Salt Lake City

While no stranger to couch surfing in Europe, I finally surfed my first American couch in Salt Lake City, Utah.  My benefactors were a lovely young athletic couple.  They had chickens, pears, and cherries in the backyard and subsisted off a simulated Paleolithic diet - eating mostly only foods available before agriculture and animal husbandry.  They were playing the new Batman video game when I arrived.  They took their zealous neighbors with a grain of... oh that's bad... I won't do it.  All in all, they were my kind of people and only further validated my opinion that couch surfers are a finer breed of people.  They led me on a brisk and dusky hike to check out a Lite-Brite view of the city before we took a quick spin of the downtown area followed by the acquisition of some tasty craft beer - including a newly offered 12% alcohol variety courtesy of relaxing liquor laws.

While the Utah stateside is primarily Mormon, its capital is split about 50/50: Mormons and people not unlike my new friends.  The following morning, I took after Temple square on a comically small borrowed bicycle, with my knees bobbing up and down in between my elbows.  The quarter is one of cleanest I've ever scene and it simply teems with pairs of pretty young ladies who are excited to meet you and show you around and inform you as to why you should give yourself to Jesus 2.0.  More curious about the history and current state of affairs of Mormonism than my potential heavenly blessings, I tried to steer the conversations by asking lots of questions, and I accidentally stumped a poor Uruguayan missionary by asking her to explain the difference between the current Mormon Prophet and the Catholic Pope.  After chewing on some almost-words, she tried to spit out something to the effect of, "well Mormons are right and Catholics are wrong."

Slowly realizing I could probably find out more about Mormonism by referencing Wikipedia than by chatting with these nice young ladies, I concluded my religious romp and took a leisurely bike ride around town, stopping to investigate a sculpture garden and an aviary set inside SLC's Liberty Park.  

Founder of Mormonism, Joseph Smith, as a Sphinx, because why not?

With my touring complete for the day, my host Bryan and his buddy took me bouldering, something I've been eager to try on.  We sped off to Little Cottonwood Canyon to find, mount, and ascend the many sizable boulders of quartz monzonite littered down the cliffsides - broken leftovers from cliff-side quarrying done to acquire the many stones cut and dragged by ox cart to the downtown area to build the Salt Lake Temple.

To fill up and wind down, we dealt swift justice to a generous Ethiopian dinner on the opposite side of town and then went home to murder a quart of coconut based mocha almond fudge ice cream and some brandy.  I fell asleep on the futon with my face resting beside a beautiful old cat with failing kidneys.  After some morning goodbyes, I was told I should come again and try to get some skiing in.  I'd like that.

Moments ago, I drove by a billboard asking if I was going to heaven or if I was going to hell.  I checked my GPS which confirmed I was going to Price, Utah to gas up and use the wifi at McDonalds before doing some camping at Arches National Park.

Departure and the Grand Canyon

Unburdened with aspirations of a career or any particular achievement and motivated only by a mounting sense of restlessness, I quit my job and tossed all I had in my car, endeavoring to taste more of America in one go than I ever have before. I've begun my first road trip to the east: an excursion with no official point of termination or conclusion.

My first destination had to be the Grand Canyon. It called to me in a way that beautiful things sometimes but too infrequently do - as if any time my eyes caught a picture of the thing, deep from the base of the fissure I can could faintly hear, "Matthew," a whisper beckoning for me to come and conquer. I felt this way when I entered a contest years ago to win the car I'm driving now and I felt this way when I toppled the Untersberg Mountain in Salzburg, Austria. It almost killed me and it was one of the finest things I've ever done.

Rarely able to plan even a week ahead of time, I was dismayed - dismayed but undeterred - when I discovered the Grand Canyon's North Rim's campgrounds, both above and below the rim, were completely booked through the rest of the season. As of learning this, I had already rounded up a posse, friends of a friend I made in a Teaching English as a Foreign Language course, and I wasn't going to let them down. I discovered that if I were show up in person 48 hours prior to an intended overnight excursion to the Colorado River from the rim, I would likely be able to secure the necessary permit. Additionally, there is free dispersed camping available in the Kaibab Forest, half an hour's drive from the visitor center, affording me a place to stay while I waited for the rest of my backpacking crew to arrive.

Having to appear in person at the Backcountry Office at 8am to secure the permit, however, would involve some creative commuting. Reluctant to too dramatically throw my mind's clock for a spin, I decided to crash in my car at a truck stop in St. George, putting me within just a few hours of the north rim. I nestled my car into a space I thought wouldn't be in the way for the stop's proper sleepers and made a feeble attempt at securing privacy: a sun shade on the windshield and sweaters hung clumsily from the "oh shit" handles. I assumed the comfort of my own car could only exceed that of any of the miserable overnight trains I've settled in. Twisting and turning and being shook awake at every other passing light and horn blast, I found it wasn't much an improvement.

The USA Today at the north rim's laundry room had a three page focus on truck stop serial killers. Fairly disconcerting, seeing as I imagine I'm going to have to crash at least a few while I connect the dots between friends, campgrounds, and couch surfers. I left satisfied that my survival chances are fair just so long as I don't decide to become a lot lizard, a prostitute that specializes in servicing truckers.

I filled the two days until my crew would arrive with trip planning and lovely day hikes along the rim. The time was my own. It was beautiful everything that I needed. I filled the two days until my crew would arrive more miserable perhaps than the night before. My sleeping bag was supposed to be rated effective down to 30 degrees Fahrenheit - just about the temperature the north rim fell to at night. Even fully clothed and with the additional warming effort of a pair of blankets from my car, this California boy shivered and rolled from side to side until the sun came back with the new day.

So even after three nights without any apparent R.E.M. sleep, I was overflowing with life and an eagerness to take the canyon by the time my posse rolled into the park. We fiddled about with our bags for a bit and descended into the North Kaibab Trail - a path originally cut as an escape route to the southern rim by explorers who wouldn't have survived the coming winter.

A passing hiker had just come from the south rim and confirmed what I had learned from my research online and from speaking with friends - that the southern rim was overcrowded, touristy, and much less enchanting. "Like a city," she described it. More, the north rim is farther from the river than the south rim and 1000 feet higher, therefore a greater challenge and a more attractive choice.

We were to camp at a site by the name of Cottonwood, seven miles deep into the 14 miles to the Colorado river, hit the river the next day, and back to the rim on the third. A welcome change from conditions at the top of the rim, the nights were almost too hot to be comfortable. Almost. Though our crew of five was chiefly composed of tall and muscular champions, only I - the malnourished vegan - had enough energy and determination to make it to the river the next day. The rest would stay behind.

The trails teemed with lovely fit people of all ages, full of smiles and how are yous. I lost count of the number of senior citizens engaged in one-day rim to rim excursions - accomplishing as much ground as I in the span of one day instead of three. While their numbers humbled my aching feet, they helped take away some of the fear of one day waking up with grays. My efforts felt all the more diminished as I passed maybe a dozen hikers taking on the rim to rim, feeling around with walking sticks and all of them blind.

Coming back from the Colorado, I cruelly realized that two liters of water and three Clif Bars weren't quite enough for the 14 miles through the canyon desert. One must become zen-like in occasions like these and make the deliberate mental effort to compartmentalize the suffering and keep one foot always pushing ahead of the other. It was harsh, but lovely.

I got back to Cottonwood just in time to catch my gang on their way to an off-the-trail waterfall they accidentally discovered. They afforded me just enough time to skinny dip in the Bright Angel Creek and smack down a can of beans so that I could be rejuvenated enough to join them. I was reluctant to the point that I told them they should go on without me, but they wouldn't have any of it and I'm glad they wouldn't. The mini-excursion to the newly named Pancake Falls, a secluded ten foot waterfall with enough space to swim in and hide inside, was perhaps the most memorable part of the trip.

Wanting to be sure no one was left behind (and to be kinder to my poor heels, calves, and thighs) I took up the rear end of the line. When I did reach the top, the first to finish spent their extra time acquiring victory beers which we eagerly guzzled down in the parking lot. We exchanged SD Cards, hugs, and farewells, and went on our way. It was one of the best things I've ever done (though, I painfully discovered all of the photos I took after dipping below the rim were at 640x480 resolution - a fairly devastating realization, as a good many pictures I was hoping to make prints of are only fit for cellphone wallpaper).

I slept once more at the truck stop in St. George again, more experienced and more exhausted than when I was there first. And now I wrap up this first entry while waiting in an auto shop, replacing my radiator and biting my knuckles for the cost. Hopefully Lugia treats me well here on out. We still have a lot of ground to cover.

Amsterdam

...defies description. On the final night of my holiday, I decided against finding a place to stay - choosing instead to wander the streets until my morning departure, hoping to gain a better appreciation for what it means to be homeless and also, through the unpleasant force of exhaustion, to reset my biological clock to California time. It worked pretty well. I am not terribly jet-lagged (but after 24 hours of trains, planes, and terminals, I very much wanted to die).

I am now back in California, but my journey doesn't feel like it is over. Intellectually, there is a lot I want to accomplish. In many respects, the last two and a half months have put me through an informational and emotional overload. There is much for me to sift through if I want to make the most of what I experienced.

I know I want to make an exhaustive annotated photo album from the photos I've taken (over 10 gigs worth). My mental powers of retention are sadly limited, so I hope by going through my trip again through my photographs, while referencing my many notes, maps, guide books, and Wikipedia, that the adventure will be made a more permanent part of me. Also, I have been taking many panoramic photos; the results of which look something like this:

(click for better quality)

There will be more to come.

My Last Entry?

As each day draws me closer to my adventure's end, more and more of my actions become the cause of a feeling of ominous finality. I am constantly making note of lasts: my last load of laundry... my last cash machine withdrawl... my last train ride. These are the lasts of not only my holiday, but also of a period of my life which describes its entirety, even to the point at which I write this. My commitment to past activities like high school, Boy Scouts, university, and even this trip, emerges from a mostly unconscious obligation - I simply do because it is expected from me and it seems the natural thing to do. When I return to the states on August 2nd, my life will be in my hands in a way that I have never experienced. The pursuit of a career is the obvious next step, but I have become self aware enough to realize that isn't what I want to do - at least not yet. The newness of this looming next chapter keeps me uneasy, but I am excited nonetheless and intend on making the most of it.
"Happiness is only real when shared," appear to be the last words and then final revelation of Christopher McCandless in "Into the Wild," and without trying to imply that my experience compares with his own, I still have to say the subject matter in the film spoke to me much more directly when experiencing it again at an open air screening in a park in Paris. I have met some amazing people while abroad, and their company has indeed made my experiences all the more real, and even though most I will never see again, I am grateful for them in ways I find difficult to explain. Even my exploits while alone are the more worthwhile knowing I get to share them with people I care about, and so even you I left behind am I grateful for and look forward to reuniting with. I've been ignited with a lust for "simple beauty," and I can't help but feel that will define my pursuits for years to come.
Holy crap, as I am scribbling this down on a train near Rotterdam, I saw three horses nibbling grass by a brook surrounded with low hanging trees and unreal patches of yellow flowers.
Bruges has been called the Venice of the North, and I can't argue with that myself. The two are wrinkled with charming canals and remain the most well preserved (and romantic) medieval cities I have seen. Swap the gondolas for horse drawn carriages and the wine for beer, tweak the color hue, and it is practically the same thing (not true, but it gives you an idea). The Belgians seem incredibly fit despite the cusine they have become known for. I have had plenty of waffles, fries, chocolate, and mosastary brewed beer in various combinations, but regretfully never at the same time.

I'm in your continent, growing mah beards

The young people of Europe do not seem interested in growing beards. Moustaches, goatees, and sideburns do make appearances, but never in the unified glory that is a beard. As mine continues to develop, it has been affecting the way the people I meet regard me. In Venice's Jewish quarter, a young Orthodox Jew lit up when he saw me, taking me for a foreign Jew going on a pilgrimage of sorts. Partying in Rome, I was called Jesus, and spent the evening turning water into whisky (and since, I have heard numerous passers-by call out "Jesus!" or "Amen" to me). It pleases me most to hear those I meet comment on my beard while intoxicated, and therefore uninhibited. A Frenchman told me I needed to borrow his razor: "You are looking like a Pakistani." An Englishman, "you'd be quite an attractive chap if it weren't for that damn beard." I feel the least out of place in the many museums I visit, hanging out with the likes of St. Paul and Hercules.

Go to this...

Go to here

...It is nice to be back in Paris. I was supposed to wake up at 4:45 am to catch the bus to the Eurostar line from London back to Paris, but I woke up at six and cursing. Calling a taxi - and sprinting to an ATM to pay the taxi - got me to the station just in time, but the mix of very sudden stress, exercise, and a night of drinking with friends just prior had me going, "I think I'm going to be sick," on the train. I tossed in the lou just before burying under the chunnel.

Somehow, it is the cities that I become the most endeared to that I have the hardest time finding the words I want to share. I feel like anything I try couldn't possibly do them justice. My earlier week in Paris was amazing (all the more so because I got to stay for free (thank you Jenny Long (check out her beautiful photos here))). An English ex-patriot told me, "you never leave Paris." Even as I did, I thought he was right. Very much like Vienna, Paris is endlessly classy and so much fun. Despite the extra length I have allocated to both cities in comparison to my other stops, I doubt you could ever spend too much time in either.

Eating in London has been fine, but hardly because of the English offerings. You are never far from cheap cuisine from the Indians, Turkish, or the many nations of Asia - all with friendlier options for vegetarians. My efforts in London have been super touristy, and I have no apologies or regrets. Museums and landmarks mostly... Big Ben and the Rosetta Stone (which is much bigger than I imagined). I quite liked seeing Shakespeare in the Globe Theater, with my my arms folded as I leaned on the stage (apparently they let women play in the theater these days). In a woody pub, I heard one Englishman (with the Geiko gekko accent, but much stronger) explaining "Skape" to a pair of friends (we say "Skype"). An older gentleman piped in (and seemingly without any irony), "What's the internet!?" I hope dearly that he was serious. For the first time in my journey, I wasn't disappointed to find grey skies and rain - in London it is part of the experience. Oh, and Charles Darwin is on the printed money. Awesome.

Oh, and it was a waste of time, but I did see Quentin Tarantino at the UK premier of Inglorious Basterds.



Look, we broke this young man's constitution. He is smiling!



Oh yeah, Dr. Scholl should go to prison for malpractice. The injustices done to my feet evaporated once I threw my sole inserts in the waste bin. And all the while till then, I was like, "boy my feet sure do hurt right now... I can't imagine how much worse they would be if I didn't have these Dr. Scholl's sole inserts."

Today, I wandered from the the Latin Quarter to the Champs Elysee, spent an afternoon with Van Gogh and Renoir in the Musee d'Orsay, and drank wine on the banks of the river Seine with a dozen Englishmen and Americans. Two days till the Tour de France. I will be very sad to leave.

I tried to swim to Africa

...but didn't quite make it.

I have mentioned to a few of you that my affection for a city can grow to the point where I have this impossible desire to make the idea of a city into a blanket and then roll around in it - very much as a dog who finds a particularly pleasing smell does. I became very close to achieving this in Barcelona. A friend I made from Denmark found a rental bicycle that had been discarded for its being broken. The rear brake was entirely dysfunctional, but the front worked just fine when pulled at the correct angle. We went out and had a very full helping of Tapas and Sangria. The bike ride afterward was majestic. Until that moment, I had very much forgotten just how much I love to bicycle, and to do so while tipsy in beautiful Barcelona - it felt very much like the city was simply washing over me.

Oh yeah, Paris says hello. Happy Bastille day.