Soggy times in Holland

One of Amsterdam's many canals, between downpours.

The water cascaded down on us without warning. It was like a cheesy bit from a movie: Five people walking down the sidewalk and suddenly a taxi whips past, shooting water onto the poor, shivering group. David, to my right, took the brunt of the splash. His curly hair was already matted and glistening with droplets of rain. Now his t-shirt was soaked beneath his black wool coat. Water was in my right ear, so I tipped my head to the side and shook it out, eliciting a laugh from Veronica. At least we’d finally found some entertainment on this dreary evening.

When the five of us set out that night, we hadn’t quite known what to expect, or even what we were looking for. The girls – Veronica and Katerina, friends from Germany – were hungry, while I and the other two guys – David and Adam, friends from Australia – just wanted a place to drink. It was the first trip to Amsterdam for each of us, and we weren’t sure what a Tuesday night would hold. We’d seen advertisements at our hostel, where we shared a room, for events happening Wednesday and Thursday, but nothing for tonight. Rather than stay in and be bored though, we went looking for action.

I was the odd man out in our group. When I’d arrived on Monday, the others had already exchanged formalities. They paired up that night while I turned in early, resting up from my trip in. Adam told me the next morning, referring to Veronica, “She is the hottest girl I’ve ever hooked up with.” I believed it. I couldn’t see anything special in the way Adam looked, but Veronica was stunning. About 5-foot-9 with straight blond hair, a beautiful face and curves in the right places, she looked like the type of woman that would catch Hugh Hefner’s eye. But ‘hooking up’ is such a broad term that I wasn’t sure if they’d shared a kiss, had drunken sex, or done something in between. When asked about Katerina, David just gave a shy smile and said he might be interested.

Whatever happened while I was snoozing must not have been too serious, though. When I returned to the room Tuesday evening after a walking tour through the Red Light District, the four of them invited me and another roommate to check out the midweek nightlife. They all seemed to be nothing more than friends looking to add to their numbers.

Now, the weather in Amsterdam is notoriously unpredictable. During my walking tour, it alternated sporadically between clear skies, downpours and drizzle. When the five of us left the hostel, we did so wearing what we hoped would keep us dry for a short walk to the nearest entertainment. After about a kilometer of walking, we came to a pub and the end of the lively downtown area. We were beginning to get damp, but the pub didn’t appeal to any of us. Nor had any of the coffeeshops or bars we’d passed along the way. We turned and kept walking. The girls knew of a club across town that was sure to be fun.

We kept on through quiet, dark streets for another 20 minutes. My hoody was getting wetter by the second, and my confidence in the girls’ sense of direction was waning. Finally we entered Rembrandtplein, supposedly the happening place to be on a Tuesday night in Amsterdam. Restaurants and bars lined the square, but most were dark. We spotted one on the corner that was lit up and loud and went in. But after a quick assessment, we decided the small crowd was too old for us. We were wet and tired of walking, but we couldn’t settle. We left the square and headed up another soggy street along one of the canals.

           None of us noticed the huge puddle or the speeding taxi until it was too late. With a sudden whoosh, the cab was past us and we were soaked. We shivered and tried to shake ourselves dry, but mostly we laughed. We were no longer in any condition to dance or drink, so we headed back to the hostel for warm showers and hairdryers and another night in, half-heartedly cursing our luck through smiles. 

Dutch humor

Back home and forging ahead

I got back to the States on November 17, a Wednesday night. Awake at 7 a.m. in London, I didn’t fall asleep until midnight in Miami, extending my waking hours to 22. That helped arrest my jetlag before it could get started.

Thursday morning I was up bright and early, but not too early. By midday I was in Chicago, and by dinnertime I was in Seattle. As the plane rolled to the gate at SeaTac Airport, I looked out and saw tiny raindrops sprinkling the damp tarmac. Immediately I felt I’d come home too soon. I’ve always dreaded the long, wet, gray winters here in Washington. My mood is greatly affected by the weather, as I suspect is the case for many people in this part of the world and others. Maybe that’s why we drink so much coffee around here – to give us the man-made sense of energy and euphoria that nature neglected. Whether or not that’s the case, the time between October and May has only gotten easier to bear as I’ve grown older and the years have gotten shorter in relation.

Luckily for me, a winter blast hit the Northwest a few days after I got home and the drizzle was replaced with snow. The white blanket was beautiful the way anything rare and different is beautiful. But it didn’t last more than a few days. It quickly disappeared and turned back to rain the way it always does.

Since then, life has gone on pretty monotonously. Some things are different from the way they were before I left – my brother has a puppy, I don’t have a job or money, I haven’t left the house as much as I’d like to – but it wasn’t hard to settle into a routine.

Now I’m trying to find work, which isn’t as easy as I imagined it would be in the fantasy that duped me out of planning my travel properly. I’m about ready to settle for any type of menial labor, just to get some cash in my pocket and start paying my debts. Which is probably what I’ll do later this week.

All the while, I’ve been working on my writing by rewriting and taking editorial advice from knowledgeable friends. The intent is to pick out a handful of experiences from my recent travels and craft them into pieces good enough to send to travel publications. In the meantime, I’ll keep using this blog as a way of developing my voice and keeping my fingers and synapses loose, with some short posts about my travels.

americandigest.org

Notes from the bus out of Tallahassee

This is an unedited excerpt from my travel journal; some things I jotted down after leaving the Greyhound station in Tallahassee, on my way from New Orleans to Tampa. It’s not great writing, but it takes me back to a moment when I felt free, on the move in an unfamiliar place.

Tallahassee, 9/27, 6:20 a.m.

The driver finishes her announcements as we pull onto the main road, and I hit ‘play.’ Outside voices and other annoyances fade away as Jimi Hendrix’s guitar starts to blaze into my ears. The rain falls in waves from the sky, lightning striking every few seconds. One flash comes so close I’m blinded for a second. I can hear the ensuing boom over the riffs of ‘Voodoo Child.’

The security guard at the Tallahassee Greyhound station said it’s supposed to be like this all day. I hope the weather’s better further south, in Tampa where I’m headed.

I wasn’t long in Tallahassee – a little over 2 hours. I’m on the move from New Orleans to Tampa, a 17-hour trip, including layovers. Tampa will be the sixth city I’ve visited in the past two weeks. When I first started this trip, 11 straight weeks on the road seemed daunting. Now, as I begin my 14^th day of travel, being on the move feels like a way of life. Nine more weeks doesn’t seem bad at all. If that time passes as quickly as the last two weeks have, I’ll be back home too soon.

PS: I ended up coming home after a total of 9 weeks, not 11 weeks, because of poor financial planning. And yes, it went by too quickly. But it was nice to get back to my own bed.

PPS: ‘Voodoo Child’ is an excellent hitting-the-road song. The opening guitar solo complements quite nicely the sight and act of pulling out of a parking lot and getting up to speed in traffic.

Latest trip by the numbers

If you like statistics and maps, like I do, you’ll be interested in this post noting where I’ve been over the last two months and how I got there.

If you don’t like those things, well, that just makes me sad.

Here are the bullet-point highlights of my recent travels:

• ·         Total trip time in days: 66

• ·         Countries visited: 7, including the US, the United Kingdom, Ireland, the Netherlands, Germany, Turkey, and Spain.

• ·         US states visited (not including layovers where I didn’t get out of the bus station or airport): Texas, Louisiana, Florida

• ·         Cities visited (not counting brief layovers at bus stations, train stations, airports, etc): 21, including Dallas, Austin, San Antonio, Houston, New Orleans, Tampa, Miami, London, Oxford, Bath, Dublin, Belfast, Edinburgh, Fort Augustus, Amsterdam, Berlin, Istanbul, Barcelona, Tricio, Najera, Bilbao.

• ·         Number of flights taken: 10

• ·         Number of hours on airplanes: 39.25 (give or take)

• ·         Number of buses taken (not counting rides within cities): 11 (including a 3-day tour in Scotland)

• ·         Facebook friends added as a result of the trip: 5

• ·         Amount of money spent: about $7,000

• ·         Amount of money I would’ve spent if I hadn’t stayed with friends and Couchsurfing hosts in several spots along the way: A lot more

• ·         Amount of money I’m now in debt: way, way too much

• ·         Articles of clothing lost along the way: 4, including a sock stuffed into a broken air conditioning vent on a Greyhound bus in Texas; a pair of flip-flops left under a bed in a hostel in Barcelona; a hoody left in a friend’s car in Bilbao; and a hat blown off my head and into a river in Bilbao.

• ·         Amount of planning I did: A lot

• ·         Amount of planning I should have done: A lot more

• ·         Number of photos and videos taken: 2,250

• ·         Favorite place visited: Spain. No one city in particular, just every bit of it. (When I told a British friend I loved Spain, he noted that sentiment was popular among other Americans he’d met on a recent trip to Andalucia. “These Americans were jacking off about Spain,” he said. He asked why we like it so much, and my explanation was that the lifestyle there is so pleasantly different from that of the US, and you see it especially in their approach to food. Meals tend to be occasions for gathering with friends and enjoying oneself. The TV is off. There is no desire to eat and run. And another contributing factor is the fact that Spanish women are sexy.) 

Please enjoy the map below, and feel free to zoom in and out and play with it.
 

View Europe in a larger map

Spain's wine country - a great place to end the journey

I won’t be home for another four days, but as far as I’m concerned my trip is done.

After two straight months of travel through 23 cities and towns (give or take), I’m ready to settle in at home for the winter. Or at least until I can scrounge up the money for another trip.

I just finished one of most enjoyable legs of this journey, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. For six days I relaxed and ate delicious local food with an old friend and his in-laws in a tiny town 2 hours south of Bilbao, in the heart of Spain’s wine country. While there, I realized that although I’ve loved seeing the beautiful, famous sites that certain places have to offer, some of my fondest memories from this trip were made possible simply because I enjoyed the people surrounding me.

Dallas, for example, didn’t seem like a great city in and of itself. But I loved it there. I spent 3 days getting reacquainted with an old college buddy, who introduced me to a great troupe of his friends. I also happened to be there during Oktoberfest and the filming of a TV show, so that helped.

The town of Tricio, the 300-person village where I spent most of the last week, is as attractive as the most beautiful Spanish women I’ve seen (which is high praise considering the eye candy riding the subways in Barcelona). I tend to like big cities because of the convenience, diversions, variety of people, sights and experiences, etc. But I loved Tricio. Before I came, my host Jason, an old friend and an Army vet with a fair number of stamps on his passport, said of Tricio, “I’ve done enough traveling to know that I will be buried here.” Granted, he has a wife and in-laws in Tricio, and I probably wouldn’t stay there long-term without such roots anchoring me. But the charm of that little town is undeniable, and not just because it sits on a hill looking out over mountains and vineyards that were every shade of orange, red and yellow during my November visit.

Jason and his wife Maite live in an old house owned by Maite’s family. The first time I entered it, I felt like I was on the set of a movie about rural life in Spain’s wine country. “This is way too clichéd,” I thought. But it was all real. There were peppers and garlic hanging from strings in the kitchen, but they were edible, not plastic like the décor you see in restaurants back home. There was a grinder for making sausage upstairs and spicy chorizo drying in a pan downstairs next to the dinner table. There were three newborn chicks peeping away in the backyard. Jason had recently picked tomatoes from his garden and stomped some grapes into his very own wine. I’d get to do the same with a neighbor’s grapes a few days later. 

Making wine with Jason and his friend, Mike. Photo: Jason Richards

Every room in that ancient house, from the entryway to the attic, was cluttered with trinkets and antique objects, like century-old rifles, horseshoes, paintings, and books, books, books. Maite’s father doesn’t like to throw anything away, and he loves to keep himself busy tinkering, refurbishing and of course developing new debate fodder by making use of the veritable library stored in his house.

Every day I was there, Jason would buy a baguette from the town store down the street. Most days, he’d include that bread in the central meal of the day: lunch. Currently a student, he’s become sort of a house-husband and a talented cook, in charge of the kitchen while Maite works in nearby Nájera. 

Jason liked to pick peppers from the strands to spice up his meals.

Collected books and antiques in the Tricio house.

Jason’s cooking was delicious, but my favorite meal was the one we had next door. On my second night in Tricio, Jason took me to his weekly guys-only meal with his father-in-law and their friends. Eight of us sat around a long table and dug into various types of chorizo, sausage, ribs, eggs, and of course bread. Everything was homemade, save for the bread purchased at the local store. Some of the men drank wine from glass bottles with spouts coming out of the side, pouring it directly into their mouths without wasting a goblet. At one end of the table there sat a leg of cured ham, with the hoof still intact. Jason cut me a thin slice of the jamon serrano from the leg and as soon as it touched my tongue I had a new meat to add to my list of favorites. It was somewhat firm and chewy like jerky, but much softer, with oils that emerged as it sat in my mouth. I washed it down with some wine the Irish expat across the table had made. “It’s a bit fruity, isn’t it?” I said. “It is,” he responded. “It may not have fermented long enough this time.” It was last year’s batch, the first he’d made in the two decades he’d been married to his Spanish wife. I sat back and thought about how similar he and Jason already were, despite being separated by 25 years of age. Then I realized just how much of the dinner I’d eaten, and my attention turned to keeping my stomach from bursting.

In addition to the food, I was impressed by the people I met in Tricio. Jason’s father-in-law, Humberto, was friendly from the start, as were most others. I neglected to take photos during my first couple of days in town because I felt like a guest rather than a tourist. (Also, I suppose the tourist attractions and photo-ops were somewhat limited.) Tricio was a break from the frenzy of the big cities that was not only relaxing, but necessary.

Now I’m back in a big city. Perhaps too soon. As I write this, I’m sitting in the morgue-silent lobby of a hotel on the outskirts of Bilbao, Spain. I’ve been here a little over a day, and I’ve got about a day left before I fly back to London. It’s raining lightly outside, and I already saw most of the city yesterday, and I’m trying not to spend money, so I’m sitting here next to the vending machine trying to keep myself occupied.

I can’t wait to get on that plane to London. Once I arrive there, I’ll be back amongst friends for a day and a half. Then I’ll leave them to fly to Miami, where I know no one. But the following day, I’ll fly home (via Chicago), where family and friends are plentiful and where I can (hopefully) find a job to keep myself busy and earn a little cash for the next trip.

The surprising silence of a bomb heard round the world

Let’s talk about the bombing in Taksim Square. Anyone who reads the news knows by now that a suicide bomber blew himself up in the middle of Istanbul yesterday, injuring 15 police officers and 17 civilians. I was in my hostel, about 3 miles across town, when this occurred, so I was in no danger. I was surprised to hear about it, because, one: I read it on the New York Times website instead of hearing from a local source; and two: I had been in Taksim Square the previous afternoon lolling about with the rest of the unsuspecting locals and tourists who frequent the square each day.

Reading about the bombing gave me a slightly unsettled feeling at first. Just before I saw the story, I was looking in my guidebook for things to do and decided on a walk up Istiklal Caddesi (Independence Avenue), which terminates at Taksim Square. But when I read about the bombing, my first thought was, “Wow. I’d better stay away from that area.”

And then some other instinct kicked in. Maybe it was a habit developed during my time as a newspaper reporter. Or maybe it was a more natural sense of curiosity. Whatever it was, it made me want to check out the situation across town.

I started by venturing just a few hundred meters, to the Hagia Sofia. I wanted to see if people appeared disturbed by what had just happened a few miles away. Nothing seemed amiss. People bustled about as usual. News travels fast over the internet and television, but word of mouth is just as slow as it’s ever been.

I headed north. Walking through town, across the Galata Bridge spanning the Golden Horn, nothing was out of the ordinary. I walked up to Tunel Square, the southern terminus of Istiklal Caddesi, and watched a crowd gather around a man playing a didgeridoo. Along Istiklal, a pedestrian-only street lined with shops and restaurants, people went about their day shopping and eating and taking photos and talking and laughing. 

 

The first evidence something disturbing had happened was at the street’s northern end, a 20-minute walk from the didgeridoo. Police stopped pedestrians from going any further, into Taksim Square. Business in the shops in that area was slow or nonexistent. Up ahead a couple hundred meters you could spot a man in a basket lift, scraping broken glass off the side of a building. An effect of the bomb’s concussion, no doubt. Here, at this end of the avenue, people stopped to look. Some questioned what had happened and gazed on with worried expressions. Most took little notice and simply continued with their shopping. 

Scraping off the broken glass.

Looky-loos on Istiklal Caddesi.

 I hustled down a side street and up a main road parallel to Istiklal. Traffic going toward Taksim was barely crawling. Police cars and vans surrounded the square, while men in white jumpsuits examined evidence on the concrete. Pedestrians crowded the area around the square, some stopping to take photos while others walked by, glued to their cell phones. It had been nearly four hours since the bomb went off, and only a handful of TV and news photographers remained, wrapping up their coverage. I looked at the Monument to the Republic and the open area around it, where I had sat the previous afternoon, taking photos of the flags waving in celebration of the Turkish Republic’s founding (four-score and seven years ago that weekend, as it turns out).

Taksim Square the day before the bombing.

Taksim Square about 4 hours after the bombing.

As I walked back along Istiklal and toward my hostel across town, I wondered how many people even knew what had happened that morning. And whether knowing would make any difference to them. I'm sure the Taksim Square bombing will be forgotten quickly by the news media and anyone who wasn't directly affected by it. As for me, I don’t feel concerned for my safety. Maybe it’s because of everyone else’s calm. Although I am curious as to why I’m hearing fighter jets flying overhead as I write this. There's nothing in the news about that.

Side note:

I’m sorry I haven’t been more regular with my postings during this trip. I’ve found it hard to find the time and energy to write, given all the running around and hopping from city to city every few days.

Stuck in Istanbul

I'm trapped in Turkey. But it's not all bad.
I'm still trying to get a hold of HSBC to figure out why I haven't been able to use my Mastercard for the past few days. I'm kind of stuck in Istanbul until I can get the card working again and get a ticket to Barcelona or wherever.
This is the second time in 4 weeks HSBC has frozen my card. The first time, when I was in London, they sent me a fraud prevention email and had me call to verify it was me making purchases abroad. This time, no email. The card is just being declined. I emailed HSBC and they sent me a number to call them collect, but when I called from 2 different public phones here, HSBC's touch-tone menu only worked up to a certain point. When I try to enter a zero to talk to a customer service rep, nothing happens. So I emailed them again and told them to knock off the bull crap and give me a number that connects me directly to a customer service rep. It probably goes without saying, but as soon as I get home and get the card paid off, I'm switching to Visa.
On the other hand, I'm sort of glad I stayed an extra few days in Istanbul. The sun peeked out yesterday, after 2 days of rain, and it was nice all day today, allowing me to walk to Asia. That's right, I walked from Europe to Asia. Well, I kind of hitched a ride across the Bosphorus. But I'll write more about that later.

I also got some R&R yesterday and have put away the idea of rushing through the remainder of the trip. I'd rather see enough in a few places instead of just a little bit in a lot of places. I've done enough running around in the past 6 1/2 weeks.
Once I get to Spain maybe I can mooch off my buddy Jason for 4 weeks, just chilling and saving money before heading home. He might make me work on his farm, but it could be worth it. Even if that's not the case, I'm looking forward to Spain.

Hagia Sofia

Taking my pants off in public

On a bus tour through Scotland last weekend, I decided I needed to do something out of the ordinary to make myself stand out from the other 35 people on the trip. I wanted to make friends, and I needed a unique conversation starter. So I agreed to take my pants off in front of them.

The people on my tour were all strangers to me on Friday morning, when we set out from Edinburgh toward Loch Ness. There were four vacant seats on the bus, and one was next to me. Tony, our hilariously entertaining guide, helped break the ice by telling us to chat with the people around us for a few minutes. I got to know a little bit about the Australian woman behind me and the girl next to her, but it was your typical traveler conversation: “Where are you from? Where have you been? Where are you going next? How long are you traveling for?” Not necessarily in that order. And when there’s time: “What did you do back home, and what will you do when you get back?”

It’s easy to talk about all those things with fellow travelers, but getting beyond that can be tough. So that’s where the conversation often ends unless you find more common ground.

As we introduced ourselves, the bus sped along, making a few stops for us to see the William Wallace monument, some ancient battlefields, castles and other scenic, historical places on the Scottish countryside. I made small talk with some of the people around me, but nothing too meaningful. 

Freedom! (William Wallace monument.)

Eilean Donan Castle

The Isle of Skye

Our final stop of the day was at a demonstration of Scottish clansman culture. Tony told us earlier that one lucky guy and one lucky girl would get to dress up in traditional Scottish attire at the demonstration if we volunteered. As soon as he said that, I was determined to be the one to raise my hand.

The demonstration was presented by Ken, a Scottish historian with no apparent dental plan. Partway through, Ken asked for a “brave gentleman” to join him in the center of the room. I looked around, and no one else appeared to consider raising their hand. “Brave?” I thought. Tony never mentioned anything about bravery for this part.

“OK, you don’t have to be brave,” Ken said. “You can be a wimp.”

Still no one else volunteered. I wimpily raised my hand. Ken brought me up to the center of the room, where we were surrounded on 3 sides by 35 strangers. He asked my name and introduced me to everyone. He began to fold a kilt on the floor and talk about the traditional way of wearing it – commando style, balls tickled by the breeze. My breathing became very shallow. I may have swallowed hard enough for Nessie to hear the gulp way down in the loch’s depths. Then – and I hope this is the only time I ever have to write a sentence like this – Ken told me to drop my pants. The audience laughed a nervous laugh that translated to: “I’m sure glad I wasn’t stupid enough to volunteer for this.”

I stared at Ken wide-eyed and asked nervously, “What? Are you joking?”

Now, something the reader should know about me is that I’m usually considered to be the quiet guy, unless I’m with close friends. I like to converse with people, mostly to see what I can learn from them. So I don’t have a problem introducing myself or being outgoing in that way. But grand attention-getting acts are not my thing. Neither is public indecency. I knew dressing up in a kilt would set me apart from the rest of the group and give me an ‘in’ to any conversation with anyone, and I thought it was something within my range of comfort. But doing it sans trousers in front of 3 dozen strangers was a wee bit outside that range.

“Go ahead. You’ve got underwear on, haven’t you?” Ken went on.

“Yeah, but … You’ve gotta be kidding. Come on. Can I undress behind the curtain? And can you dress me in the kilt back there?”

“Oh, you’ve got underwear on. What’s the problem? We haven’t got all day. You can take your pants off behind the curtain, but you’ve gotta come back here so I can show them how to put on the kilt.”

I slunk behind the curtain, then peeked back into the room. “Anybody else wanna volunteer?” I pleaded pitifully.

“Oh, come on,” Ken said. “Look, ladies, close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open them.”

I sighed and tucked behind the curtain again. I knew if I backed out I’d never stop grumbling and kicking myself. And at least I’d have a good conversation starter later at the hostel. And everybody on the tour would be sure to remember me. So I slipped off my Pumas and unbuckled my belt. And then, off came the jeans.

I know it sounds wussy, but I peeked out from behind the curtain to make sure the women still had their eyes closed. They did. I scurried into the room and lay down on the kilt and Ken began to wrap it around me.

“OK, you can open your eyes now,” he said before he’d covered my Hanes.

“Not yet!” I exclaimed. The audience let out a laugh that I like to think meant: “Brian’s quite the trooper for going through with this. I’d like to get some alone time with him (the women). And I wish I was as brave as he is (the men).” 

Ken describing Scottish fashion

Comfy kilt

My heart rate began to return to normal as Ken dressed me and people started to take photos and admire the kilt. I confirmed that I had the group’s respect when I got some positive chuckles by doing a catwalk with the kilt and posing for various photos. Ken also brought Jen, a girl from Kirkland, up to the front to dress her in traditional women’s attire. She didn’t have to expose herself.

At the end, Ken put me back in the center of the stage and started talking about how easy it is to disrobe from the kilt. My breath shortened and my heart quickened once again. I snatched the Scottish beanie off my head. As Ken pulled my belt, my hand snapped down to hide my crotch with the hat and I quickly shuffled backward behind the curtain, the applause and laughter raining down from all sides.

Then I took off my shirt and did a victory lap around the room wearing nothing but my skivvies.

OK, that last sentence isn’t true. I dressed quickly behind the curtain and walked back to my seat surrounded by the audience’s clapping.

Later at the hostel, and over the next two days, starting conversations with others in the group was no trouble. Everyone knew my name and joked with me about the kilt demonstration. The problem was making actual friends. I was interested in getting to know everyone, so I used the kilt stunt as my window to talk to as many people as possible throughout the weekend. It ended with me feeling like I’d become friends with one girl, Nikki, who I’d had some extended conversations with, but everyone else was still a mere acquaintance.

When we got back to Edinburgh, I left in a rush without saying proper goodbyes to everyone else. I felt empty and alone as I sat writing about the weekend. It was just like the feeling I used to get as a kid at the end of a long weekend spent with my cousin or one of my best friends. I’d gotten used to my friends being constantly with me, and when they left there was a void and all I wanted to do was mope and go to bed. Maybe if the trip had been longer I’d have made a few more meaningful connections.

I don’t regret taking my pants off in front of everyone. I only wish I’d spent more time getting to know a few people in-depth and curtailed some of the pointless conversations with others who didn’t pique my interest.

When Tony asked us to write down some of our memories from the weekend in a notebook, I scribbled: “This tour taught me something valuable: If you want to break the ice in a large group, just take your pants off.”

I should have added: “Just be careful how you use the opportunities that act gives you.”

Preoccupations in an English bus station

As I post this, I'm on a ship on the Irish Sea, crossing from Holyhead, Wales to Dublin, Ireland. I wrote the following a few hours ago in a rest stop just east of Birmingham, England. I'll update again as soon as I can.

I’m sitting in a bus station near Birmingham, England, at 9pm on a Saturday night, trying to figure out what to write about Texas. Something seems wrong with that picture. I’ve been in England for a week now, and I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance to write about the last part of my travels in the U.S. That’s both good and bad, depending on how you look at it. On one hand, I haven’t had a chance to be bored. Even on days when I haven’t had much sightseeing or traveling to do, I’ve kept occupied with trip planning and such.

Right now I’ve snagged a rare free moment to write. I’m a few hours’ drive from Holyhead, where my bus will board a ferry to Dublin. I’m preoccupied with some financial concerns at the moment. London was quite expensive, which was expected. In addition, my final paycheck from work was never deposited because my former employers gave me the wonderful surprise of sending a paper check to my house instead of making a direct deposit, while I was on the road in Texas and far from any branch of my bank. I’m trying to figure out the best way to solve this issue, while at the same time using less cash and more credit. But of course, my credit card was declined the last two times I tried to use it. I’m far from over the limit; I think the card company must have considered my purchases suspicious, since they’re occurring in a foreign country. Never mind the fact that I used the card to buy my plane ticket to London.

I’m also trying to figure out how much time to spend in each country, and where I can afford to go given the time and financial constraints on me. I’ve decided I want to skip most of the expensive countries and spend more time in the more exotic – and cheaper! – places. So after Ireland and Scotland and Amsterdam, I’m going to skip down to Greece and Turkey. I know there are other cheap countries in Eastern Europe, but I’ve elected to forego them for some ancient history and sun near the Mediterranean. I also want to visit a friend in the ‘bargain basement’ country of Georgia, which shares a border with Turkey. After that, I’d like to see Israel and Egypt before hopping a flight to Spain. I know Spain won’t be terribly cheap, but I can’t miss Spain. I think I can do all those countries given the time I have left (I fly from London back to Miami November 30), but again everything hinges on me being able to contact HSBC and sort out the Mastercard situation.

I’d like to write more about my experiences traveling in Texas, Louisiana and Florida, but my bus is about to leave, so I’ll save that for the next update. I already mentioned my disappointment with the Greyhound system, but trust me, there was plenty to like about the South. I’ll praise that leg of the trip as soon as I have another free moment to write.

Greyhound Policies and Procedures

I have a theory about the Greyhound bus system: No one who works for Greyhound wants to work for Greyhound. And no one who rides Greyhound wants to ride Greyhound.

One of my friends back home has ridden the buses extensively and calls the company The Dirty Dog. And with good reason. Every seat is stained, there’s barely enough legroom to keep from putting your knees into the seat in front of you, air conditioning vents are often broken and stuck open (I had to stuff a sock in one to keep from freezing on the trip from San Antonio to Houston), most riders look and smell like they haven’t showered in a few days, and customer service appears to be nowhere on the company’s list of priorities. In fact, you’re inconveniencing the employees by purchasing a ticket.

Of the seven buses I’ve been on in the past two weeks, I’ve met exactly two ‘friendly’ drivers (I use the term in its loosest sense) and one friendly baggage handler. All ticket agents apparently hate their lives, and most drivers hate people. One driver in particular, on the trip from Houston to New Orleans, heard a comment from a rider that set her off. I was in the back of the bus, and missed the comment, but heard the driver’s response. As we pulled out of a stop in Beaumont, Texas, she came on the loudspeaker and shouted, “Well, somebody had to be in charge, and today it happened to be me! If you don’t follow the rules, you don’t ride!”

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of assholes riding Greyhound buses and it’s understandable that drivers would put up their defenses. (One intoxicated rider on the bus from New Orleans to Mobile couldn’t keep his peanut gallery locked up, so the driver promptly sent him back a few rows, where he could annoy other people. “Oh … fat, white and rich,” he inexplicably sighed as we entered Gulfport, Miss. “Let’s go Red Sox!” he repeatedly chanted for no apparent reason.) But when a driver is nasty right from the start, it invites further assholishness from riders, and doesn’t do much for the already tarnished company image.

In observing the behavior of Greyhound workers during the past fortnight, I’ve come up with what I believe to be The Dirty Dog’s policies and procedures for employees:

- Always be quick to anger and slow to help

- Remember: You work for Greyhound. Your life sucks. Take it out on the riders.

- Answer rider questions in the most confusing manner possible

- Smiling is forbidden among ticket agents

- Drivers must address all patrons with disdain, no matter their age, race, health conditions or economic class. It helps to think of riders as unwanted little bastard children that you’re forced to tolerate because you married their wealthy mother.

- Interior bus temperature shall never exceed 50 degrees Fahrenheit

- Timeliness is not important

- Nor is technology. If buses in South America are more modern than ours, who cares? As long as we don’t have any competition, we can operate shoddy equipment.

- Onboard bathroom must not be cleaned and maintained more than once per year

- Drivers should mumble whenever addressing customers

- If a customer asks a question, come up with any reason to snap at them, even if it’s easier to give a straightforward answer. (On the bus from Tallahassee to Tampa, a little boy up front politely asked the driver as we were pulling into a station what the next stop would be. Annoyed, she dismissed the boy, saying, “I’ll make an announcement when we start back up.” It would have been easier to say, “Tampa,” but hey, why be nice to the little bastard? This is Greyhound, after all.)