I woke up the next day, rather reluctantly, and finished getting everything packed up. For a fourth day in a row, I missed the hostel’s breakfast. I preferred the bakery’s food anyway, and I had an extra ten euros to get rid of before I headed back to the UK. After acquiring breakfast (and a baguette for lunch), I headed off for the metro station.

I didn’t have any problem getting to the Gare Nord, Paris’ northern train station from which I’d be leaving. I’d picked up a ticket to London on my way home from the Luvre the previous day. This was an expensive ticket. Even with a eurail discount, it still cost me 75 euros; it might have been cheaper to fly. I preferred trains, though, because they were usually a lot less trouble to get on and off of. Oh, but I was wrong.

I knew I had to arrive half an hour early for check-in, but what I did not realize was the extensive screening process one had to go through to get on a train to London. What made it worse was that about halfway through the process, as I was about to have my passport checked, an alarm went off. Quickly the official who was about to view my passport put on a policeman’s coat and ushered myself and the other passengers back through the ticket gates. Other officers joined the effort and soon there was an announcement that all those on our train were to exit the train station and wait.

Well, if that’s how it was going to be—then I was just going to go get myself a coffee! I did that and by the time I’d sat down and started the drink, things seemed to be moving again. I took my coffee with me and rejoined the line, which had now quadrupled in length. I had no fears about missing the train, however, because if I did, then another fifty passengers would as well. I had also arrived early so by the time I got in line for the second time, I still had a half hour to go.

After having my ticket checked by a human and by a machine, and having my passport checked twice and going through a metal detect, I was in another line waiting to board the train. This line disintegrated utterly, however, just as soon as boarding commenced. I don’t think it was a British thing—so I can only assume it was French—but everyone that had formed into a neat line rushed forward into a blob. Likewise, people who had been sitting perched near the entrance seemed to have no compunctions about cutting in front of about 95% of the people waiting patiently. I’d grown accustomed to this tendency, but it still irked me a bit; I suppose it seems disrespectful and rude, but that’s just me imposing my own cultural views, and perhaps that’s not fair.

The train ride took about three hours and included gaining back the hour I had lost when I left the UK. I spent most of the time reading. When I got to London’s Waterloo station, I had a momentary navigational crisis, but soon I found out that I needed to go to the Paddington train station on the Bakerloo metro line. That was all I had to know. I took the metro (my backpack was beginning to chafe at this point) and arrived at the station only minutes before a train departed for Oxford. I quickly got a ticket from one of the automatic ticket machines and then hurried to board.

The train from London to Oxford took about an hour; again I spent the time reading. When I arrived, I knew my hostel’s address, but I didn’t have directions. Fortunately, there was a map at the train station (and so what if it was a bus-route map) and I was able to navigate the difficult two-minute trek to the hostel. The hostel was relatively cheap, better than I would’ve paid in London. The Oxford Backpackers seemed like a pretty cool place, but I wasn’t really concerned with that by the time I arrived. I was tired, and so after a short bit of reading, I dozed off in my bed until about 7PM. When I awoke, I was hungry and craving something substantial (and not just a baguette). I headed off to a place recommended by the reception—O’Neals—and ordered a burger and beer. An Irish pub, O’Neal’s was a pretty cool place, but once I finish, I decided to head back. I returned, sat down in the common room, and began catching up on my blog, which brings me to this moment.

Three days until I’m back. Cheers.

So I basically spent the rest of that night in Paris reading my book. Oh sure, I talked a bit with my roommates and I wrote some emails and I posted some picture, but mostly, I just read. I suppose that I was content to do that was a good sign that my trip is nearing its end and that to some degree, I’m ready to come home.

I would like to say I got up early the next morning so I could get a good start on the Luvre, but I didn’t. I got out of the hostel at about 11:00, which had become pretty typical. Breakfast consisted of the usual pastries and baguette from the nearby bakery. After that, I caught the metro to the Palais Luvre stop—or something like that. Basically, the stop lets you bypass the line up in the Luvre’s plaza and instead enter from the underground section.

The recent construction of this underground entrance was apparent. Why? Because chic and fashionable shops lined the corridors, making the entrance to the Luvre as much a mall as anything else. None of the stores interested me, and I can’t really imagine why anyone would buy something there of all places. I can only assume that such stores would very likely have the highest markup on products anywhere in Paris.

What I did do was to buy my ticket and some stamps. I sent away a couple postcards. I don’t recall ever sending postcards abroad when I was in the states, but I’m pretty sure the stamps don’t cost even half as much there as they did here in Paris. Honestly, you’re sending a little 4×6 piece of stiff paper, and it cost a euro? I know in the States there’s a special stamp for sending national postcards—that costs somewhere between twenty and thirty cents, not a dollar-twenty. Anyway, that’s my rant about stamps.

So after picking up my ticket, I made my way to the main underground plaza that housed the Luvre’s subterranean pyramid. This thing was pretty cool. I’d seen the pyramid from the top during my last trip to Paris, but I never went underground. I’m glad I did. For those that haven’t been here (or haven’t read DaVinci Code—if anyone’s left), the Luvre Pyramid (I’m sure it has some special name) is made almost entirely of glass and sits both above ground and below ground with exactly identical dimensions on either side. There are also several small stone pyramids, three (I believe) surrounding it on the courtyard above and another one sitting a few inches below the tip of the subterranean pyramid. All-in-all, a pretty cool piece of architecture/art. The Parisians were very opposed to it at first (and maybe still are?) but they’re opposed to everything new at first—or so it seems. If they’d had there way, the Eiffel Tower would’ve been torn down, or rather, never constructed.

So I headed past the pyramid and into the next underground plaza where there were three separate entrance into the Luvre. The Luvre has four stories, housing art and antiquities from around the world. I entered the entrance that would take me toward the Mona Lisa. I sort of wanted to “work my way up to it,” but I also wanted to make sure I didn’t end up missing it by some freak accident.

So I entered the Luvre at about 11:30 and was not to leave until about 4:30. Five hours allowed me to see about half the stuff. At first, I began marking off rooms as I went, intent upon walking through every single room. As my feet and knees began to hurt, however, I realized this would not be feasible. I settled with trying to see the whole of the top two floors, which housed all the European paintings, as well as some other interesting tidbits like objects of art and the royal quarters of Napolean III (who was responsible for the Luvre’s creation as a palace…perhaps?).

I cruised through the Greek sculptures. They were impressive. Enough said. I’m not going to go too much into the individual pieces of art I saw. I made a point of seeing all the famous pieces, and I took my time, especially in the French and Italian galleries. But to go into all I saw would require the patience to go back through the Luvre’s pamphlet (or their website) and frankly, I don’t have that patience.

I did, of course, see the Mona Lisa and DaVinci’s Feast of Canaan (or some such thing). Now, some painting have certain reputations and are widely regarded as good—and I don’t really understand why. The Mona Lisa was not one of them. I’ve heard others tell stories of being rushed past the Mona Lisa, only able to glimpse it for a few seconds before they were ushered through the line. That was not the case for me. Perhaps it was because it’s past the tourist season, or perhaps it just wasn’t a busy day, but I was able to take a position near the front of the crowd and stand there contemplating the painting at my leisure.

-“The lady smiles as though she has a secret.”
-“She had many secrets—I only painted one of them.”

Of course I’ve seen copies of the painting; I’m pretty sure there’s no one in Western Civilization (or civilization in general) that hasn’t. Either way, there’s a certain something about seeing it in person. She really does have that secretive smile—that one that every woman has. Its enigmatic, mysterious, and intriguing. Some have proposed that the Mona Lisa is a self-portrait in which DaVinci painted himself as a woman. If that’s true, that would certainly account for the smile. The point, anyway, is that I was impressed and enjoyed my viewing of the painting.

I perused the other European painting collections. I was particularly interested to see the large gallery by Nicolas Poussin. One of the books I’m currently reading, The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, is concerned with him and his paintings. One painting in particular is a focus of the book and was hung in the Luvre; I was especially delighted to see it among the galleries. I also really enjoyed the sections with the objects of art. There were some pieces of jewelry and other royal tidbits that were just amazing. Crowns and scepters and whatnot, lined with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, a cornucopia of color and wealth.

I had really hoped to stay until the Luvre closed at 6PM, but walking at such a slow pace was troubling for my knees. After about two hours of walking at this pace, my knees began to snap. Every other step, my right knee would click, loud enough that it would occasionally draw the attention of others. It irritated me and I can’t imagine it was very enjoyable for anyone else in my immediate vicinity.

There’s something else I want to comment on. I’ve already had a bit of ranting in this blog, but bear with me…

I don’t understand why people take pictures of the things they do. The era of the digital camera has brought about an advent of the everyman’s photography. I won’t take issue with digital cameras now, but what I will take issue with is the almost incessant click, beep, and flash that permeated the Luvre’s halls. People took pictures of everything, and each time, I found myself wondering…what the hell are you thinking!? Do you really think you’ll even remember what that was? It’s one thing to take pictures of something famous (I’ll get to my rant on that in a second), or to take pictures of a person or a place, but to simply take pictures of painting after painting or sculpture after sculpture…it just seems like…with each picture you take of something relatively unimportant to you, you decrease the importance of something that is important to you.

What I mean to say is, you take a hundred pictures of statues that strike your interest, but there are a couple you take pictures of that are special to you, or it’s a picture that you’re in. When you go back through those pictures, it’ll be like “…and here’s a picture of another statue…and here’s another picture of a statue…and another statue…” And after about fifty of those, you get to a point where you’re like, “OH, and here’s a statue I really liked” (if you even remember which one you liked). But by this time, you (or whoever you’re presumably showing your pictures to) is so saturated by pictures of statues, that you or this person are like… “Cool.” And not like, “Wow, that’s a really great picture” or “I like it a lot. What made you like this one in particular?”

The point, if I’m not being clear, is that this profusion of picture-taking is troubling to me, and distracting from the aesthetic experience that I seek from observing art. I don’t expect that many necessarily agree with this view, and everyone can go on clicking and beeping there pictures away, but as for me, I’ll continue taking my one or two dozen pictures of things that are special to me, and not just “a thing I once saw.”

The other thing in the Luvre that got me to thinking was, as Shakespeare put it, “What’s in a name?” A lot, apparently, and especially a lot of pictures. People take pictures of things because they’re important—because they’re supposed to like it. Things like The Mona Lisa and the Venus DeMilo (to name just a couple) are hotspots for picture-takers. (Even if technically they’re not supposed to take pictures of some things, like the Mona Lisa). People…tourists…are so preoccupied with getting a picture of something that’s supposed to be important that few people take pause to actually ponder what it means to them. What’s another picture of a statue or a painting that’s already been photographed a million times (as I’m sure both those pieces have been)? I didn’t need a picture of anything in the Louve—there’s already pictures of every piece online. What I did want was to embrace the inspiration and the emotional impact of a piece and to remember that. By pausing for a moment to contemplate and personalize an item—famous or not—I commit it to memory in a far more vivid way than a picture ever could (at least for me). That way, when I see a picture of that object again, I don’t just say, “Oh, I’ve got a picture of that” and instead say “Oh, I remember seeing that in the Louve. I really liked it because…” Again, this is not necessarily a position that 99% of people occupy, but it is one that I feel is definitely legitimate.

I returned to the hostel at about 5:00. I spent a little time on the internet on my computer before the internet went down; it wouldn’t come up again before I was to leave the next day. So instead I occupied myself reading. I had a coke and a couple pieces of pizza bread from the nearby bakery—also a sign I’m probably ready to come home. At one point in the evening I got hungry again and went down to the kitchen to fix some pasta. Mmm…plain pasta. I also waited to use the internet down there—I was trying to get my plans figured out for the next couple days before I left. I also tried to read, but there were some other people down in the lounge that were having the most absurd of conversations; I can usually block something out when I’m reading, but not this. These Irish guys (who talked like they were still in high school) were berating this girl (who I suppose was a recent friend of theirs, despite their verbal abuse) to tell them her age. I can’t really convey the absurdity of the conversation, but it had me grinning (and occasionally grimacing).

I had the six-bed dorm to myself that night, which was nice. It allowed me to pack and get myself a little bit sorted before heading to England. I was also trying to dispose of anything I didn’t want to haul back. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much, and I’d recently been acquiring a lot more things than I’d been getting rid of. I didn’t look forward to hauling my backpack around the next morning. I stayed up late reading, until about 1:30 when I decided it was finally prudent that I get some sleep before my travels the next day.

After my adventures in the Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore, I headed off toward Notre Dame. You couldn’t really miss it. Resting on a small island in the middle of the Seine River, the cathedral dominated the surrounding area. A large bridge gapped the distance between the main road that ran along the river and the large plaza in the front of Notre Dame. I got in line, and though it was long, it moved pretty quickly. There wasn’t a ticket counter or metal detector or anything—there were just so many people that it was taking time for them all to siphon into the entrance.

Notre Dame was unlike any other cathedrals I had seen. That’s not to say it was necessarily better than any others, it was just unique. I suppose the dozen-or-so other Notre Dame cathedrals are similar in appearance. I actually unwittingly saw the outside of one of these other Notre Dames when I was in Bayeux near the beginning of my trip. From my recent research for writing, I learned that—among others—the Knights Templar were responsible for the construction of the enormous Notre Dame cathedrals throughout France during the 11th and 12th centuries (I think…). Most people only acknowledge the main Notre Dame in Paris, the church made famous by Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame—or for the less literary minded: the church made famous by the Disney movie The Hunchback of Notre Dame. What they don’t know is that the church is Paris is just one of many.

Anyway, what was most remarkable about the church—ignoring the really cool gargoyles that lined the roof—was just how high up it went. Stepping inside was like entering into some great cavern. The cavern was by no means quiet though. Despite the signs to remain silent, there was a pretty constant buzz of talking. I wouldn’t even qualify the level of noise as a murmur; it was definitely a buzz. For my part, I remained quiet and silently filed around the perimeter of the church, enjoying the immense and dazzling stained glass windows and the high-rising arches that seemed to defy gravity. My visit there was brief, however. There really wasn’t much to see beyond walking the perimeter. Apparently it was only during Napoleon’s reign that the church was restored, so the interior is relatively young. That is, it lacks much of the art and other décor that so commonly filled the churches in Italy.

After my visit to Notre Dame, I headed across the river to the other side and began looking for a metro station. I found one and swiftly caught the train back to my hostel. I’d thus far only had a couple croissants and some of a baguette to eat that day, so I wasn’t feeling particularly well. I’m not sure whether it was some remnant of my sickness or came from eating only carbs all day, but I was soon feeling really bad. It was a good thing I arrived back at the hostel when I did.

I came up to my room and tried to read, but soon I was overcome with a terrible migraine. I decided that if I could, the best thing would be to go to sleep and try to wait it out. I fell asleep surprisingly fast. I woke up on and off for the next three hours, but the headache refused to give. Finally, around 8pm, I decided to get up and try to do something about it. I went out and got some fruits, thinking that perhaps my diet had been the cause of my suffering. The fresh air actually helped a lot. I came back to the hostel and the headache began to give a little, so I decided to go out to a café and do a bit of writing. I did some catching up on my blog, but by about 10:30, the café was closing down so I decided to head back to the hostel. By this time, the headache had faded almost entirely (maybe I just needed coffee, who knows?).

However, my night was not to end for another four hours or so. Presumably on account of my coffee and three hour nap, I was unable to get to sleep. I stayed up, doing some reading and writing. I have wireless internet in the room (which only lasts for four hours because they have this silly system for usernames and passwords), but that was sufficient to last me until about 2AM, when I thought that exhaustion might finally get the better of me. It still took about half an hour or an hour to fall asleep after that. I suppose that’s what I get for taking naps. There certainly wasn’t much in the way of company. The South Korean girl and the Brazilian guy went to bed at about 11. An American girl from New York joined us in the dorm room; she stayed up until about midnight watching TV (there was a station in English), but succumbed to sleep soon as well.

My night was particularly restless. For whatever reason, I’ve been plagued by a strange sequence of dreams which I won’t get into. Perhaps it has to do with my trip coming to an end—I can’t be sure. At any rate, I awoke at about 10:00 feeling relatively rested. I missed breakfast again, but I didn’t really care. I took my shower and then headed downstairs, where I used the internet and checked my email briefly. I also did some plotting out of my course for the day. The previous night I’d found a number of bookstores and cafés I wanted to check out. Therefore, on my map, I plotted everything and figured out the most efficient course to go between them. Paris is such a huge city that unless you want to wander aimlessly, it’s a good idea to have a plan.

I caught the metro across the river and got off relatively close to where I’d ended my previous day. The first bookstore was only a few minutes walk away from the Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore, but was unfortunately closed; there wasn’t really much of an indication that it was ever open. As it was Sunday morning, the streets were still pretty empty, but that also meant that most of the shops were to remain closed all day. I’d checked the hours of the bookstores online, but the information was probably out of date. I looked for the next bookstore on my list and instead found a Japanese Restaurant in its place. I couldn’t figure that one out. The final bookstore was supposed to be a combination café and used book shop; just my kind of place.

The Tea and Tattered Pages Bookstore was much like the Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore, only less crowded. I was able to find the book I wanted there—A Crown of Swords—but the old woman running the business did not accept trades. That meant I was stuck with the thousand-page monstrosity I’d just finished. The price was reasonable, relative for Europe. I warning to anyone thinking of traveling to Europe and buying books here—don’t. Either trade books while you’re here or else buy what you want before you leave. New books in English in Europe are horribly expensive. This book was—true to the name of the bookstore—tattered and worn and still cost me six euros. New it probably would have been fifteen. Hopefully I’ll manage to pawn off a couple of the other books I’ve got before I come back to the states, though at this point, I’m not short of reading material.

The “café” in the bookstore didn’t really interest me. It wasn’t much more than a couple tables set up in the back of the bookstore that were adjoining a kitchen. At any rate, I didn’t think the coffee would be particularly good. I headed back out and made my way back to one of the main streets near the river. There was a café in particular that I was interested in checking out. The night before, I’d been discussing the Café de Flore with the Brazilian guy in my hostel. He was trying to find the name of the café that Hemmingway (among others) had written at. Hemmingway, I discovered upon looking online, was a big fan of Paris. And he was said to frequent the Café de Flore. I decided to check it out, figuring it wasn’t a bad idea to pay homage to one of the great American writers.

I’m not sure Hemmingway would have gotten anything done if the place was the same in his time as it was now. Tables and customers flooded on to the street in a cascade of overpriced drinks and dishes. I was a little intimidated, but figured, it’s still a café, how expensive could it be?

Very expensive.

The “café” actually had a host who seated people. Unsurprisingly, I was seated in a small corner in the very back of the restaurant. I say that this wasn’t surprising because I was wearing my beanie, carrying a backpack, and looked scruffier than anyone else in the place. I think they decided it best to place me out of sight and mind and to just let me go about my business. I probably could have written there all day without anyone ever taking notice. I did want my coffee, however, and so eventually I borrowed a menu from the pair next to me (who arrived after me but still got a menu first) and looked at what was available.

I ended up ordering a Coffee with Cream (mind you, coffee means espresso), which cost me 5.50 euros. Let’s just take pause for a moment here and consider that.

!!!!!!!!!

Okay, so why did I pay for it? Well, I’d already been sitting there for about fifteen minutes, and I was to stay for about another hour and a half; I hadn’t spent money on museums and sights that day. Okay, my justifications were pretty weak, but they would have to do. I also started talking to the guys next to me. Both were Brazilian, one guy, Flavio, was the general marketing manager for Louise Baton’s Central American distribution center—or something like that. Louise Baton, or however you spell it, is a producer of handbags and accessories. The other guy, who didn’t talk as much (I think his English wasn’t as good), was a landscape architect. It was good talking to them; they ordered salads and coffees, which ran up a bill of about 46 euros. I could only shake my head in wonder.

I didn’t stay there too long. I felt crowded and once I finished my coffee—which I made last as long as possible—I felt like I should order something else if I was going to stay. I’m very particular about my writing places. I certainly couldn’t have worked on my novel there; I can only assume that Hemmingway—if he really did write there—was subject to a much more relaxed environment than the one I witnessed. Instead, I contented myself to working diligently on trying to catch up with my blog. After all, it’s really just a random ramble of rumbling and ribald thoughts strung together without regard for content or grammar. As one can probably observe by the many tipos.

I finished there and caught the subway back to the hostel. It was just off from 4:00 so I couldn’t return to the room yet. Instead, I worked on reply to an email. I also helped a guy get his mac working so it would play a video file. After all, us mac users have to stick together to stave off the big bad PCs. I also met a guy who owned a sailboat down in the Caribbean and worked doing tours during the non-Hurricane season (which is why he has been in Europe for the past couple months). He was a cool guy, a bit of an aspiring writer. We talked about literature, the works of Kesey and Kerouac, among others. His talk of the Caribbean got me to thinking that maybe Hemmingway had it write—maybe it’s not such a bad place to live and write (aside from that whole alcoholism and suicide thing).

I picked up a baguette and some quiche for lunch and then returned to the room, where I rather reluctantly began reading my new book. I knew I shouldn’t, but I did. I mean, I have other things to read, and more importantly, things to write, but nonetheless, I opened the cover and dove in. Stupid Greg. Even now, I can feel the pull. It’s sitting here on my bed now, alluring with its tattered cover and 800 pages. It’s saying, “…come on…stay up all night and read me…you know you want to…” And the problem is, I do. But I must resist. Not that there’s much better to do. The weather turned a bit nasty this evening. It’s cold and rainy. I was informed by a friend—who shall remain anonymous—that it was still quite sunny back home.

Well my response to her: “Bid farewell to the sun! For I am the harbinger of bad weather and bring with me from across the world a storm cloud that shall descend over all of Oregon!”

Really, I just am expecting that as soon as I get home, the weather will turn bad. That’s just how it works. Anyway, aside from beginning my book and checking out jobs online, I’ve not done much this evening. I had fancied going down to the Arc d’Triumph to see it at night, but the wetness chased me away. Perhaps I’ll see it tomorrow after the Louvre. On a separate note, I figure out what to do with my extra two days. I think I’m going to leave Paris on Tuesday and go to Oxford, where I’ll stay until Thursday. That way I don’t have as far to go to get to London before my flight on Friday morning; also, I’d like to see some of England besides just London (which was all I saw on my first go-through).

That’s about all for now. I’ll link the pictures later today, but for now, I need a break. Maybe I’ll just go and read that book sitting over there…

One hour later…
Paris pictures are now up; there’s a link on the side, as well as links within the text of the last two blogs.

I awoke in my Paris hostel at around 10:00 and quickly realized I had missed breakfast. It was probably a typical “hostel” breakfast anyway, though. After I showered and gathered my things, I made my way for a bakery on the corner, where I picked up a couple croissants for breakfast and a baguette for later. Then I made my way to the metro station.

I had a few places I wanted to go that day, but no particular schedule. I decided simply to begin on one side of the city and work my way to the other side, checking out the sights along the way. I’d spoken with the Brazilian guy the night before and he informed me that Hotel Invalides was not only a hotel, but a museum and the place that housed Napoleon’s tomb. When I was in Paris last time, Ashley had said it was worth a visit, so I decided to begin there.

The Hotel Invalides is surrounded by a large grassy area. This makes the building dominate the landscape. Most distinct is the gold capped building, which I soon learned was Napoleon’s tomb. At first, I thought (rather foolishly) that it was going to be free. I walked into the hotel’s (palace is probably a more appropriate word) courtyard and down some of the corridors without having to pay for anything. Construction began on the hotel during Napoleon’s era and the building was intended to house soldiers from the army. Consequently, the Hotel had its own extravagant and beautiful cathedral.

I checked out the cathedral. At this point, though, most churches paled in comparison to the sanctuaries in Italy. Still, that did not stop me from appreciating the place’s beauty. After the church, I wandered around to the other side of the Hotel, hoping to find an entrance to the giant domed building that stood behind the church. That was when I learned that I would indeed need a ticket.

With the ticket also came entrance to several other museums that occupied the Hotel. There was a museum of armor and arms. I definitely wanted to check this out—for research purposes, of course. It was quite enormous, though most of the weapons and armor came from more recent centuries, so it lacked some of the historical magnitude that has come with observing other arms museums that housed older items. There were definitely some interesting objects though, on the whole.

The other museum I went through exhibited items and presentations of the wars of France, particularly World War I and II. This was interesting, after seeing several other examples of the war in the other countries. There was a lot about the French resistance, as well as examples of what made France unprepared for the second World War. I always have heard a lot about the United States and Britain’s role in the war, but never much about France. I didn’t spend as much time as I probably could have in the museums, but my feet were hurting and I wanted to get to Napoleon’s tomb.

Napoleon’s Tomb consisted of an enormous domed building, capped in gold, and surrounded by smaller domes. These smaller domes held the sarcophagi of Napoleon II and Napoleon III. The hole building was glamorous and its more recent construction was apparent. The tomb, compared to the buildings in Rome, for example, was pristine. The blocks of marble were unmarred by time. Despite the tens of thousands of tourists that must visit the tomb, there was little to distinguish the building’s age. The tomb was constructed of mostly marble, an impressive feat in itself. Beneath the large, arching dome was a hole, from which one could look down onto the lower level of the tomb. And on the lower level, stood an enormous coffin. At first, it appeared to be some kind of hard wood, but I decided that it must be a dark stone instead—or else perhaps a wood that was heavily varnished. For such a small man, Napoleon received one big coffin.

I went to the lower level and walked around, observing the carved walls that presumably depicted parts of Napoleon’s life. Without the audioguide, though, I was a bit clueless as to what was what. There was also a section of the tomb dedicated to Napoleon’s personal effects. These items comprised weapons, garments, and all manner of miscellaneous stuff. All in all, the tomb and museums were worth the small entry fee (although had I not received the student discount, I may not have been able to make that claim).

From the Hotel Invalides, I headed—actually, I don’t know which way I headed, besides to say it was in the general direction of the Gardin de Luxembourg and the Pantheon. I had read that the Gardin should be visited, but really had not intended to unless it was on my way. I’m glad it was. I had feared that it would be some kind of well-manicured, groomed garden that would require money to get into, but that wasn’t the case at all. Basically, it was the Paris equivalent of Central Park. There were tennis courts, cafes, large open areas for lounging about, fountains, etc. And the park was full of people. People were jogging, reading, writing, taking photographs, letting their kids play, and all manner of other activities. The main difference I noticed from other large parks within cities was just how open everything was. There were trees, but they were arranged into neat patterns that gave an expansive impression. Some of the Gardin was “well-manicured,” but that was only a small percent. I didn’t wander too much, but from what I saw, I liked the Gardin much better than Hyde Park (though certainly not as much as Sydney’s Royal Botanical Gardens).

After the Gardin, I had only about five minutes before I arrived at the Pantheon. I didn’t really know what to expect of this building. I’d read about it, but the description was brief and inadequate. No one had told me to visit the Paris Pantheon, but I’m glad I did. First of all, there was an exhibition from an artist (I don’t recall his name). This was not the kind of exhibition that just sat in the side of a monument and could be ignored. The art consisted of enormous white mesh netting that drooped down from the high ceilings and contained white polystyrene beads. This is perhaps hard to envision, so check out the pictures.

At first, I was a little taken aback. After all, I wanted to see the Pantheon in its unadorned glory. After walking around though, I realized just how lucky I was no happen upon such a unique and cool exhibition. The exhibition was supposed to fuse the classical architecture and art of the Pantheon with a sense of modernity and the organic, from what I recall. I definitely got the feel of the organic. The total effect of the art gave one the impression of being inside or a sponge, or else perhaps being inside the body of some great beast.

The Pantheon also contained Foucault’s Pendulem—a brass-looking sphere that hung from the highest point in the Pantheon and which swung back and forth over the course of the day, eventually forming a circle. The point of the object was that it proved the Earth’s movement. The sphere swayed seamlessly, back and forth, amidst the white netting, and one could almost imagine it to be the uvula in the mouth of that great imagined creature.

The Pantheon also contained a crypt, which housed some of France’s most brilliant minds. I paid my respects to Alexander Dumas (Count of Monte Cristo) and Victor Hugo (Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre Dam), as well as such greats as Marie and Pierre Curie, and the philosopher, Rousseau. The crypts were actually a work in progress. In a number of places, there were opening for more people to be entombed, and on two separate occasions, I saw people working on the tiling around a new room. Consequently, this was unlike the crypts or catacombs of old and instead were clean and flawless in their design and construction. The crypt even contained a room that displayed the various tools and belongings of the Curie’s. The exhibit told of their work in chemistry and radiation.

After the Pantheon, I emerged and headed toward Notre Dame. On my way, however, I stopped at the Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore. I was hoping to pick up the next in the series of books I was reading. The bookstore was quaint (and grossly over priced), and perhaps fortunately did not contain the book I wanted (otherwise I might have been compelled to buy it). The bookstore was crowded with people—I can only presume it was tourists since it was an English bookstore. Despite the crowds, though, I liked it. The place had a cool location and the narrow, winding corridors lined with books on each side gave the place a definitively Parisian feel.

Pictures and more to come later…

So I’ve fallen a little behind on my blogs; I’ll try to keep this relatively brief and succinct.

Side note: I added a page for Berlin Pictures and Amsterdam Pictures. Those pictures are also now linked throughout last three blogs.

I arrived in Amsterdam without much trouble, though I must say, were I to do it again, I doubt I would arrive at night in that city. The train station was an easy five-minute walk from my hostel, so that was fortunate. However, it didn’t change the fact that I was in a city at night that I was unfamiliar with and which had a somewhat infamous reputation. I checked in to the Meeting Point Hostel and stowed away my things. They had these big oil-barrel like lockers to store one’s stuff. I then immediately headed out for some food. I’d neglected that I would be on the train for six hours and was thoroughly famished. I wandered my way through the dark streets, which, were there not throngs of tourists all around, might have been a harrowing experience, and then bought my dinner; it consisted of the usual cheese, meat, and bread.

The hostel didn’t have a refrigerator so I abided myself to eating as much as possible and throwing away the food that wouldn’t keep. I was worn out from traveling, so I didn’t really do much that first night. I talked with a few people and hung out in the hostel’s bar for a while. They had wireless internet so I took care of some emails and whatnot. Afterwards, I continued to wheedle away at the book I’d been reading, The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, before drifting off to sleep.

I was in no hurry to see anything in particular in Amsterdam—there was nothing in particular I really felt compelled to see. So with that philosophy, I headed out the next morning for a wander. I plotted a little route based on my travel guide and a map I’d been provided, though I didn’t end up following my plans at all. For one thing, I kept getting disoriented. I read that the idea in Amsterdam was to use the canals and not the streets to guide you. Well I tried that, and it only confused me more. I checked out a couple churches, but mostly I just enjoyed the city itself. I found myself in a more residential section of the city, and I enjoyed observing the various houseboats and the colorful houses and apartments that ran together into one seamless mass. All these buildings seemed to have offices or businesses beneath them, so as you walked by, you could look down in on the people working. Imagine my surprise when I did this and found a half naked woman in one of them. Of course, I knew of Amsterdam’s reputation for the red light district, but I didn’t really expect to find a prostitute in that part of town.

I wandered into a café for a cappuccino, at one point, but otherwise I kept mostly on the move. I made a big circle, checking out most of the sights of the inner city. None were too impressive, at least compared to what I’d seen in other cities. Of course, architecture and museums is not really the reason to come to Amsterdam. It’s the city’s culture that is so totally fascinating. And there was plenty of that culture to be seen. I learned that a green and white sign that read “Coffee Shop” meant that the particular café or bar served marijuana as well. Likewise, “Smart Shops” served shrooms and a number of “herbal enhancement” drugs. Amsterdam and the Netherlands is strange in this respect. Weed and mushrooms are technically illegal. Yet, they’re sold openly and moderated through the “Tolerance Laws” or something to that effect. I think it’s basically a loophole in International law and politics. If the country technically legalized the drugs, I’m sure it would be frowned upon by other nations, but as it’s only “tolerated,” there’s really not much to be said or done.

Anyway, as you might expect, souvenirs and junk with the marijuana leaf, Bob Marley, and other stereotypical images were everywhere. Likewise, a wide range of bongs and other drug paraphernalia could be found in the windows. Apparently, it was illegal to advertise the sale of marijuana, other than the green and white sign that indicated a place was part of this union of weed dealers. It was pretty apparent which places sold marijuana and which didn’t, though, even without the signs. Likewise, certain areas seemed to attract the weed cafés and others the coffee cafés; a lot depended on the hotels and tourist-stuff in the vicinity. In general, there seemed to be a pretty substantial schism between the tourism industry of the young and the tourism industry of the old. I suppose such is to be expected, though there certainly was some overlap.

Another thing that was unsurprising about Amsterdam was the pace there. For the residents, everything just seemed to be slow and casual. Why, just look at this resident—he certainly doesn’t seem to be in a hurry (look carefully). This was perhaps mostly facilitated by the profusion of bikes. Everyone in Amsterdam owns a bike, and apparently a good portion of the population feels that if they do not have one and find an unlocked bike, it is a moral obligation to take it and use it until the bike is subsequently stole from them. I read that it was actually cheaper to buy a stolen bike than rent one. Either way, a bike seemed to be the way to get around Amsterdam. I preferred my feet, but it didn’t keep me from enjoying the steady traffic of bicycles going every which way. There were cars and water taxis as well, but all seemed to move at an equally casual pace. (At least compared to Rome, etc.) This made walking around the city much more pleasant (and much less terrifying). The city was kept clean, for the most part, and people seemed very friendly. All in all, I got a very positive impression.

As my walk continued, I passed a market where they were selling all kinds of plants. While the plants were beautiful, they reminded me of home and how when I get back, the gardens will be anything but pretty. From what I hear, the rain has come back home (in Oregon) and soon the frost will arrive as well. I can imagine, though, that if one had a garden, Amsterdam would be a fantastic place to buy flowers, based on the variety of species I saw. Walking along this part of the city took me to one of the best things I saw. I crossed over this old bridge (apparently once hand-operated) and turned into a large area beside the main canal. Standing in this area were large, identical cement blocks displaying pictures. I immediately recognized this area to be the eco-photography exhibition that my friend Jacob had told me about.

I spent about two hours there. Even despite the cold and rain, I worked my way through the dozens of displays, reading the captions carefully and appreciating the art. The artist and exhibition was sponsored by an organization—National Postcode Lottery—for environmental awareness. There’s a link: here. I suggest to anyone who appreciates the beauty of nature and the presently precarious situation of the environment to check out this photographer, Yann Arthus-Bertrand, and his work. I wanted to buy a book of his work, but it was not only to expensive (for my present budget), but it would have been heavy as well. Then I thought to buy calendars—they had 2005, ’06, and ’07, but unfortunately, all were in Dutch. These pictures, while stunning on their own, must be read in conjunction with the captions. The photographer himself said as much in a quote I saw. I resigned to not get anything then and to check it out online later in the hopes that some of the works were translated—or perhaps just to get one of his books.

I didn’t actually read all the captions to the pictures. To do so would have taken another two hours. Instead, I continued my wandering. I was getting hungry and anxious to relax (that doesn’t make much sense, does it?), so I started back toward the hostel. I found a cool little bookstore, totally by accident, which had a plethora of used books in English. Bookstores are never a good influence on my budget. Anyway, I found a book which I’d started (via audiobook), but hadn’t finished because I only had the first half. The book, Lord of Chaos, was part of Robert Jordan’s 12-book Wheel of Time series, which I’d started earlier in the summer. Anyway, buying this book was to prove a bad influence because I was to spend the next two days reading as much and as fast as I could to finish it. Such is my addiction to the written word.

I returned to the hostel, picked up my computer, and headed off to a nearby café. There, I was to spend the rest of the evening working on my novel and reading (frantically) the book I’d just bought. I returned to the hostel late in the evening to eat. I ate down in the bar, had a couple drinks, and talked to some of the other backpackers. I’ve noticed that after a certain point in traveling, you become a little reluctant to talk to people. It’s not that I don’t enjoy meeting people; I do. It’s just that after so long traveling, you become practiced at asking the same four or five questions; it never fails—where are you from, how long have you been in _____, how long have you been traveling, where are you going next, how much longer are you traveling. Julie and I were discussing this when we were traveling together. Meeting people is great, especially once you get past all these basics, but up until then, it begins to feel almost scripted. That’s one thing nice about traveling with someone you know. You can have real conversations. This can come with talking to a person you meet, but only after an hour or more of the “getting to know him/her” stage. I make a point of writing down the names of people and the places they’re from in my blog, when I remember, but sometimes the interactions are too brief, or memory just fails and his or her name, and the place he or she is from, is lost.

I awoke the next morning, my last full day in Amsterdam, and I felt lazy. I should mention that I was feeling much better (that is to say, not sick anymore). However, this sensation of laziness had been growing ever since Prague, and I think it reached its apex on this day. I did nothing. I got up at a reasonable time, but then I decided I wanted to read my book. I should mention that this book was over 1000 pages, which meant I had a good 500 to go when I started it. So that’s what I did. I hung around the hostel almost all day, reading and doing a bit of writing, as well as perusing the Internet and email. I wasn’t really being very sociable, but that changed when I went downstairs and quite without thinking, sat at a table with someone I knew. To be fair, she recognized me, and not the other way around, but once names and familiarity was established, I began to remember her. Her name was Mickaylee and she was from “the other” highschool in my hometown of Corvallis. We knew each other through orchestra and had a number of mutual acquaintances. She was studying up in Copenhagen, but it was just one of those weird, small-world encounters. I’ve had a couple of those encounters before, but I’d begun to think I wasn’t going to have one this time in my travels.

She was with a friend from Copenhagen, a girl whose name (because it was something French) escapes me. Anyway, over pints of Heineken (which started in Amsterdam), we talked, sometimes about things back home, and a lot about traveling and school. They went out for food and I started talking to another person at the table, a guy from Maryland named Kevin. He had just finished school in landscape architecture and was looking to move out west to the Portland area. Strange connections, but when you’re traveling, you encounter them all the kind. I know that people from the Pacific Northwest like to travel, but I’ve met a lot of people either moving to the Northwest or from there. Maybe it’s all signs that my trip is coming to an end and that it’s time to head home—who knows?

The bar cleared out a bit by midnight and I headed up to bed. Only, sleep was not the plan. I resumed reading my book, determined to finish it but unable to do so. 2 AM rolled around and I decided sleep was more prudent than finish the book. Besides, I needed something to do on the train.

I’d intended to catch an early train (early being 10AM) to Paris, but I never turned on my alarm. I intended to get up, but I figured that if, when I woke up, it was too late or I wanted to continue sleep, then I wouldn’t worry about it. Well, not surprisingly, I ended up going back to sleep in the morning, even after I woke up with plenty of time to get to the train. I caught a later train, at about 11:30, but it wasn’t direct and required that I go through Brussels; big mistake.

My train to Brussels ended up about forty minutes behind schedule. I didn’t have any connections to make, though, and I was in no particular hurry, so this didn’t really work against me. I did have to change trains in Brussels; navigating the city’s train stations were a confusing and wholly unpleasant affair. The train I was on didn’t go all the way to the Brussel South Station, so I had to catch a different train. But then I got off a stop early and I was like, “okay, so where’s the international trains?” There was no one to ask, though. Eventually I figured it out, but it took me a while.

After catching the correct train, it was a brief and simple trip to Amsterdam. I occupied myself on the train by finish my book (finally), and checking out the countryside. Oh, I should mention, though, that I didn’t get a train directly to Paris. Because every single train from Brussels to Paris (one each hour for another seven hours) was fully booked, I had to go to the Paris airport and catch the train from there. This gave rise to an interesting misunderstanding. When I boarded the train in Brussels, I was joined by a couple who spoke French and a bit of English. I’m not sure if they were Dutch or what. Anyway, they asked me in confirmation if this went to the airport. I said it did. Well, after about half an hour, they seemed nervous and asked me again if it was going to the airport. I said, yes, the Paris Airport.

Wrong thing to say. It seemed that they wanted to go to the airport outside of Brussels. Instantly the woman burst into—what I can only describe as a volcano of tears and French words. As the volcano boiled over, it became a tantrum (I should mention, she was about 29 or 30), much of which was aimed at her boyfriend. He seemed to take the mistake in good humor. Meanwhile, I was only praying that the volcano did not aim its wrath at me. Her boyfriend didn’t seem too worried, but she, in a flourish of waving arms and bubbling cries, stood up and started down the train toward the conductor, as if he somehow would magically make it all better.

Needless to say, the train didn’t stop, nor did they get off until everyone else. However, she did return about fifteen minutes later, slightly assuaged. Once the initial shock wore off, they were actually laughing about the whole affair (I suppose, at least; the conversation was all in French). I just kept on reading my book, still hoping they would not decide it was all my fault and that I had purposefully mislead them in some kind of malicious ploy.

I escaped unscathed and, at the Paris airport’s metro terminal, found my way to the train to take me into town. During my precious time in Paris, I had spent about twenty minutes trying to figure out the metro system before I was struck with sudden insight that made me a zen master of Parisian public transport. The skills rolled over to this visit. I navigated my way toward my hostel, without so much as the slightest hang up. I caught all the right trains and got off on the right stops. And if it sounds like I’m bragging—you’re damn straight I’m bragging! After my previous fiascos in French train stations, this felt like attaining a state of enlightenment.

I did have a little difficulty finding the hostel, but it only cost me about a ten minute detour. The hostel was a little out-of-the-way, but it was affordable (relative for Paris) and offered a nice hospitable environment for backpackers (more than I can say for my previous Paris hostel). I had reserved three nights, but I added a fourth, realizing that because I’d arrived late that day, I’d only have two full days in Paris otherwise. That would not do.

I got settled in my room, went out for a little food, and then returned. I met my roommates, a South Korean girl, whose name I’m not even going to try, and a Brazilian guy, whose name I don’t remember. I think maybe my memory is getting worse because I’m in my last week of travel. I talked to them for a while, before turning to my computer. I had free wi-fi and a good connection in my room¬—something I’d not had for quite some time—so I decided to take care of some matters, such as the small and relatively insignificant problem of trying to find a job when I get back. I also did some planning for what I wanted to do in Paris. When I was here at the beginning of my trip, I didn’t really do much in the way of planning. This time, I wanted to make sure that I saw everything I wanted to see. And that’s basically how the night ended. I was in Paris again, and this time, I had a plan.

I felt better yesterday, but I feel worse today. Then again, yesterday I wasn’t stuck on a train where the only thing dividing smokers and non-smokers is a sheet of glass with an opening in it the size of a door.

Yesterday I got up, intending to go on the free Berlin walking tour, only to find that I’d woken up too late and missed it. I wasn’t particularly distressed. As I was still feeling sick, I valued that extra sleep a lot more than I valued a few extra facts about buildings I’d seen the day before. Anyway, I set about getting a shower and breakfast and headed out the door at around noon.

I took to walking around the city a little more. I took pictures this time (I had only taken a few day before) and ended up seeing a lot of the same sights (Marx-Engel Platz, for example). Berlin is in a condition unlike any other city in the world, I’d be willing to bet. Because of the recent fall of the wall and recombination of the city (and Germany), there are major construction projects underway. And it’s not just the usual building going up here or there. It seems as though everything is under construction. Major buildings are being refurbished. Vast open spaces are being filled with monolithic skyscrapers and apartment complexes. There’s nothing small about Berlin’s endeavor to rebuild and reform itself. And all of the architecture is unique and cutting edge. I can’t imagine a more exciting place to be if you were in city planning, architecture, or construction.

I came to the Reichstag after a while. I got in line for the museum, but after about fifteen minutes, it still hadn’t moved. I estimated that at this rate, I would have arrived at the museum’s entrance in roughly three or four hours. As much as I enjoy doing nothing but listening to music for three or four, I decided my feet were hurting enough (from my new shoes) that it didn’t justify the wait. I promptly departed and resumed wandering.

I stopped at a coffee shop for a while and did a few pages of writing, but soon I got impatient and antsy and decided to move on. From there I headed back to the hostel. My sinuses were beginning to act up again so I thought I’d try and escape the cold air; the day was sunny but chilly. I had a bit of lunch and then settled in to do a bit of reading. I was hoping that this would eventually descend into sleep, but even after I lay for about half an hour with the light off, I was no closer to falling asleep. Still, the rest was nice. My sinuses were reacting against light, so it spared me a runny nose for a while.

I met a guy from New Zealand who was just arriving in the hostel. Cool guy, a bit odd though. He had an around the world ticket that entailed fifteen stops. He’d started in New Zealand and worked his way across Asia and only just arrived in Europe. The price was actually pretty good, I thought. It came out to about 3500 dollars American. I suppose if you used your flights effectively, you could see a lot. I think he said they limited the mileage to 34,000 or something like that.

I did some more reading and also chatted with a bunch of the Australians staying in the hostel. The girls, Amber and Sussie, were leaving tomorrow, like me. And the Australian couple, who were living in Paris, (don’t remember their names), were departing the next day for Salzburg. With such a small hostel, the five of us leaving comprised like one third of the hostel’s inhabitants.

7:30 rolled around and I left to meet my friend Anna at her place for dinner. Her roommates had cooked up some potatoes with a chicken and zucchini dish. I thought I did pretty well, considering that I was at a table where everyone’s second language was English. I spoke mostly to Anna, one of her roommates, a French guy named Pierre, and a friend of hers, Tom, who had joined us as well. The other two roommates didn’t seem to speak as much English (though all of them were admittedly quite good) as these three, so conversation on my end of the table tended toward English, while the other side remained mostly German.

The dinner was quite good. Aside from the main dishes I mentioned, it also included a salad, bread with cheese, and wine. Best of all, though, were these awesome pretzels. You’re thinking—they’re pretzels—how can they be any more awesome than that? Well, I’ll tell you. In Europe, they have these long pretzels. Yeah, cool huh? They’re twice the length of “normal” pretzels and come in these especially long bags. They’re still slender and delicious, just longer. I ate a lot of them just because they were so much fun to break. Does that make me strange…?

We talked about all kinds of things. I asked a lot of questions about German education, politics, and culture. They didn’t seem particularly interested in my knowledge of the U.S., not that I blame them. They were happy to answer my questions. After a few hours, it was getting late and I decided to head home. I walked for a little ways with Tom, who was heading in the same direction. We talked a bit about fantasy and science fiction—he was a Terry Pratchet fan—until we came to the metro stop.

Bidding him farewell, I headed down into the metro and caught the train back to my part of town. I got off at the wrong stop, though, and gave myself about an extra ten minute walk. I enjoyed the walk, though. I hadn’t really had much of a chance to get out and see Belin at night (save for my misguided attempt to find a good café) and the city was quite pleasant—and not ridiculously cold as it had been the previous two days.

Back at the hostel, I read for a while—I couldn’t have gone to sleep even if I tried for two reasons. I’d had some espresso before leaving Anna’s apartment, and there were two of the more permanent hostel residents who were conversing in the room quite loudly. Even after things quieted down and I closed my eyes to try and sleep, I found myself unable to do so. Even after a Tylenol PM, I was still restless. My mind was racing and I began to think it was going to be one of those nights.

I wasn’t restless because I was sick. Maybe it was the espresso, but for whatever reason, my mind was on writing. I don’t know about anyone else, but usually when I fall asleep, I’m thinking about boring mundane things beforehand. My mind drifts to what I’ll be doing the next day, or what happened that night, or thoughts about friends, family, and girls. It was not to be on this night. My mind conspired with my creative impulse to keep me awake and plan out a premise for a new novel. Not a bad thing, per se, but not particularly pleasant when you’re blowing your nose every couple minutes and your sinuses are sending tears streaming down your cheeks. All the same, for about two hours less sleep than I planned, I came up with some very good material. The Tylenol PM must have kicked in at some point and send my exhausted mind and miserable body staggering into semi-comatosed state.

The next day wasn’t particularly eventful. After getting a shower and packing up, I headed across the street to a restaurant for breakfast. It offered deals to the hostel’s inhabitants, and I thought the breakfast was pretty reasonable. What I did not consider was that this was to be the last meal I’d have until about 7PM. I gathered my things and headed for the train station. Only, when I got to the metro station to take me to the main train station, the train wasn’t coming. It took about ten minutes to come, and after it did, it sat for about ten minutes. I had plenty of time, still, but I got impatient and went to look for the bus. They were saying things on the intercom in German, but I didn’t understand any of it.

I couldn’t find the bus stop, and when I went back to the train stop, the train had gone. So I resigned myself to waiting again. Fortunately I still had half an hour, and when the next train came, it didn’t take nearly so long to depart. I arrived at Berlin’s souther station with about twenty minutes to spare. When the train came and I boarded, however, it took its time departing. Then finally an English voice came on the intercom (the train’s intercom, not the station’s, mind you) to explain that there had been a train accident on one of Berlin’s rail lines.

That didn’t make me feel very optimistic about my train ride.

The train, amidst many small stops along the lines in Berlin, eventually left the city about forty minutes late. I’m glad I was catching a direct train and didn’t have to catch another one. I don’t know how serious the accident was; I didn’t see it and the conductor didn’t provide any further information. The train ride hasn’t been particularly pleasant. I’ve been keeping myself entertained by reading and brainstorming materials for writing, but my cold is making it fairly unpleasant. For whatever reason, I feel worse today than yesterday. I suppose it’s from the slightly processed air and the constant and faint hint of cigarette smoke in the air.

For the sake of my readers who are more sensitive to vulgarities, I will withhold the burning liquid rage that is coursing through my veins, all aimed at the ridiculous smoking policies in this educated and enlightened nation—needless to say, my rage and hatred for these policies is quite extensive. Perhaps rational thought has simply left me over the course of the approximately hundred and fifty times I’ve blown my nose, or flowed out through the constant stream of tears plaguing my eyes. Either way—anger and annoyance have taken hold.

Still, I’m almost to Amsterdam, and I vastly prefer to endure the fog of marijuana smoke to the vile and cancer-laced smoke of cigarettes. And at least there I can go outside without getting bugs caught in my teeth (as would happen if I went outside at the present moment). I have a hostel near the train station, so that should spare me some trouble on arrival. I had hoped to stay at the world-renowned Flying Pig, but apparently five days what not enough time to book in advance, even this late in the season. Anyway, Amsterdam is Amsterdam, no matter where you’re staying, and I’m simply looking forward to kicking back and relaxing before returning to Paris.

-G

Note: I’m still on a computer without a good writing program, so the apostrophes are all messed up.

I’m still sick.

Just thought I’d throw that out there—you know, so I can be showered with sympathy or whatever. Actually, in all honesty, I’m feeling pretty good, all things considered. My sinuses seem to be waging a war of vengeance against my face, but between the orange juice, antibiotics, and mint tea, I’m doing okay (and a lot better than Julie was).

And I’m certainly not going to let the sickness keep my spirits down, even if it does keep my body down.

So where were we? I had just gotten on a train bound for Berlin. Little did I know, but I was in store for one of the best train rides of my European tour. At first I was stuck in a compartment without a window seat; that’s wasn’t so great. I occupied my time listening to music and occasionally giving vague glances out the window. When the people sharing my compartment started smoking, though, I quickly vacated to a smoke-free environment. It would have been bad enough without my sinuses already being out of whack.

I found a compartment to myself, and now that I had a window seat, I could enjoy the spectacular views. To anyone traveling Europe, I highly recommend taking the Prague-Berlin train route if only for the scenery. For at least half of the journey, the train follows the Elbe (?) River. Yeah, well so what—it’s a just a river, right? Wrong. The rivers slices through the densely forested countryside, cutting through dirt and rock alike. There were amazing cliffs, carved from centuries of the river’s passage. And at the edge of these forests, beneath the cliffs, were quaint little German villages. I had reservations in Berlin, but if I hadn’t I might’ve considered just getting off and trying to find accommodation at one of these little cities. I don’t imagine they had much more than bed and breakfasts, but the beautiful view and (likely) fantastic hiking would’ve made up for the extra expense. Alas, though, with my two-night reservation and little time to go in my trip, I was forced to continue with my original plans.

Berlin was not a disappointment, though. First (and perhaps most importantly!), I was able to find my hostel without any trouble. When I can get off at the international terminal for a train station, and find my way to the subway and navigate it (without error) to the exact location I need to go, then I know a city has good public transportation. Aside from a lack of large metro maps (which was a bit irksome), the system was flawless. I was at my hostel only fifteen minutes after my arrival in Berlin.

Only, there was no one at my hostel, or rather, no receptionist. And the door was locked I must have neglected to notice that there was a very limited check-in time. All was not lost, though, for a girl let me in. At first I planned to wait; I remembered putting that I would arrive at 5pm, and it was just about five, so maybe the hostel’s owner would come. When a couple more people arrived, though, we decided to call him to come down. Apparently he lives nearby I bikes down to check people in whenever they call. Strange system, but I guess it works.

The owner, Matt, was a chatty fellow. Quite nice. The Easterner Hostel was small, only five rooms, including two privates rooms, a 4-bed, 6-bed and an 8-bed dorm. After the Czech Inn, this quiet and quaint hostel was nice.

I unpacked and got a shower, but I didn’t really feel like doing much else. Since I was feeling under the weather (which, by the way, was quite cold!), I decided to get some food, make some dinner, and chill out here at the hostel. Dinner consisted of salami, cheese, and tomato sandwiches—mmmmm—back to the usual. Most of the rest of the evening was devoted to writing the last blog, as well as getting to know the people in my hostel. I met a young Australian couple. The girl was living in Paris and the guy had just come over to visit her. I also met an older guy named Danielle, who was also from Australia. He worked as a nurse back in Brisbane, but he had recently taken six months off to travel. He had some pretty great stories. There wasn’t really the opportunity to meet a lot of the other backpackers. A couple Australian girls, who I’d talked briefly with, were going out on a pub crawl. (Given how I was feeling, I wasn’t about to do that). And most of the other travelers were Asians, who kept mostly to themselves. It was all good, though. I was looking to keep things pretty mellow anyway.

The evening, for me, ended quietly and with little adieu. I did a bit of reading before going to sleep at about midnight. And, given the general condition of my body, I slept pretty well. I slept in until ten o’clock, telling myself that I was sick and damn well deserved it! But at that point, I had to get up and get ready. I was going to meet my friend Anna, who was going to take me around the city. I met Anna in Australia when I was in Glebe Village (part of Sydney) for about two and a half weeks. I spent a good deal of time with a group of about four German girls while I was in Australia; Anna, and another girl, Anita, were the only ones I’d been able to contact. Anna is from an area just outside of Hannover (I think…), but she’d been studying in Berlin for the past year. I was excited to get a more local perspective on things, so after breakfast, I met up with her outside my hostel.

We walked around the city for about four hours, save for an interlude at starbucks (I was desperate for a mocha, I’ll admit it) and lunch at a Turkish restaurant (where I got this enormous kebab-like meal for two euros!). We talked a lot. Anna speaks English very well, so there wasn’t any kind of language barrier. She answered my questions about the city, but mostly we talked about what we were doing with ourselves—studies, jobs, living arrangements—that kind of stuff.

We passed by a lot of museums and state buildings. During the course of our walked, we passed the line of bricks that marked the former wall. We went by the Reichstag, which is one of the main museums here in Berlin; I’ll probably go there tomorrow. We visited Checkpoint Charlie, which, I understand is the only remaining checkpoint leftover. Mostly we just walked around and talked a lot about Berlin’s current cultural, education, and music scene. And that was fine by me. I’m probably going to take a walking tour tomorrow, and then I’ll get all the historic information. It was really nice to see a different side from the tourists, though.

We ended up at the East Side Gallery. This was a huge walk from my hostel, but it was good. I’m glad I actually took the time to go through Berlin instead of just taking the subway everywhere. The East Side Gallery is a part of the wall that was left standing as a reminder of the past, as well as a place to express themselves. People paint on the wall, depicting scenes representative of past and present. Some of the artwork was beautiful and quite impressive, and it was unfortunate that people felt obliged to graffiti over it. But then again, perhaps that’s part of what the wall represents. I’m not sure. It was really powerful, though, seeing something so entrenched in recent history. I haven’t been to see the 9/11 memorial, but I’m sure the effect would be equal. I can actually remember seeing stuff on the television about the wall coming down, even though I would have only been seven at the time. I remember it was a big deal. It’s amazing to see that remnants of something like The Wall, something so lodged within half a century of history. Dachau and the D-Day battle sites had a similar effect on me, though I felt more of a stretch to connect with those. They were further in the past and it takes a more vivid imagination. Still, it’s great to see such symbols of history.

Anna went back to her apartment and I returned to the hostel. I’ll be going over there for dinner with her and her roommates tomorrow, so that should be fun. When I got back to the hostel, though, I was exhausted. Between walking and being sick, I was ready for a nap. I did a bit of reading but soon slipped into unconsciousness. This lasted until about 6:30 when I managed to raise my Lazurian self from the dead. I made some food—the same exciting dinner as the previous night—and then when out for a wander. I went to look for a café that Anna said her friend liked, but it was quite far away and I didn’t really feel like staying after I got there. I have a very specific quality I look for in a café (I can’t say what exactly it is), and I didn’t find anything in the area that was to my liking. Most of the cafés were more of restaurants, so I would have felt a bit awkward going into them and plugging my laptop in for a bit of writing.

At this point, I’d been out in the cold for a while and my sinuses were beginning to wage their war. I decided it would be best to return to the hostel for warmth and a bit of tea. Daniel is still hanging around; he ate a bad kebob and was feeling a bit under the weather as well. Otherwise, things are pretty quiet here, and I’m happy with that. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll be through the worst of this.itten at 8:34 PM on 10-15-06 in Berlin, Germany

I’m still sick.

Just thought I’d throw that out there—you know, so I can be showered with sympathy or whatever. Actually, in all honesty, I’m feeling pretty good, all things considered. My sinuses seem to be waging a war of vengeance against my face, but between the orange juice, antibiotics, and mint tea, I’m doing okay (and a lot better than Julie was).

And I’m certainly not going to let the sickness keep my spirits down, even if it does keep my body down.

So where were we? I had just gotten on a train bound for Berlin. Little did I know, but I was in store for one of the best train rides of my European tour. At first I was stuck in a compartment without a window seat; that’s wasn’t so great. I occupied my time listening to music and occasionally giving vague glances out the window. When the people sharing my compartment started smoking, though, I quickly vacated to a smoke-free environment. It would have been bad enough without my sinuses already being out of whack.

I found a compartment to myself, and now that I had a window seat, I could enjoy the spectacular views. To anyone traveling Europe, I highly recommend taking the Prague-Berlin train route if only for the scenery. For at least half of the journey, the train follows the Elbe (?) River. Yeah, well so what—it’s a just a river, right? Wrong. The rivers slices through the densely forested countryside, cutting through dirt and rock alike. There were amazing cliffs, carved from centuries of the river’s passage. And at the edge of these forests, beneath the cliffs, were quaint little German villages. I had reservations in Berlin, but if I hadn’t I might’ve considered just getting off and trying to find accommodation at one of these little cities. I don’t imagine they had much more than bed and breakfasts, but the beautiful view and (likely) fantastic hiking would’ve made up for the extra expense. Alas, though, with my two-night reservation and little time to go in my trip, I was forced to continue with my original plans.

Berlin was not a disappointment, though. First (and perhaps most importantly!), I was able to find my hostel without any trouble. When I can get off at the international terminal for a train station, and find my way to the subway and navigate it (without error) to the exact location I need to go, then I know a city has good public transportation. Aside from a lack of large metro maps (which was a bit irksome), the system was flawless. I was at my hostel only fifteen minutes after my arrival in Berlin.

Only, there was no one at my hostel, or rather, no receptionist. And the door was locked I must have neglected to notice that there was a very limited check-in time. All was not lost, though, for a girl let me in. At first I planned to wait; I remembered putting that I would arrive at 5pm, and it was just about five, so maybe the hostel’s owner would come. When a couple more people arrived, though, we decided to call him to come down. Apparently he lives nearby I bikes down to check people in whenever they call. Strange system, but I guess it works.

The owner, Matt, was a chatty fellow. Quite nice. The Easterner Hostel was small, only five rooms, including two privates rooms, a 4-bed, 6-bed and an 8-bed dorm. After the Czech Inn, this quiet and quaint hostel was nice.

I unpacked and got a shower, but I didn’t really feel like doing much else. Since I was feeling under the weather (which, by the way, was quite cold!), I decided to get some food, make some dinner, and chill out here at the hostel. Dinner consisted of salami, cheese, and tomato sandwiches—mmmmm—back to the usual. Most of the rest of the evening was devoted to writing the last blog, as well as getting to know the people in my hostel. I met a young Australian couple. The girl was living in Paris and the guy had just come over to visit her. I also met an older guy named Danielle, who was also from Australia. He worked as a nurse back in Brisbane, but he had recently taken six months off to travel. He had some pretty great stories. There wasn’t really the opportunity to meet a lot of the other backpackers. A couple Australian girls, who I’d talked briefly with, were going out on a pub crawl. (Given how I was feeling, I wasn’t about to do that). And most of the other travelers were Asians, who kept mostly to themselves. It was all good, though. I was looking to keep things pretty mellow anyway.

The evening, for me, ended quietly and with little adieu. I did a bit of reading before going to sleep at about midnight. And, given the general condition of my body, I slept pretty well. I slept in until ten o’clock, telling myself that I was sick and damn well deserved it! But at that point, I had to get up and get ready. I was going to meet my friend Anna, who was going to take me around the city. I met Anna in Australia when I was in Glebe Village (part of Sydney) for about two and a half weeks. I spent a good deal of time with a group of about four German girls while I was in Australia; Anna, and another girl, Anita, were the only ones I’d been able to contact. Anna is from an area just outside of Hannover (I think…), but she’d been studying in Berlin for the past year. I was excited to get a more local perspective on things, so after breakfast, I met up with her outside my hostel.

We walked around the city for about four hours, save for an interlude at starbucks (I was desperate for a mocha, I’ll admit it) and lunch at a Turkish restaurant (where I got this enormous kebab-like meal for two euros!). We talked a lot. Anna speaks English very well, so there wasn’t any kind of language barrier. She answered my questions about the city, but mostly we talked about what we were doing with ourselves—studies, jobs, living arrangements—that kind of stuff.

We passed by a lot of museums and state buildings. During the course of our walked, we passed the line of bricks that marked the former wall. We went by the Reichstag, which is one of the main museums here in Berlin; I’ll probably go there tomorrow. We visited Checkpoint Charlie, which, I understand is the only remaining checkpoint leftover. Mostly we just walked around and talked a lot about Berlin’s current cultural, education, and music scene. And that was fine by me. I’m probably going to take a walking tour tomorrow, and then I’ll get all the historic information. It was really nice to see a different side from the tourists, though.

We ended up at the East Side Gallery. This was a huge walk from my hostel, but it was good. I’m glad I actually took the time to go through Berlin instead of just taking the subway everywhere. The East Side Gallery is a part of the wall that was left standing as a reminder of the past, as well as a place to express themselves. People paint on the wall, depicting scenes representative of past and present. Some of the artwork was beautiful and quite impressive, and it was unfortunate that people felt obliged to graffiti over it. But then again, perhaps that’s part of what the wall represents. I’m not sure. It was really powerful, though, seeing something so entrenched in recent history. I haven’t been to see the 9/11 memorial, but I’m sure the effect would be equal. I can actually remember seeing stuff on the television about the wall coming down, even though I would have only been seven at the time. I remember it was a big deal. It’s amazing to see that remnants of something like The Wall, something so lodged within half a century of history. Dachau and the D-Day battle sites had a similar effect on me, though I felt more of a stretch to connect with those. They were further in the past and it takes a more vivid imagination. Still, it’s great to see such symbols of history.

Anna went back to her apartment and I returned to the hostel. I’ll be going over there for dinner with her and her roommates tomorrow, so that should be fun. When I got back to the hostel, though, I was exhausted. Between walking and being sick, I was ready for a nap. I did a bit of reading but soon slipped into unconsciousness. This lasted until about 6:30 when I managed to raise my Lazurian self from the dead. I made some food—the same exciting dinner as the previous night—and then when out for a wander. I went to look for a café that Anna said her friend liked, but it was quite far away and I didn’t really feel like staying after I got there. I have a very specific quality I look for in a café (I can’t say what exactly it is), and I didn’t find anything in the area that was to my liking. Most of the cafés were more of restaurants, so I would have felt a bit awkward going into them and plugging my laptop in for a bit of writing.

At this point, I’d been out in the cold for a while and my sinuses were beginning to wage their war. I decided it would be best to return to the hostel for warmth and a bit of tea. Danielle is still hanging around; he ate a bad kebob and was feeling a bit under the weather as well. Otherwise, things are pretty quiet here, and I’m happy with that. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll be through the worst of this.

Note: The computer I’m posting this from doesn’t have microsoft word so all the commas are replaced with weird symbol thingies. I’ll fix it when I have time.

Well, I’m sick again. Thanks a lot, Julie. I’ll get to that in a moment, though.

I spent most of my last full day in Prague hanging around the Shakespeare Café. I did quite a bit of work on my novel and did some reading as well. I negotiated for one of the books that I wanted from the bookstore in the back of the café. I traded in my pocket translation book (which carried with it a general air of uselessness) and a science book I’d swapped for a couple weeks ago. I’d not opened either book in about three weeks, which I thought was a sign that it was time for them to go. I didn’t get much for them, but it lowered the price of The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail enough that I was willing to fork over the roughly ten euros for it. I justified this, telling myself that the book would have been expensive to begin with, even had it not been an English book being sold in a foreign-speaking country.

I met up with Julie around 4:00 (I was still feeling fine at this point), and what should we do but go to another movie. Now, I must admit that I have a few moral compunctions nagging at me with regards to the four American movies I saw over a five-day period. I justify this course of actions in the simplest possible way: It was Julie’s fault. I might have gone to one movie on my own, yes, but she was sick and hadn’t yet infected me with her plague so I suppose I felt some degree of sympathy for her condition. If she wanted to relax and go to the movies, then I was happy to oblige.

We watched Thank You For Smoking, which was a parody on a tobacco lobbyist. I expected the movie to be funny and utterly without a message, but it surprised in that it actually had some snippits of moral and philosophical content. After the movie, we headed back toward the town. We went back to the cheap clothing store I’d visited the previous day. I saw some appealing shoes, but I decided to resist the impulse buy and to wait and see if I still wanted them tomorrow.

We went to dinner, where Julie had a salad (she’d finally resigned to eating well) and I had a pasta dish. Not a great meal, but still filling. Afterwards we returned to the hostel briefly, where I got a shower and she got online and where she finalized her arrangements to go to the UK. It seemed I would be going to Berlin alone. After that, we spent the rest of the evening at the Shakespeare Café, me writing and her reading (the tractor book again).

A strange experience worth noting: So while in the café, this girl came in at about 10:00. She sat in the corner and seemed determined to maintain a frown. She was not frowning at me, or anyone in particular, it was sort of a general expression of displeasure at the world. I found it odd, but thought nothing of it. Well, about half an hour later this old guy comes in, sits down, and starts talking to her. Well, it didn’t take long to surmise that he was some kind of cigarette-smoking, modern-day, Freud-like psychologist and had an appointment with the frowning girl. Aside from the apparent lack of “doctor-patient confidentiality,” we were, after all, in a small café full of people, there were several other oddities about this interlude. After a few words from the Praguian Freud, the girl set out telling her story, which included profuse amounts of drug use (starting at age 13 and including marijuana, speed, cocaine, ecstasy, to name a few), a massive settlement for a car wreck she’d been in (she refused the money), a marriage of convenience with a gold-digging husband (who she was no longer with), and a general opinion (for her part) that she had been clinically insane for the past two years and had created an alternate personality.

By the time this tale was spun, I couldn’t tell the wool from the spinning wheel. Needless to say, I’d stopped my writing. I tried not to eavesdrop, but it was basically impossible. Julie kept throwing me grins every time something strange or absurd would emerge from the girl’s mouth, so it seemed she was doing no better in her reading. I suspect just about everyone in the café was listening to this odd story. It was the kind of story you watch on a made-for-TV movie, or hear from your cousin who tells you that it happened to a friend’s brother’s sister-in-law. Actually hearing something like it firsthand was a testament to how crazy people can be and that weird shit actually does happen. I couldn’t decide whether to feel sorry for this poor soul who had apparently suffered so much, or to feel contempt and want to tell her to get it together. I think, in the end, I felt sorry. She was obviously suffering from schizophrenia or some equally debilitating mental illness and that it had ruined her life.

It became apparent to Julie and me that we were not going to get any more reading or writing done, so we left the café and headed back to the hostel. She was getting up earlier than me to catch her flight and wanted to head to bed. So we bid our farewells with promises that we’d meet back up in London with our other former flatmate, the Canadian, Cam, and have drinks before we all went back to separate corners of the world.

I went to bed, totally unsuspecting of the misery that was soon to creep up on me. At first, I was just uncomfortable and couldn’t sleep. I tried reading, but then my flashlight died. Afterwards, as I lay in bed, I began to feel this pressure on the side of my face, as though someone or something, let’s call Julie’s Malice, was over me and pushing down. Immediately, I knew that I was not to escape my week with my plague-ridden companion unscathed. Despite constantly washing my hands, avoiding touching my face, and drinking orange juice and eating well, I had caught “Julie’s Malice.”

When I was sick before, I rationed out my antibiotics so I’d have some just in case I got sick again, and now I was glad that I did. The moment I recognized Julie’s Malice for what it was, I started on the antibiotics, hoping to deter the malevolent infection. When I awoke the next morning, my suspicions were confirmed. I couldn’t breathe through one nostril and felt a niggling need to sneeze, though was never able to when I wanted.

I packed up, had an enormous (and healthy!) breakfast, and checked out of the Czech Inn. Over the course of the morning, that plugged nostril became unplugged and as one might expect, I was soon blowing my nose every couple minutes. Still, I preserved and contented myself by buying presents. I got those shoes I wanted and used the rest of my Czech coins to barter for a black t-shirt. It was a small but glorious reward.

Catching the tram and metro, I made my way to the train station, where I encountered no problem in procuring my ticket through the remainder of the Czech Republic. I had left about half an hour’s time for safety, and I used it, turning my attention to my new book.

I’ll leave you with that for now. More to come on the train ride to Berlin and my arrival at the hostel.

Wow, it’s been three days since I wrote my last blog, and what have I been doing? A whole lot of nothing. Which is exactly how I want it.

Today marks officially two weeks until I return. I’m 4/5 of the way through my trip. And my how it’s gone by. Even slow days, like those in Prague, seem to disappear like grains of sand through my fingers. Now then, let me get back to the story.

After that first night in Prague, I decided to book a couple more nights. I decided to cut Luxembourg from my trip and instead enjoy a few days of relaxation here in Prague. Unfortunately, the time for Julie has been anything but relaxing. She had been growing steadily sicker over our days in Vienna, and by the second day in Prague, she was positively miserable. Nonetheless, we decided to make a day trip to a place called Kutna Hora.

Kutna Hora is a small town about an hour outside of Prague. It was once the second biggest city in the Czech Republic but has long since outlived that reputation. It was known for two things—its silver mine, from which the town got rich—and “the Bone Church.” Of course, that’s not the church’s official name, though that is how it is now regarded.

In the town’s heyday, a man of the church was sent to Jerusalem on some business. When he returned, he brought with him a handful of dirt from the Holy Land. He then sprinkled that church over the soon-to-be graveyard, consecrating it as the most sacred of ground. Next thing you know, being buried in the Kutna Hora cemetery was all the rage. From the lowest peasant to the highest lord or lady, everyone wanted to be buried here, such that soon, they were running out of room.

Then the Black Death struck, overwhelming the town with bodies. Thirty thousand people died from the plague in the area. Now I’m a little unclear on the history here, but the gist of it is that because there were so many people in the cemetery already—and so many people currently dying—the church decided to set up a communal grave. This is not to be confused with a mass grave, which generally associated with the horrors of war and genocide. This communal grave was not to exist in the ground, however. Previously buried bodies were exhumed and their bones added to the massive number of bones remaining from the Black Death. With all these bones, the church was decorated.

Decorated probably isn’t the right word. Adorned is perhaps more appropriate. Giant pyramids—monuments to the dead—were erected inside the church. Skulls and crossbones covered the walls. At the entrance were two giant chalices composed of bones. Likewise, the coat of arms of one of Kutna Hora’s foremost families hung in an alcove, made also entirely of bones. Most impressive, though, was the chandelier consisting of every bone from the human body. Around it, chains of bones hung suspended, a grim tribute to the dead.

Despite what you might expect, the Bone Church is not awful to behold. The bone monuments do not stir up sickening feelings of morbidity, nor do they seem in any way to dishonor the dead. In fact, it’s really a striking sight. With these bones, something artistic has been created as a tribute to the dead. Instead of disappearing into the bowels of the Earth, unmarked and unnamed, the people who died continue to offer a reminder of the transience of human life and the precarious position we occupy as we tread across this mortal coil. It is not perhaps what many would want to become of their remains, yet maybe it is preferable to utter anonymity. Maybe it’s better to be part of something greater, a thing people can continue to appreciate, than to disappear into the cracks of time. I’d like to think so.

Julie and I got a bit lost trying to find the church, not an easy task in such a small town. Let it be known that where I thought the church was, was in fact where it was. But then she started second guessing me and we went off wandering in the wrong direction and eventually had to return to the train station and check the map. We ended up having extra time anyway, though, because there really wasn’t much to do in the town. We only needed about an hour to get to the church, see it, and return, and instead we had two hours.

We arrived back in Prague in late afternoon and went for a wander. We wanted to catch the sunset up at Prague Castle, so we headed toward the old city. All throughout Prague are buildings covered in statues of all kinds. Julie and I suspect that they come to life at night. We started making up stories for the different statues we saw. We arrived in front of Prague’s Clock Tower at about five o’clock and caught the cuckoo-clock-like mechanics of the device.

Prague is a very touristy city and it showed most in the main street and old city. On the main street, designer clothing labels like H&M, Lacoste, and New Yorker, lined the road. In the old city, windows hosted all manner of jewelries and gimmicky souvenirs. In the area we were staying, there were a lot less tourists, which was nice. But on our walk to the Castle, I heard more English than I did Czech.

We crossed Charles Bridge and checked out the stands of various artists and street vendors. I thought this kind of place was vastly preferable to the other shops, because each item had a certain authenticity. The items were hand-crafted (at least I believed they were) and made with a kind of uniqueness that was absent in the cookie-cutter souvenirs that lined most shop windows.

The view from the Charles bridge was great, especially as the sun was beginning to descend into the hills surrounding Prague. I took a lot of pictures. I don’t remember to story to it, but there’s a statue on the Charles Bridge and to rub part of it is good luck. I don’t know about the luck part, but it was pretty cool seeing the parts of the statue polished from the throngs of people who have touched it over the decades.

After crossing the bridge, we began to make our way upward. Prague Castle is perched on a hill overlooking the city, so it was a bit of a climb. We made it okay, albeit a little late to catch all of the sun setting. The view was still fantastic, though, and it was cool seeing the sun’s rays scattering across the city, casting part of the town in darkness and the other part in light.

We went about wandering the castle. Prague Castle is more of a series of antiquated buildings than a real castle, like Edinburgh Castle, for instance. It was free to wander around the area, though everything was closed. We saw the six o’clock changing of the guard. The guards kept grinning while trying to keep straight faces as tourists took pictures of them. It was pretty funny.

We took the old castle steps back down the hill and caught the tram back to our hostel. We were quite far away, by this time, and it was a long ride. When we got off, we were both ready to kick back. Julie was feeling worse and neither of us had eaten much during the day (I had the hostel’s all-you-can-eat breakfast), so we went for something quick and easy. I had a hamburger and fries at the hostel’s bar, while Julie had a sandwich. We didn’t know what we wanted to do with the rest of our night, but I’d noticed a cool-sounding café on the map that was very near our hostel. I decided I wanted to check it out, and Julie came along.

The Shakespeare Café boasts to be the largest English bookstore in Prague. That’s not saying much, but it did have a pretty good selection of English books, many of which were used. The café part of the store sold all manner of drinks, from beer and wine, to warm mead, to tea and coffee. I was excited to discover that they offered a “Seattle Mocha.” I have missed my mochas terribly. You see, they don’t know what a mocha is in Europe. It’s an American/Starbucks invention. This place had it though, so I was excited.

Now, it wasn’t as good of a mocha as I can make, and certainly fell short of the mochas of American cafes, but it sufficed. Julie had tea. For the rest of the evening, I wrote while Julie read some book about tractors in Ukraine. (Don’t ask me.) By about eleven o’clock, I was feeling my creativity burn out and Julie was feeling her life burn out. She was feeling much worse than at the beginning of the day. And so we decided to walk back to the hostel, whereupon she went to sleep and I stayed up for a little longer writing before also going to sleep.

The next day was even more uneventful. After another large breakfast (for my part), Julie and I went out to do laundry. Always exciting, I know. I did some reading and she went in search of a chemist (pharmacy) to get drugs for what was now becoming a full-on cold and sinus-infection. Needless to say, she was miserable. She was also upset because she didn’t know what her plans were. She leaves for New Zealand on the day after I return home, but between now and then, she didn’t know what to do.

After laundry, we decided to go do our own thing. She wanted to check out stores on the main street, while I wanted to explore the back roads and find the more out-of-the-way shops. We agreed to meet up at six o’clock. I returned to the hostel and then headed off in no particular direction. I started checking out all these cool pawn shops and bazaars. They had all kinds of cool stuff. Most of it was junk, but it was still fun. I found a clothing outlet store and bought a couple new longsleeve shirts for about ten American dollars. Out of random luck, I stumbled into this tent-like facility that had even cheaper clothes. They had fleece jackets for between ten and fifteen American dollars. I bought a couple basic T-shirts for about two or three dollars, and a couple long sleeve zip-ups for about ten dollars. I was pretty pleased at my discovery, not that buying clothing was exactly what I should be doing as my travel budget is dwindling. Oh well, when in Prague…

Prague wasn’t as cheap as I expected, actually. Aside from the clothing places I found, which were still about on par with the clearance section of department stores, everything was priced fairly equal to the U.S. I suppose with the advent of the tourist industry, Prague’s prices have swelled dramatically over the past decade. At least the beer and coffee was still cheap, though.

I headed back to the Shakespeare Café where I wrote for a couple hours before returning to the hostel to meet Julie. She was really a sinking boat. Not much was keeping her afloat except for the hope that she’d get an email from a friend and figure out her travel plans. Even that hope, though, was soon to go awry and she would be forced to adapt. I’ll get to that in a moment.

Because she was miserable and didn’t really feel like doing much of anything, we decided to head into town to go to a movie. We thought about getting dinner also, but after drinking a pepsi and having some free chips (they were giving them away at the movie theater), eating was the last thing I wanted to do. We watched The Devils Wears Prada, which just happened to be on a two-week sneak preview at the theater we were at. Of course, all the movies were about three months old by U.S. standards, but that’s the way it goes. The movie was good and afterwards we headed back to the hostel. From there, we returned to the café for about an hour and a half until it closed at midnight. I did writing and she read her tractor book.

She went to sleep and I stayed up until about 1AM reading before I eventually faded as well. Consequently, I got up a little later the next morning. Once again I had the all-you-can-eat breakfast at the hostel. It worked out pretty well, because I just stuffed myself and wouldn’t be hungry until dinnertime. While I ate breakfast, Julie worked out her travel plans. She was contemplating continuing on with me to Berlin, but after talking to her parents, she decided to catch a flight to the UK and meet up with some family friends until she got better. I have a German friend from Australia I’ll be meeting up with in Berlin, so it’s probably just as well that we split up. I just hope she gets better. (And I hope I don’t get sick with what she’s got.)

While she figured out her travel plans and went to the grocery store for some food, I headed back to what was becoming my favorite café of this trip. Maybe it’s the shelves of used books, or the fact that everyone who sits in the café also seems to work there, or the frequent dogs that follow people into the café—whatever it is, I really enjoy the Shakespeare Café. The only downside is no internet, but I can take care of that back at the hostel. Anyway, as you can see, it’s been a pretty quiet, uneventful couple days. I suppose Berlin and Paris will have a lot of sightsteeing, while Amsterdam will be another place like Prague. With only two weeks left, I’m keen to relax as much as I can and get as much writing done as possible.