West Europe in Pictures

Lisbon, Portugal: the architecture in European cathedrals is awe-some. Walk through the heavy doors, the altar ahead of you, shining golden by the surrounding stained glass; turn around and piercing light blinds for a second, dramatically enveloping the cross.


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Lisbon, Portugal: Art, politically correct or not.


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Bilbao, Spain: The Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao is amazing, a voluptuous edifice of curved titanium stuck in the middle of an industrial port city. A huge flower-covered cat guards its entrance. I am convinced this is the modern day equivalent to the cathedral: its sheer unbelievability draws tourist pilgrims from around the world.


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Paris, France: This suspicious looking character is in fact the most affable Mina Girgis, TA extra-ordinaire at UCSB. In yet another gleeful twist of fate, I arrived unplanned during Mina's 3 day sojourn in Paris, as he followed a North Indian band around tour in Europe. Random indeed.


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Lyon, France.


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Lake Chiemsee, Germany: I worked dishwashing at a nearby hotel. On my day off, I rode a bike around the 40 mile lake, enjoying the blissfully calm, sunny weather. The wind suddenly came up, dark clouds poured out of the Alps, and I made it back to shelter as the first thick drops of rain fell.


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Lake Chiemsee, Germany: My friend Lauren from UCSB came out of the blue for a visit, just as my restlessness began to climax from working long stuffy hours in a kitchen. She suggested I come to Vienna, where she practiced modern dance; so off I went.


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Lake Chiemsee, Germany.


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Vienna, Austria: Empirial monuments blackened from time. An impressive testament to "past glories" - or was it past oppressions? We complain at the loss of civil liberties today, but how else did past empires amass wealth but through coercive power? It is a hypocrisy to take pictures of grandiose monuments, then complain about the empire-building tendencies of our own government.


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Dubrovnik, Croatia: This town is surreal, a historical gem. The stone streets were smooth as marble, centuries of shuffling feet polish the floor. Tiny alleyways, no trees... lots of Italian tourists.


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Dubrovnik, Croatia: On the Mediterranean Sea, this town thrived on maritime exploits, and survived on diplomacy. The powerful Venetian Republic sought to control it, so adept diplomatic maneuvering was needed to establish a buffer zone for protection; this historical quirk denied Croatia the claim to a 30 mile stretch coastline, which Bosnia-Herzegovina now controls.


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Dubrovnik, Croatia: I stumbled onto the "Miss Croatia 2003" competition one night, much to my delight. Girls in bikinis, skimpy dresses, the audience is ready, and then... technical problems. No light, everything is dark. An improvised light beam is used for this impromptu performance: a local guitarist summoned to entertain the crowd, while the girls dance awkwardly behind him. My original delight is now even greater, as I am witness to 3rd world ingenuity in the face of technological breakdown.


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Vis, Croatia: My campsite on a little island, where I spent several days slothing between the warm water and the shade. I arrived late one afternoon, and when I awoke the next morning, to my great surprise, I was directly in front of a nudist beach. You know what they say: "In Rome, do as the Romans."


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Split, Croatia.


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Pula and Split, Croatia: We forget that the Balkans, rife with their own inter-ethnic problems, are next door to Italy. The remains of the Roman empire scattered around Croatia give their shared history a tangible feel. We all gawk at these two thousand year old monuments, irrespective of what nation they now lie in.


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Sant'Anna Morosina, Italy: Martino gave me a ride while I was hitchhiking in northern Croatia. He mentioned being a cook at his family's restaurant near Venice; I offered to work for free, in exchange for fresh homemade pasta and a bed. After 3 weeks of frugal camping, I jumped on the opportunity like a wounded beast. I couldn't have guessed that besides peeling potatos, I would be invited to a bachelor party in the mountains, a music festival, and the offer of lifelong friendship.


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Ferrara, Italy: A week-long festival of street artists in a medieval town. Crowds filling the cobblestone roads, every corner a new performance: flamenco, African drums, spray paint art, fire juggling, or rock&roll.


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Venice, Italy.


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Nice, France.


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Biarritz, France: The snack bar overlooking the beach; everyone hangs out here between surfs, feasting on an incredible range of salads, fresh cakes, and homemade pastries. There is no rush to go anywhere!


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Biarritz, France: The owner of the snack bar. A hyper cheerful lady, she'd let me help organize the tables and chairs at the end of the day, in exchange for chocolate croissants. We struck a publicity deal, where she gave me a t-shirt of her snack bar, so long as I'd take pictures with it in front of famous sights during my travels.


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Biarritz, France: The family with whom I stayed for almost a month. "French people are just angry Italians" claimed Francois, the father. It is true, they continually yelled at each other, at their dog, at the radio; but their hospitality was unwavering, an honest generosity I found difficult to repay.


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Bayonne, France: I wandered by chance into a rare event - the christening of a massive new bell for this cathedral. TV crews captured the whole ritual, interrupted by catholic songs reverberating the hall, my contribution coming in an awkard mix of bad voice and broken French.


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San Sebastian, Spain: ethnic conflict does not limit itself to politically unstable regimes. It is here, the minority Basque folk asserting their right to autonomy; it is everywhere, to a certain extent.


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London, England: A childhood friend of mine was in London, studying economics, when I discovered you could fly there from France for a mere $25. The catch: I arrived at 1:00 AM, all subways were closed, so I had to walk 2 hours along the Thames River to get to his apartment.


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London, England: The symbol of this great capital, the Big Ben, captured with the Debololo t-shirt, from Biarritz. Fulfilling my end of the publicity deal, an unexpected service towards French-English diplomacy.


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Amsterdam, Netherlands: The contradictions in this city live in suprising harmony. Hash Marijuana Museum down the street from Van Gogh; sex shops and psychedelic drugs in 17th century buildings, surrounded by picturesque canals. An enviable mix of hedonism and restraint.


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New York City, USA: information overload, pretty pictures flashing, back in the US!

Biarritz in Time

SOUTH-WEST FRANCE

Surfboard under one arm, bicycle beneath, every day going to the beach. Struggling uphill, flying down the other side, eventually I arrive at the Marbella surf club ; its on a terrace atop a cliff full of grommets and old dudes, overlooking the beachbreaks below. So I hang out, eat yoghurt and baguettes, wait for the tide to come in... During low tide the rocks are all exposed, sand stretches out for hundreds of feet ; six hours later no less than 12 feet of water is gravitationally pulled out of somewhere, and there are waves where before there was only sand. Like magic.

In the morning, I can see my breath as I walk outside ; and this reminds me that winter is soon to arrive. With it comes my departure, tomorrow, after having spent a month in this sweet place. Only one exodus : thirty minutes down the coast is Spain, and lovely Krista happens to be there right now, so I visited her on her birthday, Oct.1st . Both of us transplanted from Santa Barbara, sharing this little corner of Basque country, momentarily. And tomorrow ! the end begins, during the final week it so happens that I will accomplish something extraordinary : visit cities. My time in Europe has been spent mostly with cows or fish ; nearby grassy fields, where there is space for those magnificent creatures ; or nearby the azure sparkle of the sea. Now though, I will move frenetically from London to Amsterdam to New York, three phenomenal cities, and I pray that my country bumpkin spirit can still handle the throngs, the crowded smells, honk yell murmur of all the noise. Re-adapt to hectic busy-ness, high intensity setting for the spinning hamster wheel, Vruuuumm !

I am particularly excited because the old sweetheart of a lady, that owns the snack bar on the beach, gave me a t-shirt advertising her establishment; and I plan to take pictures wearing it, la Freebirds-style facing world-renown sites, and I know this will make her happy. Publicity from afar for her little snack bar ! Ha, but all things have their counterbalance : for if such well intentioned publicity is overly succesful, and the hordes of tourists come along, the place will be destroyed like others before have been. Everything is predisposed into becoming a Love/Hate relationship , as situations change and love turns to hate. Then back to love ; its all good after all, one big bittersweet confusion.

Spiced Recollections

FROM VIENNA, DUBROVNIK, AND THE ISLAND OF VIS

from Vienna, Austria. (July 25th)

Imperial monuments everywhere, stained in black from the centuries of dust and grit… The Austro-Hungarian empire took control over that notorious region of the Balkans, whose ethnic disputes brought its own destruction; but it also amassed great wealth, such that scores of huge libraries and palaces were built. Why so BIG ? ? we may politely ask. Perhaps the sacrifice of thousands of people is worth the feeling of eternity captured in these stone slabs. Given the meager 70 year lifespan of an Emperor, it is no wonder ambitious leaders may aim for the illusion of forever-ness in their projects.

Now, tourists gawk and take photos, that being their own individual way of immortalizing the moment ; they can show their friends/family in the future, ‘See ! I was there.’ We CRAVE to think that what is accomplished will outlive us, indeed, that the moment is not just a flirting wave of time ; so what do we do ? we built monuments, we record it in photos, we have children, perhaps my son will ‘be a doctor just like me’ when he grows up . Continue the family tradition ! Admire how the structures have ‘stood the test of time’, but also be aware of a deep hypocrisy – that there is general concensus that Empires (those big controlling bastards) are ‘bad’. Then again, without this much hated government control of society (eg, Patriot Act?), without a big State, there is no surplus of wealth to create eternal magnificence. Does morality govern this choice ? or is it just relative to your position in society, what you can gain, what you can lose.

In Dubrovnik, Croatia. (August 13th)

The post office is packed with Italians, French, Germans, all the neighboring rich countries ; yet they must speak English with the clerk behind the desk. How funny (and disconcerting !) it is to watch these educated folk struggle to communicate in a language which is foreign to all of them. I am sending off a package today – my cherished duffel bag of clothes, books, and other essentials – to a mysterious Post Office in France. I scribble an appeal on the outside of the box : Please Keep for Kristian Beadle ! I give it a 50-50 chance that I will ever see my bag again. Ah ! but it is impossible to journey northwards, in search of random encounters and adventure, burdened with gear. I also find it quite romantic, to arrive hundreds of kilometers later to find my precious bag, such that the stars will smile and I will continue on my voyage as if nothing had happened.



At the Island of Vis, Croatia (August 19th)

Feeling warm and fuzzy that I found a nice campspot near the beach, I fall asleep under a bright moon. But then I awake in the darkness to a gusty wind, and sudden shards of rain, and my first thought is : God 1, Kristian 0. The cosmic game of chance always seems to balance out, however ; and after 3 wide-eyed minutes of desperately packing my bag, the rain ends. I stand looking out on the sea, swaying slightly. Something strange is happening here, I think. The wet ground is suprisingly confortable, softened by pine needles, and I relegate myself to chance once again, and fall asleep.

In the morning I am confounded by what turns out to be a pseudo-nudist colony, directly in front of my camp ; I slowly learn to harmonize with these local customs, having some epic nudey swims. At night, the swarms of yatchs gather in the marina, people lounging about sipping wine in style. I ponder intensively : if hitchhiking works with cars, why not with boats ? So I plan a devious scheme to elicit sympathy and score a free yatch ride, as I lick my melting icecream.

How ? remained a tricky question. The moment of inspiration came when I remembered the lovely girls at UCSB, walking back and forth to class ; like the yatchs, they too were another ‘world’, difficult to access, tempting as ever. The thought experiment had developed over a beer at Espresso Roma, on that outdoor patio where one may sunbathe AND watch students scramble to school at every hour. The idea became a great unrealized moment of genius, entitled, a ‘Sociological Study on Behavior of College Girls’. The procedure would be a professional and courteous approach, with microfone and slick journalist hair, coplemented of course by diligent note-taking and photographic evidence of the subjects. It is sad to note that sheer busy-ness conspired against our finding time for this Study, forfeiting the sort of reckless opportunities one is expected to embrace during the Senior year of College. Still, however absurd the concept seemed to be (the ‘Sociological’ label was a vain attempt at making it sound legitimate), the idea of posing as a research student, to start an otherwise awkward conversation, seemed valid when confronted by the very seclusive Yatch-ies.

So striding off I went, deciding which boat to approach : The Blue Lady, Oceanus, No Man’s Land… I had drunk the licquor of fantasy, romantic visions of ‘sailing into the horizon’ too hard to bear. But wait – a dark thought struck me ; was this plan of mine, though based on minor deception, veering into the territory of immorality ? Lies and tricks are for lesser beings, I was convinced ; but could this not be the start of a spiral of dark confidence, where my ability to manipulate situations begins to overwhelm righteousness ? For I hold honesty in high regard, and I feared that setting such a precedent (no matter how slight) might short circuit my ethical boundaries. Ahhhh… pearing through the cracks of desire into that latent pool of untapped flux, the ‘dark side’ we keep concealed, consciously or not. A quizzical smile to the lips, as I had success before I had even started – learning about oneself, and this fickle thing called the mind, is the goal after all. With this I concluded matter of factly : hey I just want to meet people. So I walked up to the sailboat in front of me, and said Hello…. But no, I never got to ride in the sailboat.

.Now I know why I don’t like deception ; I end up liking the people I try to deceive ! The couple on the sailboat were very nice, I will have to email them one day ; spring up the courage to say I don’t actually work for a professor studying the Globalization of Leisure Activities in the Mediterranean Sea, and cross-cultural interactions blah blah blah…. yikes.

From the Inside

SARAJEVO, BOSNIA

I realize I have skipped a wonderful chunk of time in my storytelling, from leaving the old imperial city of Vienna, until my profit seeking efforts in Dubrovnik three days ago. In the middle lies two fascinating weeks, crossing the Alps by train into Slovenia, spending the night at a lovely cottage in northern Croatia, where an old couple raise rabbits and vegetables and make brandy; driving into Bosnia where many roofs and walls are still crumbling from the bombs a few years ago; walking through Sarajevo¡s old town with picturesque Muslim quarters, new mosques being built next to machine gun shattered buildings; graveyards, endless endless rows of graves lining the hillsides.

We learned a lot from Paul's father who is a translator for the NATO generals in Bosnia - the conflict is complexity to the extreme, religious ethnic and political differences colliding after Yugoslavia broke down. Stayed at his girlfriend's apartment, who told us about the 2 or 3 year siege on Sarajevo, when no water or electricity was available; there is still a patched bullet hole on her fridge. Then drive through canyons and parched land all the way to the Mediterrenean glory of Dubrovnik and nearby towns, warm salty water and islands just offshore. Many days were spent on the beach... and there were many other random parables which will be re-told at a future time. For now I must pack and prepare to leave; and head West like so many have done before!!

Thumb out in Croatia

HITCH HIKING TO ITALY

On the side of the road in Croatia, hot sun and blue skies, hitchhiking. One moment I was there, waving vigorously at passing cars, feeling quite frustrated and sweaty; the next moment I was inside airconditioning with two Italians, driving at high speed towards the border. The blessed fortunes had struck. Not only were they glad to drive me all the way to Venice (my hoped for destination), but these fiery people went further , offering me work at their family restaurant. Perhaps what appealed really was my proposal : free labor in exhange for food and shelter. After 3 weeks scrounging about in Croatia, being drilled by mosquitos at night, rides in trucks and cars of all sorts, long walks with my thumb out and a heavy pack, I was terribly excited to eat fresh Italian pasta, and working for free seemed a reasonable exchange.

That car ride, with Martino and Laura, was the start of a wonderful week in the Italian village of Sant’Anna Morisina, one hour away from Venice ; this is where the Pettenuzzo family runs a traditional Venetian restaurant, their specialty being roast duck, fresh from the backyard pond ( !). The father, Giovanni, the classic patriarch, shouting violently at times to maintain order ; the mother a plump lady with constant smile, non-stop washing clothes and setting tables. I labored with the stockpile of firewood, to help ready for winter. I also peeled many potatoes.

At night, long hours were spent with the crew of friends – os cavalieros de Sant’Anna – and I was soon adopted as the quizzical, cosmopolitan foreigner, being taken around everywhere. From a ‘buskers festival’ in the old town of Ferrara, where musicians/artists line the cobblestone streets for a week of flamenco, African dance, fire-jugglers, spray painting, and rock&roll…. To a wild bachelor party in the southern Alps, where the scenery of rocky beauty contrasted nicely with the constant pranks on the groom… and finally to an inspiring day with Martino’s uncle in Venice, a magical island city of art and culture… the Italians’ hospitality was unwavering. Soon though, I was boarding the train to the French Riviera, spending a sunny day in Nice ; then finally to Biarritz, where I am now, re-evaluating what is happening.

The speed at which things occur is puzzling; constanly I ask myself, where am I ? what is this place ? as I walk through strange hallways, awake in a strange bed. Dwelling on why these things happen becomes a forfeited luxury, it is no longer worth that philosophical effort. Not trying to make sense of life may prove, however, to be a blessing in disguise. The perceived logic and order in our life is comforting, albeit just a jumbled distortion of the moment. It takes a genuinely jumbled voyage, ironically, to focus more on the moment, as my Bosnian hitchhiking companion taught. He’d sporadically ask, with a rhetorical smirk : where am I ? as we walked along random stretches of highway on Croatia’s coastline. On such moments it was obvious that the answer was irrelevant, secondary to our immediate needs : get the next ride, wherever it goes, because its probably a better destination than this corn field.

I must credit Saleh, for I met him at a fortuitous time ; were it not for this encounter, I probably would not have pursued hitchhiking any further , and never have met the kind Italians and the Pettenuzzo family. I was alone, standing on (what I believed was) a strategic corner, with a polite sign marked ‘North’ in hand ; I was stagnating, cars flying by … when Saleh walks up, and after brief greetings in broken english, his eyes loose, shifting around strangely, he announces he will walk down the street a little ways and get us a ride. I am skeptical but admiring as he forcefully waves at cars, halfway into the street ; then a large truck pulls over, probably in shock at this bloke flailing his arms uncontrollably.

And we’re off, sipping beers in what turns out to be a Croatian beer truck . After being dropped off , with boosted confidence we pursue the next ride, so aggressively that a cop pulls over to check our passports. But fear not, we are not hindered ; and aboard a variety of vehicles several hundred kilometers pass by, and we arrive at a crossroad in our journeys. Saleh left Sarajevo with no money, zero, so I lend him $2 for the ferry accross to his friend’s house. Without money, he merely drank water, ate nothing, and indeed his pace of travel left me without appetite. He had only trust things would come together, and find his way to a friend’s house 600 kms away. It reminded me of a story by Satish Kumar, editor of Resurgence magazine, of how he walked from India to Britain in the name of peace. His guru had advised : take no money. So through trust in people’s kindness, and faith in hard times, he arrived in Britain 6 months later. No world peace, perhaps, but Satish brought peace of mind to himself and others, perhaps.

Saleh and I parted, and I continued on the road north to Italy, now a proud & solo hitchhiker…

Massage for Money

THE ESSENCE OF VULNERABILITY

Walking, walking, dressed all in white carrying a white chair under one arm, a small poster in the other. It reads: "Need a back rub? how about a... Massage!! Pay as you wish". The path I have trodden up to this point, that of a shameless attempt to provide massage services in exchange for some form of profit, is an intricate path. Sprouting from the need for money, and getting momentum from my sense of silliness, I thought why not? People should get more massages anyway. But shame is an interesting thing, halting us along the way with whispers of disapproval... Were it not for a stubborn impulse to experience what I dream up (as much as possible!), I surely would have given up on the project; instead I devised a ten-point plan, structured carefully to ensure my sense of self-worth (read: ego) would not get in the way of the final objective. So it went: type flyer in computer... print and photocopy flyer... pick up cardboardbox in supermarket trash... draw a sign on cardboardbox.... etc. I gain a brief insight into how men are able to accomplish military objectives - by focusing on specific tasks one needs not fathom the ultimate disgrace of their actions.

The idea may not seem wholly unreasonable from the outside, but everytime I stopped to think I began to laugh - self deprecating humor is enviable, isnt it. So I consciously halted the thought process, arriving at the center of the old town, where literally thousands of wandering tourists, pretty girls, and other performance artists congregate, and stroll about. To actually put the poster up on the wall to advertise my availability as a masseuse was like jumping off a 40 foot cliff into an undisclosed depth of very cold water. It took me the greater part of an hour to do it, breathing heavy. Meanwhile, this guitar player by the fountain was singing such awful music I was sure it was intentional for comic relief - how could this clown get up there and play his gig, while I sat huddled like a frozen cucumber?? No matter he was inebriated with liquid confidence, most likely in the form of beer; i knew I had to do it alone. What is shame, but being afraid of exposure to vulnerability. It compels us to keep our clothes on while in public, and uphold such noble concepts as integrity and decency; yet it also keep strangers from talking to each other in a grocery store. Plus, it is that much harder when you lack company, and in your aloneness there is no friend to push you along, and laugh together when things fail. This insecure shame kept me teetering...

When I stepped off the cliff the freefall was pleasant, as expected. Ironically, everyone was too embarassed to actually sit down and be massaged- all I got where some girlish giggles and strange looks. Perhaps this is why people spend $50/hour on a massage, to get a guarantee that this isnt just a display of eroticism. I crashed into the water - ie, the shit hit the fan - when I glanced over to the clown by the fountain and a solid crowd had gathered around his dissonant sounds, magnetized by a histerical group of drunk Italians who decided to sing along. And I learned my first formal lesson in public dynamics: you are only as popular as the amount (or kind) of people which give you attention. So I packed my bags, so to speak, in composed failure, and walked the long way home.

A few days before I had made a similar jab at getting work at the marina, where hundreds of yatchs and sailing boats converge. I thought, surely someone seeks the companion of a charismatic, robust young man as myself - and besides there are some really rich people here who might actually pay money for me to cruise the Mediterranean. Like the a royal prince from Oman, who reportedly has two mega-yatchs (one for him and many wives, and one for their acquisitions) and sends $1000 each day on flowers. However, I was at a loss when it came to approaching boat owners, most of whom spoke no word of english. When I asked for help at the main office I was nearly chased down by the receptionist saying, how dare you try and steal the jobs of young unemployed Croats, who are still struggling after the wartime? I remembered this that night when I walked back home dressed all in white, with my chair and massage poster, and I felt like a soggy dumpling which has been dipped in milk too many times. Frustrated, because I imagine perseverance is the only way in succeed in unconventional ventures; but I just didnt have the necessary kind of extrovert energy to make it happen. The energy is powerfully inwards, like a vaccuum in my mind being filled by bubbly gas; so I decided to rid myself of this external stagnation and bail out, leave Dubrovnik. The next day I met a French couple on vacation; we ate dinner together, they offered me a ride north tomorrow. My aim now is to send off most of my baggage to an undisclosed post office in France, where I can pick it up in a few weeks; hence I may travel light, camp in scenic beaches, and hitchhike across Europe.

Dilemnas continue

DUBROVNIK, CROATIA

Dober Dan... Salut... Guten Tag... Ni hao...
i find myself mixing up these silly languages more and more; changing from one to another feels like rubber, stretching your minds crevices and when it snaps! ahhh...  you run with it. 

I am in Dubrovnik, a thousand year old town in southern Croatia, where the city walls still stand and the stone floors are worn smooth from the endless shuffling feet.  It juts out into the Adriatic Sea, on clear days you can evidently see the faint outline of Italy.  I am staying with an old lady (a friend of Paul Banicevic¨s uncle) for at least another week, at which time my finances will have dwindled to dangerous levels.  The options are clear: make some bucks quickly, or hire myself out to a yatch, and scrub floors for rich vacationers cruising around the Mediterranean.  huummmm....  

enroute to Bavaria

FROM BASQUE COUNTRY, TO PARIS, THEN BAVARIA

I am buggered, as they say in Aussie, having spent most of the night up with Paul during our spontaneous rendez-vous at a hukkah bar. Passed out on the car seat, my dad's driving us from Paris to Frankfurt at dangerously high speeds. Its curious the need for adrenalin in order to secure focus - whether its in fast cars, waves, or leaving a 10 page paper for the last minute. But that's another story; what happened on the drive to Germany requires more pressing attention!

I awoke from a pseudo-conscious slumber as we drove in the town of Reims, an hour east of Paris. In typical style, my father claims here is THE cathedral to see in Europe, and indeed it is absurdly fantastic. huge, ornate Gothic spires, skylights of stained glass illuminating everything. The stone is so heavy yet the feel is light. To think what this place represents is baffling: longing for divinity, hierarchies of power, all the wars in its name. The cathedral contains the spectrum of good-bad in humans, it is so thick with meaning. And these are thoughts of a 20th c. science-indoctrinated Brasilian/American; what would the peasants, nobility, monks of the time have thought??

When we visited the Bilbao Guggenheim museum in Spain I also felt some awe. The building is INCREDIBLE, an organic mix of titanium scales, stone, and glass. Like a curvaceous fish going through electric shock treatment. And inside is equally impressive, no right angles anywhere, the modern art exhibitions fitting in perfectly. But why build a $100 million craziness in an industrial, trashy city on the Basque coast? what better way to revive the economy than create a magnet for tourism, a focal point for creativity and wealth. Like the cathedral, the cost of this place to society is disproportionate, but what emerges is excitement and imagination. The medieval, institutionalized Church had its degenerate aspects, and wonderful sides; but isn't the tourism, science, the overall modern vision which binds society also somewhat degenerate? only with the luxury of hindsight do we indulge in criticism, but perhaps neither is worse than the other. Then again it might matter little compared to the stoke that people (like me!) get from seeing these monuments... as a wise man who never existed once said, the inconsequentialities of frivolity!

arriving in Frankfurt I realize I am due to begin work at Hotel Chiemgauhof very soon. And i am struck by a need for my own time, space, after these non stop 3 weeks - or is it 3 months? Though I hope to escape into the anonymity of youth hostel life for a few days, or perhaps a week, this is not to be. A friend is conveniently driving to Munich tomorrow, and once I arrived I found myself boarding a train for Lake Chiemsee, just like that. It felt like I'd been wading in a stream, but it vortexed into a fast river; I could have jumped out, but the view was beautiful all the rapids were swirling; and when the river dumped into the ocean there was a big storm, which uprooted many trees and threw things to Chaos. So I had a night to rest but already in the morning there was much clean-up work to do at the hotel, and pretty soon I was in the kitchen doing dishes.

For 10, 11 hours a day in the kitchen, I learnt how to say plates silverware pots pans in German, and eat yummy salads and ice cream of course. The work was disciplined, not sure if its the German ethic or the restaurant business, but the intensity was high. But outside was paradise, long swims in the morning, warm still sunshine enveloped by the Alps around us. On my day off I rode a bike (cruiser!!) around the 68km lake, charging through the forest in search of the next ideallic pebble beach to cool off in. energy begins to dwindle, however, when the whole workday is spent in one stuffy place washing dishes. I didn't want to leave, these were my parents friends working hard, so who was I to just bail out, and maybe a bit of post-college manual labor is what I need. But that compulsion for time, space, beckoned so strong, my own creativity and exploration. So I left, though the decision wasn't at all easy to make, and I still feel very confused and sad, though relieved. The ocean I'd been dumped into was too big and I had to keep going.

My last weekend at Lake Chiemsee was fantastic when out of sheer coincidence both Lauren Slater and Paul decided to visit me. Riding the ferry all day long, between isles with little castles, playing around the wooden piers; then in the evening drinks at the outside bar at the hotel, watching the piercing colors; and finally rowboat out to the lake for a nudey sunset swim. my friends all extended their stay at Chiemsee, and I was so glad to give them the chance to be here. Then the next day I left, feeling awkward but excited as I hop on the train to Vienna, where I'm staying with Lauren for several days.

She's in an internation dance festival, blowing her mind during the day with inspiring dancers and playing at night. I roamed around the city, the vestiges of Austro-Hungarian empire still standing, stylish coffeshops with smoooooth coffee. This is a transition stage though, as I'm riding another train this afternoon, this time with Paul and girlfriend Abby, heading to Croatia. Things are 'up in the air' like never before, but I see like sparks of opportunity in the horizon and I hope to grasp them.

Serendipity in Paris

Many amazing things are happening... I have spiralled my way back to Lake Chiemsee in Germany, little paradise enveloped by the Alps, warm still days with unpredictable yet always intense thunderstorms, like an exclamation point stuck awkwardly in the !!! sentence. I've been working long long hours in the kitchen though, peaking anxiously through the windows at the colors outside, and many thoughts have arisen in my mind. these thoughts are cementing into changes, and as I look ahead to the unknown decisions I can't help but feel.... confused. but I feel it's worth rewinding the tape a bit, back to where I last wrote in Lisbon. For why do I write anyway? if i may humbly ask. i figure writing is for the writer, re-thinking and re-feeling what happened to get a grasp on what is now; i definitely need this so-called 'grasp'. if you care to join me in this catharsis then I am most honored........

Riding the train from Lisbon to Biarritz, I had a week left with my dad before we were due to part ways, him back to US and me to Lake Chiemsee. The wheel of time would come to a confused full circle, 38 years having passed since my dad was here, and he would re-meet some old acquantainces. This was odd, because so much time had passed - we were staying at Francois's house, the 15year old grommet surfer turned 53 with wife and two kids. The town of Biarritz is great, many pretty girls driving scooters with big helmets and skimpy clothes, warm croissants and cheerful little houses. in the Basque country bordering Spain, the coast has waves, with mountains nearby. We stay here a few days.

I walked out of my room one night and the moon was full, and the light was exceptionally clear. This is what they call a 'moment'. Patchy thick clouds covered the sky, the moon sometimes hidden sometimes peaking out between the gaps. Backlit clouds with very precise white rims, yet a very black black interior; and when the moon finally found a large enough hole it stood as an intense beacon, the wind pushing the guarding clouds around. i held my breath, it was so quiet, then a car drove by. there was also a cat. when the moon was covered by the cloud i went to sleep, only to awake several hours later with an sharp pain in my stomach. i went outside feeling the need to throw up, bent over and then I looked up for a second and saw the moon was still there, very orange near the horizon now. Cloudless sky. try as i might the noxious substances in my tummy wouldn't leave and when the moon set behind the mountain I crawled back into bed in enlightened frustration. I couldn't tell if I should feel sorry for my condition or thankful, but I spent all morning in bed and that wasn't fun.

on July 13th we drive north toward Paris, and stoped at Chateau Chenonceaux for the evening. Castle built on rockbed in the middle of a river, with a network of moats around its gardens. We came at night and the castle was lit up outside, classical music playing and tourists crusing about, couples making out. Erase all of that and you see this place as a glorious/repressive powerfigure, defensible by the surrounding water and tall walls, its inhabitants under siege and stranded by the barbarian hordes. The peasant population working the surrounding fields paying tribute or whatever. the whole thing is romantic, noble, and depressing.

The next morning we drive into Paris and turns out not one but TWO friends of mine are here by chance. Paul arrives from a month in Reunion Island this morning, and Mina arrives from touring with a fellow Indian 'gypsie' band. I meet Mina at a restaurant with his troupe from India, with their broad moustaches and flowing clothes. We spend the next day running amok at the Louvre, the Arab Institute, all mixes of old and new, glass pyramids and steel frames with medieval stone monuments around, carvings and artifacts. The evening is exciting as an approaching thunderstorm sparks anxiety all around, we're trying to find a restaurant with my dad, things aren't flowing and fall apart when the crazy rude taxi drivers refuse to cooperate. Th popular belief that everyone is rude in Paris is not true, but the taxi drivers seem to embody that notion with great force. I say goodbye to mina but still I havn't seen Paul. Evidently he's at a certain Hotel Printemps but there are 8 such hotels in Paris, we are even staying at one just in case Paul happens to be there. Finally at midnight we connect after a long sequence of scribbled notes and emails, spend a few hours with him at an Egyptian hukkah bar then I leave the next morning with my dad, start our return to Frankfurt.

These have all been a series of mini climaxes, but the turning point when I arrive in Chiemsee is still to be ahead...

Lyon, Lisbon & More

many days later and I've emerged in front of the 'Praça dos Restourados' in Lisbon, the monument that marks the restoration of the city after a massive earthquake in the 16th century.  it is a city-phoenix, arisen and burbling with satisfaction, the funny portuguese cruising about in picturesque trams and buses.  it's nice to just be able to babble in the local language without having to struggle - it's amazing how the ability to communicate defines identity.  have i mentioned the architecture is cool?  monumental churches and bridges, short stumpy houses with pillars and cute windows.  europe seems to have such limited growth, all the old buildings are just chillin' there uncaring about modernity.

even cooler - super duper dude - was the Basque architecture in southern france.  we drove around the soft lit hills, classy farmhouses, old stone shelters emblazed with graffiti for the independence of 'le pays Basque'. hey, wait a second i though the struggle with colonialism over in like the 50s.  Oh yeah, the basque, kurds, armenians, etc...  we just cruise into the little town, gawk at the historical heritage and draw out our euros.  the pluses and minuse ehh, what's right and what's reality is a confusing mix.  their radical sport 'Jai Alai', i think its called, is growing fast with the tourism, borderline nuts with a hard small ball flung from baskets attached to your arms - intense stuff.  The countryside is magic, fields and steep rocky slopes... 

a few days ago we stayed at Lyon (central-southern France), with a friend of my dad's from Brasil.  she lived in a bohemian part at the top of the hill, narrow mini roads with artists, cobblestone sidewalks, and strategic placings of dog poo.  We ate Berber food from Algeria (kind of like Chef Karim's in SB) with the approaching thunderstorm.  The day stays light till about 10pm, the poor europeans are apparently quite sun starved so they remain outside all day long in summertime, savoring everything until the thunderstorm sends us packing.  We also spend a whole day at the friend's Chateau - vineyard and winery passed down the family line - basking with wines and cheeses....  the luxuries of bourgeoise ancestry are too pleasant to dismiss.

soon we catch the train to Biarritz on the western coast of France...  the crowded trains with backpackers are always an adventure, a study in space maximization.  we shall see what Bastille day on the 14th unveils....  should we run around with american flags and attempt to provoke conflict??  these are the kinds of compelling ideas my dad gets, silly man, hopefully i'll be able to keep away from much bodily harm. .

Europe trip begins here

WHERE?!?

  I´m sitting in front of Lake Chiemsee, in the Bavaria region of southern Germany, listening to bossa nova.  The ´foothills´of the Alps are the backdrop, sheer granite and intense mountains coming out of the flat valley.  This is where I´ll be working next monthö for now we´re just in passing, having spent the last few days with the senior beadle (bob) at a sports trade show in nearby Munich.  Quite fun- blondes in bikinis, motorbike demos, odd new products which cross-breed scooters and camera tripods.  The event was 5 or 6 indoor football fields worth of goods & services, all designed specifically for the enjoyment of us hedonistic humans.  Fun - image - adrenalin - all require a lot of creativity these days.

TWISTs

  Then there was Amsterdam, about a week ago.  For a place that is associated with hedonism it sure is classy; the 17th century buildings and canals merge with the drug & sex culture in a very natural, unselfconscious way.  Not forced in-your-face profit oriented abuse of our mischivious desires like the kind of hogwash in Las Vegas.  It´s Isla Vista meets european San Fransisco, with bikes everywhere, funny sounding trams, and cozy coffee shops (ahhhemm...)  definitely worth an extended visit.  A random coincidence was stumbling into my friend Lauren Slater - we just happened to be on the internet at the same time, found out we happened to be in the same city, met at Haagen Daz ten minutes later, and went dancing.  Its sure to become one of the techno-buff urban myths...  Serendipity through the internet is a groovy thing indeed.

UCSB Graduation

9:00 AM - Graduation Day

Thousands of black hats, black gowns, and smiling faces all around me. The sun is beating down hot in the Santa Barbara blue sky, and I'm glad I only have boardshorts underneath the ceremonial gown. I undo another button, let the breeze in my chest, and scuff my flip flops under my chair.

Just when I think this graduation event might turn out to be the predictable, uninspiring ritual that others have claimed, someone hands me a box which reads, "To Kristian Beadle. Pass it on." How did this package finds its way through the crowd of anonymous thousands, I wonder.

I open the box and a sweet jasmine fragrance erupts from within. A dozen fresh hawaiian leis sit inside, smelling like yellow golden goodness. I pile them high on my chest, bright flowers glinting on my gown's plain black, and pass them out to friends that sit nearby.

The time comes to pick up the diploma. I stride across the stage, bobbing up and down, an extra lei held surreptitiously by my left hand. The chancellor sticks out his right hand to shake mine, while holding the diploma in his other hand; a well-coordinated maneuver which he must repeat thousands of times.

I hope he welcomed the break in repetition, as I pulled out the lei, and clasping it with both hands, offered it him. With the grace of a public veteran he bent his neck and allowed me to lei him; because like it or not, he couldn't stop the show.

Later on, I was proud to see the chancellor's wife walking around with the lei around her neck. Does that mean she got lei'd? or did I?