Photo of the Day: Politics

Fri, 28 May 2010 21:58:49 +0200

Photo of the Day: Kroner

Thu, 27 May 2010 21:21:58 +0200

Salzburg in Photos

Tue, 25 May 2010 00:52:16 +0200

Sometimes I know all along that I’ll visit a place, but sometimes I simply find a city. Salzburg is one of those places. I’ll be honest and say that two months ago I didn’t even know Salzburg existed. Still, on the recommendation of an Austrian friend I decided to stop through for a night. One turned into four, and now there’s another city close to my heart.

Zoom

Sun, 23 May 2010 00:08:25 +0200

What happens when you combine the Prague Metro escalators and a fraction of imagination? A rocket-propelled walkway (I have wished for this on many an occasion)! Self-entertainment is the nectar of the gods.

In the Moment

Fri, 21 May 2010 17:31:00 +0200

Currently, I’m sitting on a train northbound from Prague to Berlin. It’s one of Europe’s finest, complete with a bike storage car, a fine-dining restaurant car and electrical outlets at every four seat cluster. I know this because I am currently situated at one of these four seat clusters so I can have my computer feeding off of the juice. Macs are lovely, their batteries are not.

Before I boarded in Prague, I had to take a bus from the small town of Cesky Krumlov....

Oh, wait. We’re passing out of the Dresden train station now and are crossing the bridge. Holy crap is Dresden gorgeous. That’s the thing with Europe: every city is breathtaking. So much so that I have to pick and choose how I’d like my breath taken. Would I prefer to do it while living in a Bohemian city with 1000 year old buildings around every corner or am I in the mood for WWII-devastated city that has been painstakingly rebuilt brick by brick? What about Dresden? I have no idea. It’s already gone. It feels like this happens every time I board a train. Bye Dresden.

Where was I? Right, Cesky Krumlov.

So I took a three hour bus from a small riverside medieval town to Prague, walked to the metro, took one line, transferred, transferred again, got off, found the ticket counter, asked for a ticket to Berlin, got one leaving in six minutes, found the track and boarded as the doors were closing. Somehow this all went off without a hitch. I guess I’m in full travel mode. It took a while.

As we arrived in Dresden, I looked out the window to see a kerzillion people waiting to board.

Shit, I remember saying.

Major city to an even more major city on Friday night... I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s more a function of my general lack of privacy that makes this stick in my craw. Give me a common area, six roommates, and a shared bathroom that dredges up visions of fraternity days gone by, and I’ll put up with it. Not having room to stretch my legs over eight hours is the marble that makes me drop the rest. God help me when I get to India.

Before I can even figure out what’s going to happen with the three surrounding seats that were vacated by since-departed passengers, a German family surrounds me. Two blond boys, probably 13 and 10, a blond mother, and a grandmother. These are the labels I’ve given them. They stare at the three seats. I’ve been through this before. Somebody eyes the seat you’re in and decides they want it. In this case it makes sense because it’s a group of four and although this is an opportunity to write and keep my laptop powered, I’m just not that big of a jerk.

Grandma is talking to me. I take out one of my earbuds, waving goodbye to the musical stylings of Rodrigo y Gabriela and joining the world of gibberish. I have unquestionably passed into Germany. It’s a strange feeling to be hearing one language when you turn your ipod on and then a different when you turn it off. It feels like I’ve mistakenly hit the SAP button on my remote.

I stand up to see if I can pantomime that I’ll give up my seat so they can all sit together. The 13 year old speaks up.

“All is okay.” He motions that I am to stay. He’s mature beyond his years and it’s instantly apparent. He’s running this show to a certain extent. Grandma is apparently there for moral support and won’t be staying on the train. Then mom speaks up, and even though I do not understand her, I do register that she has the vocality of a deaf person. She signs to her eldest son in the most irritated way possible: Quick, violent motions and facial expressions that make me tense just sitting here. Grandma departs, albeit slowly, constantly looking back. My perception is that she’s cared so hard for so long that she can’t let go. You can see in the faces of both boys that they feel doted over by her. Thanks Granny, we’ve got it from here.

Mom is upset. I can’t figure out why. I continue editing pictures on my laptop while this conversation takes place. Slapping thighs. Tapping feet. Exasperation. Embarrassment. At this point I don’t mind giving my seat up at all.

Tapping to my left. Grandma is smashing her face against the train window from the outside and peering in. If memory serves, there is no need to be that close to see inside. I look to the boys. Mortified. Grandma is waving, and when that doesn’t garner enough reaction, she resorts to slapping the window outright. Even mom has lost some of the focus on whatever was bothering her so greatly to appease her own mother with a wave and a smile.

The train sits in the station another ten minutes. Granny sits directly beside the window for all ten minutes, waving and slapping the entire time. Imagine a dog that got left outside a restaurant, pacing back an forth while its master carries on indoors.

This is hilarious. I make eye contact with the younger boy. He and I burst out in nervous laughter.

Everyone looks. Everyone laughs. Air comes rushing back into the vacuum of space.

A line of individuals and their luggage wait to enter our car, and as they do I can visibly see the mother getting upset again.

Oh. She has a suitcase that’s in the way and none of them can lift it to the luggage rack above. It’s time to pantomime.

Yep, that was it. I lift their rectangle of life into the overhead bin, and mom is finally at ease. She says thank you in hearing-disabled German.

She doesn’t need to say anything. Our faces say everything. Hers full of thanks, mine full of happy-to-do-it.

I’ve been speaking tons of English here in Europe. I had drinks last week with a Czech, a Georgian, two Italians, a Canadian, a Peruvian, and a South African. English is the default. It’s the giant crutch that never need be removed.

What’s the point of trying something else if everyone speaks it? I do miss the challenge of getting by on a foreign language. In Argentina, click on your Spanish and go. But what happens when it could be one of a dozen languages? It’s the new game.

Whenever I begin traveling alone again, be it between cities or just on public transport, there are tiny conversations that have to happen from time to time. Luggage that needs to be moved, someone that needs to pass by, a lost soul with a map and no idea where they sit upon it.

There are no words to say. No follow up questions. No clues to what they want besides what their hands, faces and documents say. But we always get the job done, and it always seems to create happiness where normally there would be none.

Words are overrated.

THREE HOURS

Photo of the Day: Politics

Photo of the Day: Kroner

Salzburg in Photos

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In the Moment