The Beginning

I feel as if to cap this blog I should write about how much I’ve grown and how much I’ve changed. Instead, I think I’ll just mention that I don’t want to leave. Less than 48 hours until I’m over the Atlantic, and it still seems as if it won’t come, as if I’ll still be here or the flight is just a necessary evil and I’ll be here once those million hours of Christmas travel hell are over.

But no, I’ve lost it. I found the peace, but when I know I’m being forced away, I lose it. 24 hours of exploration left, and I still have so much to do. Not sightseeing wise, since I’ve been to so many things in Paris, but just looking. I need to just look, and to have the opportunity to think, rather than grab it, and then lose it when I move. I can do this at home, but it’s just not the same, and I won’t have the direct access.

Hell, this has been the best four months of my young life.

I wonder how next semester will be? I hope you enjoy how different I feel I am.

Live, love, and learn, friends. I’ll see you in Texas.

Au revoir, Paris. And it’s true, je t’aime. Too much.

The Untitled

I’m finished. My last final was this morning, and now I have simply 9 more days in Paris until I go home.

How depressing.

What’s home? : Friends, family, stove, food, school, my life.

BUT, what’s not home? That indefinable quality that is necessary for any human being to survive. The seven letter synonym of life: purpose.

I thought I’m ready for Christmas, but I’m not. I’d give up Christmas and New Year’s and all the vestiges of my old life for a chance to stay a while longer. I’m comfortable now. It’s funny how you find your place only days before you have to leave it. Just settled into my body-shaped dent and now I must ruffle the sheets. And it fails again.

I’d write more, honest, but I don’t have it in me. I once again feel as if my roots are shifting.

It’s freezing outside, and finally my verbosity eludes me.

I love you, world. I’m finally here.

The Unjustified Rant and Incomprehensible Mumble

A month more, and I think I’m wrong again. And once again, it’s about everything. Not wrong, per say, but misguided. Stumbling to the beat of another non-existent Christmas drum. I’m down to three weeks left on my freedom and I realized I’m not ready. I’ve been living incorrectly, but I think I understand why.

I’ve spent my time feeling as if I needed to learn something life changing, that Paris would give me freedom, or inspiration, or catharsis, or perspective. And it can, but I’ve got to let go. I’ve spent 3 months, understanding that the life I’m leading is different from the one I’m used to, a more relaxed, open existence. A time when not much matters. But there is still something not quite right. Because, even though I understand this, I haven’t accepted it. I’m stuck trying to fit my life from home into my life here. And I’ve bastardized both. I lament the lack of cooked food, refrigeration, TV, desensitizing technology, family, friends, but I haven’t realized I don’t need those things here. That my semester abroad is supposed to be different, that I am supposed to get away from the United States, assimilate into a new life, and appreciate it. I still can’t do it though, I can’t just throw away what I knew and agree to be new. Like a phoenix, I should be reborn, but I’ve got to set my world on fire first, and I still haven’t figured out how to strike the match.

I’m getting desperate now. I’m struggling, I’m worried, I’m a mixture of emotions that I can’t identify. I’m tired of school, I’m tired of campus, I’m tired of food, of worrying, of finals, of reading, of thinking, of sleeping, of passing the day in an otherwise inane manner on a campus too far outside of Paris to be of any use to me. I hate business, food, need and winter, but I love winter, I love memories, and life, and laziness, and trying to relax, but I hate that I can’t do it. Too concerned with what it should be, rather than with what it is.

I’m not home, I don’t need those things, I don’t need to fit a typical day into life here. I won’t have room for an otherwise non-typical day if I do. Maybe these ideas are from the lack of travel. Since the break, I haven’t visited any other countries, and I don’t think I will now that my time comes to a close. Time has not slowed down, but it has gotten worse, because although it still travels fast, I’m stuck in motion on the wrong track. I love Paris, I love walking around at night, or sharing a drink with my friends, or just seeing some sight that I haven’t seen, but it reaches a point when I no longer care what I see. Impressionism is rococo is history is skyscraper is arch is shopping is croissant is movement is meaningless is school is day is number. I DON’T CARE! I want to be a bum, I want to struggle for my survival, and it’s because it boils down to the question that from which stems everything pent up inside. How am I supposed to spend 24 hours a day for the next 70 years occupied? How do I fill the day? Hobbies, cooking, eating, reading, sitting, sleeping, can only stretch so far. Life is too short, but that’s only because it takes us so long to reach the point. To accomplish anything. If I didn’t spend half my day piddling around, I don’t think I’d need more than 40 years to reach the apex. But I know, not even 200 years will be enough.

When I write, I start with an idea, and for a month, I haven’t even bothered to think of it. I’d love to be a writer, but even that’s not a viable career path. I want to be a thinker, I want to keep my ideas in my head, to contemplate them on my own. They run so fast, the only way I can remember them is to not try and document them but to piggyback them and hope for the best. A month has passed, and so much has happened that it’s not worth it to tell.

Clubs, walking, laughing, running, waltzing, prancing, singing, fun, friends, sights, and you’ve seen it, you’ve been there. You know me, because you associate your own ideas with mine, and even if I did tell you, you’d still be yourself and you’d still only remember yourself. A problem in itself. You can’t know me, I can’t know you, I love you and vice-versa but our selfishness and pride and contempt runs too deep. So I keep it to myself.

3 weeks and I cry, I trip, I die, and I refuse. But still it comes. Open my heart, my soul, my breath, my bed, and join me, for this is an adventure and I’ll be damned if it will be wasted in a sterilized room with nothing in it and no happy memories to keep. My hell, and I can’t wait to find Paris, just as soon as I get done with the unneeded responsibility of wasting my time.

I love the world, I love the people, and I love it, so I’m off.

Sometimes, I feel like apologizing for what I write, for the fact that I know it makes no sense, that’s its overdramatic, full of myself, and really, quite pretentious and full of a holier-than-thou air. But, ask yourself, do you really care what I’m doing, or would you rather learn for yourself? Don’t kid yourself, I do nothing for anybody else, and neither do you, but we understand that on a subliminal level that pervades everyone. I don’t ask you to understand me, I don’t ask you to care, I don’t ask you to read, but I do ask you to give me room, and to give yourself the chance. Think your gay for writing your feelings?...Your problem not mine, but I’m not affected, I’ve learned to let it go. I’m not ashamed, but you aren’t either, so stop pretending. Preach, brother, preach.

The Disappointment

Warning: No more posts like this, I can’t stand chronicling my exploits. I like writing to express, not to report, so expect nothing else. I’ll put pictures soon, some are just too good not to share.

Even now that the holidays are over, I still have no time to write. It’s not that school is busy, it’s just that time passes, and before I’ve realized it, two weeks have passed and the world wonders what I’m doing. Wait no more, for the light has come, and glory will soon be!

As I suspected, the week abroad (abroad from my French abroad) was on a scale that was far past measurable. The week passed too quickly, and I barely recovered from my bus ride haze to notice it waving. I did pick up some memories that I know will last a lifetime, the ones that you automatically store in the section of your mind reserved for your most precious and life-changing memories. Although, I must admit, that section is getting quite full, so I don’t know how much I can preserve, at least fully.

The 17 hour bus ride actually passed quite quickly. While I spent only a very small portion of it doing schoolwork, the rest was productive. About 5 hours into the ride, my French relative called me to set up my correspondence with my Czech relatives. Since my level of French is not high, and her level of English was not much better, we spent a good hour trying to understand each other and set up our plans. Finally, I talked to the guy sitting next to me, and he took the phone and handled everything. I was all set to take a train to a town to meet my family. The rest of the trip passed smoothly, and was spent sleeping a full night, and conversing with a French student and a Polish student on their way to Poland. If there’s one thing I can’t help but always notice, it’s that you can’t help but feel inadequate when a person has to speak your language, rather than theirs.

I arrived in Vienna (Wien, I soon found out) early in the morning, and I set out on my adventures. The first day, I spent my time walking around, seeing random landmarks marked on a map, because I didn’t have a clue as to what I was seeing. I visited the Belvedere to see Gustav Klimt’s masterpiece, The Kiss, along with the most famous church in Vienna, St. Stephen’s. I toured the opera house, and in the evening I sat outside the opera house and watched a live performance of the opera occurring inside on a big screen that have set up on the outside of the building. Of course, in between each of these visits to different places, I stopped for food and wound up eating 6 sausage hotdogs and plenty of apple strudel. The next day was much the same, at least as far as food goes, but I spent the day at Schonbrunn palace, Vienna’s equivalent of Versailles. While the palace grounds were smaller, I felt that this palace had much more to offer. In other words, a zoo. The Schonbrunn zoo, the first zoo in the world, was an amazing spectacle, full of every creature imaginable. An afternoon wasted there was no waste at all.

The next day, I travelled to Prague, the most beautiful city I’ve seen besides Paris. Its ancient architecture mixed with the new city piled on top was a great combination, and I’ve never seen such a pretty place at night. Of course, like with every place I visit, I had a list of necessary food that I had to eat, so I spent the day ranging from food shop to food shop in search of my next fix. Luckily, everything in Prague was much cheaper because of the absence of the euro. The first day, and the morning of the second, were spent sightseeing. From Charles Bridge to the Castle, I took it all in, and never enjoyed myself more.

On the second day in Prague, I was all set to meet with my long-lost family. Early in the afternoon, I set out on my journey, and two hours later after a small train ride and a car ride, I was in another car with my extended family on the way to their house in Dnesice, 100 km from Paris. Upon arrival, I was greeted with hospitality unbeknownst by most, and was given my favorite Czech dish, Dolky, although I’m not sure how to spell it. After that, I spent the next few hours communicating with Petr, his wife, and his son Petr. None of them spoke enough English for conversation, and I don’t speak Czech, so our communication relied mostly on hand motions and the few words we do know.

The next morning, my only full day with them, I was shown around the Czech Republic. I was taken to Plsen, home of the Pilsner beer factory, and once more I was treated like a king. They took me to the line of demarcation in Roxycany, where the American troops had met the Russian troops at the end of the second world war, and consequently where my grandmother and grandfather met, and then I was driven through the town where my grandmother grew up. It was strange, seeing the direct line of my heritage and ancestry, but it was gratifying, knowing that I do have a homeland. The rest of the day was spent eating in a restaurant and at pubs sharing a few beers with young Petr, as his friend translated conversation for us.

Unfortunately, the next day I had to leave, and I returned to Prague for a few hours before I headed back to Paris. The Czech Republic was wonderful. It was exactly what I needed to prepare myself for the last half of the semester. Seeing my extended family treat me as their own just reminded me how deep bonds can run. I was instantly accepted, just like I instantly accepted them. I felt like young Petr was my brother and that his parents cared about me, and it was surreal, knowing that I was finally completely safe, with someone to turn to if things exploded. It was a special privilege, being in a foreign country and meeting distant family, and yet feeling at home all at the same time.

The vacation was not over though, and it was sure to get more interesting. Upon my return to Paris, I immediately set out for the city, where I spent the next two days staying at the apartment of a friend of a friend. It’s the first time I’ve actually lived in Paris, and it was the most amazing living I’ve done. The first night was uneventful, but we cooked fajitas, and home-cooked food has never tasted quite as wonderful. The night was spent out, walking around and seeing other friends. The next morning though, was the important part.

We woke up at about 8 in the morning and immediately set out for the nearest market. After browsing through the market for about an hour and collecting a random assortment of food items for breakfast, we made it back to the apartment, eager to eat our breakfast of bread, cheese, sausage, pastries, chicken, vegetables and jams. After setting everything out, we commenced eating, and two hours later we were finished. It wasn’t due to the amount of food though, because there was not much, but the atmosphere of the meal. I was French for those two hours, savoring the time I was with my friends, and just really relaxing for the first time. Time passed, but I had no care in the world, and none of us were willing to break the passage. It was gratifying, and it was a release. A release from the stigma that eating is not a part of life, but an evil that must happen every few hours. That meals are just for eating. But I finally understood a part of French culture. The culture of enjoying your friends, the morning, and life in general.

After this two hour cathartic lesson, I spent the rest of the day in a haze, seeing the city for the first time. I spent the afternoon in the Marais, another famous section of Paris, and at the famous Parisian mosque (featured in Paris, Je t’aime), where I had amazing Moroccan pastries and mint tea in the mosque’s café. It was a morning that lasted all day.

At night, after cooking about 15 pounds of stir-fry and eating it all, we three dressed up and headed to a Paris nightclub for a Halloween adventure in the city. In my spiderman costume, not only did I feel completely normal in Paris, but I also felt strangely alive, like I was studying abroad and doing the memorable things that I would tell my children. Every French youth was yelling at me, and though I couldn’t see through the mask, the metro was full of “Speedermahn, Speedermahn!” It was fun, doing something Parisian. The night was long and the dancing intense, but we finally made it to bed around 5 am.

Since then, I’ve been sitting in Jouy, doing schoolwork and relaxing. With one of my only finals past, and only a handful of simple assignments for the next few weeks, I have an open schedule. Tomorrow is Paris, for an exploration of a museum or the city. Friday, I start the best class HEC offers,
Wine Marketing. I spend the weekend learning about wine, how to taste, and how to sell it. It should be an interesting weekend. Saturday night, the international students are spending the night in Paris in a club, and then the week starts over. I was so relaxed by this weekend, that I’m not sure I want to travel anymore. I’m happy, and it only took me half of my trip to realize what it was that would make it permanent.

I don’t think I’ll be writing too often from now until the end. And certainly not like this. I don’t enjoy summing up my trip, I want to write about how I felt, to imbue you with a spirit of the rush that I feel. But I can’t. I can only give advice. The advice to come, to take whatever chance you have, and go to the place you’ve been most wanting to visit. The place where you think you’ll find happiness. Chances are, you’ll find it if you are willing to look for it. So please, make yourself happy, because I plan on doing nothing else.

The Maturity

Written on a bus from Paris to Vienna, 5:56 p.m.

Warning: Due to my inability to write for the last few weeks, this post is extremely long. So, take your time, read the parts that interest you, and please understand that this is but a fraction of what I could say. I’ll write more often, but even then I can’t promise a lack of verbosity.

As time drips through my fingers, I’m finding it much harder to write. Not for lack of anything to say, though, but because the chance to sit and contemplate and record has not yet presented itself. However, as I sit in a bus, a mere two hours into my 17 hour ride, I find myself with not much to do, but plenty to say.

Two weekends ago I was in Brussels. Last weekend, London. This week, Vienna and Prague. Moving, moving, moving, and I miss the chance to sit still. It’s the thing I miss most, the ability to relax, to not move, to laze the day away because I have an endless supply of similar days ahead of me. Unfortunately, for the time being, they are all behind. With two months in, and only two short months to go (exactly), I have to take what I can get. I have to absorb Paris and Europe through every pore in my body, all day every day, because chances like mine are slim, rare, and meaningful, at least to me.

I miss other things too. The ability to cook my own food, beef jerky, Jell-O, the sunny weather, access to books I’ve been yearning to read. Most of all, I miss my family and friends. The Sundays I spend at home with my mom, relaxing after church, competing on Bejeweled, watching football, napping all day on the couch and enjoying each other’s company, even if we don’t talk. Or the nights and weekends with my best friends, spent doing nothing but sitting, watching movies or acting stupid just for the sake of satisfying our own inner children. I miss Andrew, Brett, Andrew, Steve, Curran, Emily, the girls, my gym, my life, and the ease with which I live it. I don’t want to go home though. If I could, I would just transfer them here, everything I miss, and integrate them with the new things, the new way of life, the darker weather, the drearier days, the wonders of each new city and each feeling associated with all of my wanderings.

Most of my sadness comes from nostalgia though. The way I remember things, no matter when they occurred, or even if they no longer exist. I want cartoons, a lazy afternoon playing with Legos or swimming in the bay. I want Christmas, the stress of finals but the knowledge that I’ll spend most of my studying time wasting days with my roommates, which in the end, is no waste at all. Cookies, Christmas films, Christmas music, a tree, the feeling of love and compassion. I miss the simplicity of life, and even though life was never simple after childhood, I still feel as if I had the connection. I miss someone to share my sadness with, my happiness, my triumphs, failures, and circular voyages. People with which to share myself, give myself, because after all, no man is an island.

Maybe this was the sort of change I was looking for. Not the type of change where I see the world in a different light, but maybe the realization that the light I see is the light I love. Maybe I’m setting my priorities straight, seeing what my life should be, and it has nothing to do with the money I make, the job I have, my career path, or what I own and what I’ve seen. It’s my relationships, the parts of me that belong to other people. The slice of my ego, my love, my heart that every person I know has a claim to. I’m not just me, I’m everyone, and this sojourn without myself, without others is ripping the preconceptions from me, and giving me what I’ve had all along.

I already am who I always was. I’ve struggled so hard to better myself, to change myself, change my personality, that I didn’t even realize that I don’t need to change, I just need to mature enough to understand myself. I’ve spent so much time fighting, thinking that if only I could cultivate my image how I wanted it to be, that I would be that person. That if I pretended not to be upset, then I wasn’t. That anger was a sign of weakness, that pain was for the stupid or the unknowing, that love didn’t exist, selfishness was the highest ideal, and ultimately that I was superior because of my thoughts. But I’m not that person. I’m normal. I exult, I pout, I cry, I laugh, I miss, I wish, and I love. Just like everyone else. Why can’t I ever just acknowledge how I feel, why must I try to feel how I thought I should?

When you sit on a bus, and you know you have a wonderful 14 hours ahead of you of inactivity, your mind has quite a bit of time to wander.

Brussels and London are by far my two favorite cities I’ve visited aside from Paris. The weekend in Brussels was spent eating chocolate, waffles, and chocolate waffles. The city itself is quite old, much like any European city, but for the first time, Brussels had a distinctly European feel. It was exactly how I imagined Europe. It was a quiet town, not too full of tourists, not too full of natives, and a wonderful place to live. The city centre was exactly that, a centre, and I felt as if each road pulled toward the square.

I was reminded of Venice as well. In Venice, St. Mark’s square is the apex of the city, the crown jewel, and the starting point of the city. It was the same with Brussels, with the square constituting the beginning of each crossroad into the surrounding countryside. Like an onion, each successive layer outside of the square was more rural, more relaxed, and in my eye, more European.

The first day I went to a few museums and the European Union headquarters, and spent the rest of the day walking and eating. I don’t really remember the sites though, because they weren’t important as compared with the insight. It was the most relaxed I’ve been in Europe, even more so than the black beaches of Santorini, or among the stunning history of Rome. An eternal rain plagued the city all weekend, but it felt natural, as if rain was how the days passed, and without it, time would have stopped.

That night, we visited a very famous bar in the city centre. Belgium, aside from its waffles and chocolates, is known for its beer. In this bar alone, over 250 types of beer were on tap or available in bottles, and overall, the bar had 2500 types of beer in its cellar. Ranging from the bland to the exotic, it was quite an experience. As a group, we bought many different flavors of beer, and proceeded to pass the bottles around, taking a swig and comparing. From coconut to mango to chocolate to berry, the flavors were strange and the tastes were delightful.

My favorite part of Brussels though was the food. I have never tasted a waffle as delicious as one freshly made, with a score of bananas, chocolate, and whipped cream on top. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a waffle decorated in such a manner. Belgian waffles though, pale in comparison with the real Belgian gem, chocolate. On every street, in most sections of town, there was a chocolate store every 30 feet, and each one contained its own special brand of chocolate. I ate truffles, flavored chocolate, alcoholic chocolate, sweet chocolate, nutty chocolate, and just plain chocolate, and still I couldn’t get enough. I was sad to leave, but I knew it was necessary. It was the first time in a long time that I went a day without any sort of protein intake. Body be damned, it was worth it.

London, in a sense, was the exact opposite of Belgium. The city itself, though not quite alive in the same way that Paris is, holds its own secrets, which unfortunately I didn’t have the time to discover. A friend warned me before I visited that many people prefer London or Paris, but not both. Unlike Paris, London is modern, an old city revitalized and given the touches of the new high-tech society. I found it exactly as described then. But it was wonderful.

I spent most of the weekend by myself, even though I travelled with friends. Due to a combination of our extremely late nights, and my characteristic ability to not only function on little sleep, but also to wake up extremely early with no prompting, I was off on my own well before my companions woke up. London is a big city, so a good majority of my time was spent walking from museum to museum, but with only myself to entertain, I was able to understand the city much better than if I had been surrounded by friends.

As a city, London is a very expensive place to live. While the food is cheaper than Paris, unfortunately the attractions are not, and based on my status as a student, I decided to take the free tour. All of London’s national museums are free, so aside from seeing the outside of some of the bigger tourist destinations, including Big Ben and The Parliament, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the London Eye, and the London Tower, I spent my time in the Natural History Museum, the National Gallery, and the British Museum. I went to King’s Cross to see the famous Harry Potter platform, visited the original Magna Carta right next door at the British Library, and was able to see an extensive gallery of paintings by many master’s in the National Gallery.

It was strange, too, being once again in a country where English was the primary language. I no longer had the worry of not making myself understood. Strangely, I felt as if the British were my long lost brothers, separated at birth, but with a similar understanding of life. I guess it was the American in me reaching to the surface.

London was the opposite of Belgium in terms of food. In the UK, the food is hearty, meant for the working man. It’s full of meat, cheese, and potatoes, and everything I’ve loved about food. I gorged on steak pies, chicken pies, and fish and chips, and like Belgium, still I couldn’t get enough. I felt ready to work in the field, to labor over a farm, to plow a harvest. I also ate in the stereotypical English pub. The lighting was dim, the pub was old (formerly the site where Henry VIII denounced his marriage to Catherine), and the food was delicious. It was quite cold outside, so the mug of apple cider I had was especially fitting.

On Saturday night, we went to the Ministry of Sound, a very famous club in London’s centre. The boys snuck in for free, we managed to find free drinks, and after 4 hours of dancing and chatting, we finally retired to our beds. Only later did I find out that the club was well known over all of Europe, and is a must visit for any club-hopping fanatic.

In the two weeks that have passed, I’ve had the opportunity to explore Paris as well. I’ve yet to see all of the major tourist sites, but as soon as our school break is over, most of my time will be spent in the city itself, enjoying and relaxing and exploring and knowing. Even with two months, I don’t think I have the time.

Now, I’m off to Vienna and Prague, for the first time travelling by myself, which should be an experience unto itself. Truthfully, I’m scared to be by myself. I have yet to travel without a companion, and even if in the past I lost him for the day, I at least found myself with somebody to get dinner with in the evening. No doubt, another growing experience, I’ll finally be forced to take care of myself, to solve the problems without support, and to entertain my mind with only its own thoughts. However, if there was one place besides Paris I would like to be without others, it would be in Prague. My family is Czech, and I was raised with many Czech cultural ideals, so I’m looking forward to finding my heritage, and more importantly, meeting my Czech relatives. I’ll be able to compare my grandma’s Czech cooking with the cooking of Prague, and even though I know that Prague stands no chance, it will be nice to have a flavor of home, and a taste of what is to come at Christmas when I finally return to the U.S.

Warning! This post is dreadfully unfinished. Without a clear focus, there was no end in sight.

I know, my dear avid readers, that you are expecting another wonderful insight into the workings of our universe. A metaphysical journey so intense, so euphoric, that suddenly life as you know it ceases to exist and you are you, ready for the fight and yearning for blood, willing to rip the throat out of any unfortunate soul that happens to cross your path and fire your soul. But today I disappoint.

Originally this blog began as the brother blog to my lifetime roommate's musings and complaints about an otherwise dreary existence (please visit http://www.pishowish.blogspot.com/). However, after soon realizing that Andrew had no intention of posting (until now) and I had no chance of developing a loyal readership, my writings evolved from the sad attempts to match his humor to an otherwise indecipherable babble.

Even now I'm stuck in limbo, a midway point between his crisp writing and my own ideas. I want to write my thoughts, but I also want everyone to realize how funny, attractive, and intellectually superior* I am when compared to my Rambo-esque rock of a roommate.

With his writings so awfully contradictory to my own, I shout to the world my own ambivalence and my own love for life, as evinced by my off-the-beaten-path response to his last post. I'm a full person, not just a tormented soul looking for love in my own loveless way. I laugh, I cry, I smile too much, I'm wracked with wonder, need, and hunger, and an ever-growing yearning for my humorless roommate. Even with our forced bonding over the last two years, our ups and downs, our fights, our resolutions, our Gauntlet Legends still-in-progress adventures, I find if I had a choice of people to take on a trip with me (granted I could ditch him if need be), he would be a top choice.

However, as our original plan was to out-perform each other in areas where neither of us succeed, I will continue to wage the war.

This weekend I drove to Munich. What was meant to be a nice, scenic 8-hour drive through the rolling foothills of the Alps to Germany, turned into a 12-hour extravaganza. By the time we arrived at our hotel (of which only I was supposed to be staying), it was almost morning. So, after a short ninja mission sneaking each of my friends into my room, we all crashed on the same bed, squished as sardines, and eagerly awaited morning.

Oktoberfest! A writhing mass of humanity all gathered for one purpose. That purpose, you ask? To drink? NO!! To party? NO!! Bratwurst? NO!! Camaraderie! Thousands upon thousands of potential friends, all ready to be met and to make stories with. At 10 in the morning, I was in a tent, sitting with strangers and enjoying the most delicious beer. It tasted more like love. By 10:30, the tent was chanting, a smoky haze had descended, and I was deep in conversation with my new German friends. Soon, we were all standing on the tables chanting German verses and singing as loudly as we could.














































After a few hours of intense mingling, and smuggling giant mugs out of the tent, my fellow travelers and I retired to the fairgrounds, a wonderful earth-bound heaven of souvenirs, lieder-hosen, bratwurst, and grilled chicken. Within hours, I managed to eat my own bodyweight in food. Soon after, we retired to our hotel, out of energy and full of life.

The next day was spent exploring Munich. I visited more churches, and even though I am pretty tired of churches at this point, the German churches were very interesting. Many had been almost completely destroyed by WWII, and inside the vestibules of these magnificent cathedrals were pictures depicting the before, after, and restored pictures of each church. I can only imagine how devastating the war was to Europe.



















The church visits were followed by a stroll through the English Gardens of Munich, a massive park complex, full of kite-flyers, dog-lovers, and naked people. It was strange to see naked men walking around, butt after a while, they became just a strange piece of scenic backdrop. The 8-hour drive home once again took 12 hours, full of high spirits, tired bodies, and enough caffeine to fuel an army. The perfect end to a perfect weekend.















I’m realizing that it is difficult to write as the semester progresses. Even now, I think about when I’ll have the time, and I draw a blank. Today, I visit the zoo, tomorrow, Montmartre, this weekend, Belgium, next weekend, London, the week after, Austria and the Czech Republic. Sprinkle in my minimal schoolwork, my socializing with the local students, and my explorations of Paris, and I’m positive that I need an extra day or two a week just to fit everything in. I’ve never been moving so quickly, nor so firmly. Really, I wonder if my body and mind can take it.

I’m not complaining though.

*As mentioned in http://www.pishowish.blogspot.com/, this fact was proven by an undeniably accurate online IQ test. I scored almost 3 points higher (2, in fact) on the multiple choice section. If there had been a oral comprehension or picture matching segment, I'm positive that I might have scored a similar score to him as well.

The Ideal

Sometimes I wonder if anyone can really connect with the past. For years, every child is taught about humanity’s past, from her most gruesome wars to her sweetest achievements, but can you really understand it? I know that the Egyptians existed, or that the Romans controlled the known world for quite a long time, or even that World War II began 70 years ago, but I’m not sure if I accept it. As children, we digest these “facts”, these pasts, but I doubt if one person truly believes that they happened. It’s unfathomable. In Texas, the land I know was once traversed by men much as myself, with their everyday dreams and aspirations. Here in France, I’m attending school where barbaric Germanic tribes once lived. Except I don’t believe it. There is only me, the here and now, my thoughts, my wishes, my actions, and nothing else. These men never knew me, never knew that I would exist, and only I’m stuck with the unfortunate truth that I have to know them. Who cares if you once existed where I now walk?

When I’m dead, this world will no longer apply to me. But for now, it’s mine. What I think, feel, say is completely mine, and the way I interact with the world is the only correct way, at least for me. No one else’s world exists, and I won’t believe it if I hear it. Out of sight, out of mind. If I leave one room, it has vanished into nothingness until I call it forth again, ready to give it a place in my day. As it is with everyone, a virtual reality, a shimmering illusion. How can you not be inherently selfish if the only thing you know is yourself?

It’s funny though, these self doubts that plague your life. The nagging voice crying to you that you might be living your life wrong. Is it true? Am I approaching the problem from the wrong angle? Have I closed my eyes just enough so that I only see one path venturing into the darkness, so I believe it’s all that exists? It’s not wrong if it’s what I’m doing. If I know nothing else, then so be it, I’m where I am, where I should be, in the only place I could ever find.

Every misspoken word, every unhappy moment is not a misstep or a wrong turn. It’s the pathway. But even then, “pathway” is the alien, the anathema, the contradiction to what life is. There is no pathway, because that implies you are going somewhere. You’re already there, I’m already there, and we have been since we created this world for ourselves. It’s the ever-changing set of circumstances, a scene change with each word. A life at once fulfilled, complete, and yet nowhere near finished. Absolute zero, a lack of motion, infinity, total annihilation, all impossible.

Paris. I’m content, unfathomably happy, yet closed. The catch to spring the release is still missing, hiding in the city, and only more time will make it visible. How can one city truly be the ideal that is the wreathing mass of humanity? How can one city hold every dream, every hope, every need? If word got out that the city was an answer, it would cease to be. Beauty, full unbridled beauty, passion, regret, need, compete for air, for life.

I want to stay here.

The Wanderings

I spent the weekend on-the-go. Saturday morning, I woke up and found my way to Montmartre, the true undercity of Paris. The place where artists, writers, bohemians, lovers, and searchers go. Walking around, seeing the world famous Moulin Rouge, the Sacre Coeur, the seedy sex shops, the cafes, I was at once relieved, and at once immediately at home. I feel as if I can’t even begin to really see the city until I’ve finished site-seeing. The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Musee d’Orsay, all calling, needing to be seen before I can let go and find my true Paris.

I could spend a year just walking the streets, absorbing he ether of life, of fellow people, but real people.

On Sunday, I visited Giverny, the hometown of Claude Monet. His house and garden, largely kept the same as when he lived were beautiful. The garden itself was full of hundreds of blooming flowers, and the house full of blooming Japanese landscapes. I saw the bridge where he made his most famous impressionist paintings, as well as his lily pond that he is so renowned for. All in all, a wonderful excursion, a nice way to spend the day and reflect.

Tomorrow morning, I am heading to Paris to visit a museum. I haven’t decided yet which museum, but I feel the need to get away from people and spend a quiet morning with myself, recalibrating my mind.

I feel as if each day spent on campus is a waste of my study abroad experience, and I refuse to spend one second longer here than I must. My explorations start now, and school be damned.

A picture bound exercise for clarification:

The Beauty

The following group of pictures sum up my exploits throughout Europe thus far. Unlike my nonsense, they express my journey much more eloquently than anything I could think to say. From Athens to Corfu to Rome to Venice, there isn't anything much better.

The Inspiration

Warning: This post is full of nonsense, no substance, and no meaning. I hope you enjoy.

How significant is all of this, our world? I’ve been struggling with this same question for a while now, and I’m still no closer to a definitive answer. The answer’s a snake, a massive python that I must find, but I’m stuck searching with my hands in a murky swamp during the night, worrying about the possibility of being bitten. It’s frustrating. I have no flashlight, and I’m not even sure I’m in the right swamp, but I have no choice but to stumble on. I find myself convincing me that my life is but a single grass blade in the largest field. Is it really necessary that I find “success” for an otherwise normal existence? Or that I am the best in what I do, when so many others have and will come before and after? I have trouble connecting my daily actions with the insight into how they are really helping me. I feel as if my time is being sold for less than its worth, and all I’ve been given are IOUs to be redeemed at a yet-to-be-determined future date. Maybe the answer to life is to understand your unimportance, and accept it. My only chance is flying from my grasp, and instead I’m oblivious that the only right I need is being stripped from my being, but it’s by my own doing, as I sit dumbfounded, distracted, anaesthetized, broken from head to toe, immersed in a viscous fluid that has me pasted to the wall that I’m only more than happy to stare at while every star, sun, rainbow, supernova, fusion, every strand of music, hair, beach, meaning, is flashing behind my head, but my eyes are so close to the wall that I can’t even make out the vague shadow of the fireworks on display behind me, I’m only obsessed with a dirt spot that’s become my love, my passion, my understanding, and my universe. I need a titan to force my head away from the wall and to turn around, but it’s impossible because I am the titan and even now I divert my energies to the spot, which is never-moving and always changing to be whatever I think I need, if only to keep me distracted long enough to destroy all things.

It’s difficult to feel significant when you spend your time walking around a city such as Paris. Miles of roads, people, and buildings stretch in every direction, and without a sense of where you are going, it can be quite easy to find yourself lost. Sometimes though, that’s exactly what a person needs, a chance to escape.

Already I can feel the change, the freedom that comes from a city where time moves on its own, and no one questions why it doesn’t move faster. I spent last Saturday exploring the city, and throughout the entire day, I accomplished nothing of importance, which meant absolutely everything. I found a book, a croissant, a jazz band under the Eiffel Tower, a lost Parisian on the metro, a police officer who knew I was hopping trains, and a lifetime of freedom and space, and not once did I think about what I needed to do or what I needed to learn.

School has started though, and once again the battle between work and life has commenced. It’s a natural tendency to feel overwhelmed when suddenly you have assignments, but I feel as if now, things are a bit less pressing. Unlike many international students, I have classes every day, which means my weekends are only the normal length. I’m terrified that I won’t be able to visit even a fraction of the places I would have liked to see, if only for time constraint. As a beginner to my travels though, I will spend the weekend in Paris, exploring and learning as I go. I only have to survive a few more simple classes until then.

The school itself is very nice. It’s located in the countryside in a very small town, but even though it’s a bit out of the way, I am excited to experience my very first fall. The trees are changing colors and the temperature is dropping, but everyone is beaming and we are alright. Drinking is heavily encouraged here, mainly due to the fact that there is no supervision on campus and nothing else to do in town, but it really does bring everyone together. I spend every waking hour socializing, and I anxiously grasp every minute I have to relax because it’s rare that I shift my gears to a lower setting.

In the upcoming weeks, I hope to visit more of Europe. Brussels, Prague, Vienna, Amsterdam, London, Luxembourg, Geneva, Munich, and Madrid are all on the list, but I don’t think I have the time for everything. Between travels and exploring my Paris, I barely have time for school.

Everyone is wonderfully beautiful here, both mentally and physically, international and French. It might be that I’m merely intoxicated with being in France, but I have not found any person that doesn’t positively contribute to my life. I’ve found friends from France, Brazil, Japan, China, England, Scotland, Sweden, Russia, Canada, and other states around the U.S. With so many nationalities in one place, a flavor distinctly different from what I’ve experienced is created. I’ve learned as many things about the French as I have about any other country, but I find that I don’t mind. Studying abroad is a brilliant opportunity for meeting the world and putting a toe in the water without fear of drowning.

I’m not sure what’s to come now that I’m settled, but I think it is unlikely that anything will slow down. If anything, I’ve found a clear lane with no roadblocks, and I’m preparing to floor the accelerator, with no intention of stopping, but only the desire to see, and to hear, and to touch as I pass by. There’s no need to fill my gas tank, since the sun, the stars, and Paris are all that I need.

The Transformation

Written on a train from Venice to Paris, 9/15/2009 at 10:12 p.m.

With every mile traveled and every step taken, the world slowly drips off my shoulders. How can I write myself a new beginning? I’m Atlas, but instead, I find myself taking a knee, passing the world to the next unsuspecting soul that stumbles through, and suddenly, I find my life is my own.

It’s intimidating, knowing that there is no veil between you and the world, no harness to keep you seated , no emergency break to slow you down. If you crash, it’s because you were too drunk at the wheel, too hell-bent on the destination, too paralyzed to raise a finger. Moreover, it’s releasing. I’m learning, but on my own schedule, and only about my own world, no one else’s.

Italy was amazing. Surrounded by religion, I don’t understand how someone’s faith couldn’t be restored, or strengthened, or even awakened. Even outside of the Christian tradition, a certain holiness emanates from a church such as The Vatican. Buddhist, Hindus, Muslims, Jews, and Christians alike would all be able to find a common ground within these places, where instead of hell being preached as an ultimatum, love, forgiveness, and brotherhood are the central tenets. Finding myself in the pews of these ancient churches, I couldn’t help but kneel and give my thanks for the life I’ve been given, and the world that’s been made. It was a spiritual awakening, even if I didn’t fully understand it.

Besides the churches, I saw an abundance of amazing religious art, of which the highlights were The David by Michelangelo, Madonna and Child by Leonardo Da Vinci, Laocoon, and of course, the Sistine Chapel. Other highlights included the Uffizi gallery, Titian and Tintoretto’s masterpieces in Venice, and a modern exhibit in Florence’s Galleria dell Accademia depicting the movement of the human body in a series of snapshots (not religious, but still linking the body and mind).

My favorite part about Italy though, was of course the food. Never in my life have I consumed so much pizza, pastries, pasta, or gelato, and never again in my life do I think I will again. On the average, I ate every hour, and even then, I wasn’t satisfied. With so many choices of food and flavors, I was upset that I couldn’t try each and every one. With this much trouble in Italy, I can only imagine how unrestrained I will be in France.

Overall, Italy progressed much more smoothly than Greece. Every night, I slept in a bed, and even now, as I sit on a train from Venice to Paris, I’m laying down in a sleeper coach, relaxing before I lay down to sleep, and preparing for my arrival to school tomorrow. I’m almost disappointed that not much went wrong in Italy, because at least in Greece, my frantic, physical journey matched my tumultuous, inner journey. Now I’m stuck here, writing about my feelings and my perceptions, with no action to give import to my words.

I sometimes wonder if I am one of those people who become obsessed with finding himself? I can be a proclaimed Buddhist, or social transcendentalist, who covers up his lack of success with a flow of words and a pretty turn of phrase. It’s these self doubts that make my transition so much more interesting. If I’m always questioning my own motives, then at least I’m keeping my mind in the right path, even if I’m just going in circles. I’d like to think I’m growing, as I’m so frequently encouraged to do.

In the morning, I will have reached Paris. I’m scared of the new life I am about to begin, in a school where I know almost no one, in a country where I marginally understand, much less speak, the language. Mostly, I’m worried about my habit to shy away from people. I’m nervous in front of people, subconsciously intimidated by them, and my biggest hope for the semester is to let these introversions go. However, these slight worries can’t compare to how excited I am to reach a country that holds so much promise to me.

Paris has become a dream of mine ever since I began believing that it could provide some of the answers I’ve been struggling to find. I want to find my release, my passion for life that I’m lacking, and I know that this city of dreamers and artists can at least point me in the correct direction. Without the satisfaction of a life well-justified, or even in the right pursuit, I can only remain hopeful. I doubt three months will cover the entire journey, but at least it will lay a foundation for the arduous search to branch out from. Like any person going to Paris, I’m searching for love, for myself, for the world, and for the journey itself.

So here’s to Paris, the city of light, love, and new beginnings. I hope you can give me what I’m searching for.

The Adventure

Written in the port terminal in Igoumenitsa at 11:00 p.m.

I’m sitting in a port terminal, and yet I’m still moving.

I wonder if the conjecture “Time flies when you’re having fun!” is really true. I’ve rounded the corner of the first week, and am on course for a second, and I feel as if I’ve been here forever. When you enjoy yourself, truly, boundlessly, enjoy yourself, time slows to a crawl. A day is a year, every hour a month, and each minute a wonder lived immersed in the present. Time is no longer of the essence, but instead, I am time’s essence, floating in an unparalleled, non-linear universe where everyday occurrences become the building blocks of my soul. Why endure the rat-race only to lose, when you can let go and find that not only have you won, but that there was never any race to begin with?

By any normal standard, this week has been far from spectacular, and still, unimaginable. Upon arriving in Santorini, I was whisked away to a small-crowded hotel, which was anything but notable. The next day, I explored a now-dormant volcano, swam in a hot springs, and legally visited my first bar. The views from the island were both breathtaking and indescribable; the houses of the locals are small and stacked on top of each other, the island is overrun by tourists and their vendors, but even so, its quaint nature is enthralling. Add that every house is painted a stark white, and small, pure-white, orthodox churches are scattered throughout the streets, and the island quickly transforms into a beautiful, relaxing, and soul-ravaging destination.

Leaving Santorini was where the real trouble started. The ferry ride back to Athens was 8 hours long, which was spent fitfully sleeping in an airplane seat and a bench on the deck of the boat. At around midnight, I was back in Athens, with no bed to sleep in, and five hours to kill before the bus station opened. With my traveling companions, I rode the metro until three a.m., and then sat in a small 24-hour café waiting for the day to break. Watching the teens in the square loaf around, the security guard at the café eat ice cream, and the newspaper men prepare for the following morning, I wasn’t filled with a sense of urgency, but rather a fulfillment of the day’s order.

Athens is by no means on the scale of New York’s size, but being in a city that is alive all night and day is inspiring. How many interactions occur while I waste my time sleeping? How can I be a part of the world when I don’t even catch but a miniscule fraction of its daily actions? I wonder, as even now the port I’m sitting in is as lively as if it was noon, rather than almost midnight. It’s frustrating, knowing that I can’t be everywhere and know everyone, but in a sense, relieving.

Once the first sleepless night in Athens was over, I took a bus to Delphi, to see the famous ruins of the Oracle. The ruins and the connecting museum were both extensive and interesting, but they could not compare with the ensuing pandemonium. In Greece, the bus system is very chaotic. No bus station is aware of its connecting station’s routes, and trying to find a clear route from one place to another is near impossible. Following the instructions of various bus station managers, I spent the day hopping buses, slowly making my way to Corfu. By six, I found a brick wall and was stuck in a place that had no connecting routes to any place I needed to go. Using tidbits of information from multiple Grecians, I hauled my bags over a 3-mile long bridge to wait at a truck stop in hopes a bus from Athens would stop there. The bus arrived at midnight, and from there, it was only a 5-hour ride to Corfu. After two days of not sleeping, not showering, and sitting on a crowded bus, I once again found myself wide awake on a packed bus. Thankfully, the night was rounded out by a three hour nap on the ground outside the bus station waiting for it to open.

I spent my time at the Pink Palace exploring the island on a 4-wheeler and kayaking in the Mediterranean. While the hostel is geared toward drinking, without sleep, I couldn’t find the power to be sociable. The night’s sleep was quite notable, as it was the deepest sleep I’ve ever had. I’m looking forward to the impending twelve hour ferry ride to Italy, if only for the sleep deficit it will create. My next stop is Italy, the religious pinnacle of the modern world, and I’m interested to see who I am when I finally arrive in France. A zealot, an apathetic, or quite possibly, myself.

It’s a wonder though how I remember the most miserable parts of the trip so vividly. The human condition is geared for misery, so naturally people understand and remember it best. Finding my way from one place to another through ethnic Greece was the proudest challenge I’ve faced. I was miserable then, but ecstatic now that something so genuinely worthy of comment has replaced my otherwise dull life. I can appreciate a bed, a bench, or a floor much more passionately now that I’ve been without.

To be great, you have to be miserable. No man has ever risen above his own means because he was spoiled, but rather because he had nothing, and no measure with which to compare. When you know nothing but misery, dirt, and the lucid flow of life, you can do anything. Obviously, I am far from great, but it’s still comforting to know that I have shared a similar experience with people who were. My misery was only temporary, inconvenient, and at worst, uncomfortable, but even now, I can better appreciate life and its simplest pleasures.

The Beginning

Written on the ferry to Santorini, 9/3/09 at 11:45 pm

I am alive!

Utterly, sensationally, spiritually charged! Without the fear of reproach, impedence, or obligation, my mind is free to wander, and even now it’s found nothing but an enlightened euphoria. In less than two days, the weight of the world, a flustering ball of worry, routine, and ambivalence, has drained away, and life has rushed into the gaping void. I’m a bedside convert, except I’m not longer scared of running out of time, because time has stopped and I’ve stopped with it.

After a day of visiting the ancient Athenian sites, I wound up on the roof of my hostel, sharing a drink with 30 other strangers from around the world, and admiring the fire streaked Acropolis as the sun set behind the city. As the night grew, we found ourselves at a free electronica concert by Calvin Harris (apparently a rather famous musician), jumping around and shouting in our smattering of different languages. The fact that I can use the words “Parthenon”, “foreign friends”, and “free concert” in the same sentence when describing my day makes my head reel.

Even now, I’m sitting on the deck of a ferry as it navigates through the thousands of Cycladic Islands on the way to Santorini, wondering why I’m typing on my computer instead of finding life’s answers in the starry skies. I’m afraid that if I don’t try and write when I can, I won’t have the willpower to continue documenting my journey. Besides, I like that I will be able to look back and see how important this semester abroad is going to be, even if I’m sensationalizing it for my viewing audiences.

As for Athens, I have covered the main attractions. I’ve seen the Acropolis, the Acropolis museum, the Temple of Zeus, the Olympic Stadium, the Roman Agora, and more ancient ruins than I remember. I rode the metro for the first time, seen more cabs than I could imagine, and have still yet to learn how to say even one phrase in Greek. Instead, I stupidly traipse through the city; still finding that I assume everyone speaks English, or at the very least understands me. As a tourist, I’m the worst, but as a dreamer, I’ve a chance.

Tomorrow, I’ll visit more even ancient ruins, the rumored resting place of Atlantis, and a black sand beach on the north of the island, before leaving back to the mainland to see the Oracle of Delphi. Greece has been so overwhelming, that I’m not sure I realize I am in Europe, that I’m a third of the way around the world home, or that I’ll also be visiting Italy and living in France before returning to the United States. I can’t fathom where I am, or what I’m doing, but I know I enjoy every minute of it, and I’ll finally find what I’m looking for, whatever it may be. I’m no longer holding the reins, or even pulling the carriage. Instead, I’m in a straightjacket, tied to the bottom of the train, watching the tracks fly by and reveling in their multicolor mosaic as they fill my vision.

The Countdown

Next Tuesday, September 1, my international travels will officially begin. Beginning with a 6 a.m. flight to Philadelphia quickly followed by a six-hour layover and ten-hour flight to Athens, Greece, I will be leaving the United States for the very first time. For two weeks, I'll be trekking through Greece and Italy, enjoying my first tentative steps into the global playground, before settling down in Jouy en Josas, a small town on the outskirts of Paris where I'll be attending school.

Sadly, this will also be the first time that I will be away from my long-term friend and roommate, Andrew. For the past two years, we have shared the triumphs and tribulations of our new college lives as we transformed from immature, yet studious, introverts into slightly less studious, yet more immature, introverts. Since that fateful day in the fall of 2007 when I watched him move into our already-crowded dorm room, he's been my rock, my lifeline, and the man I turn to at parties when neither of us are confident enough to meet other people and aren't sure what to do with ourselves. Now, for four months, I have to brave the perils of the Old World without his flawless guidance, and he must survive a semester without his wingman.

However, neither of us like to admit our dependability on the other, and so, for the sake of our sanity and the fact that we don't actually qualify as having lives, we have made a contest out of the whole heart-wrenching affair. While I'm traipsing through Paris (and the rest of Europe), he will be in Austin, desperately trying to live a life as exciting and romantic as mine is bound to be. Austin's a great city, but it doesn't stand a chance against Paris.

Taking a cue from my roommate, I'd like to dedicate my blog to all the dreamers and romantics of the world, the ones who never quite removed their heads from the clouds, who remain smitten with the idea that artisans, bums, professionals and kings can come together in the greatest gathering of the human spirit the world has seen, who believe that love and compassion still constitute the most powerful force in the cosmos, and who know that underneath the harsh, ambivalent exterior of modern man, passion and promise still reside, ready to well-up at a moment's notice. Mostly, I'd like to dedicate my blog to Andrew, my brother.

a tout a l'heure.

Rob