Who Am I?

As my adventures draw to a close, the same ever present question remains at the forefront of my mind: Have I accomplished what I'd set out to do? For the first time since I began, I flipped back to the begginning pages of this Epic Journey, and read the opening chapter, "What To Look For." What have I found? In these 3 months, what have I discovered which I can take back with me to California? The question of who I am still alludes me. I'm not sure I'm all that much closer to discovering it now, than I was when I left. I have, however answered a lot of questions about what I believe, and what kind of person I mean to be.

I wanted to be someone who could live up to a challege. I wanted to be honest with myself about even the deepest and toughest issues weighing on my soul. I wanted to be one who sees good in all people, and to be shown that love does tangably exsist. I wanted to gain firsthand knowledge of places I'd otherwise not have seen. I wanted to make an impact on people, and leave my footprints in the sand. I wanted to choose to climb, knowing the cost, and suffer my own mistakes. If I can look back and say I've accomplished these tasks. If I can say of myself that I didn't take the easy way out. If I can see that I held myself together when all hope seemed lost, then I can hold myself high with honor and look at myself in the mirror at last. I'm proud of a lot of things I've done during these 3 months. Though I screwed up several times, I was never looking to pack up and go home. 3 months does not seem long enough to find one's self. If I'd had a choice I would have stayed longer. In the midst of this journey, I've discovered a new passion. In fighting to survive out here on my own, I forgot about the cares and worries of my former life, and all the drama which seemed to saturate it. For a time out here in the chaos of the world, I had goals again. There was purpose pushing me forward, and a need to stay alive. I felt companionship with God, and he seemed to follow me, watching over me as I walked. It's a feeling I can't describe exept to say, It all just felt right, as if God had laid the path for me to walk before I'd even gotten there. He held my hand, and I heard his voice in my head. Though even now, the voice is draining out like water. I fear it will be gone soon, but I know he's still there because I can still feel that presence.

I'm not as I was when I left, but I'm not quite as different as I sometimes think I should be, so who am I? What am I?

I'm a son; I'm a brother; I'm a friend and cousin; I'm a nephew and grandson; I'm a human; I'm a heart patient; I'm a musician and traveler; I'm a writer and singer; I'm an actor and director; I'm a sound engineer; I'm a poet; I'm an amature photographer; I'm a student and philosopher; I'm a Christian; I'm a critic; I'm a man. I drank Guiness in Dublin, and bought a fiddle in Belfast. I've climbed a castle in Scotland, and crossed the London Bridge. I've stood on the Pyramids of Egypt, and desecrated the tomb of a pharoh. I've ridden a Camel through the desert. I've been lost in the Sahara. I've stayed in the home of a Jordanian muslim, and in the morning was served breakfast by his children. I wept at the feet of Jesus on the hill of Golgotha. I sat in prayer in his tomb on Easter Sunday, and left my blood, sweat and tears in the sand. I met a christian family in Bethlehem, and knelt before the manger at the Nativity. I've witness the aftermath of revolution in Cyprus, and the first stages of peace in Nicosia. I felt the stones of the Greecian collumns on the Acropolis. I talked politics with a sailor in Aegina, and shared a round of beers with his comrads. I've had pizza in Naples, and walked the streets of Pompei in the rain. I've climbed the steps of the Colosseum, and smelled the paint of the Sistine Chapel. I spent a full day in solitude within the forests of Tuscany. I've seen the full moon rise from a canal in Venice. I've slept in the same room next to a sweet old, half crazed Croatian lady, and avoided her poisonous cooking. I've been drunk in Budapest. I've walked through the gardens of Vienna. I've been clubbing in Prague. I've hiked up the hills of Salzburg. I've felt the cold of the Swiss snow, and stared in awe at the majestic Matterhorn. I've been wine tasting in Alsace, and explored the WWI trenches. I sat on a beach in the French Riviera. I got mugged after a party in Barcelona. I've seen famous works of art in Madrid, and warded off cougars in Portugal. I've scaled the wall of a Spanish fort in San Sebastian, and shared a kiss in Paris. I've hung out with Bohemians, and stormed the beaches of Normandy. I've seen the redlight district in Amsterdam, and stood on the site of the Berlin Wall. I kept on walking when my legs couldn't carry me, and if I make it home, I'll have witnessed a miracle.

I believe Aaron was right when he told me this was only a scouting trip; that I'd be back soon with more purpose and more questions that need answers. Inside my heart still thirsts, more than ever, for the adventures to come. I've shared my heart as openly as I could these 3 months, and recorded my thoughts within these pages. My hope is that you read it, and know me as I grow. I intended to leave no stone unturned, and lay my whole life out there for all to see. Only through openly and honestly expressing who I really am, can I hope to fix what is broken and find what is lost.

In begginning this journey, I was running away from several things I didn't feel ready to deal with in my life. I felt like I was drowning in monotony, and everyone was slowly passing me by. The shrill laughter of the happiness I felt I could never achieve, echoed in my ears at night. I wanted to be someone else entirely. I was afraid of who I was becomming. But, "Those who fly from their fear often find that they only take a shortcut to meet it"-JRR Tolkien. I met my fear in my solitude and hardships, as I carried my problems with me on my journey. They weighed on my back like a hundred traveler's packs, and I struggled so hard to leave them in the dust of my Epic Quest. However, so many of them had already burrowed themselves into my skin. I pulled at them, and dug them out of my eyes, leaving wounds that were nurtured by the love of strangers. I still carry wounds, but my outlook has changed, and there's hope that they may not be as deep as they were before. I've learned that wisdom can only come from failure, and that love is far more prominent in this world than hate. Good people are not outnumbered, but they often feel like their alone. There's a reason for lonliness, it brings us together, and that's the way we were meant to live. For 3 months, I sat as a spectator of life and watched the world turn. What I saw has filled my eyes with hope, and my heart with wonder. The lessons I've learned will stand firm in my memory for all the rest of my days.

I've seen so many things. My senses have not left me wanting. No person will ever seen what my eyes have seen, nor feel what my hands have touched. No one will hear the sounds my ears have heard or taste what my tougue has tasted. Even those who have stood where I've stood, and walked where I've walked, will never have seen what I saw. This experience of life has been mine alone, and that fills me with the truest sense of pride and joy.

Although this experience has been one which I will always remember, I do very much miss those whom I left back home. In the end it was my friends and family who showed me who I really am. You all encouraged me, lifted me up when I felt tired and weary, and pointed out the way onward. My communication with you through comments and emails was fresh air and water to my soul. I often wonder when I get back, if you'll see something different in me. I've looked for it many times myself, but I remember back to that night in Jerusalem, sitting out on the balcony looking up at the stars. Eric was sitting on the next balcony to my left. I asked him if he thought he'd changed during his travels, and he told me, "You'll never know how you've changed until you see it in the faces of the people you love. Change isn't something you can see in yourself, but others will see it in you." There's a quote from that movie I watched with Andrea in Cyprus, "A Touch Of Spice." It stuck out to me immediately, but I wasn't really sure what it meant until just recently. "There are two types of travelers in this world: those who look at a map, and those who look at a mirror. The ones who look at a map are leaving; and the ones who look at a mirror are coming home." As I stand here staring at my face in the mirror, for the first time, I'm proud of the man looking back. I see in his eyes a journey, which brought him closer to the man that he desires to be. I look in the mirror, and I see in my face a man who is finally ready to come home.

Solo in Berlin/Denis' Birthday 5/29 5/30/08

I woke up on the morning of the 29th earlier than the previous day. Both Nancy and Denis had things they had to do today, so I was mostly on my own. There was a massive heat wave which swept Sahara winds into Berlin, so outside it felt an awful lot like the middle east again. There was that same dry wind and dust that reaches every crevass just by entering out into it. For the early part of the day I stayed inside and caught up on blogs. It was nice and cool inside Nancy and Denis' apartment, and it felt nice just to relax and take it easy here at the end of my journey. This blistering heat would have probably been terrible had I still been in the midst of traveling, but now life was pretty easy, and water and shade was plentiful. Later however, I did venture out into the city.

I took the metro out to the new city center, over by the Sony Center and walked around a bit. This is the time I took the majority of my pictures. I sauntered through the area, for the first time, hanging out like I was on vacation. It was a strange feeling to not have any major obstacles to face, or routes to plan. I wasn't trying to see anything in particular, because I'd seen what I wanted to see already. From the new center, I walked through East Berlin and the old East center. I passed by several gypsys on the way over. They seem to be all over, here in Berlin esecially. I'm not quite sure why. It seems very sad, because they are a poor people, and oppressed. However, you really can't trust them because they will steal everything you've got if you even get close to them. They walk around holding their children in you face, and asking if you speak English. I used to stop and just say "I'm sorry, I can't help," but now I don't even answer. I pretend I don't speak English and just wave them off. I feel terrible doing it, but it wouldn't help anything for me to get completely cleaned out trying to help them.

After crossing through East Berlin, I followed the wall over to Checkpoint Charlie. I spent some time there, reading all the captions and signs. I walked through the museum, which was indeed very interesting. I read about the different methods East Berliners used to escape to the West, and saw their inventions on display. Several pattents came out of the engenious designs which aided in their escape. The first minisub was invented to help the inventor swim accross the border undetected. Some people specially refitted their cars with smuggling compartments, to smuggle friends and loved ones across the border. One guy smuggled his girlfriend between two surfboards hollowed out and strapped to the roof of the car. It was amazing to see the things people came up with.

The next day was Denis' Birthday, so all 3 of us worked all morning, trying to get the house spick and span. Nancy baked a big beautiful cake, and Denis cooked the meal. I helped stir some things, and slice veggies for the salad. Of course, when company arrived they gave me far more credit than I deserved, saying I helped make dinner. It was such a fun experience, because I got to meet a lot of Denis' family who were all original Berliners. Most of the night, particularly in the begginning, everyone spoke in German so I just smiled and stayed quiet on the couch. As the night went on and the family started getting aclimated to my presence, more people started to approach me and start up conversations with me. Most of Denis's family, save for his grandmother and her boyfriend, could speak some English. However, when they would talk to eachother, or decided not to for one reason or another, Nancy stepped in as my official interpretor. I got to hear some stories from Denis' father about how he and Denis' grandmother escaped East Berlin. It was perfect to go with my visit to Checkpoint Charlie the day before. Denis' father was full of good stories. I especially like the one where for a while in his younger years, he dated in secret, one of the top officials of the Communist Party. Denis, Nancy, the whole family and I talked and laughed for hours. By the end of the night, I was so stuffed I could barely moove, and I was so tired that I fell asleep just as soon as my head hit the pillow. What a wonderful way to end an Epic Journey.

Local Berlin 5/28/08

I awoke to the sound of Nancy opening the window in the living room. I asked her what time it was. "It's almost noon," she replied looking at her watch, "You slept like a hybernating bear last night." It was so nice to just sleep. I hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the last ouple days, so I suppose as soon as I was finally able to, I just totally rebooted. I felt great though, after getting up. I felt a new swarm of energy fall over by whole body in waves. I felt rested. I joined Nancy in the kitchen for breakfast (well, lunch for her). I had a bowl of this new cereal I've never heard of before which had corn flakes, oats, and bits of chocolate mixed all in together, and it tasted amazing. Everything felt better, the food tasted better, even the weather outside was clear and sunny. It was the start of a wonderful day.

When I'd gotten myself ready, Nancy took me out into the city to go exploring. We travelled by metro into the main center and began walking around through the different parts. We passed by some of the things Denis and I rode passed on our bike ride (which I was still a little sore from), but I got a little more detailed tour of it all this time around. We found the Holocaust Memorial site, and walked through the museum and visitor's center underneath the memorial. The grounds of the memorial are made up of thousands of rectangular blocks of stone. They're varied at different hights, and they allow you to walk through this vast jungle of blocks which becomes more of a maze the further in you go. Niether Nancy nor I could really figure out the symbolizm that the stone blocks represent, but it was interesting that the further in, the ground begins to slope downward and the blocks get higher and higher. Then at the very bottom, buried by the massive stone pillars is the visitor's center. All along the blocks, you see kids hanging out and having picknics sitting up ontop of them. You're not suppose to do that, and they have actual hired security to walk around and tell people not to, but it does seem to me like they should have expected something like that in the designs for the memorial. If you fill a huge area of land with huge stone blocks, and allow people to walk through them, odds are that people will want to sit and climb on them.

Inside the visitor's center were halls you could walk through which were lined with plaques forming a timeline of the beginning of the atrocities, starting in 1939 and ending in 1945. It was a very sollumn sort of walk as you tread through pictures, and recovered letters from victims often executed the next day. In one room they have on display, a history of particular families from all over Europe who were all but desimated by the genocide of the jews. One jewish man in Jerusalem, worked for years (and is still working) trying to collect the history, and stories from all the 6 million jews which were murdered during the holocaust, and they have a database at the end of the center where you can look up any particular individual and read about them, and what happened to them. It was definately eye opening, and quite a sight to see in the midst of Berlin.

Berlin is certainly one of those places which you can tell right away is carrying a lot of guilt and remorse for things done in the past. I talked with nancy a little bit about that, and she agreed with me and told me that it seems to be that way with prettymuch all of Germany. People in Germany don't call themselves Germans. There's no pride for their country anymore. Instead they put their pride in the town that they're from. Here in Berlin they call themselves Berliners, and in Neuemberg they'd call themselves Neumbergers and so on. It's a whole country walking on eggshells, living in daily rememberance of the shame certain individuals brought onto their country time and time again. Because of that, the new government seems to have even overcompensated in making sure none of the same mistakes are revisited. The German government now has both a president and a cancellor who make every dicision together, and either one of them can be voted out of office at anytime by a majority vote of the people. Germany is one of the leading countries of the whole "Green movement" to protect the environment. They've set strict regulations for car manufacturers on the amount of carbons allowed to be exhausted into the atmosphere by the engine. Any car which does not meet their requirements cannot be sold or driven within the city. There are strict laws in advertising making sure the people are not seduced or mislead in anyway. It's become illegal to have any kind of propoganda urging people toward your cause without presenting fact-based arguements. The Nazi party has all but disappeared (or at least reformed themselves. They're now called something completely different). It's illegal to be a part of any Nazi group, or KKK, basically any group which hates another. Rallys and meetings for these groups are not allowed at all in Berlin. They have a Social Democracy in Germany now, similar to Canada which seems to be working out pretty well for them. I've actually become a pretty big supporter of Social Democracy since my travels to Europe. It seems to me to be the most sure way to ensure that everyone gets what they need. It's a lot more beurocratic, and it takes a lot longer to get things approved especially regarding controversial subjects where the lines are split pretty evenly, but that system seems less driven by money and power, and more by integrity and mutual understanding.

When we'd seen some more of the sights of Berlin, I followed Nancy around to do some shopping to restock the kitchen with food. Friday night was Denis' birthday, and they'd planned to have the whole family over for dinner. They needed a lot of food to feed this huge party of relatives whom I've been told are a big crowd of loud, and loving individuals. It seemed like a lot of fun and reminded me of how I describe my family at parties, so I did what I could to help them prepare. We walked over through a couple supermarkets, and a giant mall where, on the top floor, we saw a giant bell (almost as tall as I am) made entirely of solid chocolate. We also picked up a bunch of meat for dinner tonight, so that they could show me how Berliners barbecue their sausage. They don't have shopping bags in Germany, so you have to bring your own from home, or other wise carry everything home yourself. The both of us carried back arms full of groceries onto the subway as we attempted to haul everything back to the apartment.

For dinner, the 3 of us had a feast of German sausages barbecued over a tiny electric grill on their balcony. Nancy, trying to buy some particular sausage that Denis really liked, accidently bought Elk sausage. We deliberated over eating it, wondering what it would taste like, but when we finally tried it we ended up liking it a lot. Denis introduced me to this totally amazing spicy mustard, which was maybe the highlight of the meal for me. It was so spicy it made your eyes water, but had a taste so full and sweet that you couldn't stop eating it. It was to die for, and it came in a tube like toothpaste. I hope to one day return to Berlin with a huge sack and smuggle a whole bunch back with me.

Our conversation by the end of the night turned, once again to sex. I don't know why conversations with young people always head in that direction, but I think the way it started was that I was curious about what their parents thought of them living together without being married. They looked at me like they knew this question was going to come up at some point, me being an american from the suburbs of California. Nancy, being from California herself, lead the discussion with me about what the differences are between the way this arrangement is looked at from back home, and how it looks from here. In Germany, a couple doesn't normally start thinking about marraige until long after the two have been living together. To us back home, that's sort of a new-age sexual revolution sort of thing, and we often call it "living in sin" (some more jokingly than others). However, to Germans (and most other cultures in Europe it seems) it's been that way for ever and ever. They strongly believe that who a person is sexually is a very importaint part of who they are in every other way. When young children in Germany are taught about the birds and the bees, they're taught that living together is part of finding out about the person you're going to be with the rest of your life, and when they look for compatability, sexual compatability is just as importaint as everything else. The talk continued, and Nancy told me about when she met Denis, and at one point told him she was planning to wait until marraige to have sex. Denis looked at her with bewilderment in his eyes, and very confused he said "...why?" She remembered, she had a really hard time coming up with an answer. Why exactly do we wait? I know the easy answers: Because it's what God said to do; because it makes the experience more meaningful; because it connects you more closely as a couple giving yourself fully to the one you'll be with forever. But if you really look into most of those questions, I think you find that the answer really boils down to: That's what we were culturally taught. Our devorce rate is sickeningly high in the US, particularly among christians who wait till marraige to have sex, so the answer is definately not that it draws you closer as a couple. A lot of people get married in the US so that they don't feel bad about having sex. Is that a little silly to anyone else? I don't know, I'm speaking with a bias because I too have felt so pressured NOT to have sex, because I'm so worried about the relationships I may hurt with the people who want me to wait. I'm not saying either that I don't want to wait. Rushing into something like that, cultural or not is never a good idea and I know that very well. Also, religiously, faithfully if that is what God told his followers to do (and I still have a hard time believing that to be true), I know Paul said it and several other men of God professing the truth, but if that is God's will then there is good reason to heed it. I have trouble matching up everything we, as christians, beleive regarding sex though, often due to the amount of times the rules have bent or changed due to the times and curltures that mix. I've never known God to request his people to act against their instincts. Acting against impulses, yes. Fleeting urges, and reactions of fear or anger have their roots in sin. However insticts, specifically designed human traits have always up to this particular topic, been regarded as favorable in the Lord's eyes. This brings me back to intentions. Intentions, I believe are what matter in the eyes of God. Where a person's heart lies in an action is what makes a deed holy or sinful. Those who mean to decieve or take advantage are not doing the right thing. Whereas those who are pure in intention, genuine and honest are blessed. What's left is what is judged by the culture you're a part of. Even a close friend cannot always know your heart, so rules were made to encompass a wide variety of sins, and protect the majority. These rules don't always apply, and can often work as a hinderance to those who are just having trouble finding their place in society. These frustrated people are usually the ones who rebel against the system, and then the system changes again.

In my experience with cultures, the good parts of human nature: Love, compassion, generocity, understanding; are the ones which hold standard throughout different groups of people. The bad ones: Lust, greed, hate; vary dramatically between cultures depending on what is learned and acceptable in a society. When people are taught that something they greatly value (most often something which is ok in a different culture) is "bad", they are more inclined to give into hating those who have what they want. Then they teach their children that those other people are "bad" people because they indulge in an act which is forbidden to you by the ones you care about. Never have I seen a culture of murderers, or of theives or liers. I've seen countries who's moral fiber is intact, but who look at things very differently. I've seen countries where a woman can't show her face because it's sexually immoral, and then another country where buying prostitutes from windows off the street it totally acceptable. So where do you draw the line, really? Who's to say what's right and wrong, especially regarding sex? What does God say about that? Paul is not God, and neither am I. Paul and I are on the same level as human beings and followers of christ. In any case the verdict over here, in my experience seems to be that the rules of sex are much more cultural than religious or anything else. That may not be a fact, but that's the view from my biased standpoint.

The ending conclusion to our conversation left me with the first relieving feeling I've ever had in regards to that topic. The conclusion was this: Let yourself be who you are. Be smart, use common sense, and don't let yourself feel pressured either way. When it's right, you'll know it.

I slept a little less troubled that night.

Berlin, Germany 5/27/08

I forcably removed myself from my bed early this morning. It's really hard to duck out of a hostel quietly from the top bunk of a 30 person dorm room. I redied myself as carefully as possible, and waking as few people as I could, although none of them seemed to mind much because they were all in a thick drug glazed slumber. I checked out of the hostel, once I had gathered my belongings, and began walking the couple blocks across the road to the station. My train was a little late, and the way the station in Amsterdam is set up, it freaked me out a little thinking that it might just blow right past me without my noticing. When the train arrived, I jumped on quickly, worried I might miss my chance. However, everything worked out fine, and I was off on my last trainride through Europe.

This last one seemed also to be my most comfortable, at least since the early part of the trip. There weren't a whole lot of people pilled into this train, and the seats were quite roomy. I didn't have a particularly assigned seat, so I just set myself down on a window seat amongst the really nice middle row which have tables between seats that face eachother. Next to the table, the train car had power outlets so that I could plug in my laptop and iPod to charge them while we were in transit. I havn't seen that sort of thing since the UK. When I was fully charged, I put my seat back and slept a little while watching the trees fly by the window.

When I awoke, we were just about to enter Berlin. I wasn't exacty sure which station I wanted to get off at, so I got so nervous I was going to miss it, I got off at the first station with "Berlin" in the title, ending up in the wrong station. I had to sit on the metro a whole extra hour in order to get back to where I was supposed to be, but I finally made it to the spot were I was supposed to meet Denis, whom I was to be staying with while in Berlin. When I got to the metro station we were scheduled to meet at, I was still an hour and a half early, but just to be sure I was in the right place, I used the extra time, to backtrack through the tunnels and replay my steps. Berlin's underground can be tricky, and I'm not always sure I'm in the right spot. When I was satisfied that this must indeed be the place, I explored around the near area cheking for, in particular, a cash machine to withdrawl some cash. I'd used up the last of the cash I was carrying last night to pay for that beer in the hostel bar. I hadn't even had enough to pay for something to eat this morning getting here, and they wouldn't accept my credit card. In order to get food, I had to first find a cash machine. I asked someone in a local bakery, and they pointed out the direction I needed to go. I walked all over that direction, but couldn't find what I was looking for until I saw someone walk out of a nearby building with cash in their hands. This building was, as it turned out, a huge bank and I'd been walking all around it the whole time unable to see the sign. I finally walked in, and was able to get some cash, and then spend some on a Doner Kabab in a nearby shop by the open food market.

As it was nearing the time when I was supposed to meet Denis, I walked back over to where the metro station stood. In standing there for a couple minutes, I began to get self consious and traveled back down again, into the underground to be truely sure I was standing in the right place. Again my conclusion was the same, and as I exited this time, I heard a voice call my name. "Tyler!" the voice called to my right, and I turned my head to meet it. A young man in a bright yellow shirt with the word "California" blazing over his chest was the one who fit the voice. My mind had somehow tricked me into imagining that this Denis I was supposed to meet was older, in his 40s or 50s and this man seemed barely older than me. I stared at him, trying to allow for a connection in my head to be bridged, and stood there perhaps a couple seconds longer than I should have. He extended out his hand to shake mine, and I met his gesture clumsily with my own. "I wore my California shirt so you'd find me," he pointed to his t-shirt proudly. I smiled and thanked him for meeting me. He asked me if I'd eaten anything. I told him I'd had a Kabab just shortly before he found me. "Oh good!" he said, "I was just going to take you to have one. That's a very common food here in Germany, we eat a lot of Doner Kebabs." On the way to his home, which was just a short walk from the metro station, he picked himself up one to go and pointed out along the street some great German bakeries where I might possibly find breakfast in the morning. As we walked he gave me a quick historical tour of the area, mentioning interesting facts and little tidbits about post war Berlin, and how the neighborhood we were walking through was mostly all surviving buildings from that time.

We hung out at the apartment, he apologised that his girlfriend Nancy wasn't here right now to greed me, but he assured me I'd meet here later in the day. He gave me the grand tour of the place, showing me the brand new couch they'd gotten which folds out into a bed for guests. That was going to be my bed for the next few nights. I was honored that I got to be the first to break it in, and thank him profusely for inviting me to stay. After settling in a bit, and dropping my stuff by the couch, The first thing I did was take a badly needed shower, which was my first since leaving France. It felt wonderful. Afterwards, we went searching online, and found me a flight out to London using easyjet.com which only cost about 45 US dollars with everything included. I now had the final leg of my journey booked and readied, and inside I felt the tension of travel slowly begin to subside. I was more or less on vacation from here on out.

Soon after, we headed out again. Denis explained to me that few people in Berlin have cars. All of Germany is a very eco-friendly country so the way most people get around is by using public transportation, or riding bicycles. He thought it would be better exploring the city, if I was able to see it as I was going through, rather than being stuck in the underground while traveling from place to place, and since Nancy wasn't here at the moment both of their bikes were open to use. He walked me outside and unlatched the two bikes, and handed me Nancy's. I right away decided Nancy must be somewhat taller than I was, because I had a little difficulty reaching my way up to the seat. I struggled like a newbie trying to remaster the technique I'd learned as a child. I hadn't ridden a bike since probably about 8 years ago, and it showed. People always say, "It's like riding a bike," inquiring that the particular skill comes back to you when you pick it up again, but I was waiting for my body memory to kick in and it was having a hard time. I was like a little boy on his first two-wheeler for a long time, pitching and rocking unsteadily. The day was full of close calls and near misses as I tried to rewield my second-nature skill without killing myself.

We rode along the central streets of Berlin, zipping in and out of traffic and dodging crowds as Denis pointed out historical points. I was wonderfully suprised how good of a tourguide Denis was. He was really knowlegable about what everything was and how it all came to be. I think that may be in part to the fact that Denis has lived here in Berlin for a good majority of his life. When the wall came down in the 80s, he was there as a little child chiseling away at it with a hammer. He had lived a lot of the history of the city, and was in close contact with those who lived even more. We rode into the new center of the city, the one which was mainly built up after the Berlin Wall as a united center of both East and West. The main building in this area seems to be the Sony Center which serves a number of different functions including, shopping mall, movie theater (where you can watch American movies in their original English), high class apartment complex, 5 star hotel, and staging arena. It's a massive city square inside one building with basically everything you would ever need for a higher price than it's probably worth. The place I can best compare it to would be The Irvine Spectrum back home, if that were fit into one single structure. All the buildings in the new city center are new and modern looking. Since this center didn't rise up until after the wall, everything there is no more than 15 to 18 years old.

We moved on, and Denis showed me the old center of West Berlin, that famous gateway and plaza where Reagan gave his famous speech and said those ever powerful words, "Mr. Gorbachov, tear down that wall!" Denis also showed me the hotel just inside the plaza and the famous window where Michael Jackson held his baby outside, presenting him to the press like Simba to pride rock. We ventured a little further inward, and saw the big government buildings: That major one, I can't remember the name of, with the huge glass dome that has a spiral walkway that you can go up into and look in on the German "Congress" (would be our equivalent); and then the German "white house" across the way where the president and chancellor work and do their business. We rode on through some beautiful gardens, and past the rivers along where the giant, and in fact largest, rail station in Europe (the station I was supposed to get off at) resides. We crossed along the spot where the Berlin Wall used to be. They still have pieces of it set up throughout the city, often times colored with artistic paintings or given plaques with information about the wall and post war Berlin. Marking the border along where the wall followed, they have two rows of brick lain into the ground which run through the whole city. It's so interesting that you see the border run right through highways, and buildings. People just pass through it on a daily basis without even noticing, and less than 20 years ago they would have been shot for even trying. We passed by, and I got a brief glimpse of Checkpoint Charlie, which was the United States' border checkpoint into Soviet occupied Berlin. They had, set up, old photographs of the checkpoint how it looked then in contrast to how it looks now. It still has border guards, and a special security control booth next to the famous sign which reads "You are now leaving the American Sector," but that all seems to be a little more of a tourism thing now. The museum there though, Denis said, was certainly something I'd have to go see when there was more time. We had to hurry up and get back, because we were meeting Nancy and some friends for dinner, but on our way back Denis showed me the TV tower, which used to be in the city center of East Berlin. It was supposed to be built as a symbol of Soviet power and influence in Berlin. The Soviets hired a special architect which they intrusted with the task of creating something monumental. They told him that his only restraints were that nothing religious could be presented, because the Soviet government was strictly opposed to any type of religion. The architect completed what he thought was a foolproof design with no religious overtone, imposing the power and glory of the Soviet Union. The design was a tower which stretched up taller than any other building in Berlin at that time, with a giant ball covered with reflective surfaces to reflect the sun, and make the structure glorious and unavoidable. However, when the sun came out it reflected onto the ball of the tower, and the light shown in a perfect white cross of light on the massive globe for all to see. The Soviet high officials caught sight of this, and promptly fired the architect the next day. They never took down the structure or anything though, and I'm not sure why, but there it still stands with a giant glowing cross reflected in its middle.

We rode our bikes back to the apartment, where I finally got to meet Nancy. She welcomed me in and gave me a big hug. We met up with Denis' good friend Phillip right outside as we were leaving, and together we all talked about our bike ride and the sights Denis showed me, as we took the metro to the resturant we were all meeting at for dinner. The last person who was meeting there at the resturant was a friend of Nancy's from Russia, who's name I can't remember, but we all debated over the pronounciation of it as we walked.

The place we were going to was this, supposedly amazing Berlin brewery which Denis' grandma's boyfriend spoke very highly of. Apparently he's the expert on just about everything regarding everything. Nancy and Denis joked that no matter what the question was, he knew the answer and would continue to list off all the facts about the subject which you hadn't intended to know. There seemed to be no end to his knowlege of otherwise needless trivia. They'd had sneaking suspicions that perhaps he does it just to be a bit of a smartass, but he and Denis' grandmother seem to be very happy, so niether of them raise any sort of questioning. We met up with the Russian girl, and sat down to dinner. Since it was a brewery (and supposedly a very good one) we deliberated carefully over the beverage for the evening. In the end we bought a pitcher of the special house beer, and then the 3 of us guys all got a tasting platter of the 4 top rated beers brewed fresh right here. May I just say, it was absolutely wonderful. The beer I've had in Berlin is by far the most flavorful I've ever had, and the flavors vary across such a wide variety. When it came time to order a meal, I relied on the rest of the group's local expertise. Denis and Phillip encouraged me to go for a very traditional Berliner dish, one which neither of the ladies even wanted to talk about, but the men seem to enjoy thuroughly. It's a huge leg of pork, adorned with special sauces and spices, but there's not much preparation it seems, other than just hacking it off and cooking it. When I got it, the skin was still covered with hair, and a layer of fat, half an inch thick surrounded it. You have to use your knife like a scauple, surgically cutting through the skin and opening up the layer of fat like an incision in order to get to the meat inside. Once actually getting to the part you could eat though, it was amazing. It was, hands down, the best pork I'd ever had, and I felt so masculine eating it right off the bone with the fat and blood still dripping down onto my plate.

After dinner, we parted ways with Phillip and the Russian girl on the bus home. Nancy and Denis helped me prepare my bed, and made sure I was comfortable and had everything I needed. In no time, I was out like a light.

Amsterdam, Holland 5/26/08

I got up early to catch my train. I tried to catch the very first train out so that I had as much time as possible to explore around Amsterdam before dark. The problem with having only one day in a city (or country for that matter) is that you know that the whole day is going to be a little rushed. I got up, and got down to the trainstation with still about an hour till my train was scheduled to arrive. I huddled, with all my equipment, under the huge Departure sign in the center of the station, looking for my train to come up on the screen so I could know what platform to wait for it on. When the time came when my train suppose to appear up there, the times seemed to skip right over mine, and my train was nowhere to be found. "That's pretty strange," I thought. I took out my ticket and checked it over. I noticed a special text which I hadn't noticed before, written right along side the departure which said, "Nord." I didn't know what that meant, but I figured it must have something to do with this confusion. I looked at the time and grumbled, then immediately took my ticket up to the information counter nearby. The man at the counter couldn't speak much English, but I was proud of him, that he as least tried. Most people in Paris, especially, won't even try to speak to you. They just pass you off back and forth to eachother. He told me I was in the wrong station, which was not what I wanted to hear 30 minutes before my train was due to leave. "Ok," I asked him, "Which station do I need to be in?" He pointed out on my map where I needed to go, and showed me a connecting metro train to get me there. I thanked him, and hurried down the station to find that special connecting train. I followed the signs, but they only took me so far until I had to ask an old man leaning on the railing. He lead me down, and showed me exactly where I needed to get on. Once again, being super early had paid off, because as soon as I made it to this new station, my train began to board. It left just after I climbed on.

As I found my seat, I sat staring out the window. I'll miss Paris. I certainly had some very memorable experiences there. France, in general, has been quite an eventful country for me. There's been so much to do, and so much adventure to be had. I've witnessed, and gotten a chance to do things I never thought I'd get to do. I thought about if I'd like to live there one day. I've been asking myself that throughout several countries I go through, because at some point I'd love to live abroad for a couple years. The question has always been: Where would I go? Paris, I'm sure, would keep me entertained, but it seems like most people I talk to who live there tell me they'd rather not. It is a big city, and I'm sure that would get quite overwhealming sometimes. I myself am not so much a big city kind of guy usually. I enjoy my suburbs, parks and beaches. Nature is always something that rejuvinates me as a person, and keeps me happy and content. Large cities can be depressing, because you feel so insignificant more easily, and the hard, cold concrete structures often can present a very "human dominated" preception; as if the whole world is just run by "the man." Out in the smaller towns, and suburbs I think there's more of a symbiance with nature. The world feels a little more friendly, and it seems like people are happier and healthier. I think I'll always need a good mixture of both, though. I like to be close enough to a big city to be able to find my fill of adventure, but able to come back to the calm of the suburbs.

When I reached Amsterdam's central station, I was relieved to remember that I had already booked a night in a hostel. I didn't have to go out spending my day searching for a bed for the night. I did, however, still have to book my ticket out of here for tomorrow morning, so I found where the tickets were sold and headed that way. the lines didn't seem very long, and I was thrilled, but upon walking up to the booth, a woman stopped me and handed me a ticket with a number on it. This aparently, was another one of those number calling systems like back in Madrid, where I'd end up waiting forever for my chance to get up to the teller. I looked up at the screen, and we were still about 20 numbers behind mine, so I decided to make myself comfortable there because It would probably be a while. I watched the numbers on the screen tick by slowely, surpassed easily by the numbers on the clock. When I became one of the only ones in the room I recognized, I knew my turn was up soon. Finally, the numbers flashed in my favor and I approached the teller. One thing I was immediately, and quite pleasantly struck with, was that everyone here in Holland seemed to speak English very well. In fact, the Dutch accent even sounded almost somewhat Canadian. It wasn't all broken up and incomrehensible like most everywhere else. I had to fight off the earge to speak in short broken sentances, and had to get used to speaking real English. I paid for my ticket to Berlin, and held it tightly between my fingers. This was my final train ticket, and it seemed bittersweet to be coming so close to the end.

I looked up directions to my hostel using my blackberry internet. It told me which tram to get on, and the directions from the stop. I had to go little ways on the tram, but the directions were pretty straightforward and simple. I payed for a bus ticket, and the bus driver gave me a big smile, and spoke to me in English I could understand. As far as I was concerned, this place was heaven on earth. When I got off the tram, I walked by the park to where my hostel stood in a row of neighborhood houses. It was called The Flying Pig Hostel, and had a large sign with a picture of a Pig dressed up in an aviator uniform. The hostel was packed with young men and women all coming and going. It took some time for me to get to the front of the reception. When I got there, I told the woman with pride, that I had a reservation to stay here for tonight. She looked down through her records, and then through them again. My confidence faded a little eachtime, then she looked up and said she couldn't see it here. I gave her a bit of a confused look, and went back over the phone conversation I had yesterday. I looked down, and caught sight of a map of the city, noticing right away that there were two Flying Pig Hostel logos presented on the page. I looked up, "Are there two Flying Pig Hostels here?" I asked. "Yeah!" she said, catching onto what I was thinking, "this is the uptown hostel, and then there's also a downtown one too." I told her I might have booked in the other hostel, and she checked and confirmed that's exactly what I did. She showed me how to get to this other downtown hostel, and as it turns out, it was just a couple blocks from where I was back at the train station. So off I went to catch the tram again back the direction in which I came. But it wasn't so bad. I got to see a lot of the Uptown I probably wouldn't have had time to see otherwise. I wandered around with the receptionist's directions and finally saw that big pig sign off in the distance, and upon entering I noted the differences and knew that this was certainly the right place for a downtown hostel. As I opened the door, a plume of smoke escaped out into the air. The space inside was hazy, and warm with clouds of ash. The air here smelled very strong with marajuana, a smell I was never all that fond of, but it came in such great wafts that I soon became used to it. Strewn about the room were people on pillows with lit joints in their hands, puffing away at the sight of me. The reception was a bar turned opium den, where you could find all that you would need to make the craziest anal-retentive person the most passive lamb in a matter of minutes. Off to one side there was a corner over by the window filled with pillows, and a small table in the center filled with ashtrays. Buried in the pillows were bodies, scattered about attaching themselves to the floor like barnacles, and moving with imaginary tides. After a while, just breathing inside this building made me want to crawl up and join them. The girl at the reception was young and blonde. As she took my reservation, she smiled up at me looking refreshingly pure. I stumbled over the barrier into the hostel half stoned from the air so thick I was drinking it, and being patient, she showed me how the key card worked to get me through.

After settling in my room, I got out into the fresh air again and began my exploration through the city. I casually walked through the streets noting the fantastic amount of cult trinkets and goth fashion wear amongst bars and cheap food stands (usually pizza, Kebabs, or bakeries). The whole city was a giant Hot Topic store; a stoner's paradise. I looked around for something to eat, because I hadn't really eaten all day. I finally found the perfect little traditional Dutch resturant, which I'm sure was set up for tourists, but I only saw locals in there when I walked in. I ordered some type of beef stew in a special sauce with apples. Along with it they brought me a huge plate of mashed potatoes, salad, and a plate of spinach also. It was like a huge homecooked meal, and it was wonderful. I left fat and happy, stumbling back to the hostel.

I sat down at the bar with my pipe, and smoked for a bit with all the rest of them. The smell of my vanilla pipe smoke mixed with exhausted weed made an interesting, and not necissarily unhappy auroma in my nostrils. It was nice to just sit around and enjoy some peace with my pipe in my mouth surrounded by my backpacker comrads. We were unhurried, and contented. In the night I enjoyed the wonderful cheap beer from the bar in the hostle. I thought about going out to find a bar, but the one in the hostel was so cool, and the price was a rare find. I got talking to a frenchman next to the pool table, and we discussed our trips, and what were the great things about Amsterdam. One thing he mentioned was the redlight district, which was just a few blocks from the hostel. The buildings along the river are lined with windows looking out onto the streets, and at night the prostitutes get all dressed up (or down I should say) in trashy lingere, scimpy bikinis, and sometimes nothing but string, and dance around in the windows beconning men inside through the door. When the room is "occupied" you see the girl pull the drapes shut, and the transaction takes place. I'd heard about it all over from peolpe who had come from Amsterdam, and all agreed that if you hadn't been to the redlight district at night, you hadn't experienced Amsterdam. The french traveler I was talking to reccomended it highly, and agreed that it was definately just one of those things to see in Amsterdam. I thought "fine, it's totally gunna be like a row of ugly prostitutes throwing themselves at everyone who walks by. I've gotta just walk through to say I've done it. It is one of those things you can only find in Amsterdam." so I got a little later, and began walking toward the redlight district. As soon as I got there, I knew I was in the right place but it was nothing at all what I expected. There were hundreds, possibly thousands of people crowded into these little streets. Along the strip were the windows as I was told, colored with different color lights and a girl in each one. However, these weren't your average hookers you find in every other big city in the world who look desease ridden, and unatractive wearing the same dirt-soaked dress for months at a time. These girls were absolutely gorgeous, sitting there in their respective windows often more laughing at the drunk men making passes at them, then dancing or enticing the crowd. They looked like normal beautiful girls, like ones that I might back in California, but for the fact they just weren't really wearing anything. I didn't so much stop to look at the girls, because I felt kinda weird and uncomfortable. It was like window shopping in a department store for a human being. I did however, stop to watch the people around me who were shopping with the intention to buy. It was really weird to watch how there was basically no shame, and no recoil for the fact of throwing your sexual needs right out there in front of everyone. It was even stranger to see them get turned down when they didn't have enough money, and so go look for someone cheaper. Some men would talk to the girls, getting friendly and wooing them with an attempt of lowering the price, and some of them were successful. It was like this crazy mixture of buisness and dating. The money mattered, but the girl (since she was high class) had to like the guy too. It was really weird the way it was done there in Amsterdam. When I had walked down to the end of the street, I declined continuing the path back through the other direction, curiously enough, mostly because I felt really attracted to some of these girls. I knew that was a really slippery slope to start down. I wasn't going to allow myself to become infatuated with a woman dancing behind glass. That just raises a number of little red flags. I got out of there as soon as I started feeling for these women, and letting my heart slip into it. I was glad I got to witness that famous part of Amsterdam, but I was also glad I had the sense to know when to leave.

As I walked back, I felt my heart start to race a little. I had the feeling like I just met some cute girl who liked me. I began thinking, "That's probably not a healthy reaction, is it?" Sex is a big button for me. I've been torn over it my whole life, and my heart gives it a lot of emphasis. It's not like I delve over it, or am even thinking about it a whole lot. I think it probably comes to my mind even less often than most of the guys I know. I'm pretty conservative and private when it comes to that, but when I'm faced with some sort of sexuality, my heart goes to a weird place. It causes problems for me, emotionally. I'm conflicted in a profound way, but I'm not yet sure exactly why.

When I got back to the hostel, I explored the basement area which is set up like a lounge with couches, chairs, giant screen TV, and even less ventallation for the massive plumes of smoke engulfing everyone down there like a thick morning fog. I sat down there with a room full of my new roommates, smoked and watched Superbad on the massive TV. Later, some of my roommates got up saying they were heading out to the redlight district, and they asked if I wanted to come along. I told them no thanks, I'd been there already, and now I was content. I spent the night relaxing in a fog.

Normandy 5/25/08

I got up to catch my train at around 9am. I was still a little tired from my adventure last night, and didn't sleep really all that well as it turned out, so I tried to catch a nap while having some time to kill on my two hour trainride. Unfortunately, the 4 teenage girls who sat next to me wouldn't allow for much sleep. They gabbed on and on, laughing loudly and speaking in screeching tones. The older lady across from me didn't seem so happy about it either, and together we made faces at eachother, conspiring to kill them all and finally get some rest. Soon enough however, we arrived at the station in Deuville. It was a very small Norman town, like the Villas in Alsace. It seems like there are a lot of little towns like that in France. When I entered the station, I was looking for something resembling tourist information, but that was nowhere to be seen. I looked around to find some kind of tour, or at least an advertisement of the Normandy Beaches, but still nothing. This seemed strange to me, because I'd figured that the Beaches of Normandy would be a major tourist stop along this area, and so would thusly be posted and advertised on everything. On the wall of the train station was a huge, old looking map which covered it. In the center it had the town where we were, Deuville. My eyes dragged up the coastline looking for that famous hump of land jetting out into the English Channel. That's where I knew the big landing site was, but I couldn't find that place on the map. "That's strange," I said to myself, and began wandering outside the station to find some place which may have someone who speaks English, to tell me where I need to be. A little ways down the road was a hotel sitting just across the street from the french coastline. I walked inside and found the reception. The receptionist was busy talking to some customers, checking them in or out, I don't know which, but i found a large laminated book of "Things to do in Deuville" and began flipping through it to find the beach landings. I still hadn't found anything when it was finally my turn to speak. I asked the receptionist how I could get to the famous WW2 beaches, and listed them off, Omaha, Utah, Gold, Sword, Juno. She paused for a moment and her eyes dropped, as they sometimes do when someone is delivering bad news. "That's a long way from here," she said being careful. "How far?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. "At least another hour and a half." Well that wasn't so bad, I suppose. It was still pretty early, and I had some time. "How can I get there?" I asked back. "Do you have a car?" "No" I answered. "Oh," her eyes sunk again, "Then you'll have to take the bus." I inquired as to how exactly I do that and she didn't know. She just told me where the bus station was, and that I'd probably have to take that into a closer city, and then take some sort of local transport bus to the actual site. It seemed like a little bit of a process, but I was here now, there was no turning back.

I walked back to the trainstation, where the bus station resided on the back side. The actual building where you buy tickets and get information was closed today because it was sunday, however thankfully the buses were still running. Since traveling, Sunday has become the most hated day of the week. It's a traveler's friday the 13th. Nothing works, and everything's closed. There's no one avaliable to help, and all the rooms in the city are fully booked. Sunday can be the unholiest of days when you're lost and just looking for a little grace. A lady bus driver was sitting in her bus parked on the corner with the door open, so I walked over there hoping to possibly get some sort of information out of her. She spoke very little, almost no English at all, so it became very difficult to exlain to her exactly what I wanted to know. I tried to dumb down my words as much as I could, but how exactly do you explain that you want to know the schedules to get to the Normandy beaches without using English? I couldn't really aid myself with hand gestures. I would have had to reenact the landing right there on the curb, and she would have thought I was a lunatic. thankfully, she was very nice and tried to be as helpful as she could. I decided I'd better just pick a specific beach and just go with that, because it'd be way easier to ask how to get to, and I probably now only just had time for one beach anyway. I picked, arguably the most famous one, the one I was most interested in, Omaha beach. "I'm trying to get to Omaha Beach," I said as slowely and clearly as I could, being careful not to say it loudly or talk down to her rudely, as many American tourists have a habit of doing. She seemed to understand Omaha, and she got up out of her bus, and lead me over to where a list of bus schedules was posted. "Caen," she said and pointed to the number of the bus I was waiting for, and then to the spot she wanted me to wait in. I thanked her. "Once in Caen, where do I go?" She shrugged, and when the bus came to take me to Caen, I asked the bus driver the same question, and he gave the same response. "Ok well it looks like I'm going to Caen," I thought to myself.

Along the bus ride to Caen, I passed through several small towns and Villas I knew the names of through watching the history channel and playing WW2 themed video games. These farmlands and friendly looking villages were once, not so long ago, wartorn battlefields. So many of the fields where cattle sat grazing, looked exactly like the fields portrayed in Saving Private Ryan, and were actually those same fields, but here I was seeing them for real. I tried to imagine what it must have looked like back then. It seemed like it was probably almost about the same as it was now. It didn't seem like these little Villas had seen change in hundreds of years. Sure, most of the ruined buildings bombed during the war had been rebuilt, but this landscape I was seeing was more or less probably the same landscape my grandfather's generation fought and died on. It was humbling to think that I may right now be looking at the same sight my Great Uncle Wally looked at when he was exactly my age wandering around with his batalian looking for the Nazi army. I might have just passed a spot where Uncle Wally walked, or fought in one of the countless gun battles he told me stories about. Although, as I found out later, Caen was really more the area where the Brits and Canadians fought after landing in Normandy. The US armies took the road further west to Saint Lo (which I unfortunately didn't get a chance to see this trip). When I entered Caen, the busdriver tried to help me figure out where to go next, but he wasn't exactly sure either. I wandered into the nearby train station and asked an attendant there how to get from here to Omaha Beach, and he told me I actually need to take the train in a little ways to Bayeux. Then from there, I learned that only the taxis were availiable (because it was Sunday) to take people up to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery. At the station in Bayeux I traded in my ticket coming back from Deuville, for one which goes right out of here. Amazingly, the switch was pretty easy. I just had to pay a couple euros extra for a little extra distance. Outside, I waited forever for a taxi to finally make it this far out. I waited with two other tourists who were traveling to the same place. The one woman was a rather boistrous Texas woman, which I actually very much apprechiated because her southern outgoing adittude made up for my lack of things to say after having taken the very long route through Normandy. The man with her, was a middle-aged Native American man from Arizona. Together the 3 of us shared the one taxi which finally pulled into the station, and so we split the fair 3 ways.

By the time I finally made it to Omaha Beach I had taken 2 trains, a bus, and a taxi. I'd gotten to see 3 other towns in Normandy along the route to Omaha beach, essentially taking the route the allys took, but in the opposite direction. When we exited the taxi, we decided on a time for us all to meet back at this spot which would give us time enough to catch our trains home. We said goodbye until later that evening, and then parted to go exploring our separate ways. The first thing I did, was head straight ahead to the visitor's center. Inside there's a small museum-like exibition of a complete history of D-Day, artifacts retrieved from the beach, as well as recorded stories given by some of the veterans who were there. It was incredibly emotional, it was so right there in your face. I've heard the story so many times before, and listened to people talk about their experience there, but to be right there looking at the uniforms, equipment, bullet casings, and seeing pictures of the faces of the people being talked about was almost overwhelming. My favorite area, which I spent a great deal of time in, was a little room with a bench and speakers all around. In the center was a small computer console which had a touch screen menu of buttons on it. Everytime you pushed a button, the voice of a D-Day veteran would come over the speakers and talk about their story of surviving D-Day. On the screen a picture of what they looked like during the war would pop up on the screen. There were probably about 50 buttons, each one with an amazing story of survival. So many of them were incredibly sad, though. According to the museum's tally, about 3,500 Allied soldiers died on just Omaha Beach alone. Every veteran had a story of a close friend they saw killed. One man told the story of how as soon as the landing vehical opened it's front hatch, he watched two friends in front of him completely decapitated by German bullets. Another talked about how as soon as it was time, he ran out the front hatch only to realize he was the only one in his whole craft who exited. No one else even made it to the sand. Story after story of these tragic and grousome experiences. I can't even imagine the utter hopelessness it must have looked like on the ground. Behind the beach, parachuting in, the airborn wasn't doing much better. They were missdropped, and lost. Some of them drowned in fields flooded by the Germans, others were just shot from the sky like clay pidgeons. For that one entire day, it was absolute pandemonium. At the end of the museum, is a long hallway to the exit. Over the loudspeakers they list off the names of the soldiers who died that day, on a constant loop.

Walking away from the museum, I caught my first glimpse of that famous coastline. I was star struck, to be honest. I felt so excited that I was here seeing the site of what I always thought was the most interesting battle of WW2. My excitement was mixed with a terrible solumn feeling in the pit of my stomach, as my mind reenacted scenes of D-day using the backdrop of the actual battlefield. I imagined, from up here, the German perspective and what it must have looked like seeing tens of thousands of soldiers pile out onto the beach, and slowely eek their way up closer, and closer. What would have been my reaction to the sight of hundreds of battleships, and landing craft lined up on the Ocean? How would it be to see nothing but young men being torn to pieces on a beach all day, and hear nothing but their screams mixed with explosions and gun shots? What do you even think about during something like that? These questions are ones I had asked myself before, but right here they came to life before my eyes. I wandered up to the American Cemetery, and as I entered I put on my headphones and played "Hym to the Fallen," which is the theme song to Saving Private Ryan, on my iPod. The little white crosses were layed out along the green grass. They were so many, you couldn't see where the end was. Stuck in the ground next to each one was a small American flag, along side a French one. I wandered aimlessly, looking through thousands of grave stones, reading the names, and trying to piece together (judging by job, rank, and date of death) how and where he might have possibly met his end.

When I felt ready, I finally walked the trail down to the beach. When I stepped into the sand, I was caught off guard at just how soft the samd was. Most of the beaches I'd been to in France were rocky, and coarse. This sand was like flower; piles and piles of it. I stepped out onto the beach, and took my first panoramic look around. Right on the spot where I was standing, was where thousands of kids my age lay dying "screaming for their mother" as several accounts said. This water washing up at my feet was at one time mostly blood. My Uncle Wally may have bled right here in this water, and hauled himself up on this sand. It was surreal to me. As I walked around, I did some more imaginary reenactment. The thoughts came like memories. I felt like I'd been there, only like a fly on the wall, experiencing it from a distance. I pictured the faces of my friends on the ghost images around me, and saw them fall like fine china on a tile floor. I stood still and heard the explosions and gunfire. I wondered when it was my turn. It was low tide by the time I walked along the beach, the same as it was that day, so I got to see a very unique view of the whole stretch of sand that they ran in open fire to reach the sea wall on the other end. It was an amazingly long distance from the water to the sea wall, I hadn't realized it was so far. As an experiment, I walked down to the edge of the water, so that my feet were just slightly submerged. I turned toward the sea wall where the safe cover would be on the beach, and I timed myself running as fast as I could to that sea wall. When I made it to the end where a soldier would have had some kind of chance at cover, I had been running for just about 20 seconds. This meant that an average soldier probably had about 20 seconds from when the landing craft opened, where he was completely out in the open to be shot as he ran to the cover of the sea wall. That's also assuming that the soldier had a perfect exit, and didn't get hung up on the way (which probably didn't happen often). 20 seconds is more than enough time to be shot running. It's only by the grace of God that any of them survived at all, let alone went on to win the battle.

After spending a day in Omaha Beach, my soul was in awe. There were so many questions, and not enough answers. I couldn't fathom the moment, or dipict it correctly in my mind. I felt pathetic trying. The closest I've ever seen of real war has been hollywood special effects. When you see it in a movie and then you walk where it actually happened, you start to sense the disconnect, that no matter how accurate the movie may be, it would never be anything close to the real thing. Before I left, I walked one last time through the field of white crosses, and thanked them for their sacrifice.

I caught my train back to Paris, and just as I stepped onto my platform, I got a call from Kyle and Peter who wanted to meet up with me for a drink. I met them down in Saint Michel, and we hung out at a pub and had a round of beers. We talked and laughed until the early hours of the morning. I'm glad I got to run into them again, and I may run into them also in London, when I'm there for my flight home. I've started really developing a friendship with those guys, it'd be awesome to keep that friendship going.

Bohemia 5/24/08

This morning when I woke up, I looked outside into a thick or fog and rain. I wanted to go to Normandy today, but I had to switch hotels again this morning, and this new one wasn't ready with my room till after 1pm. By that time it was probably not worth it to go all the way out to Normandy just to come back like 2 hours later. Plus it was raining pretty heavily today, and I had little idea how I was going to get there. I really didn't want to be stuck walking around strange Norman towns in the rain all day, or worse, miss a train back and be stuck there all night. It's really probably better to go tomorrow when I can go early, and stay all day. As for today, I decided I'd use it to go down to the train station and figure out how to get to Normandy, as well as my exit strategy out of Paris.

When I was all settled into my hotel finally, I walked down to one of the trainstations which was just down the way from where my hotel was. I waited in line at the ticket office, and was finally called forward by a friendly young french woman around my age. I told her that I wanted to get to Normandy tomorrow, and asked how I would go about doing that. "Well Normandy's a big place. Where exactly do you want to go?" she looked at me confused. It hadn't actually occured to me that Normandy is like a full region, and the WW2 landing zone was just one tiny part of it. It'd be like if someone came to me and asked how they could get a ticket to Orange County. "The beaches," I said trying to be breif so she could understand me "Beaches of Normandy." I figured that phrase would trigger something, because I was sure that's what thousands of tourists say when they want to visit the WW2 beach landing sites. She asked the teller next to her something in French, he said something back. She nodded like she knew exactly what she was doing now, and I felt pretty confident that they had landed on a town which they could send me to. "Deauville!" she said finally, and printed me up a ticket for the earliest train out, and another for the last train back. Killing two birds with one stone, I also booked a ticket for early monday morning going to Amsterdam. Walking back from the train station, I used my blackberry to help me book a hostel for a night in Amsterdam as well. I didn't want to be left searching for one, having only a day there, and I've learned by now that there aren't going to be any places anymore just by showing up. In no time at all, I had my next couple of adventures booked and ready.

The next order of business once all that was done, was to figure out what I was going to spend the rest of my time doing. I'd seen the sites I wanted to see, and so for the rest of the day all of Paris was free domain. Unfortunately, the weather was consistantly unreasonable. The wind and rain but a gray haze over the city, and turned the dark buildings and even darker muddy color. The more I got walking however, the more I was glad I got to see Paris in the rain. It's really such a beautiful city, and when it's wet the old stones turn into sponges and the streets are bloated and bleeding. In the redlight district, the neon signs all run together, and blur with the black and whites of the old buildings. All what my eyes could see looked like a painting left out in the rain. I crossed through the redlight district, past the Moulin Rouge which was all but abandoned in the daylight, and found myself again in the midst of Bohemia. I traveled down the narrow streets, over hills and through gardens. I walked up hill taking my way around the long way towards the spot I went to my first night with Cara and Carolyn. On the way, I stopped into a French cafe. I sat out on the little tables and watched the rain fall. Later, I heard some wonderful jazz music floating out of the window of one of the tiny french flats. I suppose it must have been a local band practiceing for a gig at a bohemian club. I stood underneath the balcony, my arms curled up in my chest, and listened while they played. When the music finally stopped, I continued up the hill. Between the buildings, I saw glimpses of the view from the top. Beautiful old buildings rose up into the fog like trees into the canopy. I encircled the peak of the hill, wandering in spiral form all the way up to the top. When I finally reached the place I'd been that night with the girls, I found it very different in the light. I hadn't realized it to be such a popular tourist destination. There were people all over the place! Following the road to the front, I found a huge mass of young 20 somethings strewn about the stairs. The view was as I remembered it from a few nights before. It was still just as breathtaking and more could be seen which was hidden by the night. However, the view was secondary to what the young 20 somethings were looking at. The true focus was on one man with a guitar about halfway down the main step. He looked quite bohemian, they all did in fact. Shaggy hair cuts, tight jeans and fearlesness; they listened with ideals on their faces. Every smoke of their menthol cigarettes was a new step toward revolution. The notion of world change colored their clothing, and their skin etched with taboo phrases and polotical parody. Over the heads of these young and restless hung lyrics like fruit from the tree of knowlege. "...speaking words of wisdom: Let it Be." The whole crowd in congregation, joined in while this man with the guitar sung famous Beatle hyms. I sat in the background taking note, and watching peace take root and bloom in Paris. It's so funny how these simple songs by 4 guys who called themselves Beatles have spanned the globe to become a staple for peace, and a posterchild for the confused, and idealistic. When he was finished he took suggestions from the audience. Bohemian Rhapsody was then called upon in great enthusiasm. As he began even just the first few pluckings of the intro, I think we all in one syncronization of thought, stopped time enough to realize where we were. Before he'd begun, he'd asked around where people had come from. I think I heard every country in Europe mentioned as well as Canada, the US, China, and parts of South America. We were all an assortment of a United post adolescent world, here together singing at the top of our lungs in Bohemia, to a song which made it ok to be bohemian. It was a beautiful moment. Then the inevitable rain came again, and washed us off our spots on the staircase. The man with his guitar, soaked and chilled, played on as the rain came down and there was no one left to play to. I too eventually wandered down the stairs with the rest of them, however making a point not to run for shelter. I felt inspired, and welcomed the rain to keep falling.

I spent some time back in the redlight district, having some dinner and a fresh pastry for dessert. When the sun began to set, the rain had stopped and the world began to dry. I walked back up the endless staircase, and rejoined the bohemians at the top of the hill for the night view. There were still more people than the last time I was there at night, but less than earlier today. The man with the guitar had been replaced with fire eaters, dancers, and fiddle players. At the upper end of the steps a sterio played hip hop while a couple kids breakdanced for a crowd of drunken college kids. Every so often a girl from one of the inibreate groups would bounce her way onto the floor and add herself to the show. Even the breakdancers laughed and danced around her as if she was originally part of the act. On the lower end were the fire eaters, and fire dancers. They were all several years younger than me, but put on a show which people back home pay cirque du salet hundreds of dollars for. The best part was that it didn't even seem as if they were performing. No one was paying them, and no one expected their entertainment. When they got tired they stopped, and then later they picked right back up again. It seemed like fun, and they were totally pumping up the crowd and putting on a show. In the lulls between shows, their was always the scenery which would have been enough anyway.

As I was heading home, I knew I'd be heading back through a pretty iffy redlight district at midnight. I didn't have the security of a large group like I did before. I wasn't so much worried about getting mugged or anything. There were still, and always are so many people on the streets that you're never alone enough for someone to hold you at ransom. However pickpockets, pimps, and drug dealers run these streets at night. I put on my headphones blasting a mix of heavy metal, put on my "don't mess with me" vibe, and began walking briskly. My hat, I turned down covering the tops of my eyes. it's my eyes which give me away to those who would otherwise think me dangerous. I still have very soft, honest eyes. With my music fueling my vibe, I stared at the pavement and walked the long walk through. At around halfway, just about the run of strip clubs near the Moulin Rouge, I accidently caught eyes with a largely built man catching people off the street to come in and see the show. I've hated these guys since I've been here. They're so persistant, and won't leave you alone or take a hint. Often times they'll grab your arm as you walk away, or follow you a couple steps and taunt you. This guy decided (probably because I was smaller than him) to throw himself in front of me. In the last second, between the mixture of heavy metal music and the vibe I was creating, my body decided, without my minds consent, to throw him back into the wall. It went in a split second that seemed like hours. In the moment that it happened, I leaped out of my body and a chill ran up my spine. I grabbed the man by the arm suprisingly fearcely, and shoved him up into the wall of the club. I'd shoved him so hard, his feet left the ground, and rebounding off the wall he almost fell to the floor. He was as suprised as I was, but I didn't show it. I never even stopped walking. His friends all came over and held him up straight. In a split second of bewilderment, and embarrassment they all stood silent. Then all at once they yelled curses at me in french. The one guy followed me more than three city blocks before I finally lost him in the crowd. I couldn't believe what I'd just done. Where did I get the gall to pull off something like that? Those guys would have killed me! I had no chance what so ever, I'd of been pounded into the ground by 4 men twice my size. Where the hell did I get that strength from? I litterally launched that guy across the sidewalk, and he was easily two of me. It felt like nothing, like when you hit the perfect golf shot, or make the perfect "nothing but net" basket. It was effortless. He was weightless in my hands. My body was shaking and my pulse was racing, but I stayed cool until I reached my hotel room. Then peaking out the window, I confirmed that he was no longer following. Somehow I got away with it. Inside, my mind was freaking out. It took a while of watching by the window to convince myself it was really over, and then even longer to convince myself it actually happened. I slept that night feeling truely badass.