I havent been writing because things changed. I got comfortable and I turned into a tourist and a friend. So much for being alone.
A chance encounter with Dylan made for less time typing on the phone. The next dry spell was due to a stay with Tom, an old collegehumor colleague, and then I was in London for two fast days. London in 48 hours? Didn't even come close. Now it's raining. More on that later.
After riding for a day through Essex county, then London, I resolved never to bring a bike to England again. Not only do the drive on the wrong side of the road- they also barely have room for one car.
I got my fat back from British food. My skin and bones six pack was obliterated by British pints, fish and chips and all day English breakfast.
Tom lived in an old, old thatched roof cottage called Thatch End in Henham. It doesn't get more British than this place. We saw three terrible movies together: The Expendables, Knight and Day and Piranha 3D. Piranha was the clear winner.
After that I checked into a London hostel in Hamsptead Heath. I visited the British Museum (sparse, huge), the National Portrait Gallery (too many grumpy British faces), and the Tate Modern (never seen so many Asians). I saw two plays in the West End: The Prisoner of Second Avenue starring Jeff Goldblum (!) and La Bête starring the other dude from Frasier. La Bête made me laugh so hard I almost fell out of my ten pound balcony seat. Looque knows where the deals are. I need to go back to London. It's very cool.
Being the frugal Jew I am, I didn't take the chunnel train to Paris. I thought a ferry and some more camping in Normandy would be nice. What's the weather forcast, BBC? Perfectly sunny all week in France?? Alrighty!
My train to New Haven was at 6:47 in the morning. If I missed this one, I would probably miss the ferry to France, too. I am GREAT at underestimating distances even after a cross Europe trip. I thought waking up at 6 would be appropriate. London is huge.
Dear old lady I clipped outside of Buckingham Palace,
If you're reading this, I'm really sorry. I needed to make that train. I realize now maybe I should have stopped to see if you were alright, but it only would have slowed me down. I figured a clean break was the best for both of us. I know nothing really bad happened, there weren't any screams, and I'm pretty sure I only got caught on the bottom of your jacket. If it's any consolation I missed that train. But I caught the ferry. I also paid four pounds for a bagel- that's kinda like getting surprised at 6 AM by a foriegn biker in a neon reflector vest! I love you. And your country.
Looque.
Then I went back to France. I didn't eat anything on the ferry because I was going to Normandy- the best Mules Frites in the world.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Prepare the G-13! (Aug. 20th)
"Amsterdam is pretty." -Me
Third night and I was out of options. My mate Geoff became an Amsterdam ex-pat, too but I never got in touch with him. Instead I stayed at a complete stranger's house! His name was Remy and I asked him straight up if I could sleep at his house after a transaction at a bike shop. He obliged and we stayed up too late drinking beers, playing video games, and making short work of a certain unnamed parcel of contraband I didn't want to travel with (G-13). Broaching the subject of journalism, I was surprised to learn that young Remy was a published reporter in the realm of European high speed trains. He showed me the article, all in Dutch. Dutch is a language Dr. Seuss invented. Remy also encouraged me to get to the ferry and go to England. I booked my ticket and looked at the clock-I could get 5 hours of sleep. I had to do near 100 kilometers, the first bit with rough directions, the longer bit along the North Sea coastline. Forecast was rain. If I left at 8 I would have five hours to make the ferry.
I left the house by 9. I was to the coast by 11. Not good. There was a headwind and I got lost on some foot trails. The headwind increased but somehow the rain never came down hard. I rode along the massive Dunes that wall in the North Sea from eating Holland alive. It was beautiful, and as I made it more south, I found myself in some proper wetlands. I was nostalgic for my bay area childhood. I was also sans a pair of headphones so i was thinking way too much. I rode my bike into the giant ship with minutes to spare, legs trembling from the excruciating pace I had to set in the last half hour.
The ferry was very fancy, and for a while I walked around, trying to find the economy cabin. Alas, it was all first class. I fell asleep laying across two leather benches and was promptly tapped awake by a deckhand saying that if I wanted to sleep, I should rent a sleeping cabin. Yeah right.
Arriving in Harwich, England was magical. The scene was right out of a BBC movie: little houses tucked into lush greenery and hunched over elderly people in Barbour jackets and Mac coats. It was also dark. I had ten miles to my campsite, an interesting sounding one called "The Stranger's Home" that was behind a pub. I was suddenly worried that I wasn't going to be able to handle the dark, windy, driving-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-road roads by myself. Luckily, as I neared the passport checking station an old timer also on a bike offered to ride with me to Bradfield. We rode slowly and talked about the road. Jonathan said he'd just come down through Holland by the same route I had. Suddenly our stories were too similar... both alone, both coming from Holland along the same national route... both biking to Bradfield at 10 PM? Jonathan said he was meeting his wife there. When we parted ways I didn't really care if Jonathan was telling the truth or not, I was just happy to be in my tent in one piece.
Before the tent I drank two pints at the pub and got surprisingly tipsy. The local cider was a treat and the Carlsberg was cold and fresh. I met a couple at the bar who told me some horror stories about traveling in India. I realize now that India is the number one originator of travel horror stories. Apparently the man's lower intestine ruptured on a train and he had to get it totally remade. That meant a colostomy bag for two months in India. He said that he was thankful to have the operation done in India because the same life-saving operation in the UK would be a) incredibly expensive and b) near impossible to do in time before a horrible, poop-related death. Suck on that, Michael Moore!
Tomorrow is a 50-mile ride to Henham. I'm worried about the roads here. They use miles?
ALONE
Amsterdam, Haarlem, Monster (Aug. 18th)
I walked with Dylan to the central station, tiptoeing around the larger puddles, however futile it was. Amsterdam hadn't shown us any sun, but it seemed designed for grayness. Dylan was determined to spend a week in London and I wasn't. He hopped on a train and went. I walked back towards the hostel I'd checked out of earlier in the day. I had nowhere to stay, nowhere to go and nothing to do. Awesome.
Arriving in Amsterdam was like walking into the pages of High Times magazine. The language is mostly Jamaican, people are required by law to wear dreadlocks, and bongs are sheathed at the hip like samurai swords. At customs you're given a gram of G-13 Haze and the option to play with the bomb sniffing dogs for up to half an hour. The train station is totally trippy- all decked out in mushroom caps, pot leaves, peace signs and yin yangs. After walking through the weed forest that surrounds the station, you can board one of the many cat-shaped public transport buses that stealthily crawl all over the city. Then you can totally relax. Totally.
The most stoned person I've ever seen in my life worked the front desk of the hostel. He looked like a really tired and hungry seagull without feathers. He could barely function. By his desk there was a large machine he would inhale weed from like an oxygen tank. Later, he told me after two years in the hospital from a work-related accident he moved to Amsterdam. He was on vacation then decided to stay after finding a job. That was over ten years ago. Somehow I wasn't surprised when he said he spoke zero Dutch. It complements the fact that most Dutch I spoke with didn't smoke tons of weed.
I didn't have any plans after Amsterdam so I made ONE: Return to New York on August 30th. That gives me 12 more days.
The red-light district in Amsterdam really does have hookers in the windows dancing at all hours of the day and night. Most of them are very ugly and only some of them kinda look like porn.
On the train I read Bret Easton Ellis's Less Than Zero in one big gulp, like a handful of pills. I was a little underwhelmed but complaining about the novel would probably be like trying to send a steak back after eating it. It was fine. There were those great disturbing moments that made my hands go numb and forced me to look out the window, but it was child's play compared to American Psycho. Besides, the Millenium trilogy and Dune, (I just started the second book, Dune Messiah), are very hard to stand up to. I'm also reading a Phil Roth about Jews. To characterize: Less then Zero was like a quivering rape victim sandwiched between the literary dynasties of Millennium and Dune.
The hostel had a very strict policy against tobacco. You could smoke weed anywhere, but tobacco was forbidden, even frowned upon. It was the most expensive hostel yet, also the worst. For the complementary breakfast, you got a loaf of wonder bread in a basket and your own personal toaster. The beds were shit. The TV I got so excited about was the size of two iPhones (was it an iPad?). The shower was clogged and moldy. Everyone had to share one toilet. Unreal. And this was one of the better reviewed hostels in town (there are thousands). My future employers will be happy to know I passed out both nights with all my clothes on on top of the covers. Amsterdam's finest lives up to its reputation.
ALONE
Arriving in Amsterdam was like walking into the pages of High Times magazine. The language is mostly Jamaican, people are required by law to wear dreadlocks, and bongs are sheathed at the hip like samurai swords. At customs you're given a gram of G-13 Haze and the option to play with the bomb sniffing dogs for up to half an hour. The train station is totally trippy- all decked out in mushroom caps, pot leaves, peace signs and yin yangs. After walking through the weed forest that surrounds the station, you can board one of the many cat-shaped public transport buses that stealthily crawl all over the city. Then you can totally relax. Totally.
The most stoned person I've ever seen in my life worked the front desk of the hostel. He looked like a really tired and hungry seagull without feathers. He could barely function. By his desk there was a large machine he would inhale weed from like an oxygen tank. Later, he told me after two years in the hospital from a work-related accident he moved to Amsterdam. He was on vacation then decided to stay after finding a job. That was over ten years ago. Somehow I wasn't surprised when he said he spoke zero Dutch. It complements the fact that most Dutch I spoke with didn't smoke tons of weed.
I didn't have any plans after Amsterdam so I made ONE: Return to New York on August 30th. That gives me 12 more days.
The red-light district in Amsterdam really does have hookers in the windows dancing at all hours of the day and night. Most of them are very ugly and only some of them kinda look like porn.
On the train I read Bret Easton Ellis's Less Than Zero in one big gulp, like a handful of pills. I was a little underwhelmed but complaining about the novel would probably be like trying to send a steak back after eating it. It was fine. There were those great disturbing moments that made my hands go numb and forced me to look out the window, but it was child's play compared to American Psycho. Besides, the Millenium trilogy and Dune, (I just started the second book, Dune Messiah), are very hard to stand up to. I'm also reading a Phil Roth about Jews. To characterize: Less then Zero was like a quivering rape victim sandwiched between the literary dynasties of Millennium and Dune.
The hostel had a very strict policy against tobacco. You could smoke weed anywhere, but tobacco was forbidden, even frowned upon. It was the most expensive hostel yet, also the worst. For the complementary breakfast, you got a loaf of wonder bread in a basket and your own personal toaster. The beds were shit. The TV I got so excited about was the size of two iPhones (was it an iPad?). The shower was clogged and moldy. Everyone had to share one toilet. Unreal. And this was one of the better reviewed hostels in town (there are thousands). My future employers will be happy to know I passed out both nights with all my clothes on on top of the covers. Amsterdam's finest lives up to its reputation.
ALONE
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
BERLIN
SORRY, EVERYONE! HERE'S BERLIN! Vingettes of passion.
We're riding down the Eastern Gallery at 3 AM after getting booted from a club. Directly ahead of us are two similar dudes also on bikes. They pass a bottle back and forth, trying to stay in the bike lane. I ride up to one of them and put my hand out for the bottle. The dude-man laughs and hands me the bottle, empty. I ride ahead to his comrade, chuck the bottle in his bike basket and speed off. Swedish. The next day I see one of them in a magazine at the art bookstore.
Our tour guide was extremely emotional all throughout the three hour tour of the Satsi Prison. She was tall and swayed back and forth in the middle of the crowd, violently explaining the violence that took place. She would always end her bits with "but I don't have to tell you what that means" or "you can probably guess what happened", each word slower than the next. She didn't cry, but it felt close. It was a horrifying prison.
I was getting lost in the east, listening to music. A woman outside a storefront ushered me inside, speaking fast German. I entered and saw two beautiful women, one at a desk and one halfway up a library ladder tending to a huge wall of DVDs. I scanned the titles and didn't recognize any of them. They were all names and little pictures. I bolted back out onto the street and walked past a gothic church. Was that a video dating service?
I hadn't ordered anything regrettable until last night. I wanted a big plate of donor kebab with salad and bread on the side. What I got was a plate of red peppers, onions, grease, meat cubes and rice. God damn it! An unwanted ticket to Fart City.
The head Australian held court outside the hostel. It was the one about the hooker in Amsterdam. It was 50 Euro, "brunette all the way", and strictly business. The rest of the boys asked questions, fascinated. The leader cooly smoked a cigarette and didn't even bother talking about his second hooker- his initiation lady was enough. I learned the phrase "have a go" and the word "dingy" (condom).
I went to the most bar-ish looking of the bars with Dylan. There were obscene posters on the walls, an old street sign standing sideways that said "DIE" and girls everywhere. It was Friday and Berlin was dressed up. I was sick of my only set of clothes- the gray nylon pants, the blue shirt, the chambray button up and the white windbreaker. I was especially sick of my shoes, a pair of Tom's that couldn't handle rain. They smelled awful and looked worse, like two dead rats. I smelled awful. I hadn't worn deodorant in a month. I also hadn't showered that day. It was nice to find out later that German girls don't care much about any of these things.
We met some German natives on the couch and we got drunk together. One was tall and blonde and a student, one was a tall, skinny psychiatrist and one didn't speak any English but was very jolly. It was like a scene from a German sitcom. We went to a club and we are all still friends to this day.
The group of French kids were awake early because they hadn't slept for 48 hours. We all went to the subway station together but neither of us Americans had money. When we got the money we didn't have small enough bills to pay for tickets. When we got the small bills and the tickets we were sure we wouldn't make our train to Amsterdam. I was wearing all my layers, sweating in the subway, cursing myself for not biking to the station with a perfectly good bike in fine weather. We made it with little time to spare. I didn't have a ticket for my bike but everything was fine.
We went out to dinner with three beautiful British girls who turned out to be sisters! They said they were leaving Europe (going back to England) after Prague. They only had one more night in Berlin.
I had breakfast in the hostel every morning because I thought it was a good deal.
Rachel hung out with us once even though every night we made some sort of contact, saying we'd meet up later. Eventually I let her have the last word: "let me get in touch wit u lata". She never did but it was a comforting message to leave me with. Something about its optimism or something. The night we did meet up with Rachel we had fun at a dancehall club. I learned how to reggae dance on a weed cruise. Rachel had a friend who was very good looking and we left her at the club with a man and Rachel said something about her being free spirited.
Berlin was a blast.
ALONE
The women are beautiful but they're also huge. They aren't huge in a fat way, they're just big and tall. They use more cloth. They're tan and stylish and if Disney animated them they'd be hot bears.
.
We're riding down the Eastern Gallery at 3 AM after getting booted from a club. Directly ahead of us are two similar dudes also on bikes. They pass a bottle back and forth, trying to stay in the bike lane. I ride up to one of them and put my hand out for the bottle. The dude-man laughs and hands me the bottle, empty. I ride ahead to his comrade, chuck the bottle in his bike basket and speed off. Swedish. The next day I see one of them in a magazine at the art bookstore.
Our tour guide was extremely emotional all throughout the three hour tour of the Satsi Prison. She was tall and swayed back and forth in the middle of the crowd, violently explaining the violence that took place. She would always end her bits with "but I don't have to tell you what that means" or "you can probably guess what happened", each word slower than the next. She didn't cry, but it felt close. It was a horrifying prison.
I was getting lost in the east, listening to music. A woman outside a storefront ushered me inside, speaking fast German. I entered and saw two beautiful women, one at a desk and one halfway up a library ladder tending to a huge wall of DVDs. I scanned the titles and didn't recognize any of them. They were all names and little pictures. I bolted back out onto the street and walked past a gothic church. Was that a video dating service?
I hadn't ordered anything regrettable until last night. I wanted a big plate of donor kebab with salad and bread on the side. What I got was a plate of red peppers, onions, grease, meat cubes and rice. God damn it! An unwanted ticket to Fart City.
The head Australian held court outside the hostel. It was the one about the hooker in Amsterdam. It was 50 Euro, "brunette all the way", and strictly business. The rest of the boys asked questions, fascinated. The leader cooly smoked a cigarette and didn't even bother talking about his second hooker- his initiation lady was enough. I learned the phrase "have a go" and the word "dingy" (condom).
I went to the most bar-ish looking of the bars with Dylan. There were obscene posters on the walls, an old street sign standing sideways that said "DIE" and girls everywhere. It was Friday and Berlin was dressed up. I was sick of my only set of clothes- the gray nylon pants, the blue shirt, the chambray button up and the white windbreaker. I was especially sick of my shoes, a pair of Tom's that couldn't handle rain. They smelled awful and looked worse, like two dead rats. I smelled awful. I hadn't worn deodorant in a month. I also hadn't showered that day. It was nice to find out later that German girls don't care much about any of these things.
We met some German natives on the couch and we got drunk together. One was tall and blonde and a student, one was a tall, skinny psychiatrist and one didn't speak any English but was very jolly. It was like a scene from a German sitcom. We went to a club and we are all still friends to this day.
The group of French kids were awake early because they hadn't slept for 48 hours. We all went to the subway station together but neither of us Americans had money. When we got the money we didn't have small enough bills to pay for tickets. When we got the small bills and the tickets we were sure we wouldn't make our train to Amsterdam. I was wearing all my layers, sweating in the subway, cursing myself for not biking to the station with a perfectly good bike in fine weather. We made it with little time to spare. I didn't have a ticket for my bike but everything was fine.
We went out to dinner with three beautiful British girls who turned out to be sisters! They said they were leaving Europe (going back to England) after Prague. They only had one more night in Berlin.
I had breakfast in the hostel every morning because I thought it was a good deal.
Rachel hung out with us once even though every night we made some sort of contact, saying we'd meet up later. Eventually I let her have the last word: "let me get in touch wit u lata". She never did but it was a comforting message to leave me with. Something about its optimism or something. The night we did meet up with Rachel we had fun at a dancehall club. I learned how to reggae dance on a weed cruise. Rachel had a friend who was very good looking and we left her at the club with a man and Rachel said something about her being free spirited.
Berlin was a blast.
ALONE
The women are beautiful but they're also huge. They aren't huge in a fat way, they're just big and tall. They use more cloth. They're tan and stylish and if Disney animated them they'd be hot bears.
.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
AN UNEXPECTED FAREWELL
Shooting down the road back to Visp from Saas Fee at over 45 MPH, I passed through a tunnel. Small slats in the wall made slivers of light on the asphalt. The light beams danced in the cool morning air. They were projected through a waterfall rushing over the tunnel down to the river 300 meters below.
Today wasn't supposed to be my last day in Switzerland. Although I try to roll with as little plans as possible, I figured I had three days ride to Zurich before I took a train to Germany. But here I am, on a train bound to Berlin.
The morning was amazing. I woke up, packed up and ate as many calories as I could at the buffet. I was riding near a 100 miles with 2 big passes along the way. I paid my dues (two nights at a fantasy hotel or $30) and said my goodbyes. I went down the mountain, all 38 kilometers of it. The first 30 K I was the only person headed downhill. The weather was perfect, and I was reminded once again of how awesome Switzerland's alps are.
On the road to Brig, I thought about luxury. I was constantly cycling to the next bit of free housing or complementary meal. Between destinations I camped. In Europe camping isn't the opposite of luxury but it's damn close. I think I'm about as comfortable as one person can be in a tent, but a room with a bed is so much better. I suppose I could go all the way and camp every night regardless, but that experience would be too limiting in itself. Trains are another luxury on my journey. I could get to Berlin on my bike in a week and a bit. Today I'm doing it in 10 hours.
After Brig was more pleasant riding. Then things started getting vertical. I was hitting 10% grades before noon.
I took note of the lack of road cyclists coming my way. Plenty of sweaty mountain bikers pumping up and down on huge shock absorbers, but no road bikes like mine. I started to get really worried when my signposted road cycling route suddenly turned to gravel. The asphalt came back only to disappear again. I was scared. Suddenly I turned a corner and there was an elaborate cobblestone road so steep I had to get off my bike. An old couple with hiking poles turned to watch the defeated man push his bike up the rocky path.
It was the most beautiful and dangerous riding I've done. I took some of the flat dirt sections well, but I simply didn't have big enough gears to take the steep hills. I got to a bridge and an Italian man let me know the worst was yet to come. After pushing Ginger up 2 K of dirt I made it to the paved road. I cursed the makers of my Swiss map. Upon further examination, I saw there were tiny mountain bike trail signs along the trail, even though it was displayed as a road bike route. I was furious, not only at the incompetence of all Swiss map makers, but also because I had obliterated my testicles on my final mountain bike turn of the day.
I was happy to be on asphalt again. I passed cows with such swollen udders that I wanted to pull over and fill my empty bottles with their unpasturized milk.
The rest of the ride was no cake walk. Rain clouds loomed overhead, and I could smell a storm coming. A considerable headwind had kicked up. I was also hungry. Lucky for me it was Sunday and all markets were closed. I could spend $30 on a mediocre Swiss lunch. I thought about it. I kept on hearing Mr. Wirther say the phrase 'typical Swiss' in my head. I ended up eating all of the 8 bread rolls I took from his hotel buffet.
Then the rain really kicked up and I pondered camping for the night. It was too early. I was in a town where a little train went through a mountain. I took the little train and there was no rain on the other side. Then downhill to where I planned to camp. On a whim I stopped in the train station and jokingly asked if I could get a train to Berlin. They said yes. So I did it. I won't talk about money, but I was relieved to be leaving a nation where money evaporates like water. Had I rode to Zurich, I would have spent just as much camping and eating. Plus I had friends in Berlin. Friends from New York. Am I ready to interact with real people again? I really can't say.
The night train is great. I almost missed it because I took a shower in the Zurich train station. Am I trying to spend the rest of my Swiss Francs? Absolutely. I had dinner in the dining car next to a very regal Italian mother and son who chew with their mouths wide open. This is why I bought ear plugs.
ALoNE
Today wasn't supposed to be my last day in Switzerland. Although I try to roll with as little plans as possible, I figured I had three days ride to Zurich before I took a train to Germany. But here I am, on a train bound to Berlin.
The morning was amazing. I woke up, packed up and ate as many calories as I could at the buffet. I was riding near a 100 miles with 2 big passes along the way. I paid my dues (two nights at a fantasy hotel or $30) and said my goodbyes. I went down the mountain, all 38 kilometers of it. The first 30 K I was the only person headed downhill. The weather was perfect, and I was reminded once again of how awesome Switzerland's alps are.
On the road to Brig, I thought about luxury. I was constantly cycling to the next bit of free housing or complementary meal. Between destinations I camped. In Europe camping isn't the opposite of luxury but it's damn close. I think I'm about as comfortable as one person can be in a tent, but a room with a bed is so much better. I suppose I could go all the way and camp every night regardless, but that experience would be too limiting in itself. Trains are another luxury on my journey. I could get to Berlin on my bike in a week and a bit. Today I'm doing it in 10 hours.
After Brig was more pleasant riding. Then things started getting vertical. I was hitting 10% grades before noon.
I took note of the lack of road cyclists coming my way. Plenty of sweaty mountain bikers pumping up and down on huge shock absorbers, but no road bikes like mine. I started to get really worried when my signposted road cycling route suddenly turned to gravel. The asphalt came back only to disappear again. I was scared. Suddenly I turned a corner and there was an elaborate cobblestone road so steep I had to get off my bike. An old couple with hiking poles turned to watch the defeated man push his bike up the rocky path.
It was the most beautiful and dangerous riding I've done. I took some of the flat dirt sections well, but I simply didn't have big enough gears to take the steep hills. I got to a bridge and an Italian man let me know the worst was yet to come. After pushing Ginger up 2 K of dirt I made it to the paved road. I cursed the makers of my Swiss map. Upon further examination, I saw there were tiny mountain bike trail signs along the trail, even though it was displayed as a road bike route. I was furious, not only at the incompetence of all Swiss map makers, but also because I had obliterated my testicles on my final mountain bike turn of the day.
I was happy to be on asphalt again. I passed cows with such swollen udders that I wanted to pull over and fill my empty bottles with their unpasturized milk.
The rest of the ride was no cake walk. Rain clouds loomed overhead, and I could smell a storm coming. A considerable headwind had kicked up. I was also hungry. Lucky for me it was Sunday and all markets were closed. I could spend $30 on a mediocre Swiss lunch. I thought about it. I kept on hearing Mr. Wirther say the phrase 'typical Swiss' in my head. I ended up eating all of the 8 bread rolls I took from his hotel buffet.
Then the rain really kicked up and I pondered camping for the night. It was too early. I was in a town where a little train went through a mountain. I took the little train and there was no rain on the other side. Then downhill to where I planned to camp. On a whim I stopped in the train station and jokingly asked if I could get a train to Berlin. They said yes. So I did it. I won't talk about money, but I was relieved to be leaving a nation where money evaporates like water. Had I rode to Zurich, I would have spent just as much camping and eating. Plus I had friends in Berlin. Friends from New York. Am I ready to interact with real people again? I really can't say.
The night train is great. I almost missed it because I took a shower in the Zurich train station. Am I trying to spend the rest of my Swiss Francs? Absolutely. I had dinner in the dining car next to a very regal Italian mother and son who chew with their mouths wide open. This is why I bought ear plugs.
ALoNE
Saturday, August 7, 2010
MAXIMUM WAGE
A couple kilometers into the hill I realized I I hadn't really started my 30 kilometer ascent to Saas Fee. Suddenly the grade kicked up a few degrees and I began climbing the 2000 meters of elevation. Traffic was heavy. It was the only road through the Alps. At the crux of the hill and the flat I made eye contact with a girl selling apricots on the side of the road. She gave me a sideways smile.
SLEEPING FOR FREE isn't hard-- it just requires some sneakiness. I was only going to stay one night at the campsite, but bad weather forced another. I wasn't going to pay for it, though. Unfortunately I'd made good friends with the girl at the reception desk, and during my escape we locked eyes. It was a tense moment but she had nothing on me. I was packed up and leaving. For all she knew I was visiting friends. I hope she didn't take it personally.
I was off to a ski resort town in the Alps to meet Mr. Wirth, a successful hotel owner, at his latest acquisition. I got to Visp from Vevey and my directions were simple enough from there. To quote: "go to Visp and then go up." And up I went.
After two days of easy riding I was ready for a challenge. The road to Saas Fee was one giant, 38 kilometer hill cutting into the Alps with over 2000 meters of elevation. There were several towns along the way nestled into mountain cliffs. I traversed over bridges so high in the air I got off and walked my bike out of fear.
I couldn't help feeling silly when I was huffing and puffing through mountain villages where people were going about their daily lives. Sometimes I would have to go through tunnels under mountains. Any car in a tunnel sounds like a freight train.
After Saas Grund (Hasidic Jews everywhere!) the hill really got steep. The switchbacks were tight. It was an exciting last few meters. I turned a corner and suddenly I was face to face with a huge glacier rolling over the Alps above Saas Fee.
Entering Saas Fee you're presented with two options: drive your car into the biggest downward spiral of a parking lot you've ever seen, or turn around and go home. I turned right from the parking sea shell and went in under a gate. The town was jam packed with German speaking Swiss. Given its proximity to the border, I was expecting Italian.
I looked for my hotel and suddenly realized that all the buildings in Saas Fee were hotels. I eventually rolled passed mine. A man pulling weeds in a tiny garden called my name. It was Mr. Wirth! He was tall, happy and wore a red turtleneck. Imagine Werner Herzog as a happy hotel owner.
He showed me to my room, which was actually the owner's suite, and recommended I got some rest. We would meet in two hours and go to dinner. I stood on my balcony and admired the looming glacier up above. Then I took the longest shower ever.
I went to dinner a little less stinky. Mr. Wirth promised me an authentic Swiss experience and he delivered. A three piece band consisting of two accordions and a base played all the Swiss hits. Eventually the restaurant owner joined with his Sax, then his recorder. I let Mr. Wirth order for me. His only question was: "do you like cheese?"
While digging through my cast iron skillet of potato hash, cheese, eggs, ham and pickled vegetables, we talked about the high wages of Swiss workers, how Swiss were possessive and rude most of the time, and covered some basic Swiss history. We finished with herbal tea and a half portion of apple strudel.
During the meal two old Swiss couples danced to the music. One couple was clearly more enthusiastic and eventually booted the other couple off the floor. Something was medically wrong with the dancing man. He could barely walk, and when we complemented him on his moves I noticed he could barely speak. It was really the way he handled his wife. With a plastic grimace on his face, he spun, dipped and pushed his companion around with jerking, quick movements of his arm. She was intensely receptive to his commands, and there was lots of love between the two. After she helped him back to his seat, she would yodel with the band, much to the appreciation of the rest of the diners. "Typically Swiss," remarked Mr. Wirth.
After the meal we went back to the hotel and I ventured out to the festival to meet the girl from the tourism office.
ALONE
Morning came and I drank the perfect amount of coffee: too much. Looking out at the Alps I pondered my next move. Visp-Milan-Munich-Berlin? Visp-Milan-Yugoslavia? This hotel sure is nice.
SLEEPING FOR FREE isn't hard-- it just requires some sneakiness. I was only going to stay one night at the campsite, but bad weather forced another. I wasn't going to pay for it, though. Unfortunately I'd made good friends with the girl at the reception desk, and during my escape we locked eyes. It was a tense moment but she had nothing on me. I was packed up and leaving. For all she knew I was visiting friends. I hope she didn't take it personally.
I was off to a ski resort town in the Alps to meet Mr. Wirth, a successful hotel owner, at his latest acquisition. I got to Visp from Vevey and my directions were simple enough from there. To quote: "go to Visp and then go up." And up I went.
After two days of easy riding I was ready for a challenge. The road to Saas Fee was one giant, 38 kilometer hill cutting into the Alps with over 2000 meters of elevation. There were several towns along the way nestled into mountain cliffs. I traversed over bridges so high in the air I got off and walked my bike out of fear.
I couldn't help feeling silly when I was huffing and puffing through mountain villages where people were going about their daily lives. Sometimes I would have to go through tunnels under mountains. Any car in a tunnel sounds like a freight train.
After Saas Grund (Hasidic Jews everywhere!) the hill really got steep. The switchbacks were tight. It was an exciting last few meters. I turned a corner and suddenly I was face to face with a huge glacier rolling over the Alps above Saas Fee.
Entering Saas Fee you're presented with two options: drive your car into the biggest downward spiral of a parking lot you've ever seen, or turn around and go home. I turned right from the parking sea shell and went in under a gate. The town was jam packed with German speaking Swiss. Given its proximity to the border, I was expecting Italian.
I looked for my hotel and suddenly realized that all the buildings in Saas Fee were hotels. I eventually rolled passed mine. A man pulling weeds in a tiny garden called my name. It was Mr. Wirth! He was tall, happy and wore a red turtleneck. Imagine Werner Herzog as a happy hotel owner.
He showed me to my room, which was actually the owner's suite, and recommended I got some rest. We would meet in two hours and go to dinner. I stood on my balcony and admired the looming glacier up above. Then I took the longest shower ever.
I went to dinner a little less stinky. Mr. Wirth promised me an authentic Swiss experience and he delivered. A three piece band consisting of two accordions and a base played all the Swiss hits. Eventually the restaurant owner joined with his Sax, then his recorder. I let Mr. Wirth order for me. His only question was: "do you like cheese?"
While digging through my cast iron skillet of potato hash, cheese, eggs, ham and pickled vegetables, we talked about the high wages of Swiss workers, how Swiss were possessive and rude most of the time, and covered some basic Swiss history. We finished with herbal tea and a half portion of apple strudel.
During the meal two old Swiss couples danced to the music. One couple was clearly more enthusiastic and eventually booted the other couple off the floor. Something was medically wrong with the dancing man. He could barely walk, and when we complemented him on his moves I noticed he could barely speak. It was really the way he handled his wife. With a plastic grimace on his face, he spun, dipped and pushed his companion around with jerking, quick movements of his arm. She was intensely receptive to his commands, and there was lots of love between the two. After she helped him back to his seat, she would yodel with the band, much to the appreciation of the rest of the diners. "Typically Swiss," remarked Mr. Wirth.
After the meal we went back to the hotel and I ventured out to the festival to meet the girl from the tourism office.
ALONE
Morning came and I drank the perfect amount of coffee: too much. Looking out at the Alps I pondered my next move. Visp-Milan-Munich-Berlin? Visp-Milan-Yugoslavia? This hotel sure is nice.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
CHILLED TO THE BONE ROAST
The Australian couple finally asked me to join them on their blanket. It was a warm night in Switzerland and I bought us all a round of canned beers. We drank and talked about the road. By now most of my stories were well rehearsed. They talked over each other competitively. Their's weren't. They had the same stories to tell, and no way of delegating the role of speaker. I got up to get ready for bed. We said we'd see each other in the morning. That night a storm was brewing. When I stepped out of my tent in the morning it was raining and the Australians were gone.
I HAVE MISCALCULATED. It's not hot
and sunny here everyday like in France.
I got to Pully only to find an email from my host saying his son was in the hospital and couldn't host me. I biked down lakeside and immediately found two campsites. I parked at the one in Vevey and set up shop.
There was wi fi at the campsite restaurant so I packed myself a sardine dinner and stepped inside. The waiter watched me open a store bought beer and expressed his anger. After apologizing, I chugged the whole beer in front of him. He darted off, returned and placed an 8 Franc beer in front of me that in was forced to drink and pay for. Now I was a little tipsy and borderline angry.
In rebellion, I fixed and ate a greasy sardine sandwich right outside the entrance to the restaurant. I made sure to drain the can on the restaurant's property. The owner of the campsite sprayed me and my hobo mess with a garden hose after I told him to fuck off.
Later, I snuck back into the restaurant where my broken computer was charging secretly under a table. Earlier in the day I'd taken the computer to a repair man in the city. To my dismay it worked perfectly for the first time since it stopped working. The computer man laughed at me. When I tried it again at the campsite it was broken. Switzerland is haunted.
The girl who works the reception desk is cute. Later, she was pulling weeds in the garden. I like her little, white gardening shorts.
I went for a swim in the lake and then took my four minute, one dollar shower. I read my book and walked around. I ate some more of the 18 granola bars I bought at the supermarket the day before. The 2-for-1 granola bar deal was the only promotion in the market. I drank beers with Austalians and played cards with some German Swiss girls. Lesbians? Dude, awesome. In the middle of the night the wind blew my tent around. The morning was a hard rain situation. It was so bad I didn't even say good morning to Ginger. I played cards with the Swiss girls again and read. My friend emailed me trying to get me to come to Berlin but it's not as easily done as he claims it is. It's expensive. Everything is. My breakfast (a
baguette and a coffee) cost 11 francs. My next destination is to meet up with the owner of a ski resort. A friend got me in touch with him and it could be great. But if I'm cold here, how cold will I be up there at 5000 ft elevation?
In my experience so far Swiss French speakers have a serious attitude problem. Why would you openly hate tourists at a campsite? Did they make a campsite just to have a place to gather victims and channel their hatred?
The rain is bringing me down. I long for Germany and Garric.
ALONE
I HAVE MISCALCULATED. It's not hot
and sunny here everyday like in France.
I got to Pully only to find an email from my host saying his son was in the hospital and couldn't host me. I biked down lakeside and immediately found two campsites. I parked at the one in Vevey and set up shop.
There was wi fi at the campsite restaurant so I packed myself a sardine dinner and stepped inside. The waiter watched me open a store bought beer and expressed his anger. After apologizing, I chugged the whole beer in front of him. He darted off, returned and placed an 8 Franc beer in front of me that in was forced to drink and pay for. Now I was a little tipsy and borderline angry.
In rebellion, I fixed and ate a greasy sardine sandwich right outside the entrance to the restaurant. I made sure to drain the can on the restaurant's property. The owner of the campsite sprayed me and my hobo mess with a garden hose after I told him to fuck off.
Later, I snuck back into the restaurant where my broken computer was charging secretly under a table. Earlier in the day I'd taken the computer to a repair man in the city. To my dismay it worked perfectly for the first time since it stopped working. The computer man laughed at me. When I tried it again at the campsite it was broken. Switzerland is haunted.
The girl who works the reception desk is cute. Later, she was pulling weeds in the garden. I like her little, white gardening shorts.
I went for a swim in the lake and then took my four minute, one dollar shower. I read my book and walked around. I ate some more of the 18 granola bars I bought at the supermarket the day before. The 2-for-1 granola bar deal was the only promotion in the market. I drank beers with Austalians and played cards with some German Swiss girls. Lesbians? Dude, awesome. In the middle of the night the wind blew my tent around. The morning was a hard rain situation. It was so bad I didn't even say good morning to Ginger. I played cards with the Swiss girls again and read. My friend emailed me trying to get me to come to Berlin but it's not as easily done as he claims it is. It's expensive. Everything is. My breakfast (a
baguette and a coffee) cost 11 francs. My next destination is to meet up with the owner of a ski resort. A friend got me in touch with him and it could be great. But if I'm cold here, how cold will I be up there at 5000 ft elevation?
In my experience so far Swiss French speakers have a serious attitude problem. Why would you openly hate tourists at a campsite? Did they make a campsite just to have a place to gather victims and channel their hatred?
The rain is bringing me down. I long for Germany and Garric.
ALONE
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)