MUSSELS 2 GO

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.

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