batlló, I walk down the street back into the Gothic Quarter to se the ancient buildings lit up, casting gloomy shadows on their own facades. I decide to eat something and end up waling along a palm-lined avenue where the legless man from yesterday sits on a blanket, skeletal shoulders exposed nakedly from under a shawl. He’s selling glass beads today. I move on to la Rambla. Here I am finally approached by one of the con artists I had been warned about. I say finally because I had expected this to happen sooner, probably in Paris.
It begins innocently enough. He asks me in Spanish what time it is. I stutter a response, “Ocho menos diez,” meaning 7:50. He says, “Oh, you don’t speak Spanish well,” and starts to engage me. Sensing something artificial in this situation, I keep my hands in my pockets to protect the few valuables I have in them. He tells me he’s from Tunisia and asks where I’m from. I don’t remember the name he gives me. He asks me about myself and I tell him the truth, mostly. I say I’m a student in Copenhagen, but when he asks me if I’m here alone, I say no, I’m here with a friend who I need to go meet.
Finally, he gets to the point and tells me he lives in Barcelona all by himself and needs some money to contact his sister in Tunisia. He’s starting to creep me out; he’s balding and has a reptilian smile that curls up the sides of his face. He reminds me of Baron Kurtz from The Third Man. He only asks for a euro and so, hoping to get rid of him, I pull out a handful of change that amounts to maybe a little over a euro. I figure I have too much change anyway. He accepts it gladly, but then keeps talking to me even though I start walking again. Things get even weirder when he asks me if I’m a virgin. I say, “Excuse me?” and he responds, “It’s okay. I’m a student of psychology. Have you ever felt the pleasure of the penetration of a woman? Do you know the 69?” I tell him that I have to meet a friend and hurry off. To my relief he doesn’t attempt to follow me. I think he was trying to sell me a prostitute and am glad to finally be rid of him.
After this unpleasant experience it’s time for dinner. I pass many restaurants as I walk down la Rambla and slow down to read some of the menus. An incredibly beautiful girl stands in front of one of them, so I pause to “look at the menu.” She immediately engages me and I am convinced to go in, grabbing a table near the window so I can see her as I eat. She comes in every now and then when the foot traffic lulls to sit on a barstool and drink water. An elderly couple from Ireland starts talking to her. She speaks flawless English and turns out to be from Russia, though she’s lived in Spain for many years.
I order paella con carne and some red wine, though apparently I can’t just order a glass and get a full bottle. It’s good, great actually, but it goes down too easily and I’m feeling more than a little drunk by the end of the meal. I pay and get up to leave, but the waiter stops me to ask if I want to take the wind with me since I haven’t finished the whole bottle. I’ve spent enough on it so I say that I do an he takes it over to the bar to re-cork it. As I watch him, the bartender offers me a free shot of some peach vodka. I find a metro and go back to the room to regroup after taking one last look at the hostess I’m sure I’ll never see again. Just another face from the road.
11/10 The Last Day in Barcelona
I sleep late again; the darkness of the room makes this easy to do. I breakfast on some of the groceries from yesterday as my roommates get ready for the day. The Australians seem to be staying tonight, which is nice because they lack their compatriots apparent need for loud festivity, but the other two are leaving and I’m not sure who will replace them. If all goes well, this is my last night sharing a room and I’ll have a hotel room to myself for three nights before heading home. By home, I mean Copenhagen. It’s strange to call it that, but it feels like home right now.
I take the metro north hoping to go to Gaudi’s Parc Guell, but get confused after leaving the underground, wander through narrow, sun-baked streets, and end up in a different park that is nice but lacks anything by Gaudi. It’s actually fairly warm and the hill up to the park was steep, so I take a breather on a bench and then decide to go back to the metro and start again. I get lost on the way back and somehow end up in a plaza with signs for the Parc Guell. I follow them up a steeper hill and finally reach my intended destination.
The park is full of the same type of rounded, abstract sculptures that characterize the Casa Batlló and I walk up the spiraling paths almost to the top of the hill. The views of Barcelona and the Mediterranean are incredible. Green and blue parrots screech from the tops of palm trees and musicians play in seemingly every nook and cranny. I’m sitting on a bench and can hear a string quarter playing from underneath a portico. It’s nice to smell pine, soil, and fragrant flowers on the breeze again. This place was definitely worth the walk.
–
A small pink church delicate in the midst of evergreens. Small balconies, sinuous iron railings, and gardens tucked away in shadows the color of violets. I could lose myself here and never wish to awake from the dream.
–
A woman in the distance, dark hair, slipping out from under a hat. She waves and turns, running up the long stretch of stone steps behind her. Up a steep slope, a mountainside. There are other figures with her, tourists one can assume, sightseers for what lies at the top. The woman’s features are obscured by the distance, but she is beautiful in her movements and she is carried upward by a pair of strong but graceful legs. She turns quickly to wave, still running, once, twice, but then she’s caught in the joy of the ascent and does not stop again. I watch her, closed eyes warmed by the sun, until near the top she remembers and waves one more time. Adios.
–
Awake and back down the hill to the underground and the metro. I decide I may only be here once and take the line to the Picasso Museum, which is tucked away in an old narrow side street. I pay full price, I guess because I don’t look young enough to qualify for the student discount, and make my way through a maze of arches toward the art. I accidentally go into the temporary exhibit first, which shows how many of Picasso’s drawings were influenced by Japanese erotic prints. It’s interesting, but some of the prints are quite explicit and I only need to see a naked woman getting violated by an octopus so many times, so I leave to find the main exhibit.
It’s fascinating to watch Picasso change from being a talented conventional painter capturing realistic scenes of daily life in Spain to being a cubist. A career spanning half a century. He met Rimbaud. I like his early work, his blue period, and even some of his cubist paintings, but the further I go in time, the less I am impressed until I enter the final room with tropical prints that seem childish to me and too “easy.” I guess modern art isn’t my favorite type of art.
–
A last meal in Barcelona. I go back to the restaurant near my hostel where I have been twice before; they have a good selection and the price is reasonable. I’ve made friends with one of the waiters and he greets me warmly, shaking my hand and smiling. I forgo the usual red wine and order a mojito. Lamb for dinner and chocolate for dessert and then it’s time to say goodbye and return to the hostel. A large group from the hostel is going to the FC Barcelona football game and I have always wanted to see a European football match. It seems like it’s been a long time since I was part of a big group and I’m not sure I like it.
We go to another hostel to drink before the game. I have a glass of good wine graciously offered to me by a Mexican after he hears I can’t drink beer. A red-eyed, probably drunk Spaniard tries to get everyone to do tequila shots, but no one takes him up and he ends up taking pulls from the bottle in the corner alone. It’s a riot of English, mostly Americans and Australians, and I somehow get pulled into a conversation about American football with the Mexican, who worships Peyton Manning, two patriots fans, and a drunk Texan, who for some reason loves KC.
We finally walk to the station and are given the tickets the hostel has bought us. The tickets are grouped strangely and for some reason I end up with the Korean girl who had been staying in my room—she had to switch rooms for tonight. Our seats are fairly high up, but the stadium is pretty empty because the other team is from a lower league, so we move down. I enjoy the game, even though it’s one-sided and FC Barcelona wins 5 to 0. They are a great team and I like watching them play. Even though the stadium is mostly empty, it is loud and I get to watch rabid fans go crazy with every goal. The game doesn’t finish until midnight, so I’m tired when I get back. I pack most of my stuff so that I can leave early tomorrow and catch the train to Montpellier. The trip is winding down.
11/11 On the Move Again
I’m on the train to France and (I hope) Germany. I woke up in the darkness thinking about Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts (the song playing in my head). I dropped off the keys at the front desk and was out the door as the sun rose. The metro was incredibly crowded with morning commuters who frowned at my suitcase as I squeezed aboard. The walk and train ride didn’t take as long as I feared and I arrived with plenty of time to find my train.
Now the edge Barcelona rolls by my window. A dilapidated building, half of it in piles of bricks, stands shabbily next to a new apartment building of prefabricated functionalism. There’s a lot of construction along these tracks. It seems like people everywhere are always building.
Last night the “world traveler” asked me to write my name and e-mail in her notebook. Her pen leaked blood red ink on my hand and I left a half-fingerprint on the page.
11/12 Detour and Paris Again
A blank on the page, a skip of the pencil and a few lines are left blank and with them the end of a day. I am on a train in the Gare l’Est station in Paris, a city I did not expect to see again for a long time. Pause. Scratch that. I am now sitting on another train one track over in the same station because the other one decided not only to be late, but also to break down. I do not have a very good impression of France and the French this morning, but first, why I am even in France at all when I expected to be in Germany.
Yesterday I rode a train into Montpellier that, being French, was late, though it wasn’t late enough to interfere with my buying tickets to Germany. Unfortunately, the lady at the ticket window said it was “impossible” to make it to Freiburg and then Baden-Baden that day. I asked her if I could pay more for first class and she said no, which surprised my because it isn’t exactly peak season to go to Freiburg. I suspect she didn’t understand me that well because she even told me that she doesn’t speak much English. I ended up booking a ticket on a train to Baden-Baden via Paris that left the next morning.
I was stranded in Montpellier station without a room to crawl back to. Weary-looking travelers slouched on benches and I joined them. I knew there must be a hotel nearby, but I didn’t know how expensive it would be. Eventually, I wandered outside where the Mediterranean sun lit up the pale buildings of Montpellier. I walked across the tram tracks toward a large “Hotel” sign, thinking I would at least check out the price. The sign on the door advertised free Wi-Fi and single rooms for 60 euros or about $90. Cheap enough, I thought tiredly, having gone to bed late the night before and waking up early.
The man behind the desk looked like a character from Doonesbury with his strange-shaped nose, shoulder-length hair, moustache, and glasses. He spoke English well and gave me the internet password. I climbed the narrow stairs, lugging my suitcase behind me. My first impulse was to collapse into sleep, but I knew I had to e-mail my hotel in Baden-Baden to make sure they would hold my room for me, so I pulled out my computer. The wireless was strong and that alone made the price of the room worth it.
After a nap, I walked through Montpellier. The main square was interesting and I spent a while watching the lit-up carousel revolve around and around. I kicked around a park, my attraction to them continuing, and looked out over the city at sunset from a hill. The town’s large cathedral dominated the other buildings, but it was all dwarfed by the immense landscape of the sky. Two lovers leaned into one another at a railing, turned profile to the sunset and becoming silhouettes.
What more of Montpellier? Not much. I was tired and soon turned in, though I didn’t sleep well and woke up feeling just as exhausted. I found the train all right, but it dawdled all the way into Paris. Looking at my tickets, I realized that I would arrive in one of Paris’s four main stations and would need to depart from a different one, which would mean I would have to take the metro to the other station.
I exploded out of the train as soon as it ground to a halt and ran down into the metro. I hurriedly bought a ticket and arrived in the Gare l’Est station five minutes before my train was scheduled to leave. I found my seat and slumped down, taking out this notebook to begin this entry. A voice came over the intercom as I started writing and said something in French. Everyone started grabbing his or her bags and standing up. I asked a man nearby if he spoke English and if he could tell me what was going on. He told me that the train had some kind of mechanical problem and we were going to have to switch trains. I gathered my bags, found the new train, and left Paris, for a lot longer I hope, 40 minutes late. I hope this doesn’t screw up my connection in Germany.
My impression of France in general has not been a good one. Of the 5 countries I’ve visited, France seems to have the most inefficient trains and the people have been the rudest. I wrote more about this in the notebook, but in typing this up I decided I may have been a little harsh because I was frustrated at the time, so I’m cutting a lot out here. I will say that I think the French are not just rude to tourists, but also to each other, judging by what I saw on the train.
But to continue with the notebook, the French landscape is beautiful even though the manners of its people leave something to be desired. Yesterday the train traced the Spanish Mediterranean coast, passing through green pastures. Distant peaks, deep blue and crowned by snow illuminated by the sun breaking through dark clouds, dominated the valley. In France, the train wound through coastal mountains that were rocky and dry. At first I thought the dark bands on the slopes were layers of sediment, but then I realized they were small stone walls built for agricultural purposes. There were so many of them, the mountains looked striped. Soon grape vines could be seen snaking their way up the mountainsides. Pastel towns nestled in the niches between sea and cliff passed by.
Today, a low fog blankets the French countryside, but through the gray haze I can see the green hills fenced by hedgerows, the undulating fields, and the sleepy villages, their columns of smoke rising over the gray trees of November. A landscape to inspire art and to grow wine and nostalgia. Perhaps I’ve been unfair to France and the people I’ve met have only seemed rude in my weariness. I don’t know and now all I want to do is sleep.
–
The “ordeal” continued. Only now that I have some warm Vietnamese food in my belly, the first actually spicy food I’ve had in months, do I feel like writing it down.
I arrived in Karlsruhe, Germany 45 minutes late, missing my connection train to Baden-Baden. The French conductor gave me a form that appears to be for a reimbursement, but I don’t think I’ll fill it out because it’s in French and I only spent 5 euros on the ticket. I asked at the ticket office when the next train to Baden-Baden left and was pointed to a streetcar. Well, maybe not an actual streetcar; it was more like the Lite Rail in Denver than anything else. Luckily I found a seat early because it soon filled up. It was disorienting to go from Spanish to French to German in less than 48 hours and I missed being able to somewhat communicate (I accidentally said sí at dinner tonight).
The train started moving and I stared past an ancient German woman (back bent by time, what she must have seen) at the forest of gray and red. Heavy clouds–I dreamed of snow–moved over the mountains that looked black in the low light. The train moved along and I listened for the station names coming over the crackling intercom.
I got off at the first stop with the words Baden-Baden in the name. Only two other people stepped off with me and they soon disappeared. I found myself alone on a cold, gray platform with no one and no map in sight. Lugging my bag down some stairs, I hoped to find a ticket office or at least a rail map, but was confronted by a highway instead. Nothing. Just the distant black mountains, the glowering clouds, and the cold, cold air of evening.
I rummaged through the papers I’d printed out. The map of the area around the hotel did not help me orient myself. The few buildings around were all industrial and showed few signs of life. I looked at the confirmation for my hotel to find that it didn’t show a phone number. I finally decided that the situation was desperate enough to justify using my cell phone no matter what the cost for roaming and called my dad, thousands of miles away. No answer.
Next I tried my mom. She picked up, but initially didn’t realize it was me. I said, “It’s Read and I’m hopelessly lost.” “Okay, where are you and I can help you get here,” she said thinking I was someone trying to get to the school where she works. “No, it’s your son in Germany. I’m lost.” “What? Read? Oh!” She opened Google maps, but it was hopeless to try to coordinate because neither of us can speak German and neither of us knew where I was on the map. She was able to find the phone number for the hotel. I hung up and called them.
A barrage of German came at me over the phone. “Uh sproiken ze English?” I stuttered, remembering that from some movie. “A little,” was the reply. She told me there was a bus stop at the train station and then the name of the stop that was closest to the hotel. I left the platform, but I couldn’t find anything that looked like a bus stop. My dad called and tried to help me, but we had little luck. Finally, I saw a man walking somewhat nearby and I hailed him. He looked at my map and had no idea where the hotel was. He pointed me to a “bus stop,” which was just a small sign with an H standing by the street. I scanned the list of stops and found the one mentioned by the lady at the hotel. Meanwhile, the sun was sinking low and the temperature with it. The bus came and I rode it for a long time into town. It turns out I was on the outskirts of Baden-Baden and had left the train too soon.
I arrived at my hotel, but the “ordeal” still wasn’t quite over. I found my room, but couldn’t get my key to open the door. I went back downstairs to get a new key that worked, but upon opening my door I found that the room was dirty. The bed was a tangle of sheets, trash was falling out of the trashcans, and a quick glance in the bathroom revealed that there were dirty towels on the floor. Feeling as through this bad luck would go on forever, I went back down to the front desk and reported this new problem. The lady quickly gave me keys to the only other available room, a twin room on the highest floor.
Now I hope my troubles are over and I can relax in this nice little spa town. My walk through the streets tonight revealed a clean town and a nice path by a river that I hope to explore in the morning.
11/13 Baden-Baden
Two weeks and where have I ended up? A park bench near a river, diffused sunlight highlighting the autumnal hues of the trees. An elderly couple sits two benches down eating sandwiches and conversing in German. I can see a square-topped yellow clock tower and behind it heavily forested mountains. A church bell rings every fifteen minutes. My ears are full of the soft murmur of the river and melodious birdsong. The sun on my face is warm, warmer than expected. I thought it would rain. It’s just around 12:30, peak of the lunch hour, so I’ve decided to wait before going to the Roman baths. The air is pleasant, so I don’t mind.
The town has already been decked out for Christmas. It has a cozy feeling to it and the fall foliage is brilliant. I awoke with light streaming through the curtains. I pulled them apart and was greeted by a great view of Baden-Baden. The red and black roofs spread out before me, climbing up the hills where they mingled with wood smoke. I could see the church whose bells are tolling even now. A German man in pajamas was also looking out his window. He saw me and waved.
The hotel’s breakfast reminded me of those I’d had in Danish hotels and I remembered that tomorrow I will take the train back to Copenhagen. I lazed about in my room for a while until there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a gruff looking maid who said something in German. I shook my head and she repeated it louder. She came in and grabbed the bag I’ve carried my food in. She obviously thought it was garbage. I said no, not trash, but she didn’t understand me and started to take it. I reached in an grabbed a gift I’d put in there and so I lost pretty much only a stale piece of bread. She then gestured at the bed, again loudly saying something in German. I tried to tell her she didn’t need to make it, but she just kept saying “yes, yes” and quickly picked up my things, made the bed, and fluffed the pillows. Thankfully she left after that.
I followed her out the door after a few minutes and went down to see the town. I passed her on the stairs and she grumbled something in German. I wandered through the streets, went up steep stairs, stumbled upon a grotto with a steaming stream of falling out of the rocks and into a basin, and found the Roman bath I want to visit later. I also found the ancient Roman bath ruins, but the museum was closed for some reason. And so, not wanting to go to the baths with the crowd I thought might be there at lunch, I found my way to this bench by this river.
It was two weeks ago as of tomorrow that I boarded a train in Copenhagen. I’m almost out of time and pages on which to write. My beard is even bushier than when I looked at it in a window in Paris, my hair is longer, and I may have lost a few pounds, though I don’t think my appearance has changed much. Have I changed internally? It’s the inevitable question that seems corny and cliché as I write it. I don’t know. I have submerged myself in anonymity and solitude. When people walk by me now, they don’t see me as a name or as an American college student. They see me as a figure hunched over a bench and writing. Despite feeling a little lonely, I find that I also have a certain calm and detachment in this solitude. I could stay here all day.
–
I am in Baden-Baden, home of famous spas, so I go back to my hotel room to plead with my stomach to behave and to mentally prepare myself to be naked in front of a lot of people. My stomach doesn’t seem to want to cooperate, but eventually it relents to my pleading and I walk towards the Friedrichsbad Roman-Irish Bath. I see the Roman bath ruins are open, but decide to experience them first hand and climb the stairs to the ornate building that houses the spa. I pay for three and a half hours, which includes a soap brush massage. The lady asks me if this is my first time here and I tell her it is. The first thing she says is “You have to be naked inside,” which I knew already.
I walk up some more stairs and into the changing room, which should really be called an undressing room. I enter one of the cubicles and strip down. As I stow my clothes in a locker, I notice a sheet and awkwardly wrap it around my waist. My wristband locks the door and I walk over to the bath entrance. I tell the attendant it is my first time and he explains that each room has a number on the door. You go in order and each room tells you how long to spend there. He tells me to start under one of the showers and put on a pair of flip-flops for the sauna rooms. I hang up my sheet and instantly feel comfortable with my nudity. Maybe it’s the naked men and women—it’s a mixed day—standing under the showers or maybe it’s because I know that I have no other choice, but I feel no nervousness or bashfulness once I am utterly disrobed.
I step under one of the giant showerheads and am pulverized by hot water. I grab some shoes and my sheet, this time draping it over a shoulder, and enter a sauna room filled with naked men lying in lounge chairs. I follow their example, drape my sheet over a chair, and lay down. The heat presses against my face and it feels great. Lying there completely exposed as a woman comes in, I find that I don’t care and am relaxed. I go into the next room, which is an incredibly hot sauna and stay there the recommended five minutes. As I leave I gulp down the drinkable water that comes out of a faucet on the wall. There are no cups, so I use my hands.
Next up is the soap and brush massage. I am told to rinse off under a shower and then lie down on a table on my back on my sheet. The female attendant asks me if I want a hard or soft massage. I hesitate and she says she’ll start with soft. She dips a coarse brush into water and drips the soapy water down my body. Then she begins to scrub me, starting with my feet. She pauses on my right leg and asks me if it feels fine. I say yes and she switches over to the hard massage. It feels great. She scrubs my entire front and then massages it. Then she tells me to flip over and repeats the process with my back. The bottoms of my feet are ticklish, so she barely touches them. When she’s done, she gives me a spank to let me know and I get up to rinse the soap off.
I’m given a pad and go into two steam rooms, both thermally heated, which I’m told is unique. There are minerals in the steam and it smells like peppermint. My hair hardens as the minerals crystallize. While I’m in the steam room, an Asian couple comes up to the door. The girl is gorgeous, but clearly shy as he clutches a sheet around her. She looks into the steam bath, sees there are men inside, and runs off frightened. I sort of wonder what the point of coming here is if you’re going to be so modest. Most of the other women, who I assume are Germans, don’t seem to care.
From the steam baths it’s on to a series of pools of varying temperatures. The first one gives me a delightful feeling of weightlessness and I float here for a long time. The second one is my favorite because it has jets. I park myself over one and get a great massage. The largest pool feels cold in comparison to the others, though it’s probably at least the temperature of a regular pool. An incredible Roman dome lies directly over the circular pool and I float on my back, looking up at it. A couple comes in and starts “swim dancing,” which destroys the pool’s calm and I move on to the next station. I conclude with a cold-water plunge. I see a lot of people skip this, but I read that it is refreshing and decide to try it. The suggested time on the door is “briefly.” I dunk down into the freezing water and emerge gasping for breath, but it feels great.
I leave the bath area where I am given lotion for my dry skin and then I am taken into the relaxation room. The attendant wraps me up in a cocoon of warm blankets and leaves me to sleep. At this point, being nude is so comfortable and I am so relaxed I don’t want to get dressed and so I lie there for the rest of my time, despite an old man’s snoring. Eventually, I reluctantly unwrap myself and go get dressed. The whole experience was so relaxing that I wish I had another day to do it again.
I eat dinner at a restaurant serving Badian dishes and have a delicious pork steak with potatoes. I drink a local Riesling that at first tastes too light after a week of Spanish reds, but I grow to like it. Dessert is Bavarian berries with cream. I feel intoxicated with food, relaxation, and perhaps the wine and stagger back to my room; ready to sleep thought it’s not even nine.
Tomorrow, this particular trip ends and I will return “home” to Copenhagen.
11/14 Homeward Bound
The light fades and the pages remaining are few. I’m in a train station in Hamburg, counting euros and trying to decide if I should get a locker for my luggage. I have two hours to kill, and then a train back to Copenhagen. So close.
I took the bust to the station in Baden-Baden, the right station this time. The ride didn’t take as long as I’d anticipated and I enjoyed watching the churches and beer gardens pass by out the window. I had to wait a fairly long time for the train, but I found the little station pleasant and sat on a bench near the tracks. My breath steamed before me, though I was perfectly warm in the weak sunlight. The train came and I rode it for 5 hours all the way here to Hamburg. The Black Forest undulating on steep hills was left behind and Germany’s uneven landscape opened up before me. Autumn forests dotted the fields. On the slopes, evergreens mixed with some sort of tree turned yellow, the thick leaves forming a conical shape so that they resembled pines, golden evergreens. Closer to the tracks the leaves were orange and red, yellow leaves on frail, almost invisible twigs seemed suspended in the near darkness. The sky spoke of rain.
The Medieval and Baroque towns gave way to “modern” Germany at Frankfurt; a city I suppose was destroyed by Allied bombs and now has American-style glass towers that are lanky and stretch up into the sky. Spindly red cranes, like the legs of a spider, grabbed at one that was half-complete. I read Nabokov and came into Hamburg uneventfully. The station seems like a nightmare of frantic activity and noise after the quiet of the rails. I wait, impatiently. Two pages left.
–
The return to Copenhagen delayed in every way possible. The train needs work and I sit in Hamburg for forty more minutes. Then it’s out through dark Germany, the blackness frustratingly opaque after Lubeck where the anticipation of a ferry and at last food makes me even more impatient. Small lights dot the distance, so far away and abstract they seem more like stars than signs of human habitation. The train halts in Puttgarden where it has to wait for twenty minutes for the ferry to Denmark.
On board the brightly lit boat, I count euro coins and try to find some food I can afford. Then, what prosperity, I discover a forgotten 20-euro bill I’d stashed in a pocket and buy a large hamburger steak, coke, chocolate, and Skittles, which I have tasted in months. I sit down to this feast and look out through the moist windows toward the sea I know is there, though I can’t see it.
After the ferry, the train rolls onto Danish soil. The couple next to me has bought a box of wine, which does not connote crap over here. They sip it out of clear plastic cups and are soon red-faced. The train halts at an unpronounceable station for what feels like an eternity as it is attached to another train for some reason. I finish Nabokov’s memoir and stare past my own reflection at the darkness. Up ahead, unseen, the rails dimly lit, strands of gold in the black ether, lead on in two straight lines to the wet streets of Copenhagen. From here it’s on to the central station and then another more familiar train back to my temporary home.
Fading behind me in the window’s reflection, I see a misty morning and the green fields of Zealand. Germans disembark at each stop to take a few pulls from a cigarette. Hamburg, Frankfurt, Karlsruhe, then Paris and a mad taxi ride to the frantic wail of jazz. The Eiffel Tower sparkles like champagne in the rear view mirror of a cab that drives off with my backpack in Pamplona. I climb a moist staircase to look out over the Pyrenees and turn to find I’m in the enormous football stadium in Barcelona watching tiny figures chase their own shadows as a sea breeze rattles the palms. Then a flash of a steamy bath in Baden-Baden and I am looking in a mirror at my reflection, hair wet and tousled. The mirror becomes the train’s window again and I am here, at the bottom of the last page.
