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: