It's a dog's life

June 26, 2001
Paris, France
"It's a dog's life"

Let's get into to it, you and I. Don't read any further if you're squeamish. If you're not, then let's talk about dogs. First off, I love 'em. I used to be afraid of them when I was younger, probably because one day when I was five years old the neighbors' German Shepard hurdled our fence and cornered me behind our fig tree. Thank God my mom was watching from the kitchen. She ran outside brandishing a broom and chased the beast away. I can remember afterwards walking to school with my knees knocking as I kept my eye on all the barking dobermans and German Shephards along my route, and I prayed the snarling beasts wouldn't jump their seemingly flimsy fences.

But later I grew to love dogs. I loved all my friends Labradors and Golden Retrievers and Beagles, and I especially love our own little daschund, Francis. She's gettin' pretty well on in doggie years now, but she's still pretty good at one thing, and that's leaving her calling card. That's right, her master bathroom is a patch of green grass in our backyard, and if you ever play a game of catch or pickle in my backyard I can guarantee you a 40% chance of stepping in a fresh deposit of daschund doggie doo. That's not appealing odds, and I can understand if you dont ever want to play catch at my house. I can't tell you all the hours I've worked away at the tread of my sneakers with a knife, digging like an archaeologist, and afterwards I just give up and blast the damn dirty shoes with the hose.

But, constant reader, I'm here to tell you that there are worse doggie-doo minefields then my backyard, and one of them is Paris. As you may know, the french love their chiens. They walk them everywhere. They take them to restaurants and on board trains. They treat them better than they treat tourists. You may have noticed that a new social ethic has crept into the city ordnances of many American towns, namely "thou shalt clean up after your dog with doggy wipes." Well, the French detest Americans, and they also detest any law that would stop them from allowing their prized pooches to crap all over a public street.

If you go to Paris, watch your step. It is a romantic city, but I'm sure nothing would sour your romantic mood more then sitting down on the edge of the Seine, digging away at your sneakers with a french fork. And if you need a hose, I don't think they would let your borrow one.

The Art of Eurail Travel

June 23, 2001
Lagos-Seville-Madrid-Paris
After five days of sun, surf, and sand in Lagos, I decided to get back up north to Paris and plan the eastern leg of my journey. Thus began my 24 hours of continent-crossing. I left the hostel at 6 am to catch the early bus back to Seville. As i walked along the Lagos rivermouth for the last time, I noticed the waves were actually breaking on the other side of the river. All week that upper beach lay quiet with a slight onshore breeze barely rippling the brillant mediterranean surface, but today I saw thick storm surf crashing on the shore, decent right-breaking sections and a couple guys were paddling out. So I snapped a few photos for the boys back home and reluctantly made my way to the bus station.
I had slept on the bus to Lagos, so this time i stayed awake and watched the Algarve coastline as we slowly made our way back to Spain. The Algarve is extremely beautiful; and there is much development along the coast ... newly constructed white villas with red tile roofs and shopping centers and gasp ... starbucks. It looked alot like recently developed south orange country, like Laguna Niguel, except for the occasional ancient castle jutting from a farmers field. In Lagos I did find some prime stretches of real estate on the cliffs overlooking the famous grottos, empty cow pastures with rotting abandoned cottages only a few miles out of town. If anyone has any venture capital they want to trust me with I think now is the time to start building vacation homes here for all the German tourists pouring into in Lagos every summer. The plan is to build now with escuchos and then sell next year in euros, once that currency is officially introduced as hard currency. So let me know.
We hit some bad traffic jams on the way to Seville, mostly farmers driving their ancient wagons to market on the tiny streets, and so I arrived at Seville at worst possible time, NOON. I forgot to tell you, Seville is hot. Hot dry, heat and it was 39 degrees C. 95F?
Imagine strapping 50 pounds to your back and hiking through Phoenix Arizona on a blistering summer day. Not very comfortable. I made my way by bus to the Train station and used my eurail pass for the super fast AVE train to Madrid. With the eurail pass I was able to get a 1st class seat, so I boarded the train dripping with sweat and take my seat, and plug in the complimentary headphones. After a few minutes I look around and notice Im sharing the car with a dozen businessmen in navy blue suits and I feel extremely out of place in my dusty cargo shorts and sweaty Tshirt. But that's backpacking. I ended up enjoying a nice airline food type dinner and watched Chicken Run in Spanish. Pollo Bilar? No, thats dance. My spanish is horrible.
We roll into Madrid about 6 pm, and I've only got forty five minutes to change train stations and catch the only overnight train to Paris. I didn't want to get stuck in Madrid for the night because of the heat, and I after two weeks of Spain I am was ready for something new: Fortunately, the Madrid metro line is new, clean, efficient and safe. I arrived at the train station with time to spare for a quick dinner, and then boarded the Paris train.
I had a bed in compartment that sleeps four. I shared the room with two long haired guys from Missouri who were sons of a pilot. They were huge metalheads, and I got to listen to endless barrages of Metallica and Iron Maiden escaping from their headphones. I admit it was fascinating to hear Maiden's Powerslave while watching the scenery from 'Man of La Mancha' roll by.
So now I am in Paris. I've been to Jim Morrisson's grave, the Effel Tower, Champs Elysee, and everywhere else. I'm staying in a dirty but cheap hostel on the right bank of the river, but I spend most of my time in the Latin Quarter, looking the million shops here or drinking coffee and trying to act French. Not really; though. The Parisiens have been nice so far, and everyone knows english, and if you really desperate to talk to an American all you have to do is wait a minute and you'll hear some Griswold type family stroll by on their way to the Louvre , father with the map, mom with a camera, teenage son frowning and listening to a walkman, and little ninos running off ahead and almost getting run down by mad parisien taxi drivers.

Why you can't watch American sports on European TVs

June 19, 2001
Lagos, Portugal"Why you can't watch American sports on European TVs"
I'm sure you're sick of hearing about the Lakers' Championship run, but let me tell you my story. First of all, I haven't seen a game since the Sacramento Series, mostly because Europeans don't care enough about American sports to televise them, and also because of the slight eight-hour time difference. Tip off at Staples Center begins here at three in the morning. So last Friday I found myself in Lagos, Portugal, on the eve of Game Five Lakers-Sixers. Lagos is an ex-pat town, crowded with Americans, Aussies, Canadians, and Germans so my hopes were high that someplace, somewhere would be showing the game.
I canvassed the town with little luck. Most of the pubs closed at two. Finally I found out about an all-night discotheque that would be showing the game. So there I was at tip off, leaning against the rail of the second floor of the disco watching the Lakers live on five Sony Flat screen televisions with a sea of dancing bodies below me, oblivious to the implications of the game. Since I was the only person watching, I did my best to represent Los Angeles. I cheered for Shaq's dunks, Kobe's breakaway three-sixties, and Robert Horry's amazing string of three-pointers. As the second quarter began two Portuguese clubbers asked me "Who are dese Lockers?" I just pointed to Shaq and said "Watch!" By half time the two Portuguese were shouting "Abrigado" and the three of us raised our glasses and cheered the men in purple half a world away.
As halftime came to close, the five beautiful televisions flipped to VH-1. My heart sank. I ran downstairs and appealed to the bartender, the doorman, and finally to the DJ, claiming "Please change it back! It's probably the last game!" They all just smiled, shook their heads and said, "Who cares? This is Portugal." So I left, and walked the streets of Lagos at 4 a.m. and finding nothing open, finally retired to my room in the hostel eagerly awaiting my journey to the internet parlor the next morning to read the ESPN NBA section. Well boys, at least I tried.

I've been in Lagos for five days now and I'll probably stay longer. Lagos is called the bottomless pit of Europe and I can understand why. People come here and get stuck. As I walk these cobblestone streets I am met by dozens of Americans and Aussies working here, passing out dinner coupons for restaurants, drink specials, grotto tours, anything and everything. Most backpackers work in bars and internet parlours, earning just enough escudos to pay for their cheap apartment. Others play guitar in the streets, make henna tattoos, hair wraps, or a dozen other hippie enchantments.

Lagos is a melting pot; a tiny Los Angeles. The Portuguese culture is hidden behind the blatant catering to Anglophone and Germanic Tourism. Signs are in written in ungrammatical English and Deutsche, and every attendant working here speaks both languages, as well as some French, Spanish, and Swedish. I ate dinner at a Gyro place, and as I waited in line for my kebab I heard the girl behind the
counter conversing in at least four different languages to various customers. "Ciao! Gratsi! Merci! Hej San!" I speak English everywhere and for the first time since London I am understood.
Should you go to Lagos? Definitely. The town is small, the streets are a maze of shops and eateries, and remind me of Indiana Jones wandering the streets of Cairo . . the same whitewashed buildings, the same dusty heat, the same baskets full of exotic wares. At the rivermouth you can hire fishermen to tour you through the grottos. That is what I did today. I signed on with a sunburned, scarfaced fisherman who looked like an advertisement for skin cancer. He buzzed us along the many private coves, hiding perfect white sand beaches, and the amazing craggy rock formations. When we reached the grottos he threaded the motorboat through narrow barnacled chasms into hidden grotto caves. The sea water in the caves glittered with the hint of buried treasure . . . and yes, it felt much like Pirates of the Caribbean, especially the beginning caves with the pirate skeletons and the piles of gold. I shared my grotto tour boat with a German couple, an Australian couple and so the Portuguese fisherman switched languages effortlessly. Such is the affect of tourism.

The Oldest Backpacker in Europe

June 8, 2001
FRANCE, CALAISQ: "Who was the Oldest Backpacker in Europe in 2001?"
A: Patrick, Age 70, from Northern Arizona

"Ya speak any English?" the old man barked at me. He sounded Midwestern, and by the Stetson on his old bald head I figured he was a Texan. "You bet," I said, smiling. I was happy to meet another American, even a 70 year old cowboy. "Son, that's the best thing I've heard all morning. Say, you know where I can get some French Wine? I wanna buy some before the train leaves?" I started to tell him about the supermarché right outside the Calais Train station, but he didn't hear me, I was talking to his bad ear. He switched ears and I started over but a little woman started hollering at him, "Patrick! Patrick! Come here. Train leaves now! I looked over and saw on old woman dressed in a purple jogging suit and a yellow bandanna over her hair. He laughed. "That's my girl. Always worried about the train."

I said goodbye and went to the ticket window to get a ticket to Paris. I bought a eurail pass and I wasn't exactly sure how to use it. Fortunately the French ticket handler knew what I wanted, and so he validated the pass and got me a reservation for the TGV train, the fastest train in Europe apparently. The route was Calais to Lille to Paris, and I had to change trains at Lille. So I took my bags and followed the French signs down to the trains.

As I was walking down the ramp I could hear Patrick ahead of me shouting "English is the best language in the world. These frenchies better start learning English . .we saved them in the war and they can't even bother to learn my language. Me and my wife, we're going to Germany lickidy split. Them Germans speak English. The Germans know who won." Patrick was chatting up a young brit couple on holiday. I joined the small group, and found out we were all waiting for the same train to Lille. After a few minutes the train arrived, and the British guy and I helped Patrick and his wife board the train and stow their luggage.

As the train rolled away from the station, Patrick saw I was reading "Tales of the South Pacific" and we had a long conversation about the war and the jungle. Patrick was in the Navy back in 1929, and said he saw USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor before the Japanese sunk it. He said the islands in the South pacific were beautiful, and told me to go sometime. I asked me why he was in Europe. He said they live in a small town in Northern Arizona and there's not much to do besides play bingo. His wife, she's a winner. She won 1900 dollars the week before, so they decided to pack there bags for a last trip. No travel agent, just up and went in the backpacker spirit. Said he wanted to see where his father was born. . somewhere in Austria. "I wanna see Europe, while I still can" he smiled. I admired his passion. Patrick is 78 years old.

The British couple had a similar story. They won free tickets for the Dover-Calais crossing, and decided to go to Paris for the weekend. So everyone was on holiday.

At the Lille station, the brit guy and I carried their bags to their train and helped them aboard. Patrick smiled and told me "ya see boy, I know how to travel. All I do is charm you youngsters and somehow I get by."

We said goodbye to the oldest backpackers in Europe and went to catch the train to Paris.

Bleached Hair at the End of the World

June 1, 2001
Cornwall, England
"Bleached Hair at the End of the World"
"Stay on the Left!" James kept shouting. It was good advice for the guy
behind the wheel of the little British car.

It all started when my friend James flew into Heathrow for a week's vacation. I met him at the Russell Square tube stop, and showed him around the city for a few days. We did the typical tourist London thing, hopping on and off the Tube, checking out sites like the Tower Bridge and Piccadilly Circus. It was a good introduction to the city. We even tried our luck at some of London's tackier attractions, most notably the Clink Prison Museum. This is a 5 minute walk through a few old dusty 17th century jail cells, with maybe one leg-clamp on the floor
. . . We felt cheated, but didn't want to say anything . . . it's hard to voice a desire to see more instruments of torture. . "Can you install some more iron maidens please?"

London is full of noise and traffic, dirty tube stops and millions of people. It has its sparkle as well, but after a few days here, I remembered why I didn't like Los Angeles. It's the city I was trying to escape. I needed to get out. James suggested we fly to Ireland, but I suggested we rent a car and drive out and visit Cornwall, which my parents highly recommended. Renting a car was more in my budget than the puddle jumper to Dublin, so we chose the car. But I didn't really think about the driving thing when the attendant said, "Sorry Lads, we are all out of automatics." The Car: A blue four door compact, A Seat Ibiza. Never heard of it.

It looks like something designed purely to save fuel. A Ford Fiesta or something ridiculous like that. But it didn't matter, the important thing was we had a car and an atlas and we were on the road. Well . . . almost. I know how to drive a stick, but driving a stick on the left side of the road is quite a different thing. You sit in the passenger seat, the gear shift is in your left hand, and the ignition is on the right . . . and lookout, you're in the wrong lane! At least the pedals were the same . . clutch on the left, gas on right, at least I didn't have to re-learn the friction point. We drove out of Heathrow, no problems, staying on the left, surprised that we weren't dead and then . . sooner or later we hit a Roundabout.

Roundabout? The only thing I know about roundabouts is there's one in Old Town Orange. A throwback . . a sentimental thing, but definitely not something engineers use to design modern roads. Not so in Merrie olde Englande.

With James pouring over the atlas, and me trying to keep the car in gear, we must have circled four of five times before finding the right exit. It was straight out of National Lampoon's European Vacation. But like the roads we eventually conquered the roundabouts, the motorways, the dual-carriage ways, and even the tiny one-lane hedgerows. Cornwall was beautiful. Exactly was I wanted to see. We drove past Stonehenge . . . just a tall pile of Stones sticking out of pasture. We snapped a few photos and moved on. The countryside changes as you escape London . The smokestacks are replaced by rolling hills, beautiful farmlands hedged into squares . . . one lane hedgerows so old the trees meet together above the car, creating magical verdant tunnels.

The road is blocked by a tractor, a farmer on his way . . but it doesn't matter. You've left traffic and road-rage behind on the 405 . . . this is the hedgerows and driving slow is okay because you don't want to miss it.

Cornwall stretches out like a finger pointing westwards. We drove the entire length, out to the end, Land's End. At the edge of the land we found a tacky tourist trap "Don't miss the Land's End multi-media show . .only 5£!!) Instead we walked along the green cliffs, until we came
upon Sennen Cove, a white sand cove with a lighthouse and a working harbour. We stuck our toes in the freezing water. The water was very clear . . extremely clean and we could see for miles. On the way back to the car we found bunnies scampering around the cliffs and curious black puffin-type birds and of course, the omnipresent seagulls . . with no significant difference in feature from those hungry beasts in the Newport Back Bay.

After Land's End, we drove to Newquay, the celebrated Surfing capital of England. This was an amazing town, we stayed at Matt's Surf Lodge for 20£ for a double room. The place was full of surfers from Australia and other places in the commonwealth, looking for waves. Newquay is perched above Fistral Bay, a perfect natural bay and we could see the beginnings of swells rising out of the distance. Unfortunately, the surfing is hit-or-miss, and we missed. On Thursday morning the waves were a miserable 1 foot little ankle biters, and no one but a few kids on
bodyboards paddled out. It didn't really matter, because there was much to see in the city. The town is fully dedicated to the surfing scene.

The shops along the main drag sell Quiksilver and Billabong, and boards for about locally shaped boards for 350£. The locals are tattooed blondes, riding skateboards in the streets, or beach cruisers and trading stories of surf trips to Bali, Shark Island, and California. I tried to get some local surf T-shirts, but unfortunately the whole town was devoted to surfing elsewhere . . . the local brands don't mention the U.K. or Newquay at all . . instead they say "Black's Beach, San
Diego" or "Surf Bells" and all are printed in garish 1980s day-glow. But the town was exciting, and James and I felt at home, sort of. The people were our people, sort of. At least we all loved the sea, even though we talked differently. Cornwall itself was a whole monument to "natural" living, with its long association with the sea and also the fertile farmlands. I am happy to report that some livestock have escaped the culling, . . we saw many sheep, horses, cows, pigs, HUGE pigs. James thought they were donkeys from the distance. I mean, they were huge porkers . . . bacon for months. The fear and hysteria over foot and mouth has cost the community. We saw "out of business" signs . . and they looked new.

So now I'm back in London, turned in the car and dropped James off at the airport. I am making my way to Dover now. I will attempt a channel crossing to Calais, and I expect to stay there tonight. I really need to practice my French. I booked a bed at the hostel in Calais, and the French woman on the phone didn't speak any English. So I had dig back into the dusty memory of high school French and pull a phrase together. I was very surprised because I thought everyone in France spoke English. I'm glad I found out now before I stepped on the Francais shoreline. . . but I am excited to try a new challenge, and to see some new culture. I
now say farewell to London and all of Britain.

Bon Voyage!