A Christmas in the Middle East

One year has passed now. It has been over a year since I have bothered with this blog and one year since I went to the Middle East during the holidays. I am busy nowadays with student-stresses confounding my leisure time and, ultimately, I have abandoned doing something I enjoy very much: Writing. It is funny how we let our reprieves seal themselves shut while we build cages around ourselves, only to later dismay at our sense of being trapped. 

Amenhotep III is depicted by statues, which stand on the west side of the Nile River

At any rate, I am back to attempting to eek out some words, perhaps verbalizing some thoughts on what I did one year ago. The shelf life of my memories has never been of great merit. My mind is more like a dingy pawn shop above all else; things come and go, depreciate in time, the light is dim and there is a slight tinge of foul play in the air.

Cognitive malfunction aside, writing and attempting to recount the events from last Christmas season seems appealing to me. As written before, solo travel opens the common sojourner to a gaggle of possibilities, some better than worse and some better forgotten rather than framed for the keeping. However, this trip still leaves me with the notion that those met along the way had just been waiting for me to arrive.

"There are no strangers, only friends who you have not met yet."

Catching a cheap flight to Egypt, I began on the path through the Muslim countries I had planned to visit. I had not planned a thing for Egypt. I just knew I had a flight to Cairo once school was out for Christmas. All event planning started and ended with the plane ticket from Madrid, no hostel, no idea of transport upon arrival, just my backpack and a vague plan of eventually heading farther southward along the Nile River. After getting off the plane, everyone was herded to a stagnant line filing in front of passport control. In Egypt, you can buy a visa upon arrival as a citizen of the U.S., later I heard of Canada extracting all their embassies and warning all Canadians to travel at their own risk within the country. I didn't know what to make of that really. Fortunately, we still had our embassy there allowing me to get this drive-through convenience type of visa.

A Bedouin man stands over the archaeological city of Petra,
also known as Rose City due to the color of the stone

Finding the actual desk where they were shelled out was a different story. I caught wind of where it was and sauntered over. The supposed "government employee" who sold me it was anything but official-looking. He was casually dressed and smoking a cigarette from the corner of his mouth while propping himself up against the office window. The smoke from his head lazily rose to the yellowing ceiling tiles above and just sort of waited around like the rest of us stuck there. 

The guy hardly examined my passport and then patted the visa on after I paid him what I thought was his next sucker´s share of free cash. I walked away thinking he might as well have sold me a Mickey Mouse sticker with a speech bubble reading, "Welcome to Egypt, shit-head." I shrugged it off and figured I'd eventually see when I got to passport control.

The line still wasn't exactly off to an ambitious start either. In the sly attempt to switch lines for a slightly faster one, I met an Egyptian girl around my age by the name of Nagwa. I asked her what her name meant, she told me something quite beautiful and then shrugged it off looking to change the subject. We shuffled through the line together chewing the fat. I didn't really know how to get to downtown Cairo from the airport and while she gave me some pointers, it became apparent to her that I had come to her country on a harebrained idea. Without any plea for assistance, she became insistent on helping me. I accepted. There was no palpable sense of an ulterior motive in the air. She told me she had arranged for a friend to pick her up. I was welcome to join them.

Petra´s Treasury, most likely recognized from
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

In the meantime time, she helped me get an Egyptian SIM card for my phone and moaned about this friend of hers on the way to pick her, and now myself, up from the airport. According to her, she had pulled the wool over his eyes in telling him she was returning from her trip in the Netherlands with two Dutch girls. She went on and on with the complaining and ideas of abandoning the friendship. Just before she was about to blow an O-ring recounting it all, the guy arrived.

The eventual meeting with a man of such ill-repute turned out to be not as bad as I was beginning to expect. He went by Mohamed, easy name to remember. Mohamed didn't seem too worried about me showing up in place of the tantalizing, fictitious Dutch girls either. We filled his car and left for Cairo.

"Speed limits: Hideous thoughts"

Mohamed drove with painful urgency, much as a man on fire runs to the nearest body of water. The curious part of the trip into the city was watching this guy speak pitch-perfect English in a reminiscent tone of Dr. Ian Malcolm from Jurassic Park while sat in a devil-may-care like posture with the light bouncing off his face from his mounted tablet on the center console as he slammed the accelerator through the floorboard of his sedan. This must just be how they are in Egypt behind the wheel, I thought. We were listening to mash-ups of 2014´s Top Billboard Hits. He was feeling the music and unaffected by the absence of the Dutch girls still. He seemed alright to me. I enjoyed listening to him complain about his country. Evidently, things hadn't been very good since they got rid of Mubarak during the Arab Spring; the people blamed bad politics, politicians blamed terrorism and so on and so forth.

How to cross the Nile like you've got a pair of Egyptian cojones

By the time we got into Cairo, I was fully aware of their take on driving: headlights are optional, especially at night; crosswalks are wherever you dare to cross; lanes are non-existent as well, you basically get in wherever you fit in no matter what speed you approach any open pocket in dense traffic; it isn't uncommon to see kids driving... alone, nothing cute like on their father's lap or something. Of course this was all business-as-usual to my newly acquainted company.

Late night in Al-Hussein Khan El-Khalili

Mohamed proved to be a real class-act. He took me back to his place, prepared us some food, took me to the city center´s souk in the bazaar district known as Khanel-Khalili, haggled on my behalf in Arabic and finally arranging everything involved in finding a hostel for me around 4am, then even apologized for not letting me stay with him on account of him living with his mother. I couldn't believe he was doing all of this still. I kept on waiting for an upturned palm and the inevitable suggestion to cough up some American green backs. Not once did he mention anything of it. After the first night with him, I knew he was trustworthy. I gave him my Egyptian number. He told me to be wary of the street-swindlers and to give him a call the next day. He parted company with me and tore off into the night leaving a few last vapor trails in the empty city streets. Everything then stood still and deafeningly quiet. The streets seemed tired. There was no telling what they had been through or what they had coming.

Moments away from biting the dust after
a botched attempt at sand surfing in the U.A.E.'s
Rasal Khaimah Desert

I slept very little in Cairo. Nearly one-quarter of Egypt's population swamp the city with a blanket of exhaust fumes during the day. It has a bit of a stranglehold on a guy at first, but one could learn to breath as they do eventually. As a matter of fact, you must do everything as they do, especially when it comes to crossing the street or jumping on a moving train as the platform turns into a precipice. Though you may try to do things as them, without one to do your bidding, you will pay foreigner´s prices everytime.

The Egyptian Museum is a perfect example. They aren't about putting on any airs over fair pricing either. I understand locals should have a discount, it is their heritage, but the difference in pricing is eye-gouging. Under the Museum´s ticket booth hangs a sign which reads: 75 Egyptian pounds - single entry, and below: 1 Egyptian pound (written in Arabic of course). It could be their little way of sticking it to the West for France and England's storing of their most invaluable artifacts in the museums of Europe. Sadly, they are safer there anyhow.

As for my personal safety, I not once felt unsafe moving about the country on my own. There were some moments that lent to a poignant understanding of life being different than the West. One look at the feral dogs ripping the flesh from the bones of retired horse and camel carcasses decaying along the fenceline separating Giza from the Great Pyramids and anyone could see.

Any garden-variety westerner would likely return to their unhousebroken pet with a new appreciation for its occasional shortcomings on the living room floor. This was not home. Small, little defining moments like this and I could feel the distance from home sprawl out beneath my feet like unwinding Sibylline scrolls prophesizing coming gloom. Some blemishes are not easily airbrushed over in a place where such might and glory once faced the rest of the world in abhorrent defiance to decay. The Great Pyramids, the Sphinx and all the desert sand beneath them seemed to be boasting and bellowing in eternal sadness at once.

Starting our night with Mohamed and his radiant smile are seated to the right

That night Mohamed picked me up, I threw my backpack in the trunk of his car and we went out to a birthday party one of his friends was having. He told me about the Egyptian Revolution and what it was like to be in Tahrir Square once Mubarak had been ousted. He told me about the revelry and looting. Spirits were high and news reports were distorted according to him.

"I don't cause riots, but I do cause confusion. People freeze when they spot me." -Tom Hanks

Some men stole half of an iron bridge with a hydraulic tommy lift on the back of a pickup truck, using the lift as if it were a pick ax. Not a soul stopped them either. He also watched one guy unsuccessfully try and load a plasma TV in the back of his other-than-spacious tuk-tuk. When exasperated by the bulky electronic not fitting, he snapped it in two over the curb, load it and drove off. There are a lot of impressive people out there.

A breakfast layed out for Abdulaziz, all his brothers
(enough to form an American football team) and myself
upon arrival in Saudi Arabia

Mohamed was proving to be one of the kindest guys I had ever met. He made sure I was set up another night after we were out late again, helped me get an Egyptian priced ticket for the overnight train to Luxor and gave me a lift to the station the next day. People like him make our disparities in altruism apparent. In the all-too-compelling and well-recommended race to advance myself, I seldom help strangers just for the hell of it. He, on the other hand, wanted nothing in exchange other than my need, nothing at all.

There was no profit-strategy or expected outcome. Seeing to the need was the end in itself. It was brilliant really, nothing for nothing. Maybe from this concept of such great expansive nothingness, the birth of zero came to be. The principle made my neck hair shift and itch at the thought. I remember thinking we didn't have such a handle on it back home and, what´s more, losing it by whatever means would soon lead us to further alienation, perhaps leaving us in an even worse bereft state than that of the one before.

Sunset over Dubai, the Burj Khalifa tower poking into the clouds above

I was off to Luxor, the old city of Thebes. The overnight train had me there by morning where an unexpected man claiming he worked for the hostel I was looking for had been waiting to pick up obvious tourists like me.  The layout of the city was an absolute mystery, so I followed him like a good lamb to the slaughter. It turned out the hostel wasn't the one I had made plans to stay in, but rather the authentic, relocated one. I came to this conclusion much to the indignation of the owner of the hostel who met me at the front desk. She was an Australian mother of two with a madcap way of handling her business, which she seemed to do quite well, actually. It turns out they upgraded to a bigger building after doing well at her older location. Much to her chagrin, the people who ended up at her old, supposedly defunct, hostel got their hands on some old signage from the place and hung it up, carrying on with the business in the same vein as before as though it never closed.

My friend Abdulaziz and I visiting
his uncle's camel farm in Saudi Arabia

Her court case was still in the works I could see. She arranged a bed for me and showed me around. It was her husband who had nabbed me at the train station. She felt the urge to complain about his worsened behavior as a spouse after moving from Germany to his home country with her, claiming she wasn't too tickled pink by the pervasive male-on-top environment of the Nubian territory she found her family in. I was beginning to think I had a sucker´s face for listening to discontented women gripe on this trip.

I met some other solo-travelers in the hostel: a Chilean man, Spanish-Catalan woman, a reserved English guy and a Chinese dude in his twenties. We saw Luxor together and eventually headed south to the city of Aswan. The English guy went by Mark. We got to know one another during a day trip along the west bank of the Nile known as Theban Necropolis, the land of the dead. Evidently, we had been staying on the living side of the Nile.

The Valley of the Kings was the principal attraction along the way. Stopping in Habu Temple, our guide explained the history of the wrath of Ramesses III over the Sea Peoples. There were plenty of wall inscriptions to echo the brutality, including one with a pile of the enemies severed penises, quite an emasculating defeat

Entering the portico of Habu Temple

We walked up a ramp and through a columned portico into a peristyle hall. Many of the inscribed reliefs on the inner columns maintained their original color. We were informed of the historical significance underlying each pattern of inscriptions. The Romans viewed these people as we view the Roman Empire today. A shrinking sensation creeps up on a guy at the thought of the gradual, unceasing domination time has over man. In view of countless military conquests, fallen empires and the mysterious void of information we call prehistory, life's brevity becomes overwhelming. We passed through walls with etched faces watching us with the same coy expressions as they had watched the rest of the world pass by. Anyone to ever happen by them, anyone who had once lived, lost, suffered, loved, persevered, proudly strutted or scraped by in life were now dead and gone. They met us with that same look of mockery as we passed by just as the rest.

Before leaving Luxor, Mark and I shared an entertaining night together with a local we had met on the street. We had already done our share of walking around the city, fending off two-bit, street hustlers for the day until we came across a middle-aged man named Karim.

There are always moments that merit the letting go of the illusion of control.  Karim seemed to find us at the right time. Mark´s headphones were perilously hanging out of his bag dragging along the dirty street when Karim slid himself into our path. He was missing a few teeth but not afraid to make a first impression. In helping save the headphones from being lost to the street, he asked for their purchase. Mark calmly said "they aren't for sale” as he was preparing to part company with the guy. Karim wasn't having it. He really wanted to show us a time out. I looked at Mark and said, “Why not?”

Karim, Mark, Ana and I awaiting the train before leaving Luxor for Aswan

Karim asked if we were up for going to a tourist spot or a more local scene. We both agreed on the ladder of course. He took us to an unlikely place where he had to leave his ID with the doorman. It did not resemble anything from the outside, just a normal city block. We went down a dimly lit stairwell and were sat by an overly made-up waitress. The place definitely looked a bit sordid. I sat with my back to the wall just next to the door we came in. Mark and Karim sat side-by-side. There were a few other customers in the low lit room, mostly Nubian, with the exception of one middle-aged American man who looked more like he belonged in a PTA meeting than this subterranean Egyptian form of a speakeasy. He had another Nubian guy sat next to him against the wall a stone´s throw away. We acknowledged each other with the tacit way most may when they seem to share an unspeakable secret. The only thing was neither I, nor Mark, knew what that secret was just yet. The waitress came to take our order. They had beer and I had a tea.

Preferring to go by Eliot, our friend Zhao Wei
presents us his prized Polariod

Karim didn´t seem to want to let go of the wishful purchase of Mark´s headphones. He claimed that type couldn't be found around Egypt. He eventually let it go and began to teach us a few Arabic phrases and, more emphatically, the number system. Then he broke out a worn spiral notebook of his and began to brandish it to Mark and I. It was full of the writings of other travellers he had come across in Luxor. It was like his own little handheld Yelp review log. I had never seen someone actually carry something like that with them everywhere. It was obvious that he desperately wanted to win our confidence.

Mark wasn't having it. He sat in a posture so uptight you wouldn't have been able to cram a pin up his ass with a jackhammer. Karim mentioned that he was illiterate in the English language as he requested us to read some of the entries aloud, then write our own and read them aloud, too. We felt obliged to humor him.

We did so given that it seemed to mean so much to him. Then he got on about Mark letting his guard down saying things like “open your heart” and “we are all brothers here.” I began to bust a gut with laughter. The situation was just too much to handle, the incidental Karim, the questionable place he had taken us to, Mark´s stone-cold face, it all came together in a perfect harmonious farce of itself.

 Inside the tomb of Horemheb in the Valley of the Kings, here Anubis,
the protector of the dead and embalming, is seen facing to the left

Karim let off with the headphone talk for awhile and got to bragging about his time in the service and working for the Egyptian CIA. He started showing us scars and telling us tall tales from his glory days. He was so full of it his eyes were brown. Then he hit us up for a little souvenir to remember us by. Anything from our countries would work. Mark gave him a British pound. I was without American dollars since I had come to his country by way of over a year spent in Spain. I tried giving him a King Juan Carlos I minted euro, but he was not too amused. He let me know I was in his debt for that. 

I had another fit of laughter. It was beginning to draw some attention. He went on to show everyone he had helped out before had given him a little something in the past. He made mention of his button-up shirt he had on as a gift from a man from Holland. Looking closer we found that the guy had five layers of clothes on. It was still eighty degrees outside.

Mark and I kicked back in the Temple of Karnak

The waitress came with more drinks. Her and Karim spoke in Arabic for a moment and I tried spitting out some words he had taught me. She smiled, most likely not understanding me. As soon as she left, Karim got to doing some dirty old man talk, mentioning his taste for women of different nationalities, reciting his repertoire of sexual conquests. Then he wanted to know our opinion of the waitresses. Now any doubt of the establishment I may have had once had vanished. Karim had brought us to a whore house. The discreteness of it all went from a hum to an ear-splitting siren in my ears. It was obvious why he had brought us here. I looked over at the PTA dad sitting alongside the other wall. He was lounged back calmly chatting with his company. I now saw underneath that innocent veneer. I had him pegged. If only his fellow surburbanites back home could see him now. What the hell were we doing here?

Christmas dinner my first night in Saudi Arabia

Mark went to the bathroom. I was uncertain if he would return. Karim began lecturing me about how important it was that I look after Mark. He must have been under the impression that I had known Mark a long time. I told him Mark is a big boy and not to worry. He had already done a lot of solo travelling around the world and he was, after all, still kicking. He didn't let off though. I couldn't tell if it was feigned concern or actual human empathy. He was a bit of a mystery.

I still didn't see Karim´s profit out of bringing us there, but I am sure there was one. He finally dropped the lustful talk and offered Mark a Nokia mobile phone. He wanted to meet with us the following night. Mark wasn´t too privy to the idea of accepting the phone, nor his offer. He was still sitting in the posture of a man in an electric chair awaiting his doom. To alleviate the situation, I told Karim I'd accept the phone without a problem.

“No,” he refused with an insolent glare, “you're not on a straight path like Mark, you are a cheeky one and I don´t trust you.” The irony was too much to handle and I could feel the next fit of laughter building up.

“Tell me, how much do you trust me,” I asked, “give me a percentage.”

“Twenty percent,” he said curtly.

A walk about Shei Zayed Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi while Abdulaziz and his brother pray

I almost suffocated on the cackles shooting up from my diaphragm. He had one helluva take on our encounter. Either that or his poker face was strong and brazened by the years of drawing travelers into his snare, one in which still had an unknown objective.It had to be a ploy. Being the first to lance accusations of mistrust served him well of course, given our own doubts of his character had still not been openly expressed. And even if he truly didn't trust me, on what grounds? What was his premise, my cackling fits in such a situation such as this? Maybe he saw me as one to be too comfortable in contrast to Mark´s stoic temperament. I couldn't tell. Either way, it was absurd and funny.

My new Chilean friend Eduardo and I preparing for a hot air balloon
ride at sunrise just over The Valley of the Kings

Mark finally acquiesced. The phone was ours and so was the implication we would be seeing him again. Besides, I was still in Karim´s debt according to him. He would not accept our standing deficit.

My thoughts shifted to the legalities of prostitution in a Muslim country like Egypt. It started  like  bolt of lightening striking a drought-plagued field of desiccated grass in summer, one strike and then, devouring flames.

I wouldn't have put male castration past their courts either. I would end up like the conquered Sea Peoples, just without a timeless inscription on their walls. All I knew is that I didn't want to find out. Any trip without desperate need of the American embassy is a good one to me. Maybe I was thinking too much. Maybe the government turned a blind-eye to places like this. Or maybe we were going to have to bribe our way out.

Once again we had returned to the headphone disagreement, the very topic that hooked us into coming into this shady situation in the first place. Mark had his headphones in hand, Karim leaned forward from the wall, eyes intent and voice solemn.

The Nile River as soon from Aswan in southern Egypt

“Mark we are all brothers here,” he smiled, “Wouldn't you give them to your very own brother, Mark?”

They were locked in. One second lagged behind another in languid endlessness. Karim piercing into Mark's eyes, Mark abiding, looking at his handful of his property and back at Karim's unbroken stare and then looking back at his headphones. I could feel the tension between the two hitting me across the table. 

The next laugh attack was coming, too. After a solid minute passing, I lost it. Karim, looking annoyed, asked what was so funny. He could see my uncontrollable spurts were of no use to his game. My sides were aching by now.

"With mirth and laughter let wrinkles come." -William Shakespeare

Abdulaziz and I relaxing on his Uncle's camel farm outside of Riyadh

“A real quality brother wouldn't try to manipulate his family members to his benefit,” I answered.

Karim disregarded me entirely now. He was back to his assumed position staring Mark in the eye with an upturned hand now.

“Give them to me, Mark. Give your headphones to your brother.”

Then, with slow and jerky uncertainty, Mark extended the headphones, letting them defeatedly slip out of his hand and into the palm of Karim. It was done. At last, Karim had what he so desperately coveted.

I had quieted down by then and just watched the two of them. Karim looked at his new headphones, back at Mark and then back at the headphones. The turning point of the night hung in the air and impacted our table with an uncomfortable feeling as though being stared at from a lone stranger leaning, nonchalantly, on his elbow at the bar, thinking some unknown treachory. We sat at a corner of the room, but it now seemed to be dead-center.

Just two bros in front of the Temple of Hatshepsut,
the name of the "first great woman in history."

Karim gave the headphones back to Mark in casual, false wisdom. He really seemed to be enjoying his game.

“Ahh man, Mark,” I butt in, “can't you see? This has been a test all along, one you've passed!” Naturally, I was fanning Karim´s ego's desire to be viewed as some old sage wisened by the years. He looked awfully smug reclining to the wall again.

It was getting late. We asked for the bill. When it came, it was obvious why Karim wanted us to learn the Arabic number system: The drinks were on us. Evidently, he didn´t want us being confused and feeling overcharged by the end of the night.

Just as we were about ready to pay and make our way to the exit, the door violently burst open next to me, just inches from my seat. A flood of men screaming in Arabic marched in, the last with a revolver tucked into his pants, held to the small of his back by his belt. We were had, I knew it. They had no uniforms, but they definitely had some authority.

An afternoon picnic with Abdulaziz and his extended family in the UAE desert

They went directly to the American man's table, his partner stood up with machine-gun-rapid Arabic spewing from his mouth. The man with the revolver walked up to him while his cronies held the accused by his underarms. They both screamed at one another without listening to the other party at all. It was apparent the one with the the revolver was in charge. He slapped the man in the face and they began to shuffle off with him. I was still waiting for him and his crew to turn their combined efforts against the rest of us in there. Instead they filed their way out the door and you could hear them banging their way up the steps and out the front door, leaving devious PTA dad behind and alone at his table now.

A Nubian man standing before the backdrop
of the Nile at Hatshepsut Temple

The room was completely silent. They had killed the music from the bar during all the commotion. We all looked at one another at our table and Karim used it as an opportunity to brag about his clout in Luxor. According to him, he is well known for his military service in the southern Egypt and how the honest man's pillow has the best sleep and blah blah blah…

PTA dad was staring at our table. It was only us left in there at this point. We finally acknowledged him and he came over to explain what he made of it all. His name was Tim. PTA dad Tim had been working in Cairo for years and the apprehended man was his loyal driver and friend apparently. Evidently, the driver had a bad day in traffic and went all ape-shit on some motorist's car with the heel end of his shoe, which is culturally the vulgarest of insults to be dished out in there.

After a bit off ego headbutting with PTA dad Tim, Karim finally persuaded him to go see about bailing his friend out of police custody. He left and shortly thereafter we did as well.

Karim mentioned going to see some bellydancing the following night and made mention of expecting a phone call from him. Mark and I walked back the dirt roads to the hostel. It had been a fun night. I think Mark secretly enjoyed the experience deep down. He never said.

A team effort in negotiating a price for our way out of small town BFE,
even with taxis in Egypt one must learn to haggle

I had to say my goodbyes to him and the rest of the group of solo-travelers in Aswan on Christmas Eve. It was a shame.  I was really enjoying their company during the few days we had together. It was just a few days we had together, but they had become my closest friends within a scarce span of time together. Maybe it was the environment. We were all far from home.

They accompanied me to the taxi and helped in haggling the price down for a lift to the airport. The haggling never ends in Egypt. I knew I'd never see any of them ever again and I was certain they knew it, too. I gave each one a hug and got in the old beater. The taxi clattered away as Aswan was swallowed in the maw of dark emptiness.

Crusader castle in Karak, Jordan 

"No man can live this life and emerge unchanged. He will carry... the imprint of the desert... and he will have within him the yearning to return... For this cruel land cast a spell which no temperate clime can match." 

-Lawrence of Arabia

I made some small chat with the taxi driver, learning a bit about his family in the limited English he could get out for me. We picked up a woman trying to thumb a ride in the middle of the black obscurity. She was on the side of the road all alone. In a few hours it would be Christmas Day. I looked out into the blank darkness that smothered the Sahara Desert. I wondered who else was out there alone, standing quietly, swallowed by the desolate night.

You Do Not Have to Be Rich to Travel

"I stand before you now because I never stopped dawdling like an eight-year-old on a spring morning on his way to school. Anything can make me stop and look and wonder, and sometimes learn."
-Dr. Hoenikker's Nobel Prize acceptance speech (Cat's Cradle)

An endurance-testing, sometimes barren, ride as I made my way back to Alcalá de Henares by route of the Spanish autonomous community of Aragon.

It has happened enough to compel me to title this entry as it is. Someone from any given obscure corner of past social rings of people pops into my online life with the same question: How are you managing to travel so much? I have always answered attempting to take on the common misconception of traveling being a prerogative of the rich. It is not. I do not know where ideas like these come from. I also don't know why people buy into the idea and subsequently stay put, sealing the loop of their very own self-fulfilling prophecy. It is funny how things work out sometimes. 

Dying daylight on my last night spent in Cinque Terre

Trying to mold my own fate, I've opted to spend my summer with my motorcycle between my legs and my life on my back. I also decided to be a vagrant about it, objecting to payment in exchange for sleeping quarters, unbound by check-in/check-out times and basically home wherever I run out of energy. Hotels, hostels and Airbnb's are something I could afford some nights, but I have already experienced that form of travel. It is not like I have not saved money for the months ahead and don't have any choice. I do. At least, I think I have enough to last me. In the meantime, not paying for a bed every night does give some peace-of-mind in spite of sleeping in unsavory places.

Somnolent hours in Florence's Stazione di Santa Maria Novella

I have developed an affinity for rolling into stranger towns and unmet cities with no bed on the horizon, no pinch hitter friend to call and no itinerary with suffocating deadlines to live by. This has been my life since I said adiós to Jaime and his giving family and left their hospitality in Santander to begin my trip from Spain to Italy at the end of July. 

For reasons of prudence, as well as technological limitations, this post will not be transcribed from its impromptu pizza wrap paper to a cleaner, digital form until I have safely returned to my laptop in Central Spain in October. Wasting time in an Internet cafe is not appealing to me and I can do without being the son who gives his parents stomach ulcers. 

Unorthodoxy sometimes reaches the angels in Rome's Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri

When I post this from behind a laptop in a secure setting, all will be said & done. No harm, no foul; right? It'll be like one of those Tell-Tale Heart confessions where the narrator's guilt compels him to come clean, only without the hallucinations. Or like one of those cold cases where the elusive crook comes forth being consigned to his fate, only more innocuous. This entry is a poor excuse for restitution. Maybe I am a bad son. 

"Leap and the safety net will appear."
-American naturalist John Burroughs

Whatever the case may be, I've grown content with the question mark suspended overhead. A three-month reprieve from daily routine has left me somewhere in the grey area between achieving nirvana and being brain-dead. Not to say there is anything wrong with the pattern of routine that yokes our daily lives. I will have certainly returned to my familiar take on life by the time I post this entry. However, what I've grown to understand is the inflexibility between the two lifestyles. The both are like oil and water, they do not mix.

It is uncompromisingly impossible to do both simultaneously. One cannot securely hang harnessed by the ropes of standard everyday life and also live in a way that invites calamity. One can either hang on to the tested & approved, rinse & repeat way of life or dig for something sharp enough to cut the right ropes and welcome the free-fall.

Col Rosset on a clear day in Gran Paradiso, an Italian national park between the Aosta Valley and Piedmonte

Understandingly, not everyone can just bid their lives adieu in an abrupt display of escapism, at least not honorably. It would be ignoble to trade in parenthood to appease an appetite for wanderlust. I am also well-aware of financial necessities in life, which can bar access to a season of summer free-falling. The constant reminder of being the beneficiary of uncontrollable forces dropping me in such a position to choose a lifestyle and, even better, actually live it, stays at my side, trailing me like a loyal dog, smiling up at me, spotted-tongue dangling, making me happy to know we share lives in a world of such chance. The power of choice is a beautiful thing. 

Westside of Isola del Giglio, an island near Tuscany

Here I am, a blessed bum with a bike, a tricky traveler with a tent, an aspiring autodidact of the open road with a speedometer for a mast, a throttle for a mainsail, a chain for a keel and a helmet for a crow's nest. Or maybe I'm just desperate to be associated with those gritty, sailing expeditionaries from the Age of Discovery. 

Be that as it may, an explanation is warranted for what push has got me grabbing gears, avoiding toll roads, catching shut-eye in public places and illegally camping in the thick of any given nearby forest. There was no blinding-white-light-Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus type of spiritual experience urging me to seek out a summer devoid of landlords, mandatory meetings and honey-do's around the house. Rather, its genesis seemed comparable to the preparation displayed by one who may grab a crayon to scribble tenuous directions on the surface of whatever truck stop napkin is at hand for the use of a lost motorist. It was sloppy at best.

A couple faces westward as a thunderstorm rolls toward the hillside of Notre-Dame de la Garde in Marseille, France

All year, I had a black hole of unemployment from July through September staring me in the face. Sure, I could have played it safe and returned to Texas and all the soul-softening amenities of home. I could have stayed in Spain to seek out some summer English camp with the comforts of paydays and maintaining a checking account with a pulse. I could have done nothing, frozen by indecision, letting the prospect of joblessness take on a life of its own, awaiting the day to come when the brute would pick me up by the scruff of the neck and sling me into a parental security blanket. I chose none of the above, not the beaten path nor the indecision trap. I chose the path that frightened me the most. 

Stopping in Aragon's town of Albarracín,
a Moorish name given by the deposed
Al Banu Razin family during the Iberian
Peninsula's epoch of Muslim domination 

An opaque romanticism of riding about Italy via motorcycle was all I had in mind. The 'who' and 'what' would be filled in along the way. Points of interest and scenic routes to get there would serve as the mold. The people met, experiences had, whether shared or alone, would serve as the plaster to an unknown end product. Maybe it would be something I could later enjoy, smoking from a corncob pipe in a tweed coat on a rocking chair, watching neighborhood kids run amok from the corner of a wrap-around, Victorian-style porch, recounting my youth, what it meant to be young, rocking slowly, trying not to grow embittered by the first signs of arthritis. Who knows? If nothing else, senility could make it seem better than it actually was.

The 'why' is always the kicker. It asks much of the traveler desirous of taking on the voyage alone. Many gumption-killers await and without a solid foundation of motive and intent, despondency can begin to nip at the heels. Troubles will strike. Peeping at pretty pictures through the keyhole of social media is misleading. Never does it expose the broader panoramic, fraught with hang-ups, careless mistakes, misplaced trust, foreigner folly and egg-on-your-face breakdowns of communication. It is all part of the deal, a sealed contract at the first step away from home.

The Amalfi coastline near Positano

"Prior planning prevents poor performance."

-Forgotten Texas high school football coach

Behind the facade of every expression, cliché, catchy use of alliteration, allegory or proverb lies a sleeping giant. 

The underlying semantic remains untouched by the passing of time. Truth never wavers. It never gives get-out-of-jail-free cards. The truth, at least to the extent I understand it, has infinitely many twisted turns of fate that may befall a traveler, carpet bombing all misguided ideas of carefree living and expectant site-seeing. I may have not had all my i's dotted and t's crossed, but I prepared a bag, then I left.

Here are some suggestions for anyone looking to take on an extended, autonomous trip of their own:

1) Buy a device that can give your phone battery a kick. Keeping a functional phone has been a perpetual task while living between electrical outlet access points. Hell, buy two if you really want to be ambitious about it. You will not regret it. Or just get a motorcycle with a damn AV charger. 

2) Do not pack too much. You would be surprised by how little you need to sustain yourself. Besides there is nothing worse than being chained to an over packed bag, especially when you could use the extra space for groceries and mementos. Make sure and bring good literature, too. Keeping entertained and intellectually stimulated is invaluable, music and podcasts included, too, of course.

3) Get traveler's insurance. I am semi-certain I had some form of coverage at the beginning; however, I am entirely certain it has expired now. As a footnote, do not be like me. That may be the best piece of advice I could offer, travel blog aside. 

4) Prepare for little sleep. There will not be much sleep and whatever amount acquired will not be of good quality. At best it will usually be light-sleeping considering the possibility of passers-by in the night, ill-willed or just curious hikers. 

5) Make sure the tent you have blends in with its surroundings. Remember wild camping is illegal in most of Western Europe and the police will fine you. Set up camp before sunset and leave some marks to relocate your site if you leave it. Once, I almost couldn't find mine deep in the forest of Giglio Island at night. Also a mini-padlock to fasten the two zippers together is highly recommendable as a first line of defense to any unwanted, twilight visitors, which brings me to #6.

6) Be smart and procure, through a black market or legitimate vendor, some form of self-defense. Unfortunately, the law of the land does not exactly smile upon it and the likelihood of victimization is low, but it is better to have it and not need it than vice-versa. Besides, the polizia and carabinieri in Italy usually are quite indifferent to investigating anything beneath the severity of murder. The point of the trip is to enjoy yourself without becoming part of the next national nightly news broadcast.  

7) Buy some of those stretchy, cotton, crew neck t-shirts. The sweat dries faster and proper showers are scarce. If you are traveling along the coast, use the public showers to bathe where people rinse the sand off their bodies. You may get some odd looks scrubbing the unmentionable zones, but the feeling of cleanliness is well worth it.

8) Buy one of those hidden pockets with the elastic band that stretches around the abdominal region. The big cities are crawling with pickpockets who have galvanized their skills in time and are quite happy show them off, or, rather, slide them under detection. Additionally, in some neighborhoods speaking English paints a target on your back.  

9) Write. 

10) Make sure you are in good company with yourself. You will be spending a lot of time alone and you must like the company you keep. Any wandering, discontented soul on a trip alone with the trite intention of 'finding oneself' will undoubtedly boomerang back home with the same, unaltered mindset, only sporting a bit more of a tan, a thinner pocketbook and a few stories filed for later reference, which all still fall short of actual gut-level fulfillment. Happiness is something we have within, it is not in the dried ink of passport stamps, social media posturing, or the dinner table stories of adventures had. 

11) Stay in contact with loved ones. At the end of the day, they are the only ones who have genuine interest in your non-penniless, non-crippled, non-cadaver state. Take time at least once a week to have actual conversations with the family. It is always difficult to find a potent WiFi signal in a quiet place, but it is something to be tended to out of respect and love for those who have selfless, unconditional love for you. 

12) Finally, as more of an afterthought than a tip, it may not hurt to have a bit of a checkered past. Perspective helps. 

A couple's embrace
in the streets of Perugia

"Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not."-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Moving about without a place to call your own is not always the most cosmetically attractive thing to behold. Stains tend to stick around on clothes longer, fingernails tend to constantly collect dirt and bags tend to develop under the eyes from sleeping with a heavy-laden consciousness of vulnerability. Looks tend to suffer. 

People strive to avoid this sort of thing everyday. Isn't homelessness one of those things that could be synonymous with failure? Isn't it what we try NOT to have happen in life? The answer seems obvious.

Questions are actually the more intriguing parts on the topic. Why get out of bed in the morning? Why set alarms when man was meant to sleep till he awoke naturally? Why work? Why do anything? I mean, really, ask yourself these questions, especially if you are stuck in a dead-end job with which you are unhappy. Forget the importance of society's necessity for a skilled class of worker as oil to keep the massive machine running. Think about yourself and why you do anything at all. Why not be a bum?

Cast aside your socialization and ask yourself if the only purpose of your education was to avoid being uncomfortable. Was it to get the education, get the diploma that says you have learned something valuable in the job market? Was it for nothing more than to gain that entry level position with a middle-class earning potential, to attempt to tolerate insufferable coworkers or bosses only to avoid poverty or the possibility of foreclosure or eviction and being left exposed to the streets? Is that why we do these things? Is it all some wild, round-the-fire Apache dance to avoid discomfort and vulnerability? Is that why we get out of bed in the morning?

"Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the later portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant."

-Edgar Allan Poe

The Dalí Theatre-Museum in Figueres, Spain

Suggesting I have some easy, square-peg-in-square-hole solution for these questions is not some secret knowledge I possess. I am also not trying to write from some edgy, hip, Bohemian angle. I have no insider information. I am not part of some enlightened, esoteric, occult handshake group that prides itself on being the select few, unassociated with all you fickle 'sheeple' following the irrational, shifting whims of groupthink. It is possible that I am robbed tonight. I could find myself standing in front of a public bathroom mirror, perplexed by the crackpot staring back at me. It is not impossible. But there must be something more to getting out bed other than a tacit fear driving us. There must be more to it than personal hedonism or cultural posterity. I do not know. It is summertime. I'm alone. I think too much. 

In the end, my intentions are not cut from the cloth of virtue. I've taken no vow of poverty nor relinquished any possessions. As a matter of fact, my smartphone is my most prized possession at the moment. Without it, a total decapitation of navigation and communication with those outside of my immediate environment would ensue. Ultimately, I am not seeking any deeper meaning. I have no desire to pretentiously strip away the veneer of conventionalism to bare the bones of something lost in the modern age, materialism is fine with me. 

I am still the same good ol' boy, only a bit dirtier with a fuller beard. Maybe this is all just curiosity. Maybe I would be better off staying up late watching B-movies. Nothing beats reality though. I just want to see what's going on, man. My intentions aren't saint-grade, nor have they come from the celestial spheres to condescend their higher-order teachings to those mortals living out their domesticated lives below. My goal is not to expand consciousness or get in touch with the lowly class. My main objective is quite selfish honestly: Get home one day, behold beauty, and don't get robbed in transit.

A night attempting to sleep on the beach of Positano, an Italian village tucked in an enclave of hills in Campania

"Everything was an adventure, at night, when you were where you shouldn't be, even if it was somewhere you could go perfectly well during the day, and it was then only ordinary." -Robin McKinley

Night has a persona of its own. Cities change faces under the light of the moon, fluorescent streetlights, and neon signs. As though bled out and risen from hemorrhaging cobblestone streets, the nocturnal class settles in place, scabbing over the city. This is a composition of people the city tourism board will always crop out of postcards. They are the swindlers, addicts, petty thieves, prostitutes, homeless, alcoholics, mentally disturbed; they are degenerates of the desperate variety; they are bands of scheming immigrants from distant, blighted lands, smoking and talking out the corners of their mouths. 

Newlyweds and a street vendor share a corner between
a tourist-filled Roman Forum & Colosseum

The daytime is for tourists posing for contrived photos, pensively overlooking the city from popular, scenic heights. The sunsets are for couples and their cameras doing the same, only in a discreetly malevolent way, like high tide returning a message in a bottle to a castaway as a reminder of isolation and futility. Early evening is for fine dining on terraces draped by vine-entangled lattice work, the humming of mixed conversations and laughter shared with family and friends over shiny white dishes and elegant-looking glasses of wine. They're filled and content under the summer sky. This isn't night, this isn't 4am's bounty. 

Deep night belongs to those non-postcard-friendly faces. There are some exceptions, of course. They are small groups of travelers stuck at train stations, waiting till the morning line to their next stop on their European excursion. Small pockets of idle travelers are anomalies, incidental spectators and, at times, hapless participants plucked from the crowd to take part in the night show. 

One of Florence's many expressive statues in Loggia della Signoria, here stands 
The Rape of Polyxena, a creation of Pio Fedi

In Rome, I had two thieves make a pass for my backpack while I slept. This is standard operating procedure of the typical, run-of-the-mill thief in Europe. Very few are so bold to steal by force. They lack the aggression seen in North American crooks, or even worse, South American criminals. They seldom use firearms or knives and are often times found in groups. They are cowards. They burn tourists and locals alike, while shying away from confrontation. A group of five got the best of me and made off with my phone a few months back in Paris when my guard was down. I have wanted revenge ever since. That's why I bought a taser. That is why I made a stop in Andorra while crossing the Pyrenees mountains.  

With the threat of sticky-fingered, long-armed pickpockets and other theft-bound types, I made the proper purchases necessary. Generally, European self-defense laws are toothless, at least when viewed through the cultural lens of an American. They are written in a way that the victim is better off taking whatever slice of hell the criminal has in mind. 

"Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six."

-Booker T. Washington

I do not write without sources. Before leaving Northern Spain, I met a jeweler who had been victimized at the hand of thieves. Without any previous mention about my opinion on the topic, I was told the laws of Spain were so backwards that the criminals seemingly have more rights than the victims. This was all told as an explanation for his choice in refraining from allowing the crooks to come into his acquaintanceship with a chestful of his revolver's slugs. According to him, it was he who would have ended up doing the time after sending the proper message to the other thieves of the community. In Texas, we would have patted him on the back, awarded a big belt buckle for his marksmanship, maybe even payed the taxidermy costs for mounting the wasted thieves' corpses as household conversation pieces. Worse things have been done.  

The most difficult part of entire trip: crossing the Pyrenees under rainy skies

Knowing I may encounter some faceless, viable candidate for my revenge, I decided to take a route through southern France as I headed from Santander to Barcelona, where I was to catch the ferry for Civitavecchia, Italy. Before coming to Spain, I never knew of a little country made of mountains, swaddled right between France and Spain. 

This is the aforementioned country of Andorra. Europeans who live near it may travel to this no-name country with partly similar intentions Americans may have while southbound for Mexico: cheaper goods and illicit interests. Sure, there is skiing in Andorra, but one look through the shop windows of any store and any fool can catch a pawnshop-esque scent of foul play. 

My first sight of Pas de la Casa, Andorra, frigid and soaking wet

I rode alongside river valleys, crossed the switchbacks and threw the bike into its lower gears as I climbed the inclines to eventually make my way into this strange country that somehow legally outmaneuvered average European laws. I thought I was in for an ideal mountain cruise, sunny ascents and fresh air streaming all around me. 

I didn't realize it would be more of a test of endurance and mental toughness than anything. It rained on me the entire time in and out of the country. Pas de la Casa, the closest town after crossing the border, found me dripping wet and shaking uncontrollably. My shoulders felt like tense cables wound tight by the slow reeling of a wench imbedded in my vertebrae. The slick turns, my worn out tires, and potentially fatal plummets off the side of the mountain precipices were all accidents waiting for the right hydroplane to happen. I was haggard and felt aged. The night before I stopped in some one-horse French town and had very little sleep under a weeping willow tree in my tent. I was already dead upon arrival.

I drank coffee and smoked with hands numbed and pruned by my wet gloves as I attempted to rid myself of the shaking. It was no use. I walked into what looked like an Army surplus store after braving what felt like the Bataan Death March. My iron-willed intent on finding the taser I came for was evidently a bit too revealing when the clerk demonstrated the self-defense product and my eyes came to life at the sight of a sharp, cackling blue arch of magnificent, pure hell. I knew what it must have felt like to be Moses staring into his burning bush, only the stare was from the eyes of a fiend.

In her broken English, she implored me to strictly use the weapon for self-defense purposes alone before releasing her grip. It had been a long day. I still needed to face the rest of the ride to come. I couldn't wait two days for the rain to quit as the forecast predicted.

I drove out of the country with my belt holding it tight to the small of my waist. The border officers paid me no attention. Traveling with something that could serve as a oneway ticket for deportation was on my mind, perhaps more so than the actual intention of using it. In Florence, I had two moments where I was most concerned. I had forgotten it was still in my bag until I was practically done waiting in line and entering the Galleria dell'Accademia. I had slept in front of the train station and still wasn't thinking till the metal detectors reminded me of the incriminating object I had on me. Not wanting to dump my little friend and face the end of the line, I improvised. 

Nonchalantly, I slid it out of my bag and into my underwear, so the fanged, black unit was pressed against my abdominal wall. I figured an excited metal detector could be cause for frisking and guards seldom get too close to others' male parts. I walked through the detector with a stiff upper lip and chin high while staring the guard in the eye with the bravado of a condemned man facing a firing squad. And... nothing. No alarm. No Lou Ferrigno-looking security guard grappling with me and body slamming me on foreign soil. I gathered my things and headed toward Michelangelo's David. 

In a way, I was free to frolic about passing the little devil's muscle-contracting current through the bodies of random tourists to watch the physically taxing charge manifest itself in an array of contorted facial expressions, frayed nerves, and blindsided assaults in unlikely places. 

Florence viewed through the iron-hinged entryway of Basilica de San Miniato al Monte

After its passing undetected, I figured storing it away before entering the Uffizi Museum was unnecessary. I was wrong. The alarm sounded and my accelerated heart rate was quick to follow. The guard had me pass through again with my hands raised after I told him of the metal plate in my wrist, pointing to the scar. Same alarm, same excuse. Seeming unconcerned, he waved me along. 

Once again, I was theoretically free to prance around with sadistic glee in my eye, choosing at random whose knees to buckle. The only time I stowed it away was before climbing the Duomo; however, there were no metal detectors. Go figure. I could've had some good rooftop stunnin' too.

Rome's finest blocking Via die Fori Imperiali from the front steps of the white marble memorial monument known as Altar of the Father 

There were times I was glad I had it though. I never actually had to use it, but my first night in Rome was my closest call. My first night in Italy, I intended to set up camp in the any unlit corner of Villa Borghese gardens. I noticed a tall, African man about 100 yards back who seemed to be following me into the darkness. I feigned urination next to a hedge, so I could face him and not allow him to get the jump on me. He continued toward me and stopped to share the same hedge as though it were some communal pissing hole. I walked away into the darkness. Once I found a more hidden place to do my business, I noticed him again. He was walking in the general direction he last saw me. Then he spotted me and immediately pivoted, changing his route for me. My right hand already had the safety leash wrapped around my wrist. I could feel my grip tighten around the plastic handle. I was annoyed most of all. Sick of the cat and mouse game, I walked directly to him, feeling the distance closing in. 

"What the f___ do you want anyway?!" I growled at him. 

Ready to warn him he was about to get something he may not like, he stood still for a split second, turned and walked away. My grip loosened on the taser and I watched as he evaporated into the shadows of the garden. A bit on edge, I carried on. 

Wet ferry ride from Barcelona to one of Italy's main ports, Civitavecchia

I could feel the rain beginning to sprinkle and I knew I needed to set up camp quick. During the ferry ride I had dried all my clothes under the hand dryer in the bathroom and I didn't feel like being wet and miserable trying to sleep. I found a place sufficient enough and began to set up camp with my headband flashlight to illuminate the process. The rain had picked up. I finally got in the tent wet and still on edge. I did not sleep at all. Every drop of rain sounded like the footsteps of my vying assailant returning to give his nefarious intentions one last, good ol' college try. The taser was at my side. 

Large crucifix placed
in the Colosseum,
a symbol of past Christian
 martyr's suffering 

My second night in Rome was spent in front of Termini, Rome's main train station. I was physically spent. At 1am they kick everyone out of the station and close its doors. The vagrants, stranded travelers and I filed along the front of the station's main entrance, sleepy and exposed, chum for the night sharks. Fatigue has its bright side; you can sleep anywhere. I recall laying flat on my back with my little backpack rolled up beneath my head. There were dubious types on the prowl, carrying on amongst themselves. A stench of stale cigarettes, body odor and desperation lurked in the night air. 

I recall seeing two bums, possibly a couple, heavily clothed and faces tucked deep behind unkempt hair, almost seeming un-human, like hunch-backed cro-magnons who had shed their animal hides for clothing and blankets found on street corners. One slept slouched over, sitting on a bucket, head supported by a grocery cart overloaded with all their shrouded possessions. The other seemed to sleep standing up, gently swaying like an old, tattered flag on a still day, beaten, tired and faded by the sun, yet still defying removal. Later, I noticed they seemed to have the same post every night. We became the best of neighbors in time. We didn't talk. Ever.

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

-Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Of course, the first night carried a sense of fundamental aversion to the idea of sleeping in the company of bums. Pride never sleeps. I chose not to care and choked down my slice of humble pie without further contemplation. I made my place between a dirty, barefooted man sleeping on his side, hip pressing into his cardboard bed, and an elderly African woman leaning against one of the columns dividing the plate glass windows. She seemed peaceful, almost as though she was meditating in a place far away, free of all preoccupation. I felt my exhaustion fading and unconscious oblivion taking its place, much like a sensation of levitating from the hard ground to the anesthetic gelatin of weightless dreams. 

Young fisherman gathering their equipment as the sun sets on Isola de Giglio

In what felt like no elapsed time at all, I was awoken by a tug from beneath my head. I removed the bandana I had covered my eyes with and found myself staring into the eyes of an African man crouched over my side. I blinked hard and focused as best I could. 

A semi-conscious stupor had rested in my mind like morning fog settled in a valley. I was alert enough to hear, then later comprehend what he told me in Italian, a language with enough cognates to Spanish that simple sentences are decipherable if dissected properly. The very same aspiring backpack-snatcher who attempted to craftily make off with my bag right out from under my head told me, "Be careful. There are thieves out." Then he, too, evaporated into the summer's warm, night air. 

Desiccated remains of a Pompeiian slave found
 frozen in agony within the ancient city walls

By the time I was fully alert again, I could process everything that had taken place in reality while I was disconnected and vulnerable. The peaceful, monk-like woman to my side told me he would have had my stuff had I stayed asleep. Had she been in his cross-hairs and I was conscious, I'd have aimed my taser for his throat. There didn't seem to be much altruism among my neighbors. I felt equally impressed by his audacity and angered by his attempt to victimize me. A look down the row of others partitioned off by the station's cement columns revealed no sign of my enterprising thief in the night. It was a crying shame. 

I'd have returned to sleep contented to know I had given his bare neck a generous dollop of the taser. It may not have been the French thieves, but it would've been a stab in the right direction. A thief is a thief. 

One of the many cliff-hugging villas hanging onto a precipice found on the ride along the Amalfi coastline

The next night I slept there, someone, perhaps the same thief, attempted to cut through my bag for access to its inner contents instead of taking the entire thing. It's what is on the inside that counts, right? I didn't notice a thing until I awoke to find the incision the following morning. I imagined the knife or razor was just beneath my armpit considering I had lain flat-bellied with my hands weaved through its straps and fingers interlocked underneath as I pillowed my face with the bag's upturned side and my inflatable neck pillow. Fortunately, this thief also wasn't successful.

Light pokes in the Pantheon's characteristic
central opening (oculus) in Rome, Italy

The fourth night in Rome was spent on the couch of a host I had come into contact with through couchsurfing.com. The only two times I have had any luck finding hospitality on this site have been similar in respect to the sexual-orientation of my hosts: both gay males. It seems like young, perky female travelers never have trouble finding hosts. Those females who presently live in their youth, unwrinkled by the loosening of their connective tissue, yet to have had the years gradually rob them of their beautifying layers of collagen, have few problems finding a host. On the site, one may solicit a host publicly or privately. When posted publicly, the solicitations of couchsurfers of the young female category are always publicly swarmed with offers, not so much with the aging females, though. In conclusion, one thing always holds true: Men are shameless. 

Oh well. At least my host was good conversation. He even prepared breakfast in the morning. I will sleep on a gay man's couch eight days a week if it means being served up that homemade lemon jam on biscotti again. The whole "path to a man's heart" adage always holds true. 

Amanda, a college friend I found was living in Cortona,
and I reunited, breaking my weeklong shower-less streak

Having limited experience, I would have not sought out a host if it were not for Claire, a 21 year-old French girl I met in the train station on both of our first nights in Rome. Something should be said of the people met while traveling alone. The majority of the time is passed alone, moving from one place to the next with only your thoughts to keep you company. Then, unexpectedly, sometimes you may hear from a friendly expatriate along your route, a pleasant surprise made possible thanks to social media and its better qualities. 

Lots of hours spent talking with a Kiwi while waiting
for Il Palio to commence in Piazza del Campo in Siena

Then there are those one-hit wonders. They are usually transient conversations shared while waiting in lines, sharing a tour or partaking in an organized event of some sort. Talking helps to fill in the time while idly waiting. It may lead to an exchange of info at the end or plans for a later rendezvous if travel trajectories happen to intersect. Most of the time you never see them again, unless made possible through the distant intimacy contradiction we know as social media. However, in some rare cases, there are what seems like people just waiting for you to arrive. I feel Claire was that rare case. 

Claire and I posing for a shameless selfie while touring the Colosseum 

The Temple of Saturn as seen from the Roman Forum

Not planning on staying in Rome for the extra day necessary, I altered my plans to see the Colosseum with her. Claire proved to be the perfect companion for seeing Rome. She had been traveling for weeks, starting from Athens, where she had studied for five months as an Erasmus student, then traversing Turkey, Croatia and, finally, Italy while couchsurfing when not in hostels; after all, her collagen was only 21 years-old. All this was done alone. She immediately won my respect. 

Roman nun moving her way along the busy streets

Curiously, she sat across from me after eating one of the many meals we shared together, listening to my fragmented thoughts, unwarranted opinions, mumblings and digression-ridden stories with her post-meal cigarette in hand, attentively looking at me through her dark-lensed sunglasses, absolutely composed, as though she were the center point of the restaurant and all order would fall into disarray at her slightest move. More than once, I asked what a regal, Audrey Hepburn-type like her was doing with a gutter-snipe like myself to round off her vacation hours in Rome. I never really found out. 

Invariably, I was met with a stoic, logical response or none at all, just an indifferent acceptance of what was said. French people. She never offered courtesy laughs and always seemed comfortable in her own skin. In the beginning, I thought perhaps she didn't understand what I felt were some clever witticisms because of a possible English deficiency. Later, I learned she understood perfectly well and it was I who needed to understand her more. I guess she was just an old soul. I was charmed from the start. 

Rafa and Nua in front of the Vatican after a pre-tour,
dress-code snafu with our questionable tour agency

She grew concerned about where I'd be sleeping at the end of our first day together. I had told a half-truth about where I had been sleeping at night. I said I'd slept on Rafael's hotel room floor. Rafa, as we call him, is a Venezuelan friend of mine who I had lived with in Spain and happened to be in Rome at the same time as I while touring Italy with his girlfriend, Nua. The truth was that he had come and had a hotel room; however, the truth got dicey when it came to the part about me sleeping there. Only my main backpack spent the night. They were kind enough to let me use their place as a dumping ground, plus showering was nice. Besides, the keen-eyed watchdog of a concierge made mention of the room fit for two only, not two plus a charity case smelling of the street. Rafa and Nua both expressed their grief for not being able to have me over for the night although I hadn't asked. Had I not been detected, I still wouldn't have wanted to intrude on their romantic, Italian getaway. I wouldn't want some friend/ex-roommate doing that to me had the tables been turned. 

The once largest of public baths, Thermae Diocletiani

The idea of telling Claire, a girl I just met, the entire truth of how I was traveling did not seem attractive to me. I had only spent one day with her, I didn't know her very well, plus I thought she was a cutie and I didn't want to scare her off just yet. Instead of telling a white lie and saying I had a hostel prearranged, I decided to omit some of the truth and say I had no plans at the moment. It was almost midnight. I didn't mention I had no plans to hug a bed at all. She looked concerned. I told her not to worry, to text me in the morning, kissed her goodnight and buzzed away straddling the Suzuki as though it had a destination. 

The next day I told her the truth. She was surprised with my energy level after little sleep, but not with my confession. Immediately, she wanted to assist me in finding a host. It was very kind. I tried telling her a site like CS would always have hosts for her because she is an attractive, young girl. I had forgotten about my personal appeal to gay male hosts. 

Our last day together was spent seeing the Colosseum and the Parthenon. I was sad to see our time coming to an end. She was heading north to Florence next and I was headed south before I would eventually make it up there. Saying goodbye, I did not know if I would ever see her again. I hoped so. As chance would have it, I did. She lived along the route I would take on the return to Spain when the final leg of the trip would require me to cross southern France. It's funny how things work out sometimes. 

That night I set up camp next to an abandoned house I found along the Appian Way. Trying not to worry about the threat of possible squatters using the building as their own, I parked the bike on the corner, least visible side of the dilapidated structure. It was another night with little sleep and to make matters worse, my bike was beginning to show the same symptoms of electrical failure I had experienced while trying to drive from Pamplona to Santander, Spain. Unbeknownst to me, the regulator was failing and needed to be replaced. Not too savvy on turning my bike over to the likes of some greasy mechanic with the integrity of Joey Buttafuoco and the financial transparency of Silvio Berlusconi, the bike and I made the unanimous vote to push start our way through the rest of the electrically addled journey... or at least till total mechanical failure.

Me and the machine

Anyone on a cross-country trip via motorcycle knows one axiom: No one knows the machine more than the conductor. No one else knows the occasional, mysterious hiccups of the bike. No one knows how low you can lean before a spark-spitting scrape to the undercarriage may screech from below. No one knows how hard one may push it or when to let off to prevent overheating. No one is going to check the oil level, the tire tread or how dry the chain may get, but the driver. It is the biker's maiden ship, his sole responsibility. It may be a motorcyclist's greatest tool or heaviest anchor. No one is pleased or suffers save the biker. Individual responsibility is king.  

Decoration extravaganza found in Immob du Pont de l'Etoile, France 

Tourists view Campania from the summit of Mt. Vesuvius

Salvador Dalí's territory: Figueres, Catalonia, Spain

Cleviere, Italy's Tibetan Bridge in the maw a gorge 

Although an older bike may toe the line between being functional and defunct, the payoffs are liberating and amnesia-inducing in view of past malfunctions. It is a ticket to hugging the roads hanging the cliff sides of the Amalfi coastline. It is a pass to climbing the inclines of Mt. Vesuvius, where Campania unfolds beneath as if it were steamrolled as flat as a billiard table, bowing in reverent subjugation to the massive, once furious, heap of earth whose cataclysm once suffocated Pompeii, trapping it in time with all its people in it.

It is a snorting boar of a machine, pounding pistons through curvaceous valley roads at the foot of Alpine Mountains, where the earth blows by too fast to take in all the grandeur, but slow enough to tickle the cerebral system with dopamine. It is a teenage boy, teen-foot tall and bullet-proof, scoffing at serpentine Cinque Terre roads heavy-laden with floral crucifixes and warnings of mortality. It is a razor cutting through Roman streets with other angry, two-wheeled machines beating city walls with sound and carving crass, little initials into city streets, once known for their glory, their exceptionalism, their dominance. 

Whatever the bike may have meant to me was irrelevant. I push started it, with sagging backpack strapped to the back and all, through the provinces of Campania, Latium, Umbria and Tuscany. Any gas station attendant or casual, outdoor diner who shared a street corner with me could have seen me dumping the clutch and leaning into the first kinetic burst of energy propelling me along my way. The regulator finally burnt out entirely in Pisa. I was forced to have it towed and make the most of my days while stuck in one of Italy's less medieval, sub-beautiful cities. 

Broke down bike, broke down tower, broke life in Pisa

"I do not think writers are any smarter than other people. I think they may be more compelling in their stupidity, or in their confusion."

-David Foster Wallace

It seemed as though the technical difficulties had come in intervals once I was traveling through Umbria and Tuscany. To make matters worse, breakdowns always occurred on weekends, when professional help was slim. In Assisi, I was a bit too overzealous with some off-road riding on Monte Subasio and the bike retaliated in a big sigh of air being released from the back tire. Having a flat on a Sunday is not easy to fix in Umbria considering few gas stations have air compressors. I was in a pinch. After asking some local teenagers on scooters and dirt bikes to direct me to a place with an air compressor, the trail got cold when they told me I'd have to wait till Monday. 

My reminder to send a Thank You card to Assisi, Italy

Driving aimlessly, not knowing my next move, I passed a fire station with firefighters standing outside. I gripped the fence and asked for help. The first man to approach me was very kind. His was named Emmanuelle, a name I knew biblically meant 'God is with us.' He had me roll the bike into the station to fill the tire and wait to see how it'd do. He told me he was off his shift in 15 minutes and he could take me to his house for a patch. He was headed to the station's shower, but first offered me a cup of espresso. I was beginning to see that most Italian transactions of any sort usually had coffee involved. 

Another firefighter named Ugo joined me in the break room. He was interested to know what I thought of Italy and why I chose to travel by motorcycle. He looked like he belonged in some Italian designer's entourage of models more than in a fire station. He did have a firm handshake, something definitely separating him from the non-blue-collar working class. He was concerned over whether or not I had already found a hotel room for the night. He didn't know my hotel room was in my backpack. I didn't tell him of course. 

The wheel held the air after we had filled it. I knew it was from a previous patch I'd slapped on it before. It was doubtful it would last through the night. Declining further help, I thanked Emmanuelle and Ugo for their kindness. They gave me some directions for the nearest gommista (tire shop) for future reference. They still seemed concerned, but I needed to move; the sun had set, daylight was thinning and I still needed to scoot back up Mount Subasio to find a formidable place set up my hotel room.

...Old tire


Something I should've replaced before crossing the Pyrenees

         

New tire...

The following Sunday, I ditched the bike and its once-again deflated rear tire near the train station to catch a line out and see Umbria's capital, Perugia, for the day. I managed to catch a birdbath in Perugia and find some cardboard to serve as a cutting board for dinner and also the underlayment for a bed I planned on using in a hidden location I'd surveyed between some bushes and a swank Bed & Breakfast near the station before leaving. I was beginning to get good at the whole bum life thing. 

One of Perugia's public water fountains found along Via Appia while walking to the center

I found the Italians to be very helpful people, especially when dealing with my crippled bike. Trying to push start it the following morning, a man working in his garden came to assist me on his own volition. He didn't speak any English at all, but made it very apparent he wanted me to wait while he drove to some other nearby location to get his hand pump. He returned, broke a sweat manually inflating my tire and even pushed the bike with me on top to get'er started. I will never forget this man. 

Basilica of Francesco d'Assisi the resting place
of St. Francis, one of the most venerated
religious figures in history

Fumbling around the industrial district outside of Assisi for an hour, I found the tire shop. Both tires were in questionable condition. I had them both replaced. The owner of the tire shop was honest and so was his price. It was apparent it needed a brake job as well. I was equally as clueless as to where this shop may be in this massive industrial zone. A teenager at the tire shop had a dirt bike and a heart for helping me find it, not to mention the owner instructed him to do so. I got the feeling that the people in this area really watched out for one another. It wasn't hard to see the place as the home and resting place of St. Francis. 

In Turin, I was offered a type of help I was not looking to find... or pay for, rather. I had stopped for an espresso and to charge my phone. I was noticing some of the looks I was getting from the regulars. It must have been my hair or clothes. Stopping in this particular neighborhood off Corso Francia on the west side of Turin probably wasn't the best choice. It wasn't just the espresso that had me keenly aware of my valuables. 

Turin's iconic Mole Antonelliana
as seen from Chiesa della Gran Madre di Dio
on the east bank of the Po River

A heavyset man with the face of a distinguished member from the genus Sus trotted over and asked if I was German. I told him American and he, the bartender, and I exchanged some small talk. I said I hadn't seen much of Turin and inquired what a guy could do around the city, no sexual innuendo intended.

"That all depends," he lazily responded, "if it is sex you are looking for, come back at ten; with twenty euros they'll do whatever you want."

Italy was full of foreign sex workers. I had seen them strewn along the highways just outside the big cities all over the place, usually posted up on a gravel shoulders for motorists in need of a safe place to pull over. The business model made sense considering their clientele's need for low-risk dirty deeds and the diminished police presence outside of the city. I still don't know how they got way out there though. 

I asked him if I looked like the type who needed to pay for that sort of thing. At least, I most certainly didn't look like him, one who seemed to know prices and hours of operation a bit too well. Andrea, the owner of a Bed & Breakfast in the countryside of the Piedmont, later told me this man was most likely from the south of Italy, a demographic known for their less-becoming attributes. I left with my moto and my twenty euros. 

Will work for Italian food

Andrea was friend, a roommate and a boss to me in Northern Italy for almost an entire month. I had met him through staydu.com, a social travel network for budget travelers. With a loose arrival date agreed upon sometime in late August, I arranged to work at his Bed & Breakfast during the summer in exchange for room and board before I left Alcalá. I worked for him as a groundskeeper five days a week with days off for leisure or exploration. For someone in my situation, it was the perfect symbiotic relationship between host and worker. I'd do it all over again anytime. 

He understood I had two things I really wanted to do before arriving: See Il Palio in Siena and hike Cinque Terre. I didn't tell him I'd be making my home in the woods next to the train station in Siena. Nor did I tell him I wouldn't be following his lodging advice as I hiked Cinque Terre. I figured it would be better he get to know me first before it may begin to look like he was about to open his doors to a drifter on a motorbike. I later learned he had done some wild camping of his own in Greece. 

Opening ceremony with the great white oxen
pulling civic dignitaries

Il Palio was a suggestion I was told not to miss. I recall my friend, Brian, lighting up as he told me about it during our midday break at our bilingual, primary school. He told me of the medieval bareback horse race, the rival contrade (districts) and the scheming atmosphere among the riders and their allies versus their foes. I wouldn't have gone if it weren't for him. 

Knowing the good places in center of the piazza, or what the locals know as the 'dogs' stand,' filled up rapidly, I arrived at 8am to see the trials and stayed put all day. I drank little water to avoid urination, shared a lunch with a middle-aged Italian couple and befriended an Englishman who saved my spot the one time I absolutely had to find a toilet. I didn't have much else to do anyway. The previous day I had already seen the Tuscan city and the contrade's honoring of the Assumption of Virgin Mary with bursts of drums, trumpets and waving flags flying out of the cathedral. 

There was a two-hour processional ceremony preceding the race on a scale of pageantry I've never seen before. The dogs' stand was packed tight and sealed off. The atmosphere had me completely forget about my sleep-deficiency. The horses and the riders came out, you could see them trot, allied riders scheming, the crowd's anticipation swelling. 

Unseen, the 10th horse (the rincorsa)
awaits outside the ropes. Its entry drops the ropes
and starts the race, a process that can take awhile
since other riders may have made deals affecting when
the rincorsa enters for an edge over rival opponents 

A lot of instigating at the roped off starting line and one false start later and the race had kicked off. Watching the riders round the curve of San Martino, a point notorious for collisions between the wall and other horses, leaves little doubt as to why a horse can still be considered a winner without its jockey on top. 

 

The Civetta contrada about to take the lead on its second lap 

The track is not circular or flat, triggering much criticism from animal rights activists opposing Il Palio. The jockeys also use whips made of stretched, dried bulls' hide to thwack some more motivation into their horses. Interestingly, the rider in 2nd place is considered the loser, not last.

Once the race was over, everyone jumped the fence and took to the track. I was with a Polish girl and a New Zealander I met two hours before the race. Flags swatting at the open air, music erupting and impassioned arguments flaring among the locals, I took it all in. We eventually got out of the never-ending neighborhoods and the mass of humanity to the outer walls of town. I said goodbye and never saw them again. 

I took a train to Riomaggiore from Pisa the day after I had the  insurance company recover my bike. I had told the Polish girl I'd meet up with her there; however, that was made impossible with the regulator looking like someone dropped it in a deep fryer. The bike and I had an abusive relationship. She beat me to hell on the road and I backhanded her nice & proper with all that push starting business. We loved to hate one another. It was toxic and compelling. 

Artist seen drawing a portrait of a boy in Pisa while
I was walking to find a resting place for the evening

Fatefully, my last night in Pisa before arriving in Cinque Terre's Riomaggiore, I had hopped a fence to sleep behind a graffiti-covered, abandoned police station. I recall passing a youth hostel full of people occupied in conversation, cooking or playing ping pong in the backyard. It looked like a nice place to stay. Behind the decrepit, old police station, I was well-hidden with a wall to my back and trees like a canopy above. I was facing train tracks though. Anyone looking hard enough would have seen me the next morning. Judging by the cardboard mats and empty beer bottles, I wasn't the first to use this spot. I left at first light. 

"I need the sea because it teaches me:

I don't know if I learn music 

or consciousness:

I don't know if it's a single wave 

or deep depth

or a hoarse voice or a shining

suggestion of ships and fish.

The fact is that even when I'm asleep

in some magnetic mode I move 

in the university of waves."

-Pablo Neruda

View of the Mediterranean from Riomaggiore's wharf 

I recall arriving in Riomaggiore. There were many tunnels blackening the windows along the way. Just as the train came to a halt, like some unexpected hypnotic dust thrown in your face, suddenly captivating and entrancing all the senses you formerly controlled, the Mediterranean's undulating emerald glow filled the rail car windows. The sight through the alone was enough to make a passenger balk and miss the stop. I hopped off the train. It was good to be back to the sea. 

With all I had on my back, I hiked the rugged, vineyard-covered portion of Italy's Ligurian coast in two days and two nights. It is known as The Five Lands for its five villages, cordoned off from car access and charmingly devoid of visible corporate development. The villages are pressed between the sea and the precipitous rocks facing the constant bombardment of waves with ageless austerity. I left Riomaggiore, crossed Manarola, slept somewhere along the way between Manarola and Corniglia, crossed Corniglia and made it to Vernazza, where I spent my last night sleeping on the entryway of a commune overlooking the fishing village. 

Descending down the path to Vernazza

Sleeping was not easy on Cinque Terre. It is known for its craggy terrain and the grape farmers' endless, interlocking plots of privately-owned land. However, the first night I managed to find a spot to set my tent up over some fallen pine needles. It was perfect except for the little amount of space allotted along the edge of a four-foot tall stone wall. One false adjustment while sleeping and I'd have been waking up with the wind knocked out of me, flopping around in an entangled tent like some unlucky monkey rendered captive by its handler's duffel bag. 

Stone beach in Vernazza, only accessible
through this rock opening  

Vernazza was beautiful. I spent most of my last day there. It began to rain in the afternoon, causing me to flee the stone beach and seek cover under the refuge of a local shop's recessed entrance. An Australian guy both smoking and coughing shared the same cover with me. 

He told me he was still recovering from a chest cold when I first thought his phlegm-heavy English was Italian. The rain let up and he invited me to eat with his sister and her friend. We spent the afternoon together until they caught a train back to their hotel. 

Fanny and I before scaling the hillside
in the background to sleep

I sat, read and smoked next to the church of Santa Margherita d'Antiochia. A Belgian girl named Fanny noticed my backpack at my side and came to sit next to me. She started talking to me. She had a gentle voice.

It wasn't long till we established that we were both traveling as cheaply as possible, only she was getting by sustaining herself with much less food. I, on the other hand, never skipped a chance at pizza or gelato. She seemed content with surviving on a carefully calculated ration of bread and a bag of chips. 

We got along well. She said she'd found a good place to sleep for the night uphill in a less-traveled part of town. I suspected she liked the idea of the security of a man near while sleeping on the street. It was the first time I spent the night outdoors with a girl while on the road. She shared her chips with me and I shared my cookies with her as we settled into our spot around midnight. By morning we left. I had a bike to hunt down somewhere outside of Pisa and she was headed to Siena. I got off the train in Pisa, looked through the window where she was sitting and waved one last time, she smiled back at me. 

Agliè was actually two kilometers away from the countryside B&B

I needed to get the bike and head up to Agliè, just north of Turin to meet Andrea. He told me there were many guests at the Bed & Breakfast for some Dungeons & Dragons-type of event going on near him. He was understanding when I told him of the bike trouble. 

With some misgivings in Pisa, I eventually picked up the bike outside of town and turned northbound. I had my wings back. They were no longer clipped by the nuisance of push starting my way to the sky any longer. 

I was mistaken to attempt driving through Cinque Terre. It was not scenic like the Amalfi coast via automobile. Most of the ride was spent in fog from the high altitude and rising precipitation from the sea. It was very tiring. I spent one last night in the tent next to a church a kind Italian man and his family directed me to. I awoke happy to know the next night would be spent in a bed after a proper shower. 

One of Staglieno's more expressive tombs 

I stopped in Genova for a break from being wind-battered on the road. With a stop in the Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno and another pizza drowned in olive oil ingested, I was moving again. Although dirty, tired and running out of money, it was good to be alive. I still had that magical breath of life in me; I could hear it in the howling of the wind outside my helmet, in the sight of the shining sea to my left, in the cringe of my stomach when cutting between cars and semis through northbound highway A7 tunnels. Verities of life were everywhere. I was excited to meet Andrea soon and I wondered what he would be like in person. 

Andrea and a clear day on our last hike together
 in Colle del Nivolet, Gran Paradiso Natural Park

I found Andrea to be a man who knew quality. He was exceptionally educated in Latin, history, geography and law. Although usually occupied with his job in Turin, he spent a large portion of his free time hiking with the Alpinist Club of which he was a member or going on independent hikes. A vapor trail followed his constant motion. He never stopped moving.

He taught me a lot about European history, especially about his area. One night, he brought me to the small town summer festival in San Giorgio Canavese, where he grew up. I was definitely the only non-Italian citizen there. I got to know his family and a peer of his from primary school days. Afterwards, he gave me an in-depth tour of the entire town and its illustrious history. As a merit to his patience, he managed to teach me some Italian while living there, as well. 

"De gustibus non est disputandem" 
(In matters of taste, there can be no disputes) 
-A common Latin phrase amongst Italians taught to me by Andrea


Not once did he serve me dinner without three courses. He explained that the practice of dining in Italy had an inviolable code, preserved through the ages. Before meeting him, I knew he had a particularity for food and I, an uncultured American, was bound for dining etiquette failure. 

Here is a snip-it from one of the many emails exchanged:

Bene!

Yes, I host a lot, through couchsurfing too. The majority of the guests were, due to the population of their States, from US and Canada. After tens of US, Canadians, Britons and Australians, taking the ham (prosciutto crudo, what they call Parma ham) from their dishes and creating a sandwich picking up also two leaves of salad to fill in the sandwich, I have become more and more irritated. The Italian cousine (well, there is not an Italian cousine, there is a Tuscan, Piedmontese, Ligurian, Lombard, Sicilian, Venetian, Sardinian, Apulian, etc. cousine...) it is based on behaviour codes, tradition and an elementary rule: let the eater feel the tastes. So one basic rule is not to mix the tastes, unless the recipe is exactly made from more than one ingredient. For instance: pesto sauce is made of basil and pine seeds. The rule is to mix them. But a pasta with sauce is already its own dish, ham or cheese is already its own taste. It's sort of barbarian to add a leaf of salad or to eat them together with other thing, unless the traditional recipe requires it (so it is ok to eat pasta with a sauce, melon with ham, pizza with a topping, salad with oil, salt and vinegar, etc.).

Eheh, it's a long and heavy burden to learn, but for naif people, it is enough to observe what the other people do and copy them.

I managed to eat all his meals without seeming too much like a flat-foreheaded, knuckle-dragger. However, he did take note of a few of my peculiarities (i.e. placing my bread on my plate instead of the table's surface and holding my tazzina like a gorilla as I drank my espresso).

Here I am improperly holding my tazzina while sharing
espresso with a woman I'd met in Andrea's Alpine Club
during our hike in Susa Valley 

We had many laughs shared over the dinner table while exchanging stories or just talking about whatever. He was the only real friend I had seen on a continuous basis all summer. I really appreciated his company out there in the countryside at the foot of those mountains. For that reason, he was not uncomfortable with asking me to cut my hair. It wasn't like my appearance was going to scare away customers. The real problem was the shedding. I could see he was growing peeved by it. It would be asking a lot to have a hypervigilant cleaner like him to tolerate something like that in his own house. I was going to clean my appearance up a bit before school anyways, plus I didn't want to have a tiff with my only outlet to face-to-face interaction with others for the last weeks I'd be there. Besides, I considered him a friend. 

Interestingly, many Italians identify with their region more than the country as a whole, considering Italy isn't culturally homogenous, but rather a composition of different regions historically distinct from one another. Here I stand with the Piemontese speakers of NW Italy.

When the date came to leave, I was sad to say goodbye to Andrea. On our last full day together, he surprised me with one last hike in Gran Paradiso National Park. It really lived up to its name. It was paradise. We had been very fortunate with such a clear day as we began our hike in Colle del Nivolet, a name which literally translates to 'Pass of the Clouds.'

Andrea and I with lakes Agnel & Serru behind us;
one ice-melt and another snow, making a clear distinction

The following day, I rode to an event he was working at in front of the Basilica of Superga, a small town in the vicinity of Turin. I wanted to say goodbye personally rather than just dropping the house keys in the mailbox and disappearing. My time in Italy was coming to an end and I had a long trip ahead of me. 

I rode as far as I could before it got too dark and too cold to go any farther. In the short passing of time, I could see the days had shortened. Summer was dying. I camped between some trees in an industrial zone I'd seen from the road somewhere between Mondovi and Ceva.

Silent cherub in front of Marseille's
Notre-Dame de la Garde

In the morning, I was back to riding along the coast. I stopped to see some of Monaco, then in Nice, France just long enough to charge my phone and later made it to Marseille. I camped slightly downhill from the cathedral as a thunderstorm rolled in.

The sunrise over Marseille from Notre-Dame de la Garde

"I will sooner be a foreigner in Spain than in most countries. How easy it is to make friends in Spain!"
-George Orwell

Crossing over into Catalonian Spain

As I neared Spain, I began to feel a strangeness as though I was returning home. I hadn't really been home in over a year and it would be another year before I would be. Legally, I am a resident here. It is where I live. But it wasn't till riding back that I noticed the country had a part of me in it, and, in me, a part of it.  

Maybe it was the time I shared with one of Claire's southern French friends when I stopped to spend some days with her just before crossing the border. He was really friendly and didn't know much English, but had a good handle on Spanish. We passed the time well together. 

Salvador Dalí lived most his life along La Costa Brava
with his wife, Gala, in Cadaqués, Spain

I am not Spanish, but it felt like I was returning to a place I shared a confidence with, a place I knew, a place welcoming me with arms open and a seat saved at the table. I rode to La Costa Brava to enjoy my last two days by the sea. Knowing the inevitable mourning of another summer lost was to come, I dumped my stuff in my tent in the woods and rode about Cadaqués. The homecoming was shortly followed by a farewell to the tranquil sea I'd grown accustomed to having around. The Community of Madrid isn't exactly known for its oceanfront real estate. 

The Dalí Theatre-Musuem in Figures, Spain
 houses the tomb and the majority of the
great works of Salvador Dalí

Riding out of Catalonia was done under a discontented sky. I knew rain was coming, I knew I had one last day of riding and one last night of camping. At a restaurant with a built-in hostel just on the Aragon/Catalonia border, a farmer urged me to stay for the night and avoid the roads and rain to come. 

A gift from Sir. E. James in the entryway of the Dalí house

You can always find a dependable lot of Spanish goodwill in places away from the big cities. It is a shame tourists spend most of their time only seeing the big cities while making haste from one TripAdvisor site to the next. I've always thought the preserved, truer Spanish spirit hangs its proverbial hat in the pueblos.

I only rode a mile or so from the restaurant before it started raining. Scurrying to try and keep somewhat dry, I parked the bike in the next small town and set up camp inside the four remaining walls of what used to be what looked like a farmer's storehouse of some sort. Not much of it remained. I could hear the ear-splitting squealing of pigs in the trailer of some trucker who'd parked near the same lot I had. I was glad I'd bought a sleeping bag in France. I was grateful for all I had in that moment. It was everything I needed. I slept under the rain my last night on the road.

Reading and writing on Giglio Island

I took the long way back to Alcalá early the next morning. It was a day for reflection. The summer was over and I could feel it. It was time to return to the life I left packed in boxes back in Central Spain. The sun came out, poking through patches of clouds as I crossed the province of Aragon. Later, it rained again becoming more and more schizophrenic as the day passed. I took it all in stride. I'd already slept in truck beds, deep, dark woods, construction sites, train stations and beaches. Getting wet and chilled by the bite of the wind didn't matter anymore. I was almost home. 

It's been about a month since I have returned now. I am completely back to the domestic life as the leaves fall and I write, recollecting everything that has been written, reminiscing over what was intentionally left out. The Fall seems to be nature's way of letting you down easy. It's like that short while you have to say goodbye in an airport or train station knowing the pain awaiting once the split drives deep inside and all is final.

In the winters to come, I will always have this summer to cling onto. I will always remember that warm time when I did my laundry in the sea and bathed wherever there was running water, when I met whoever was placed in my path for the day, when I rose with the sun and crawled about creation under its radiant light with gas in my tank and no obligations to anyone but myself. I will remember it for what it was and what it was not: a time when the summer blockbusters were the tapping of splattered insects across my helmet's visor, a season when air conditioning was a gentle sea breeze to my back as I hiked with wet laundry exposed and dangling in the sun from my backpack's looped bungee cords, a summer when the nightclub scene was an expanse of stars and a quiet moon watching down on me in my tent, alone in the woods, listening to the unseen fauna around me.

Death to my best friend of summer

Not a full week after returning and an inattentive woman hit me on my motorcycle in a roundabout, sending me over the handlebars, snapping my bike's chassis and one of my right hand's metacarpals. I have typed the majority of this blog with my left hand only. I was lucky. A few more inches and my leg would be broken. 

Of course, I miss my bike. In the end it felt like an extension to my body. The insurance company calls it a 'total loss.' I couldn't disagree more. We did it all. We made it back. We covered over 3000 miles together. We managed to return after worn thin tires, burnt out regulators, electrical problems galore and a road-beaten raw body to X off many calendar days spent in motion, exposed to anything and everything that may happen by. That'll never be lost. 

The irony is it all happened just after returning. We rode through the chaos of southern Italian motorcycle etiquette, we crossed the Pyrenees on tires flirting with hydroplaning and we parked and slept in shadowy places of all sorts. All that and not a scratch till returning home safely. It really is funny how things work out sometimes.