Where in the World is Markmen Radtkiego?

I’ve been back in the real world (Northeast US) for almost five months now, and a thought just crept into my brain. Here, in the life that I’ve known for all but one month of my 22 years, I feel like a car waiting in a garage. Every day at the same time, I sputter along to work, where my mind and body are used to an end that totally conflicts with my personal views and values. In exchange, I’m given food, shelter, clothing and government-sanctioned drugs. When I’m not at work, I’m parked at my computer, where I sit in a holding pattern, eternally consuming information to no recognized end, until my time is requested elsewhere, either by other people or some obligation.

I didn’t have this feeling when I was traveling, and I think that’s what was so liberating about it. I had to make every day meaningful for myself. Sure, there were some days that weren’t very exciting, but on those days I had no one else to blame. I couldn’t sit back and complain about a boring job or being tired. Every day was created for me to do with what I wished. These days, it feels like days are created by my employer to get as much work done as I can and be exhausted at the end of the day.

I feel that itch rising up. I know right where my backpack is, and everything that I’d bring with me on this trip. Stay tuned.

Finally, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.

My friend Simon has been kind enough to host my pictures on his website. He also made a pretty picture gallery to display them. Click here.

In the near future, I will be stitching several of the panoramic shots together and posting them. Also, I will be selecting the best pictures, cropping them and fixing the color levels and then posting a zip file for you to download. Keep checking this site. Refresh frequently.

No, I didn’t get help up at gunpoint; it’s a song by The Clash, and the source of my only knowledge of Brixton, the area in SE London that saw race riots in the 70’s. After a rainy walk, I arrived at Plan B, a “bar” by European standards, although it would definitely be considered a “club” in America. The techno was thumping, and I realized it was exactly like I pictured a club in Europe would be. Lots of people on exotic drugs and expensive drinks with blown eardrums. All in all, I managed to have a good time.

Woke up to rain. Fish & chips for lunch. Today might be a wash; I’m thinking about seeing a movie. Lindsay has a few friends from Jersey coming into town today — BU girls (SED ’98, for those who are in the know). It figures.

Also, I am happy to report that I went the entire vacation without eating in any American chain restaurants. McDonald’s owns the world, and Londoners can’t seem to get enough of Subway and KFC.

Rome was excellent. The hostel was the most social I’ve stayed in. The city had more to see than you could do in a month. St. Peter’s is unimaginably massive. My only problem with the city is the Coliseum; if I were Caesar, I would restore it to its original splendor and use it for football matches or public executions (or the public executions of footballers). Walked up to the Gianicolo, which overlooks the city. Nice view, but not as good as some other overlooks I’ve seen (the Piazza Michelangelo in Florence comes to mind).

It’s good to be back in an English-speaking country, even if they do call fries “chips” and chips “crisps.” My hostel is right around the block from one of the Tube stations that were damaged in the attacks. The people of London seem to be handling terrorism exactly the way the US didn’t. The people are on the lookout for threatening packages and suspicious people; I even saw several people studying the faces of some “people of interest” — I would bet most Americans couldn’t pick Mohammad Atta out of a lineup. So, despite the recent failed attacks and the gunning-down of a guy unconnected with terrorists, I don’t feel in danger. Instead of the “the police will take care of us” attitude we have in the US, Londoners feel like they can take an active role in preventing future attacks. (Mind you, I don’t blame the American people for our attitude, it is entirely due to a lack of real leadership from our elected officials in all parts of the government.)

Today I visited the Tate Modern, Britain’s latest and greatest modern art museum built in what used to be a power plant along the Thames. It’s connected by the Millennium Bridge (the foot bridge that wasn’t complete until after the new millennium) to the area around St. Paul’s. The wings are organized by themes such as Still Life instead of the period they were painted. The unusual organization works perfectly for a modern art museum, and paintings by Dali are in the same room as Jackson Pollocks. I can’t remember ever having such a good time in an art museum; several of the pieces actually made me laugh out loud. I think some people found this surprising, as if the Surrealists wanted everyone to frown at the art and nod thoughtfully. Case in point: Dali’s Lobster Telephone. I think it’s a very thoughtful piece, but anyone who looks at that without laughing is taking the world of art too seriously. Another one of my favorites was An Oak Tree by Michael Craig-Martin. The object has the form of a glass half full (or is it empty? — a question for another time) of water sitting high on a shelf. At eye level is a Q & A with the artist where he explains how he turned the glass of water into an oak tree, and many other FAQs. Very clever stuff, from both well-known artists and more contemporary ones.

Now I’m off to Brixton to down a few pints with Lindsay and company. I hope it stops raining.

Fellow countrymen, lend me your eyes.

When I came to Europe, I was prepared for a lot of anti-American sentiment. I wasn’t expecting to have rocks thrown at me or to be hog-tied, but I was prepared to defend our country’s recent foreign policy decisions. (“I voted for Kerry,” I planned to say. Foreigners are even less informed about Kerry’s platform than the American electorate.) I have been pleasantly surprised to find that I haven’t had to get on the defensive, and I’ve had some very constructive conversations about politics (although most people, myself included, avoid talking about that kind of stuff with other travellers). However, I have found that there is a dislike for Americans that isn’t rooted in our politics but our culture. We are the obnoxious people who yell out stupid things in public places, and are generally disrespectful of the cultures which we are visiting. (“But not you,” the other travellers insist, when I give them a hurt look.)

Case in point: yesterday I grabbed dinner in a bar near the Trevi Fountain. I was eating my pasta and drinking my wine (both of which were unfortunately sub-par), when a group of 4 or 5 14- or 15-year-old American girls entered the cafe. Their first mistake was an honest one: they ordered cappuccinos, not realizing that Italians only drink them for breakfast. No big deal. Then they changed their order to iced cappuccinos; the old man working behind the bar gave them a slightly confused look and asked, “Iced cappuccino?” Clearly, he had never heard of such a thing, but, for these stupid Americans, he would make something up. While he was re-inventing the iced cappuccino (he ended up pouring a hot one into a martini shaker and making something like a cocktail), the girls poked around at the other items on sale in his store, loudly commenting on things that were “crazy” because they don’t sell them at Wal-mart. I gave the guy behind the bar a look that said, “I’m sorry we let these people out of the country with their parents credit cards.” He silently replied, “I’m sorry that you have to live in a country full of these people.”

And that is the essence of the American Dream.

On my last day in Florence, I saw Michelangelo’s David. I don’t think I’ve ever been more awed by a work of art. Pictures and replicas don’t do it justice. In an attempt to bring about renewed critical study of the David (to keep it from becoming just a postcard picture), the museum has filled the hall leading to the David with a few modern artworks, which were surprisingly good.

While I was going to Rome, I took a side trip to Assissi (as in St. Francis of Assissi), and walked around a little town high on a hilltop overlooking Tuscany. There are about 5 churches jammed onto the mountain, the most famous and impressive one being the Basilica of St. Francis. He’s buried there, and there’s a museum with a collection of his relics and some artwork. It was a nice way to spend an afternoon, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a very hot spot for nightlife, so I continued on to Rome.

The hostel I’m staying at is unlike any I’ve seen so far. It’s basically a large apartment with about 15 bunk beds throughout the rooms. The staff are all young and very welcoming. I didn’t even go out at night; the staff, a bunch of Aussies and I just drank Peroni and talked until 2 in the morning.

Today I started walking towards the city center. The first big attraction I saw was the Spanish Steps. I don’t get what the big deal is with them. After that, I went to the Trevi Fountain (the one that you throw coins into); it’s a really amazing sight. I never thought a fountain could knock my socks off, but boy were they knocked. Then I went into the Pantheon. It was big, I guess, but the most interesting part about it is that Raphael is buried there. And, I had no idea that it was a church until I saw the alter.

Well, I’ve cooled off enough in this Internet cafè, so I’m going to try to find the Colosseum.

A little bit about Florence so far: Instead of getting in at 6, we got in closer to 11:30. Just before arriving, I tried to get my bearings by looking at the map in my guidebook. The entry for my hostel said, “Strict midnight curfew.” I would have to get to my hostel within half an hour or I’d be locked out! After waiting 5 minutes without any sign of a bus, I asked a guy behind a kiosk if the busses were still running (most of the cities I’ve been to shut down after midnight). He told me that the bus drivers were on strike, but busses would be running tomorrow. So I hopped over to the taxi stand, where I stood behind a big Italian guy smoking a cigar and praying to St. Peter, I think. (Grambo, what do you pray to St. Peter for? Is he the patron saint of cab drivers?) Behind me were three teenage girls communicating in sign language.

Just as St. Peter got up to the front of the cab stand, some sweaty drunk guy cut the line. I couldn’t say anything, although yelling at him in Spanish crossed my mind. (I later learned that Spanish is helpful for reading Italian, but not speaking it.) Five valuable minutes went by before two cabs showed up. I ran around St. Peter and hopped into the second one, and made it to my hostel at about 11:55.

This morning I learned that there is no curfew, they just ask people to be quiet after midnight.

I’m going to write a letter to my guidebook publisher and demand an apology and a job.

I tried calling Hans (Swiss relative) right after my last post. Now, the Hans I was expecting supposedly speaks pretty good English. The guy on the other end definately didn’t. After a few attempts at explaining myself (in English, of course), he got very angry. I’m pretty sure he started yelling about me about his telephone service, thinking that I was with the phone company. Or maybe he was threatening to call the phone company. Either way, I’m not sure what they would do about it. “Sir, I’m sorry, we can’t stop people from speaking English to you on the phone. No, we don’t have computers that do that sort of thing.”

Speaking of computers, I had an idea for a digital camera today. It would have a GPS reciever in it, and would store GPS metadata with the images. Once you got home, you could see you pictures by spatial location, besides just the time you took them. Then, when after a long trip, you don’t look at a picture and say, “Was that St. Peter’s or St. Paul’s?”

I had my first Italian stereotype reinforced before I even got Italy. I was on an Italian high-speed train from Art-Goldou, Switz. headed for Milano. We only went one stop before the conductors ordered everyone off the train and onto a smaller, low-speed train. I managed to nab a seat, but gave it up. (As a rule of thumb, I give up my seat to men with gray hair and women who look old enough to be someone’s mom.) I ended up standing in the bicycle car (which is essentially a cattle car with hooks in the ceiling) with a dozen other people. It was actually a very cool experience because the big door was slid all the way open and I leaned on the bar and had a completely unobstructed view of the Alps for about 3 hours. Anyway, in meantime, I made friends with the woman who took my seat and the two kids who were with her (her son and his girlfriend). They’re from Malibu, and, as far as I can tell, typical Malibu people. They weren’t very experienced travellers, so I helped them get new tickets in Milano (because we all missed our connecting train). We’re going to be getting dinner in a little bit.

Some of you have emailed me with suggestions for things to do (besides the obvious) in Rome and Florence. Please, keep them coming. Florence seems to be in a state of controlled decay. It’s like it’s been rolling down a hill since some time in the Middle Ages, and instead of stopping it and pushing it back up the hill, the people have decided to sell tickets to watch it roll. And all the famous, historic churches are under construction.

Funny country.

I was able to upload one picture before the Internet connection here in Luzern crapped out: Stone Lion, entering South London. Yaniv says it looks overcast. Sherwin, do you want to fix the levels in Photoshop and get back to me? And how is that T-shit design coming?

Luzern is a wonderful city. I walked across a bridge that was built before Columbus discovered America (it’s almost 600 years old). There are 65 different paintings over your head as you walk across the bridge, depicting The Dance of Death. Part of the old stockade that used to protect the city is still standing. And, coolest of all, there’s a castle up on a hill (maybe it’s only a chateau — I’m no buildingologist).

I spent the day at the beach. No babes — well, there were babes, but they were babies, not BABES *makes googly eyes*. The silt in the water provides a very interesting texture to walk on. The silt is so rich with oxygen, that each step you take causes dozens of little air bubbles to shoot up your leg, and it looks like everyone is farting little farts. (I know I had promised no more fart posts, but this post isn’t ABOUT farts.)

I tried to call my relative (uncle? great-uncle?), Hans, but got voicemail. I’ll try again after this Internet session, but it unfortunately doesn’t look like I’ll get to meet him this time. I’m leaving for Firenze (Florence) at 1:30. Maybe we could meet for lunch.

I’m going to walk back to the hostel on a path that runs along the river. On the way, I’ll stop and take a dip if I feel like it (I probably will). I hope you’re jealous.

Greetings from the library at ETH Zürich. If anyone asks, I’m just going to pretend to be a foreign grad student, and then act very confused.

Charged battery for camera; taking pictures again. Went to a carnival on the lake. Drank local beer. Had bratwurst; didn’t have anything with raclette on top (yet). 10 pages of so left in my book; found an English-language bookstore, so I picked up something new. Got some Swiss chocolates. Read an interesting article in the newspaper. Had smelly Spanish-speaking roommates (one was probably short enough to be, legally, a midget). Found 10 CHF, spent it on beer. Found contact info for Swiss relative. Booked hostel in Luzern; heading there tomorrow. Developed a theory about women. (It is probably wrong.) Bought postcards.

What have you been up to?