Most of you have figured this out by now, but I'm back in the states. I arrived in Omaha a couple of weeks ago after leaving Prague on a cool, wet morning. It seemed appropriate - the weather was nearly the same as when I first arrived nearly 8 months previous. During my intermittent visits, I'd seen rain, snow, naked trees and cold winds, early summer, green, crowds, more crowds, "all the sights," and again the cooling of the seasons; autumn. Sitting in my hostel the last day or so and watching the rain fall, I knew it was time to leave. New travelers came and went, full of the excitement of being in a city they'd never seen, I didn't feel that I was missing anything by staying warm and dry.
My family and a few friends still live in Omaha. I spent about a week there visiting, catching up and sharing stories. I also interviewed for a permanent job with Jefferson County's Department of Open Space for a job with their trail crew. I worked there last year before going abroad and while I like the work, I like the people more. It's a good place to work and it gives me the opportunity to live in Denver with my friends without being too far from home. Napa is a long way from Omaha.
It's been a busy week and a half since I arrived in Denver. Aside from seeing as many friends as possible, I've also been apartment shopping, and consequently, apartment-furnishing shopping. Right now I have a lot of clothes and some assorted sporting goods, but not much on which to sit or sleep. Two days ago - within about 45 minutes of one another - I received (and accepted) a job offer from JeffCo, and received (and accepted) a 1-bedroom apartment near Cheeseman Park. I move in on Monday. Things are going well.
My new address is:
1420 E 13th Ave # 9
Denver, CO 80218
View Larger Map
I will keep my PO Box, so if you're mailing stuff there, no need to stop.
I'll get a picture or two up when I move in next week, but if you're in the area, give me a call. New phone is 303-905-2750.
Friday, September 28, 2007
hmmmm
If you're having a resolution problem with the slideshow below, you can watch it directly by clicking here. Thanks
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Furthur – An Epilogue
Rhine River
Greg, Joel and I planned a trip to Germany this week to visit Christian, a friend I met in New Zealand, whose family owns a winery. We needed to relax and decompress a bit from the last two months on the bikes, and we figured drinking wine and sleeping in real beds was a good place to start. We caught an overnight bus from Prague to Frankfurt and a train on to Bad Kreuznach, where Christian met us on Monday morning.
Old Town Frankfurt.
Frankfurt
We only traveled a few hundred miles, but we might as well have boarded the magic time-travel bus into the future. Arriving in Germany, we were pleasantly reminded what it’s like to exist in the first world. I’m not saying Prague isn’t a great city – it is. But there’s something undeniably “eastern-European” about it. It’s a combination of characteristics (tangible or otherwise) that are present across the Czech Republic and down through the Balkans (uh-hmm, communism). So walking into a modern, clean, traveler-oriented train station was amazing. Automated ticket machines gave us the option to pay by credit card, customer service representatives weren’t sitting behind dirty glass windows with cigarettes hanging from their mouths, and smoking in designated areas was actually enforced. Things got off to a good start.
Famous vineyards on the Rhine.
With the last-minute change of plans, Christian didn’t get our email explaining that we’d arrive Monday morning rather than Monday afternoon. It wasn’t a problem, though, and we headed to Langenlonsheim, stopping for breakfast along the way. After a mean breakfast fry up (and naps), we set out with Christian and his girlfriend Julia for a tour of the Nahe wine region, which is near the Rhine River. The weather cleared up just in time for a relaxing afternoon drive through dozens of vineyards, and we had coffee overlooking the Rhine in the late afternoon sun.
Christian and Julia above the Rhine.
Wine tasting in Jacob's vineyard.
After dinner, Christian presented to us a selection of his family’s wines. Not adhering strictly to a tasting format, we drank the better part of 6 bottles that night. Christian has a degree in oenology and viticulture (winemaking and vine growing, respectively) and will be the winemaker at Clemens Honrath Winery (his family’s) when his father retires. Therefore, he was able to explain to us many characteristics about each wine, from the soil types of each vineyard, to the time each wine was in barrel, to the specific weather conditions each year that produced certain attributes in each bottle. It was the best wine tasting I’ve ever done because we were able to ask him anything without being made to feel stupid or un(der)educated. The wine is quite nice, too.
It would be difficult for Julia to look less interested.
The next two days were full of late mornings and visits to many of Christian’s friends’ wineries. We tasted and learned a lot, and it’s clear that Christian and his friends are passionate about what they do. That was reflected in their patience with us, the quality of the wines they produce, and their desire to continue to make a better product every year. Making good wine is a full-time, year-round job, and as Jacob said, he’d do it even if he wasn’t making money. The difference is that I believe him. Each of Christian’s friends welcomed us and made us feel at home, even helping Joel with his German.
Joel and Greg soak in the view.
Greg left on Thursday morning and Joel and I took some time to visit Bad Kreuznach. That evening the four of us made dinner and relaxed with a few more bottles of wine. Christian managed to outdo himself by presenting a Clemens Honrath 1982 noble-late-harvest sweet wine, a Reisling, from his personal library. He followed that with a 2001 Bordeaux blend (merlot, cab franc, cab sauv) from Robertson Winery in South Africa. Both of these wines were phenomenal, and Joel and I felt very fortunate to experience them with Christian. Seeing as it was nearly impossible to go up from there, we decided on a nightcap of a few German beers.
The future of Clemens Honrath Winery gains inspiration from the past.
And so I sit in Frankfurt waiting for a bus that will come shortly to take me back to Prague (again overnight). I spent the day walking around the city, most of which is really new, at least relative to many of the other places we’ve visited during the past couple of months. From the pictures I’ve seen, Frankfurt was leveled during WWII. The “old town” is nice but small, and much the city is now modern, lacking a “personal” feel. It looks more like Minneapolis than anything I’ve seen lately, complete with a big river running through the center of town. But my first trip to Germany has been a memorable one, and I hope to return.
Frankfurt's banking district.
Greg and Joel now gone, our trip is really over. It’s sinking in that I’ll be in the states in a few days, and I’m having mixed emotions about returning home. I’m excited to see my family and friends – it’s been too long. But this experiment – this experience, this past year – has been the best of my life. I’ve struggled with my own limits and been forced to change course more than once. I’ve made new friends, seen old places, and learned that you can never lose your “family.”
If you want some unsolicited advice (after buying property in Montenegro and visiting Bosnia, which I’ve already covered), get “out there.” “Out there” may be Peace Corps in Swaziland, it may be teaching English in Prague, or it may be making a decision that’s really for you, but it’s got to be uncomfortable, and it’s better if the odds are stacked against you. Take calculated risks. Don’t hesitate to try something that everyone tells you is crazy, and if you fail, fail well. Fail because you’ve given it all you’ve got, fail because you’ve run into a wall at full speed, fail because there’s no overtime and you chose to go for the win instead of the tie. But don’t fail because it’s too hard, too steep, or too long – for then you have truly failed. What’s more, you’ll probably succeed anyway - we’re smarter than we think and capable of more than we know. And that’s why I don’t want this to end.
This didn't make the cut from Belgrade. I know I'm acting like an 11-year old. It's still funny.
go furthur
Sunday, September 02, 2007
And So It Ends...
Downtown Bucharest
We left Veliko Tarnovo and rode north toward the Romanian border, losing elevation as we approached the Danube River Valley. We arrived in Ruse at the end of another long, hot day, but this time with the added joy of humidity. So when we found a hotel room with air conditioning, we quickly settled up and bought some beer. Ruse doesn’t offer much, so we rested that night and crossed the Danube the following morning as we headed toward Bucharest.
The House of the People
Bucharest's own Arc de Triumph
Bucharest is a city still emerging from many years under a dictator with a “Western” complex. In some respects he succeeded; it’s at times Paris-esque (or so I’ve heard). The buildings lay along streets lined with trees and fountains. In fact, Nicolae Ceauşescu (the dictator) built one of his boulevards exactly (and intentionally) 6 meters longer than the Champs-Elysees in Paris. Bucharest has an Arc de Triumph situated in an enormous traffic circle, and in what is widely considered his cruelest urban planning effort, a Parliament building which required the bulldozing of 1/6 of the city’s area, displacing nearly 70,000 of it’s inhabitants. And he had the balls to call it “The House of the People.” Not kidding.
Cercul Militar Naţional
But for all the “westernized” areas of Bucharest, it is distinctly a product of years of communism. It’s thick and gray and sprawling. Furthermore, Romania falls exponentially behind progress with distance from its capital. Stray dogs are a problem country wide, along with poverty and gypsies, who are also known as Roma. Some studies show they are Indian in origin, but they’ve been around long enough to speak their own language and solidify their place as national “outcasts.” Often they live in their own communities at the edges of towns, and fierce nationalism across the Balkans has made their lives difficult.
"House of the People" from Ceauşescu's knock-off Champs-Elysees
Again
Our trip dynamic changed dramatically in Bucharest as Greg had to leave for Ljubljana, where he would meet his choir for a tour of Slovenia. That left Joel and I to explore the city in the heat and humidity. We tried to stay outside in the evenings, and we soon found ourselves on the roof of the National Theatre at an outdoor bar. However, we were feeling cosmopolitan (despite our dress) and headed next to a bar called Twice. For more reasons than our style of dress, we didn’t exactly fit in. But we had a great time dancing that evening. And that was Bucharest. The following day was basically the same. Sightseeing by day, beer and dancing by night. We left on a rainy Sunday afternoon by train toward Brasov.
Brasov, Old Town
Brasov, Old Town, lucky picture.
Brasov is Romania’s domestic tourist destination. It’s known for its Old Town Square, its varied architecture, and simply being the gateway to Transylvania. In a beautiful area, Brasov manages to impress. We also visited Bran, the mythical home of Count Dracula, and Rasnov, where Joel honed his bow-and-arrow skills. After a couple of nights, we were ready for our final day on the bikes, and we left for Sighisoara, 122km away. It was our longest day ride of the trip, and the weather was wonderful. After a night there, we caught a train to Cluj-Napoca where Lynne, my second cousin once removed (or maybe my second aunt?) lives with her husband Jim. They’re (you guessed it) volunteers with the Peace Corps working with the local prisons, stray dogs, and a few other things.
Joel works on his sweet bow skills.
Lynne and Jim took us in, cooked us dinner, and gave us beer. When we weren’t eating, drinking, or watching South Park on www.tv-links.co.uk, we also managed to sell our bikes and buy Joel some Nasonex. We actually had so much fun hanging out with Lynne and Jim that we didn’t see much of Cluj. On Friday, we left on a minibus for Budapest, minus the bikes. After an infuriating night in Budapest (see sidebar), we caught a train to Prague, and the greatest adventure on two wheels came to an end.
Sighisoara
I haven’t had much time to decompress and reflect on the previous two months, and I imagine that will take some time. I do know that it’s been a life-altering experience. Together, we bicycled over a mountain pass in the Alps, through lavender fields on islands in the Adriatic Sea, and below tunnels that seemed to run on forever. We witnessed progress, westernization, and scars slowly healing. We met people who’d lived under communism and experienced the horrors of senseless wars that took the lives of their friends and families. And yet it was these people who opened their homes to us, shared their food and drink with us, and talked with us about what it means to live in such an area. It's clear that life changes after living through such things. It has been remarkable.
Rasnov
We left Veliko Tarnovo and rode north toward the Romanian border, losing elevation as we approached the Danube River Valley. We arrived in Ruse at the end of another long, hot day, but this time with the added joy of humidity. So when we found a hotel room with air conditioning, we quickly settled up and bought some beer. Ruse doesn’t offer much, so we rested that night and crossed the Danube the following morning as we headed toward Bucharest.
The House of the People
Bucharest's own Arc de Triumph
Bucharest is a city still emerging from many years under a dictator with a “Western” complex. In some respects he succeeded; it’s at times Paris-esque (or so I’ve heard). The buildings lay along streets lined with trees and fountains. In fact, Nicolae Ceauşescu (the dictator) built one of his boulevards exactly (and intentionally) 6 meters longer than the Champs-Elysees in Paris. Bucharest has an Arc de Triumph situated in an enormous traffic circle, and in what is widely considered his cruelest urban planning effort, a Parliament building which required the bulldozing of 1/6 of the city’s area, displacing nearly 70,000 of it’s inhabitants. And he had the balls to call it “The House of the People.” Not kidding.
Cercul Militar Naţional
But for all the “westernized” areas of Bucharest, it is distinctly a product of years of communism. It’s thick and gray and sprawling. Furthermore, Romania falls exponentially behind progress with distance from its capital. Stray dogs are a problem country wide, along with poverty and gypsies, who are also known as Roma. Some studies show they are Indian in origin, but they’ve been around long enough to speak their own language and solidify their place as national “outcasts.” Often they live in their own communities at the edges of towns, and fierce nationalism across the Balkans has made their lives difficult.
"House of the People" from Ceauşescu's knock-off Champs-Elysees
Again
Our trip dynamic changed dramatically in Bucharest as Greg had to leave for Ljubljana, where he would meet his choir for a tour of Slovenia. That left Joel and I to explore the city in the heat and humidity. We tried to stay outside in the evenings, and we soon found ourselves on the roof of the National Theatre at an outdoor bar. However, we were feeling cosmopolitan (despite our dress) and headed next to a bar called Twice. For more reasons than our style of dress, we didn’t exactly fit in. But we had a great time dancing that evening. And that was Bucharest. The following day was basically the same. Sightseeing by day, beer and dancing by night. We left on a rainy Sunday afternoon by train toward Brasov.
Brasov, Old Town
Brasov, Old Town, lucky picture.
Brasov is Romania’s domestic tourist destination. It’s known for its Old Town Square, its varied architecture, and simply being the gateway to Transylvania. In a beautiful area, Brasov manages to impress. We also visited Bran, the mythical home of Count Dracula, and Rasnov, where Joel honed his bow-and-arrow skills. After a couple of nights, we were ready for our final day on the bikes, and we left for Sighisoara, 122km away. It was our longest day ride of the trip, and the weather was wonderful. After a night there, we caught a train to Cluj-Napoca where Lynne, my second cousin once removed (or maybe my second aunt?) lives with her husband Jim. They’re (you guessed it) volunteers with the Peace Corps working with the local prisons, stray dogs, and a few other things.
Joel works on his sweet bow skills.
Lynne and Jim took us in, cooked us dinner, and gave us beer. When we weren’t eating, drinking, or watching South Park on www.tv-links.co.uk, we also managed to sell our bikes and buy Joel some Nasonex. We actually had so much fun hanging out with Lynne and Jim that we didn’t see much of Cluj. On Friday, we left on a minibus for Budapest, minus the bikes. After an infuriating night in Budapest (see sidebar), we caught a train to Prague, and the greatest adventure on two wheels came to an end.
Sighisoara
I haven’t had much time to decompress and reflect on the previous two months, and I imagine that will take some time. I do know that it’s been a life-altering experience. Together, we bicycled over a mountain pass in the Alps, through lavender fields on islands in the Adriatic Sea, and below tunnels that seemed to run on forever. We witnessed progress, westernization, and scars slowly healing. We met people who’d lived under communism and experienced the horrors of senseless wars that took the lives of their friends and families. And yet it was these people who opened their homes to us, shared their food and drink with us, and talked with us about what it means to live in such an area. It's clear that life changes after living through such things. It has been remarkable.
Rasnov
Sidebar
It happens to foreigners in big cities everywhere. You probably know someone who knows someone who’s got a story like the one I’m about to tell. It involves the unsuspecting Americans, the ones too stupid to see they’re being played. It’s typically a sob story of some nature, and ours is no different.
But the night began well. After all, we were in Budapest; the bikes sold long ago. Having spent the previous Christmas there, we were excited to see the city by summer with its warm nights and beautiful people along the Danube. We’d been approached by a couple of girls we suspected to be Scandinavian (or perhaps Dutch) asking directions. Unable to help, they told us about an outdoor concert and we said it sounded nice but were headed the other direction. “Good luck,” we said.
After finishing our beers on the Chain Bridge, we began walking back into town and decided we’d head toward the outdoor concert and look for the girls. It’d be good to hear some music, we were out of beer, and let’s be honest, the girls weren’t a tough sell, either. So when we were stopped by two more women along the way (and I say women because they were - ya know - attractive women in their 30s) also asking directions, we didn’t plan on chatting for long. But they were headed the same way and asked us if we wanted to have a quick drink.
It didn’t take us long to say yes. After all, you know what they say about a bird in hand. So when we began walking toward a restaurant, we assumed a beer was a beer. We’d have one, yuck it up with these “old ladies” for a few minutes, and be on our way to the more appropriately aged ones at the outdoor concert. I made the first mistake, which was going to the toilet before getting to the table.
When I arrived at the table, there were already four wine glasses, four shots of schnapps, and two energy drinks (the women ordered these for themselves). The waitress was uncorking the wine bottle, and I was confused. It seemed strange that they wouldn’t even wait for me to arrive from the toilet before ordering. So as the wine was poured from a half-liter bottle, I was already suspicious that something wasn’t right (half-liter bottles of wine are often really expensive).
The conversation wasn’t stellar, either. The woman talking with Joel seemed riveted to every word that came out of his mouth and laughed (excessively?) at all of his jokes. The one talking to me was pretty much the same. This made me very uncomfortable (I’m not really laugh-out-loud funny). When the conversation turned to our accommodation for the night, we explained we didn’t have much money and were staying in a hostel. “It’s like a hotel for poor kids,” we said. Joel’s “date” then extended an offer of returning to their place later that night, presumably after going to the discos. At this point, I knew we were going to get fucked.
When the waitress returned asking if we wanted another bottle of wine, I clearly said “no,” and Joel followed my lead. After all, we were leaving early the next morning and had to get to bed (we managed to work that into the conversation about as smoothly as they worked their ex-boyfriends in). My suspicions confirmed, the bill was 44,000 forints, which converts to about $240.00. Not surprisingly, the women had no cash. However, the waitress was “kind enough” to show us outside to an ATM. As Joel headed out, I asked to see a menu (having not been, uh, afforded the opportunity before ordering). The energy drinks were $20 each, the shots the same. The bottle of wine was about $120. Sweet.
I asked if the menu was for “stupid tourists,” and tried a bit to fight our way out of it. But Joel was already tapping the cash machine, and by the time he returned, the bill was paid in full. Still slightly in shock (and hoping my mental conversion was way wrong), we left the restaurant with the women. We walked to the corner together where we said our goodbyes, turning down an only slightly veiled offer of “more fun.”
I don’t get seriously angry often. It’s only when I’ve been taken advantage of, betrayed, or, in this case, robbed. The walk home that night was at a fast pace, and I mastered a vernacular in which the word “fuck” assumed nearly every known part of speech. I was furious with the women for clearly taking advantage of us, but in reality, I was probably more upset for allowing it to happen. We should have seen it from a mile away - the restaurant too good for us, and the women, well, we had no business with those women, for any reason. We were set up and knocked down. I would have rather taken my bike and thrown in into the Danube River than spend the money from it’s sale to halve the cost of our night with Joel.
A de-briefing not withstanding, the lessons learned from this night are clear, and I won’t bore you with a drawn-out explanation. I’ve been through it more times in my head during the last 48 hours than anyone could ever dream. I guess it just goes to show that you’ve got to stay sharp all the time. While I was upset for a little while, there’s no way I could let it dampen the previous two months. It’s disappointing that it happened at the end of the trip, but it could have been worse. I still recommend Budapest, but now that recommendation comes with a small caveat.
But the night began well. After all, we were in Budapest; the bikes sold long ago. Having spent the previous Christmas there, we were excited to see the city by summer with its warm nights and beautiful people along the Danube. We’d been approached by a couple of girls we suspected to be Scandinavian (or perhaps Dutch) asking directions. Unable to help, they told us about an outdoor concert and we said it sounded nice but were headed the other direction. “Good luck,” we said.
After finishing our beers on the Chain Bridge, we began walking back into town and decided we’d head toward the outdoor concert and look for the girls. It’d be good to hear some music, we were out of beer, and let’s be honest, the girls weren’t a tough sell, either. So when we were stopped by two more women along the way (and I say women because they were - ya know - attractive women in their 30s) also asking directions, we didn’t plan on chatting for long. But they were headed the same way and asked us if we wanted to have a quick drink.
It didn’t take us long to say yes. After all, you know what they say about a bird in hand. So when we began walking toward a restaurant, we assumed a beer was a beer. We’d have one, yuck it up with these “old ladies” for a few minutes, and be on our way to the more appropriately aged ones at the outdoor concert. I made the first mistake, which was going to the toilet before getting to the table.
When I arrived at the table, there were already four wine glasses, four shots of schnapps, and two energy drinks (the women ordered these for themselves). The waitress was uncorking the wine bottle, and I was confused. It seemed strange that they wouldn’t even wait for me to arrive from the toilet before ordering. So as the wine was poured from a half-liter bottle, I was already suspicious that something wasn’t right (half-liter bottles of wine are often really expensive).
The conversation wasn’t stellar, either. The woman talking with Joel seemed riveted to every word that came out of his mouth and laughed (excessively?) at all of his jokes. The one talking to me was pretty much the same. This made me very uncomfortable (I’m not really laugh-out-loud funny). When the conversation turned to our accommodation for the night, we explained we didn’t have much money and were staying in a hostel. “It’s like a hotel for poor kids,” we said. Joel’s “date” then extended an offer of returning to their place later that night, presumably after going to the discos. At this point, I knew we were going to get fucked.
When the waitress returned asking if we wanted another bottle of wine, I clearly said “no,” and Joel followed my lead. After all, we were leaving early the next morning and had to get to bed (we managed to work that into the conversation about as smoothly as they worked their ex-boyfriends in). My suspicions confirmed, the bill was 44,000 forints, which converts to about $240.00. Not surprisingly, the women had no cash. However, the waitress was “kind enough” to show us outside to an ATM. As Joel headed out, I asked to see a menu (having not been, uh, afforded the opportunity before ordering). The energy drinks were $20 each, the shots the same. The bottle of wine was about $120. Sweet.
I asked if the menu was for “stupid tourists,” and tried a bit to fight our way out of it. But Joel was already tapping the cash machine, and by the time he returned, the bill was paid in full. Still slightly in shock (and hoping my mental conversion was way wrong), we left the restaurant with the women. We walked to the corner together where we said our goodbyes, turning down an only slightly veiled offer of “more fun.”
I don’t get seriously angry often. It’s only when I’ve been taken advantage of, betrayed, or, in this case, robbed. The walk home that night was at a fast pace, and I mastered a vernacular in which the word “fuck” assumed nearly every known part of speech. I was furious with the women for clearly taking advantage of us, but in reality, I was probably more upset for allowing it to happen. We should have seen it from a mile away - the restaurant too good for us, and the women, well, we had no business with those women, for any reason. We were set up and knocked down. I would have rather taken my bike and thrown in into the Danube River than spend the money from it’s sale to halve the cost of our night with Joel.
A de-briefing not withstanding, the lessons learned from this night are clear, and I won’t bore you with a drawn-out explanation. I’ve been through it more times in my head during the last 48 hours than anyone could ever dream. I guess it just goes to show that you’ve got to stay sharp all the time. While I was upset for a little while, there’s no way I could let it dampen the previous two months. It’s disappointing that it happened at the end of the trip, but it could have been worse. I still recommend Budapest, but now that recommendation comes with a small caveat.
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