Prague, John Lennon and a jazz band

19/1 - The Greek philosopher Socrates preferred spoken word over the written word.

We can squeeze much more meaning out of what is spoken. We can take note of rises or falls in the tone of voice to emphasize a point. We can observe the speaker's face or body while speaking, because much of communication comes through body language. And sometimes, listening to a great speaker tell a story is much more captivating than reading. With the written word, it's final. What's there is there, and nothing can be added. No additional meaning can be extracted. Socrates also believed the written word gives one an "illusion" of knowledge, which means we think we're experts after reading so much about a given subject. Only experience provides that.

I think Socrates would have approved of Karel, the Czech walking tour guide who gave us some background information during a three-hour glimpse of Prague. He bounced up and down on his feet. He was always moving from side to side. Single words were emphasized with forceful nods of his head, and he'd roll the "r" sound and make certain words sound Scottish. Karel would have fit right in on a theater stage giving a monologue or soliloquy because his speaking was intense; it seized attention and refused to let go. It seemed right for all of us to form a semi-circle around him during his speeches.

Karel showed us some of the older Synagogues in the Jewish Quarter of Prague.

This brings me to...me. I spent a couple of nights in Prague, the capital of Czech Republic! I hadn't known much about it before arriving, but I do know I had never heard a bad thing about the city. During the tour for example, I learned of some familiar everyday things that have Czech origins, such as the word "robot" and contact lenses.

Prague marks two things for me. This is the 20th country I've visited in my life (this number excludes countries I've only seen in the airport, like Sweden and Latvia). This was also the first time I have been offered cocaine to buy on the street. A kid a little bit shorter and darker than me approached me on my way back to the hostel during my first night. I pretended to be French during this brief conversation, but I don't know if he bought it (though I'm sure he did). The coke was good stuff. Colombian. I never bothered to ask for a price. As someone with a heart condition, I will never touch cocaine. I politely declined and chuckled to myself a few moments later because of the absurd things that happen to me sometimes during travel. This has been a theme on this trip because I was boldly approached three times in Krakow by women offering drink specials in an attempt to attract me to a nearby gentleman's club.

Prague is an everlasting city in an area that seems to be in perpetual motion; this has been the Czech Republic since 1993, after Slovakia peacefully left Czechoslovakia. It has seen communism, the icy clutches of Nazi concentration camps, monarchy and democracy. Karel said Prague has been in at least six different states in the past century!

The Czechs are particularly proud of having a democracy now, as there are whole photograph exhibits in the Dox Centre for Contemporary Art dedicated to Vaclav Havel, the country's first president who passed away in 2011. I saw several photos of him meeting Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush in the late '80s and '90s, and Prague's airport (which is one of the most calm and relaxed airports I've visited; there was hardly any traffic) is named after Havel.

This is the outside of Dox Centre for Contemporary Art. One of Havel's quotes is here: "The tragedy of modern man is not that he knows less and less about the meaning of his own life, but that it bothers him less and less.

Despite the large turnover, Prague continues to be beautiful and unique. It's a mish-mash of different architecture and colors, and its skyline is filled with spiky towers and castles. Karel even showed us a museum near the city center dedicated to the concept of cubism, even in the very structure of the building itself. As I left the train station upon arrival in Prague, I noticed something about the buildings. They're like a selection of ice creams with how many colors one can see - white, yellow, light blue, pistachio green, mocha brown.

Charles Bridge is Prague's first bridge. It's a cesspool of tourists, including me. The castle where the president lives is in the background.

Another thing I noticed (quite a lot, actually) is how bone-chillingly cold it is here! During the tour yesterday, our group endured a temperature of -12 degrees Celsius, or close to 10 degrees Fahrenheit. I thought Krakow was cold. But, I guess that's Central Europe for you. In fact, during the whole five-hour train ride from Bohumin to Prague (I took a bus from Krakow to Bohumin; I couldn't tell you when we crossed the border from Poland), I saw nothing but a blanket of snow, sometimes as much as a foot deep.

But compared to my previous adventures in Paris and Krakow, Prague has been a wind down of sorts.

I haven't had any profound experiences here. I've just been enjoying some of the views and a glass of local beer (or three). They are cheap here, with 100 koruna (CZK) converting to less than $5 USD. So even though I drank two fudging fantastic stout beers last night for 118 CZK, which is a bit pricey for Prague, I still spent only about $5. I would have to pay more than that for one average beer in Paris.

20/1 - Prague reminds me of Lisbon because of the millions upon millions of tiles used to construct sidewalks and their designs. But, like Lisbon, time has given the sidewalks an uneven surface, so you have to watch your step.

The most notable thing that happened during my stay in Prague happened after I had checked out of the hostel. As I walked through the Old Town square, there was a jazz band playing. I stood there for 10 minutes. I closed my eyes, captured by the muted trumpet, alto saxophone, standing bass and steel guitar. I smiled. This was life. Travel and music. Peace and contentment. All in one brief moment.

My goal for the final few hours in Prague was to find Lennon Wall, a large stretch of wall near Charles Bridge where it's legal to paint anything you want on it. There are messages of peace, and of course John Lennon's face at the top. This wall was used as a form of protest and resistance during Prague's communism days. These days it's little better than a tourist attraction good for a selfie (or eight). But, the messages still ring true. Love each other. Be true to yourself. Enjoy the journey. Don't worry.

Lennon Wall is literally a blank canvass, but one that won't hold your message for long.

My visit to Prague had its moments, but it wasn't as intense as Paris or Krakow. I didn't arrive expecting to have the kind of experiences I did in the aforementioned cities. I was tired so I took it easy, opting for relaxing with a beer by the pub window, perfect for people watching. It was also difficult to explore more of the city on foot because of the low temperatures. So, I didn't feel quite as fulfilled as I did in Paris and Krakow, but that moment with the jazz band made up for it.

21/1 - I'm back in France, but I need to spend one final night in Paris because I missed my train. This means one night in a hostel. It's frustrating, because I just want to go home. There is always a point during travel when it becomes a bit old, when all you want to do is go home and check out. This is me now. But, the sudden change of plan was something that seemed appropriate. I had to laugh while battling the Paris metro, because that's all I can do. 

And speaking of the Paris metro, it's a madhouse. It's like an anthill, with millions of inhabitants intent on nothing more than catching their respective trains. Each and every person walks with pace and intent, and this creates a stream of humanity much like an angry stretch of river rapids. Any form of hesitation will result in a mushroom cloud of shame, or at least a few bumped shoulders.

22/1 – I’ve returned to Cherbourg after having to spend an unexpected night in a hostel in Paris because I missed my train. In total, this was 12 days of travel, at least 12 hours riding trains, four hours on two different airplanes, three countries, three Couchsurfing hosts, 18 hours of French tutoring, some icy temperatures and one melancholy tour.

I’m not disappointed that it has finished; rather, I’m happy that it happened to me because now I have those memories and stories. And quite frankly, I’m glad to be home in Cherbourg - despite the temperature of the flat having nosedived while I was away - because I was tired. I was looking forward to doing nothing for once, letting my mind wander, slacken and relax in my own quiet space, like taking off my shoes and loosening the tie after a long day of work.

This is because sometimes to travel means to work. I got lost plenty of times in Prague’s narrow, cobblestone-lined maze that calls itself the Old Town and had to figure out how to return to a more familiar area. It was difficult for me to orientate myself in that city, much more than others, but I’m not sure why. I walked in the completely wrong direction for long periods of time, thus losing myself entirely. I figured out Krakow eventually, but not Prague. Perhaps the collision of so many different political eras, building architecture, skyline spires and history in Prague creates a sort of invisible, undetectable force that causes one to lose their sense of direction. Or, I was just stupid.

I was also cold for long stretches at a time, in Paris, Krakow and Prague, and sometimes with wet socks and feet from traversing snow, so I had to endure the effects and put them out of my mind. I had to instantly change tactics in Paris. Twice. Though one situation was much more serious than the other, I had to overcome that brief but intense moment of sheer panic. Often we notice that when the person we’re traveling with submits to panic and despair, we strangely become calmer. I’ve noticed that before as well, such as on that road trip with Danny a couple of years ago.

It's nice to have a travel partner, but what if we’re traveling alone? Who (or what) will help us return to clear thinking after an unexpected alteration of plans?

This, my friends, is difficult, because in these situations we can only rely on ourselves. We have to have an iron will, an ability to not let anything rattle us, but we also must relax and let that moment of peril pass. Over time, I’ve learned to laugh at the situation as it unfolds. It’s a way I’ve found to appreciate being in the moment, because the circumstances always improve. Countless instances of bad luck have turned out to be great stories in the future, so I remind myself of that in order to keep a level head.

We must also learn to harness the burst of adrenaline that results from panic. If used correctly, it helps us focus and zero in on possible solutions to a problem, but incorrect implementation results in lashing out at complete strangers who have no control over the mediocre hand we’ve just been dealt, along with anger and extreme stress.

Here ends my latest adventure. I hope you all enjoyed following it and the raw emotion which poured from my writing. I just need to commit to a new trip now!

Krakow, Auschwitz and street sausage

16/1 - Every hour on the hour in Krakow's St. Mary's Basilica, a man opens a window in the tallest tower and plays a 30-second tune with a trumpet for the whole Old Town to hear. It's a tradition that stretches back to the days when it was necessary to keep a lookout for attacking forces; in other words, it goes back centuries.

Krakow is older than the country of Poland itself. It's the city that gets its name from Krakus, the Polish prince who slayed the Wawel Dragon and founded the city over its lair; to this day there are various images of dragons around Wawel Castle because the Poles believe dragons fend off demons. It's the city that was essentially, surprisingly, untouched during World War II. It's a city that has had so many influences in architecture, including from the Nazis! 

But most of all...Krakow is cold. And under the oppression of snow at the moment. The flight into Krakow was a sight unlike any I've seen for quite a long time. Snow was all I could see for miles, and it was a nice change to step off the plane into the frigid, icy air, fresh from a recent snowfall.

I'm once again Couchsurfing, this time with Kristina and her boyfriend Thomas. Kristina comes from St. Petersburg, Russia, and Thomas is, conveniently, French, and both are my age. Their apartment is large and clean, and the bathroom is bigger than anything I've used in years! Luckily, I already feel like I'm friends with them because they speak a lot and have been welcoming. This feels like it will be a "normal" stay, whatever that means.

Poland marks the 19th country I've visited in my life, but I'm not here just to be here; I'm on a mission. The first thing I did when arriving in Krakow was sign up for a tour of Auschwitz, the infamous Nazi death camp during WWII that was the site of many a Jewish death. I know this journey will not be a happy one. In fact, I expect to be disturbed and traumatized by this. But, this is a necessary visit, one that is good for my education. Auschwitz should never be forgotten, because it was a travesty of human history. The tour will take place tomorrow. 

17/1 - The sky was gray and the Auschwitz and Birkenau camps covered by a layer of snow and packed-down ice. The air was near freezing. A small handful of snowflakes drifted down from the sky. A light breeze nipped at unprotected skin.

As I ride back to Krakow in the shuttle, it's difficult to explain exactly what I felt. Disgust? Sadness? Apprehension? It began as soon as we parked in front of Auschwitz. I felt light headed, an ever-so-slight reluctance to advance farther.

I was part of a tour with 20-25 people. The tour guide spoke into a small microphone that transmitted to a receiver we wore around our necks, which fed into headphones that covered our ears. We could hear her perfectly, even if we were lagging 30 feet behind. She had short hair and electric blue eyes. She spoke in a gentle, Polish-accented voice and seemed to really enjoy her job. She had the privilege of meeting several survivors, some of whom during their return to Auschwitz.

Upon having a glimpse of the simple, blunt and bleak entrance emblazoned with "Arbeit macht frei," I felt a chill quite unrelated to the cold weather. That familiar taste rose in my mouth and I felt a flash of nausea.

Throughout the tour when the guide told us of specific numbers and living conditions of prisoners, I furrowed my brow out of revulsion and at times made a face as if the odor of rotten eggs had permeated the entire complex. But there was no such smell, not even in the blocks where so many people were housed. I expected to detect a faint smell in them, but time has mercifully erased that particular memory in all of the facilities.

Stolen possessions of victims are still in Auschwitz. I saw a pile of eye glasses, a display of Jewish shawls and shoe polish, a collection of suitcases with names on them, a large mound of hair brushes and shaving kits, a clump of old leather shoes and a hoard of teapots and other kitchen utensils. People had no idea what they were in for. The guide said 80 percent of people were never actually prisoners; they were immediately sent straight to gas chambers upon arrival.

This heartless evil revolted me, and I felt my first serious wave of emotion. The presence of so many tangible items made the victims that much more real.

The guide showed us a room inside one of the barracks which contained rope and sheets made with human hair, mostly from women. I saw a hill of human hair, a disgusting reminder of what happened here. I did not need to snap a picture to remember that image.

I felt another episode of emotion. I noticed myself looking away from the large collection of hair because I felt I was staring at something I shouldn't have. I was uncomfortable. I saw other people standing where they could look inside the exhibit, but I had no more desire to lay eyes on that atrocity so I hastily exited. I didn't look back.

She showed us the one surviving gas chamber between Auschwitz and Birkenau and instructed us to not take pictures. The dull, gray, featureless, rectangular room, in which 800 people were crammed, seemed colder than outside. Sound reverberated easily, such as from our footsteps; it was like walking inside a cave. We could see the squares in the ceiling where cyanide and Zyklon B were dropped into the chamber by the SS guards. I imagined the terror in that room during the victims' final 15 minutes of life.

I had to leave the chamber . I saw people taking pictures even though being instructed not to. I felt a stab of annoyance.

We stepped into the Death Block, building No. 11. I saw tiny rooms in which 15 people were stuffed with little fresh air as punishment. I saw individual cells where prisoners were forced into for days on end, but the cells are so tiny that a person would be unable to sit. I saw how dark, bleak and cold the basement of the Death Block was. I will never be able to imagine being forced to stand for days on limited rations of bread. It is torture. I'd be waiting impatiently for death.

Upon exit of Auschwitz, I felt yet another rush of emotion. My eyes burned. But we still had to visit Birkenau.

Birkenau was never finished because the most prisoners it kept at one time was about 95,000. It was supposed to house 125,000. Most of the 300 brick buildings are nothing more than foundations now because the Nazis began covering their tracks once they realized the war was coming to an end. They burned and destroyed the evidence. But, I walked the same distance from the arrival platform, where there was an example of a cattle car in which approximately 80 people were transported to the concentration and death camps, to the two remains of gas chambers as so many unsuspecting others did during WWII. They are crumbling rubble now.

I saw the building where female prisoners scheduled to be gassed were kept until there was room in the chambers, and upon entry I noticed a musty smell for the first time all day. Though the guide told me afterwards it was the chemical used to preserve the boards that made up the bunks, it still made my short time inside vivid and abhorrent.

This shack had a rocky dirt floor and three-tiered bunks made of plain wooden boards, under a non-insulated wooden roof. It was dark, with the only light filtering in through the grimy windows. It was bitterly cold. The bottom bunk was the most dangerous because rats would bite and scratch the women nearest to the floor. There weren't enough blankets. Prisoners huddled among themselves for warmth in these bunks, usually between five to seven people. It was housing for dirty beasts, not humans. I imagined the feeling of terror for those waiting to be gassed to death. I had to exit.

But between the gas chambers is a memorial to those murdered during this time. The same message was repeated in at least 15 languages that were used by victims of the camp. I shed a tear after an attack of hot, intense grief. I recognized the messages written in English and French. On most of the languages, people had deposited a rose to symbolize remembrance. Each one said the same thing:

Forever let this place be a cry of despair and a warning to humanity, where the Nazis murdered about one and a half million men, women and children, mainly Jews from various countries of Europe. Auschwitz-Birkenau 1940-45. 

We can still walk among the same facilities that murdered more than one million people, hear stories of unimaginable horror, see where the atrocities took place with our own eyes. What we will never able to experience from that time are the feelings of terror, hopelessness, fatigue, starvation, frost-bitten feet, oncoming death. We can only imagine the odors of gunpowder, of blood, of death, of the stink of piss and shit, of rooms crowded with emaciated, beaten and broken people.

I've written before about intensity, about living an intense life. The visit to Auschwitz was an intense emotional experience, one I will never forget. I have to fight back welling tears while writing this. The visit had a similar effect on me to when I went to Normandy American Cemetery in 2010, but on a larger scale. It was disturbing.

I do not have a desire to visit Auschwitz again. Once is plenty. But, I'm grateful to have had the chance to see it because it's an important part of European history. It shouldn't be forgotten.

18/1 - I feel better since the visit to Auschwitz. It helped to write as soon as possible on the ride back to Krakow. It also helped to get a tour of the nearby Jewish Quarter from Thomas and have a couple of beers at two local pubs. He showed me places where locals go to get cheap food, including a sausage stand on the street near where he and Kristina live.

The vendor pulls up every night at 8 p.m. in an old, but reliable, blue van and anchors a tarp to the van which provides cover for his barbecue and the serving table. He roasts maybe eight sausages at one time over a flame which burns from a specific kind of wood. All of the sausages are pierced onto one long roasting fork, and he methodically flips the fork over in order to give both sides of the meat equal time on the fire.

When the man is roasting, no one is served. The line of people (which is always long) is forced to watch the dancing flames lick the sausages and see the fat bubbling up and dripping down into the burning wood. It's a bit hypnotic, I must say, because people need something to focus on other than below-freezing temperatures. No one speaks.

But when these fat sausages are ready, the man hands them off to his partner who handles cash and places each sausage on a plate with mustard and a large roll of bread. Each costs 8 Polish Zlotys, which amounts to about $2 USD. It's a filling meal, and one that will last throughout the night.

Today is my final full day in Poland. Tomorrow I'll take the train for more than six hours into the great city of Prague in the Czech Republic, the 20th country I will have visited.

Nudism, French lessons and maturation in Paris

13/1 - This story begins with a nudist.

Some of you may remember when I Couchsurfed with a nudist in Madrid in 2015. For the past three nights in Paris, my Couchsurfing host was...a nudist! But this time, I stripped all the way down. But rather than be self-conscious, I was a bit surprised at how comfortable I felt to simply sit in the nude while eating, watching television or drinking a glass of wine with another person.

It takes one to be secure with one's own body to exist naked in the moment. For some, the absence of clothing equates to the absence of security. We are all more vulnerable sans clothes, because there is nowhere to hide and nothing to lose; the naked skin is the foundation of our Selves.

My host, Marco, was a former rugby player and is someone who seems to relish the opportunity to prove someone wrong, even his girlfriend. I won't go into detail, but he's about as comfortable being nude as one can possibly be, and it made for some rather memorable moments. 

Anyway, I'm in Paris until Monday morning. During this time, I'm taking quite intense French lessons from Marie-Amance's father, Phil. He's from Montreal, Canada but has lived in France for more than 40 years. Our lessons take place in his apartment in the 18th District of Paris. It's little bigger than a studio because his bed and the kitchen table sit in the same room, and the kitchen and bathroom are almost as big as each other. Phil's narrow balcony provides a view of one of the spires of Sacre Couer Basilica.

We've spent three hours per day for the past three days chatting in French, pouring over textbooks, drilling specific sounds, emphasizing verb tenses, conjugating and repeating, repeating, REPEATING. 

My brain is dead. At the moment I feel mentally tired, as if my mind has been thoroughly beaten with a meat tenderizer and then squeezed of its remaining juices of knowledge and ability, like a sopping-wet rag being wrung of its moisture. 

14/1 - Some of you may remember that I Couchsurfed with a man named Pascal in 2015 when I visited Paris with Angel. I'm again staying with him for my final few days in the city. His apartment is just as I remembered it: every inch of wall space is taken up with some sort of book, artwork, knick-knack, ivy, porcelain frog or phrase, yet the flat is spotless. You could eat off the floor!

My first time in Paris was in 2010 during my first trip to London. I hated it because of how helpless I felt when trying to communicate. The city was beautiful and the sight of the Eiffel Tower wondrous because it's sheer size made you feel as if it was simply part of a backdrop, but some of the thrill was eliminated because I was so unsure about the simple act of speaking. I hadn't taken just a step outside of my comfort zone, but a giant leap to the point where I couldn't even see my comfort zone anymore.

Nowadays, I'm quite comfortable. I can actually communicate! I can read things in the metro. I can understand simple announcements. It's fine to open my mouth here to speak, because people sometimes automatically switch to English for me. But, the Eiffel Tower itself is under much more security since the terrorist attacks. One must go through security if they wish to simply walk into the plaza directly underneath the tower. Those metal detectors are symbols of a country shaken to the core by mindless attacks so much that "normal" life is no longer normal.

But as Pascal said, I might be enjoying Paris more now compared to six years ago because I'm more mature. It's fine for me to travel alone in an unfamiliar place now, whereas before I needed to stick myself to another person who knew the local language. But that's correct. Paris is now a familiar city, in every sense. It's not like I'm traveling in the typical sense; I'm just visiting a large city once again in which I have business.

As for today's French lesson with Phil, it went much smoother because I actually ate breakfast instead of only drinking a lonely cup of coffee. Pascal was kind enough to offer toast, jam and tea. So, I didn't feel slow or stupid, and it was much easier to carry on a conversation in French.

And speaking of French, it was never one of those languages I envisioned myself learning when I was younger, like the idea of living in France. But, life is a chaotic adventure, a frenzied machine with a mind of its own that shifts and shimmies on the road we think on which we travel. But at random moments that contraption has been known to suddenly veer off course.

I'm living in France and studying the language on my own because, well, that's how it's supposed to be. It's what I should be doing at this moment. I will not question this. 

15/1 - Today was my final lesson with Phil, and I'm tired. I'd be happy to return to Cherbourg tonight because I'm mentally exhausted, but alas I still have six more days of adventures. 

Pascal is the director of a dance organization, and he invited me to a dance performance of sorts. It was headlined by Nadia Vadori-Gauthier, a woman who is known for dancing in tribute to the terrorist attack on Charlie Hebdo a couple of years ago. During her tribute, Vadori-Gauthier filmed herself dancing every day for two years, even if it were just for a minute.

In one of her clips, which made me laugh, she had set up shop in a restaurant booth with bobble-heads of Donald trump and Hillary Clinton. She incorporated the bobble-heads into her dance and became a bobble-head herself at times. In other videos she danced in the middle of traffic, along a blank stretch of wall and on top of a table in a crowded lecture hall while the class was in session.

The recital took place in a small studio under the streets of Paris in the dance organization headquarters. Pascal said the space was much too small for the amount of people who showed up, which was about 150 people. There were theater seating on one side of the stage, which rose up maybe 10 rows. Other people were forced to sit on the ground on two other sides of the stage, including me.

The style of dance could be described as interpretive. It ranged from a group of eight performers twitching violently while humming in tune with each other, but then strolling away to the sidelines while whistling, to a man and woman executing a sort of ballet. Each wore gray T-shirts, jeans and danced with bare feet on the black floor, and the sound of their feet making contact with the floor was the only sound during these few moments. It was a thing of beauty when he would take her into his arms and she would stretch, thus showcasing her delicate-yet-powerful female form.

Programs like this are just a tiny part of what makes Paris such a great city. In 2015, I wrote about how the city offers a surprise around each and every corner, like a grab bag of Christmas poppers. It's a cultural capital of Europe, and a place that will eventually open the mind to previously unknown experiences. Even Pascal, who has lived in Paris for 37 years, said he still discovers new things about his home.

In 2015, I fell in love with Paris. In 2017, I simply fostered the relationship.

My time in Paris is finished. The next stop on this journey will be to Krakow, Poland where there is snow on the ground amid below-freezing temperatures. The purpose of my visit here is not a happy one: I'll visit Auschwitz, a place much colder than the weather in the deepest part of winter in the North Pole.

Discovering Mont Saint-Michel in the fog and my simple life in Cherbourg

17/12 - Activate your imagination.

Imagine walking on a gray, asphalt road surrounded by dense, white fog. On either side of the road (and as far as you can make out) is either ocean water or gray, muddy sand and silt, the result of low tide. You can hear the sound of gentle waves making contact with the supports of the bridge on which you stand. Fifty feet in front of you is totally white. The same can be said of your rear view. 

You keep walking. 

Besides the sound of water and your footsteps...silence.

Eventually, a dim, muddled shape appears in the foggy distance. A few moments later, one can see it's a parked car.

A couple more more steps and another shape materializes in the blanket of white, but this time it's massive. It's actually an imposing stone wall which extends into the fog on the left and the right. There is a gateway in the center of the path, in the shape of a fortress entrance. 

As you approach the entrance, your head tilts backwards in an effort to register the appearance of Mont St. Michel through the fog, including the abbey towering above the rest of the structures.

Mont St. Michel is a tiny commune perched on an island about half a mile out to sea on the south western border of Normandy and Brittany. It seems to be a religious mecca of sorts, as there are several monks who live on the island according to the tour guide. The abbey also extends as far back as the 12th century! 

Because of the walled, isolated character of this commune, I compared it to Gondor in the Lord of the Rings films. And if we had gone on a day that didn't feature dense fog, the views would have been incredible, but I was happy to simply be there. Mont St. Michel is a UNESCO World Heritage Site which survived attacks from the English during the Hundred Years War.

I enjoyed climbing the steps through the lower levels of the village towards the abbey entrance and listening to the tour guide's deep voice reverberate throughout the granite walls of the cathedral and other chambers. It was peaceful.

The lower levels of the commune are made up of restaurants, a couple of hotels, some bars, smaller chapels, museums and gift shops. It's quite a touristy place, and for good reason. It's a great place to simply wander around, up stone steps among a castle-like community and (in our case yesterday) feel as if we're floating in the sky itself.

18/12 - The road trip to Mont St Michel was a great idea, and I'm thankful to have met friends through Couchsurfing here. It's part of the reason I'm content with my life here. 

In my previous post about the trek to Lisbon, I wrote that I have been searching for equilibrium over the past several years. While I know it most likely takes a lifetime of reflection to achieve desired balance, I have noticed I am much more happy in my new French home. 

It has been two months since I arrived in Cherbourg. My life here is simple. I don't have a phone number, car, bicycle, motorcycle, more than 25 television channels or any bills associated with those things. What I do have is books in a large shelf which sits directly across the room from the couch, in both French and English, and two specific purposes each and every day: edit for Bleacher Report and study French at least 30 minutes a day. 

I have decreased the amount of alcohol I drink considerably and replaced the pint glass with a cup of coffee, most of the time being a latte or Americano. I do not miss spending money on beer. 

The more-frequent happiness and contentment in my life lately, I believe, is the result of simplifying my existence in a world where we're constantly being encouraged to buy something, to be a good consumer. It's not important to me. I just want to spend my time in the company of family and friends. 

Christmas and New Years are approaching. I will not make a New Years Resolution because if I want to improve my life in some way I will not wait for a certain day, which I have already proven. Instead, 2017 will be a year in which I continue my never-ending education, improve my French further and search for more knowledge that could help me find equilibrium. 

Couchsurfing, San Francisco and an epiphany about Self

14/9 - One life chapter is slowly but surely coming to an end, while another begins. One passion has been extinguished, but a new one has been given life and is growing. While it was a mistake to return to Porterville, it certainly wasn't a waste of time. I'm constantly learning new things, both about the world and about myself.

One such method for this is through Couchsurfing. Over the past two nights I have hosted two sets of people. The first was Isabelle and Bruno, a married French couple in their late 50s. They're a pair or cyclists who have ridden through 55 countries and 75,000 miles since 2006. Both are weather-beaten and dark skinned, with their feet showcasing deep tan lines from their sandals while on the bikes. Bruno, a thin man who is shorter than I am, has long, gray hair which reaches down to below his shoulders. He wore short running shorts and a sleeveless shirt when I opened the door, and his glasses are unlike any I've seen before because the lenses are big enough to cover his eye sockets; they reminded me of Harry Potter's glasses.

Both Bruno and Isabelle have strong French accents and give off a strong hippy vibe, but they were a pleasure to talk to. They made coffee for me in the morning, and I shared some of the jam some of the other French Couchsurfers left me.

Last night I hosted Alex, a Russian who lives in Las Vegas. This was his first CS experience and highly enjoyed it. As he walked out of the door this morning to leave he said he felt like he had stayed much longer and knew us for a long time. He was a very talkative man, which I certainly appreciate. He was the perfect CS guest, one who understands the "spirit" of CS. He shared lots of his stories, such as helping organizing the ski and snowboard events for the 2014 Sochi Olympics, and he cooked breakfast, cleaned the dishes and brought me a six-pack of beer, even though he doesn't drink. Hopefully I cross paths with him again.

By hosting such random travelers, you can see how different everyone's story is. Everyone is doing something different, has a different background. Everyone, no matter where they're from, has something to offer and something meaningful to say.

As for the French visa application, the only hurdle left is to buy a return shipping label so the consulate can return my passport to me. The appointment is one Friday, and it feels like that appointment in time has been building up for more than a month. It has been a point which has been growing larger and larger on the horizon, something I've known is coming for a long time. So I'm looking forward to the drive into Daly City and then the BART ride into the city.

18/9 - Over the past week, I've come to the conclusion that I need to correct several personal flaws, some of which won't be easy. I'm highly undisciplined, I lack self-control, I'm not patient, I'm cynical and the way I carry and present myself to other people has to change. I must change the way I treat people, especially those who are older, much more experienced and clever than I am and who are willing and eager to pass off their knowledge to me. Over the past couple of years, I've become a disrespectful, trolling, sarcastic, selfish asshole. I've moved away from and forgotten the simple concept of respect. I haven't used the words "Sir" or "Ma'am" in a while, or even use "Mr." or Mrs." I really do dislike what I've become. So, I'll make sure Monday ends on a high note with the newspaper, and the year in France will be treated as an opportunity to look myself in the mirror in an effort to correct these issues. I will focus on finding ways to make myself a better, more respectful, and more disciplined, human being.

Anyway, I made it to the French Consulate in San Francisco after waiting for more than a month on Friday. I paid my fee for the visa and gave them fingerprints. They also still have my passport. But there is a hangup regarding specifics about my pay with Bleacher Report. The consulate wants to know whether I can support myself with that job, so I need to return next week with that information from B/R.

The most convenient thing about this snag was the fact I was able to walk exactly one block away from the French Consulate and enter the Bleacher Report office to get the necessary email and phone numbers for me to correct this issue and get the ball rolling.

San Francisco itself is an amazing city. I made sure to wear a sportcoat to the Consulate, and I felt I belonged. This was one of my first attempts to better myself, as I made an effort to dress myself in order to look presentable while not only at the Consulate, but in public. It made me feel great!

 

But since the city is so expensive, I chose to take care of my business there and then get on BART back to Daly City where I parked. The rest of the day on Friday was spent with a couple of friends in Pacifica eating Mexican and Thai food. It was during dinner when I caught myself being disrespectful towards my friends. As I was giving them a bad time, I found myself wondering why I kept going! No one was offended (as evidenced from all of the laughter), but I sent a note of apology later.

I took a seat on a boulder on the beach in Pacifica Saturday morning after my buddy left for work. It was here where I focused on how the waves broke along the shoreline, following the top of the water eventually tumble over itself which creates that roar of rushing water. It was relaxing, but also enlightening. As I breathed in the clean, fresh, ocean air, I was inspired, finally, to really change. Life is all about treating people as people first and foremost, carrying yourself well and, most importantly, respect.

My short time in the Bay Area was an invaluable one because motivation has been ignited within myself once again. I'll use that motivation to better myself over the next 10 months to a year, and it's an exciting thought. If all goes well, France will help me go through an evolution into someone much more likable, more disciplined and one who understands how people really should be treated.

Until next time.

Couchsurfers, swimming and Needles Lookout

27/8 - I'm officially in another transition phase of my life. I'm physically still here in Porterville, but my mind and heart have been long gone and can be found elsewhere, far away.

My time at the newspaper is coming to a close, as Sept. 19 will be my final day. I also registered for the Foreign Services Officer test, which will be Oct. 3 in Sacramento. And of course, I will apply for the French visa in San Francisco on Sept. 16. Luckily, Marie-Amance gave me everything I need from her for that process.

Like during my final two weeks in England, I'm thinking ahead. I know my time here in Porterville is closing out, and it's a little bittersweet. While I will say it was a mistake to return to the Valley, I will never say it was a waste of time. My time in Porterville has definitely been productive, and I have grown as a person. Like that dead-of-night thunderstorm over the Isle of Wight a year ago, I feel like the past year is already fading away into a memory. But since there is no weather here besides heat, a more appropriate comparison would be the cloud of smoke from a wildfire slowly disappearing throughout a week.

28/8 - I hosted Evgeny via Couchsurfing last night. He is bald with a beard, and his accent is thick. He lives in Los Angeles but is originally from Moscow, Russia. He's been in California for the past four months and said everything is much different to Russia, including how many oranges there are compared to apples. It's funny how a traveler makes you appreciate things in the states more, like driving habits here. Apparently people drive much safer here compared to Moscow, and the traffic in LA is better than Moscow. Ok then!

I only hosted him for one night. This morning Evgeny was back on his motorcycle on his way to Sequoia National Park, Yosemite and eventually Burning Man. I'm glad I had the chance to give him some advice as to where to go and what to see; after all, I'm a traveler helping a fellow traveler. I'm also happy to be his first Couchsurfing host.

One more aspect of my life that is going through a transformation is the fact I joined a health club which houses an indoor swimming pool. It's time to treat my body right and get fit again. Swimming as a workout is tough! It's easier on your body in terms of impact, but there's the fact you can't breathe freely like you can when running. I feel it's more fun than running as well.

One other benefit of the gym is the fact it's the perfect release of frustration that builds up as a result of living in Porterville and the Central Valley...

1/9 - The flight to Paris is booked for Oct. 17. There are only a few more things I need for the visa application and then I'm ready to head off to San Francisco in a couple of weeks for the appointment at the French consulate. I still need travel insurance and a couple of application forms. I got passport photos taken a couple of days ago, but they look more like mugshots.

7/9 - I've had a pair of French couples Couchsurf with me over the past three days. While it was a pleasure to host Emma and her husband because we exchanged stories discussed language and they helped me with my French pronunciation, Cieline and her friend arrived late at night and were shy. It wasn't nearly as fun talking to Cieline and her friend because they were so shy and quiet, whereas Emma and Antoine were outgoing and talkative. They also brought homemade crepes and jams and shared them.

Both couples were around my age and were traveling through the Sequoia National Park, Yosemite and around California. I'm happy to give a little bit of advice to travelers regarding what to do around here.

As for my own hiking adventures, I went to Needles Lookout this past weekend in the Sequoia National Forest. It was a short hike (4.5 miles) but it was at high elevation, above 7,000 feet. The draw of this hike was the fire lookout perched precariously on a tall group of rock spires which provides an awe-inspiring view of the surrounding mountains. Unfortunately, the lookout burned down some years ago but the stairwell up to the concrete base still remains. There is a gate which blocks the stairwell, but it's not locked. So, while carefully climbing the steps, I opened the gate and proceeded to the top.

The walkway felt sturdy for the most part, but it had that rust color on the metal, and I felt a small amount of vertigo at the very top, as if I'd lose my balance based on the sheer drop on either side of me.

 

With all of the swimming and hiking I'm doing, I feel refreshed. It's a throwback to when I was in Spain and Finland, because of the fact I'm using a sauna several times a week as well. I feel better, I have more energy, hikes are easier and I can swim farther. I also look better! So, here's to the transition phase of my life. 

Poole, Cherbourg, Paris and a close call at Heathrow

23/6 - Poole was a pleasantly familiar place. And since it's relatively small and compact, you run into people on the street quite often, such as Bill. It was fun to catch up with old friends, such as Joanna and Tim. The three of us went out for dinner and drinks, which felt like old times.

Every Tuesday during the summer in Poole, hundreds of motorcycles descend upon the Quay and park in one spot, creating a mass of two-wheeled machines. It never fails to make me envious seeing those bikes, knowing the kind of roads around Poole riders must use to get there. It was a complete coincidence I arrived in Poole on Tuesday, but I certainly don't regret it.

I hopped on the ferry to Cherbourg yesterday morning, another familiar practice. It was foggy and damp in Poole, which was typical English weather. But just like flying, riding the ferry gave me a sense of purpose and accomplishment. Travel in general does that for me.

In Cherbourg I met up and stayed with another former Couchsurfing friend: Marie-Amance. She once again collected me from the ferry terminal in Cherbourg and gave me the key to her flat because she had to return to work for a few hours. Her flat looked just as I remembered it: tiny, cramped kitchen, steep, spiraling staircase that blocks the closet, the second-floor living room and her room on the third floor. It was during these few hours in her flat by myself that were some of the most relaxed I was since coming to Europe last week. It was total bliss to read my book while listing to gentle rain through the wide-open window on the second floor.

Later that evening, Marie-Amance returned home and proceeded to cook dinner out of what little food she had around the kitchen. She made a casserole with tuna, tomatoes and olives, and crepes for dessert along with different jams, syrup and sugar. We spent the evening enjoying the crepes, the conversation and discussing other matters, one of which blew my mind.

Since Marie-Amance will go to England for a year to study at university, she offered to let me stay in her flat for 200 Euros a month while she's gone. That's an incredible opportunity, nevermind the fact I don't speak French or am illegal to work in France. The big question is whether I'd be able to survive there. What would I do for a job if I don't speak French? But, it would be a great opportunity to learn French in a small-ish town in the north of France. It would present some massive challenges, but I'd like to see if I could handle those difficulties.

Cherbourg is a small city, and one with not a lot of opportunity in terms of work, even for French citizens. But it's a quiet, calm place filled with the scent of sea water and the squawks of seagulls. It also has a certain charm to the look of the city. I could see myself living there, but there is much research and thought to be done about that decision.

I went to bed that night in the flat listening to the thunder and heavy rain of that storm, seeing the flashes of light and feeling Marie-Amance's friendly black cat snuggle up next to me on the bed. It was a peaceful moment; in fact, my time in Cherbourg felt safe and familiar, and it was one of those times I made sure to appreciate being in the moment.

After leaving Cherbourg this morning (Thursday), I rode the train three hours to Paris and immediately met up with Magda, my friend from Bournemouth University. This is our second time meeting in Paris, and we also crossed paths in California at the end of last year. Magda lives in a house (more like a mansion, really) in Croissy Sur-Seine, a suburb on the west side of Paris. The home is obviously old, but it's a beautiful place, with three floors and a basement. There is a wide space on the roof to sunbathe during the day and drink under the stars at night.

The tip of the Eiffel Tower can be seen at night, thanks to its revolving spotlight. So with the spotlight periodically shining our way and a near-full moon lighting up the sky above the glow of Paris, I had a short but meaningful conversation with Magda and her roommates on the roof on Thursday. Since the attacks in Paris, people seem to be more aware of their surroundings. I heard stories of people looking others in the eyes while riding the metro, suspicious of who might be the next person to murder others. Just walking around Paris and the metro, and one can see soldiers with assault rifles patrolling metro stations or security guards armed with metal detectors guarding entrances to shopping malls. But, Paris is still a thriving, alive metropolis, a place I'd greatly love to move to.

It's adventures like these that cannot happen in hotels while traveling. I am immensely thankful to have friends in all of these places who are happy to share their homes for a night. I am lucky to be able to stay in these areas and feel so familiar with the cities.

25/6 - It wouldn't be a normal travel day back to Porterville without drama for me. No step went smoothly, starting in Paris and being squashed in rush-hour traffic on the metro. Then, my passport was retained and I was detained in a side area, again, by the UK border patrol before boarding the Eurostar train from Paris to London. It all has to do with the UK student visa; I must find a way to get it out of my passport.

Fortunately they let me through, but the actual train was an hour late by the time we arrived in London at St. Pancras. With the hour-long tube ride into Heathrow, this meant I had about 90 minutes to check in, get through security and find my gate. Luckily, I checked my bag about three minutes before the cut-off time of one hour before the flight. Talking to the lady at check-in revealed she loves this kind of thrill and adrenaline rush as well.

After getting through light security, I got a bite to eat before going to the gate. However, I misjudged how far my gate was, which was about 15 minutes away on foot when I had just 25 minutes before the flight left. So with my passport in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other, and a heavy backpack, I sprinted the way to my gate. I had never had that close of a call with a flight, besides the time I completely missed my flight from Barcelona.

To top it all off, when I got onto the plane I found out the flight was delayed by about 50 minutes. You can imagine the surge of annoyance I experienced for making that kind of effort, all for naught.

Currently I'm about 30 miles from Bakersfield, CA, my adventure almost complete. I have never, and will never, regret traveling. It always ends up memorable in some way. Here's to the next one (though I have nothing planned for the future).

The 100th post: humility, German Couchsurfers and a brilliant decision

20/4 - This is the 100th post of Adventure Time with Mike.

I've been waiting to write this post, to save it for an epic journey. But I need to keep writing, especially because my next big trip isn't for another month.

To think I've reached 100 posts on here...It's crazy. It started as a way to inform family and friends of how I was doing during my early days in England, but it turned into a fully fledged travel blog. I feel grateful for the advice from others to start a blog because now I can look back, read old posts and feel nostalgic.

This blog has documented a whole year in England and the many adventures of mine throughout Europe. It keeps records of several first-time experiences such as being in a nude photoshoot, playing American football, volunteering far away from home and discovering the unknown joys of meeting total strangers and sleeping on their couch for the night.

It would be fair to say some of my trips and adventures were done with the blog in mind, so I could show others my experiences and hopefully inspire them to do the same, to make their dreams come true as well. In the past year-and-a-half, I've been called a nutter, a real character and incredibly adventurous. I take those as genuine compliments because life just isn't that fun if you're not going to new places, experiencing new things and taking risks. After all, I'm all about collecting memories and fascinating stories.

The definition of an adventure for me has slowly evolved, even since I first arrived in England on Sept. 14, 2014. Then it was going on a trek into an unknown country, far away from home. These days, an adventure can be had right here in Porterville, but I still very much desire to travel far and wide.

With the help of another friend, I recently discovered an application called Geocaching. This is an app that is essentially a map for a huge scavenger hunt. You can find several areas in your own city where a Geocache is hidden, which is like a capsule one can hide in an area and leave notes inside. When another person finds it, they can sign their name, add a note or leave something in it for the next person to find. There are certain hints and directions on the app for finding each cache, and your phone can be used as a compass but it's only accurate to within 30 feet. At that point you're on your own, and that's when you have to really pay attention to everything you see on the ground.

I went to three sites yesterday around Porterville and Strathmore, and I only found one. It was in an alleyway off of Main Street stuck to the side of an electricity meter, but it took me several moments to realize what it actually was. This cache was an old twist cap to a plastic bottle with a magnet on the bottom. It was gray, and it perfectly blended in with the box on which it was stuck. Inside was a couple of little pieces of paper with the names and initials of all of the people who had found it.

These caches can be anything. My friend said she found one in an old chapstick cannister and a bullet casing. This reminds me of portkeys from the world of Harry Potter. I enjoy this because it's the simple pleasure of searching for a tiny trinket and being able to sign your name, though the search can be quite difficult and frustrating. It's cool to be a part of that community.

I've also just finished hosting Monika and Peter through Couchsurfing for two nights. They are from Bavaria in Germany and are traveling through California and Nevada for a couple of weeks. When they left my house, they started their journey towards Death Valley. They took a full day to go around the Sequoia National Park and see some of the things I saw on Sunday, such as Moro Rock. I gave them advice on what they could see on the way to Death Valley, such as Red Rock Canyon State Park.

I cooked them breakfast and was simply a friendly and welcoming host, something the two appreciated. I also told them to pay it forward whenever they have a guest at their place, whenever that may be. It feels good to help fellow travelers during their journey, as other people have done that for me. I guess this blog influenced that.

And speaking of the Sequoia National Park, it was great to explore my own state a little bit more this past weekend. I hiked to the top of Little Baldy and Big Baldy, and climbed the steps of Moro Rock as well. California is such a massive place, and there's no wonder why it's world famous. I should feel lucky to live here and call this state my home. I may call Porterville and the Central Valley a terrible place to live sometimes, but I really am fortunate.

So here's to the 100th post of Adventure Time with Mike (formerly known as American in Bournemouth). The decision to start the blog and fill it with my stories has been life-altering. But I say with hopeful humility that I feel grateful to have had all of these opportunities documented in the previous 99 posts. It didn't turn out quite the way I intended or expected, but this is how life is. I'll just embrace it and roll with it.

Here's to another 100 posts to this blog.

An accident, the wait in Willis Tower and famous art in Chicago

24/3 - The fun for me began the day before I left for Chicago. Remember how I've written about part of the fun of traveling is the possibility that you might have to quickly adapt your plans? Yes, that happened to me Wednesday afternoon in Porterville.

I got into a car accident that resulted in my back bumper getting completely ripped off. The person responsible disappeared, so I'm out of luck. So as I stood there in the Tulare County Courthouse parking lot staring at the damage, I was in a temporary shock. 

"Fuck, what am I going to do to get to LA now?"

Because the bumper was ripped off, I couldn't use FlightCar anymore, the company I would have used to rent out my car in exchange for free parking. Instead, I used the Hilton by LAX to park for $52 for four days. 

But after successfully allowing myself enough time to get to LAX through that world-famous parking lot known as 7:30 a.m. 405 traffic, I was able to feel that giddy excitement that comes right before stepping onto an airplane headed for a new place.

Chicago. It's fucking cold right now. It even snowed on Thursday! Thankfully I've never traveled somewhere based on the weather. But Though I've only seen parts of Chicago during the night so far, I can't wait to explore more. 

I'm Couchsurfing with Rick for a few nights. He lives close to the subway on the north side of Chicago so the dull moan of a passing train sometimes breaks the silence inside his one-bedroom apartment just a few blocks away from Lake Michigan. We've already had a drink and a burger at a local pub, and he's given me some ideas for what to see in the morning. 

I basically have just two days in Chicago. Time to make the most of it. 

25/3 - I did the tourist thing on Friday, taking the subway into downtown where I walked all day and was the recipient of spontaneous pleasure. 

As is the case when I'm in a large city, I marvel at the size of skyscrapers. The sheer massiveness of these buildings makes me feel tiny and insignificant. And the view from the 103rd floor in the Willis Tower is another one of those scenes in this world that is so extraordinary it looks fake, like the Eiffel Tower. 

Speaking of the Willis Tower (formerly Sears Tower), while the view was incredible, the experience was disappointing for the price I paid. The line was 2.5 hours long, which included going through security and being forced to sit through a 15-minute film about the tower. The wait was horrendous, and what made matters worse was the amount of people elbowing me out of the way to take a selfie by the windows. 

And the lines. There were lines to get in the tower, lines to use the Sky Deck, a clear-bottomed platform on the 103rd floor you can step onto and look down to the street below, and lines to use the elevator to get down. There were lines to exit the tower as well. Needless to say, I was grumpy and needed a break from crowds. And lines. 

But throughout the day I was amazed at the look of Chicago. Trump Tower looks like it came straight out of an episode of the Jetsons. The Chicago Theater (where I will see Trevor Noah perform standup tonight) was a pleasant surprise to stumble upon and Millenium Park was simply awesome. 

I had seen the Clouds Gate sculpture in pictures before, but in person it reminds me of a drop of molten steel, like the Terminator in Judgement Day. Set along a backdrop of impressive skyscrapers makes for some great photos. But again, the crowds here dampen the experience with the constant use of selfie sticks. 

I made my way to the Art Institute of Chicago, where I saw more Van Gogh paintings, along with other famous works such as American Gothic. It's always a pleasure to get up close and personal with these paintings. 

After exiting the gallery, spontaneity blessed me with its presence by me successfully getting the phone number of a woman who gave me a spiel about a non-profit, but she had trouble completing it because I was too busy asking her about why she's in Chicago after moving from Los Angeles. Unfortunately she was too busy to have a coffee after her shift ended.

I also gave myself a thrill by stopping at Wrigley Field on the way to downtown. It would be worth it to travel to Chicago just to see a Cubs baseball game, because going to see the Lovable Losers is an event in itself. There is no parking lot. People arrive on foot and go straight for the many bars and restaurants that surround the park. There are also bleachers on top of the apartments across the street.Though I couldn't see inside the park because of construction happening, I can still say I've seen the stadium with my own eyes rather than on television, and that's the reason to travel.

The best thing about the city so far is the connections I'm making. I'm meeting some really cool people.

Couchsurfing, inspired drinking and self-examination

15/2 - Friday was yet another chapter in my Couchsurfing story. I hosted Jan, a German traveling through California Friday night after I got off work. He's just like me in that he doesn't plan where he's going to stay long in advance; he figures it out when the time comes.

I hosted him on just a few hours of notice, so before I went home I picked up some beer to share with him. As a traveler myself, I understand how it feels not being able to find a place to sleep for the night. That's why I hosted him, as a fellow traveler and human being. If not for me, he would have slept in his car. The time he was there we just had a few beers and traded travel stories, and I gave him a sleeping bag, pillows and blankets and he slept next to the electric fireplace.

The best thing about it was the fact he was grateful for my hosting him on such short notice. The encounter wasn't long at all, but it still feels great to meet new people and help a fellow human.

My weekend, while not as epic and memorable as the previous one, wasn't bad at all. I rode the Ducati up to Springville, but the smog and haze was so bad it dampened the ride a bit. Considering that, it was great to drive north to Sacramento and out of the smog. It was there in midtown Sacramento where I discovered a German beer garden and met up with my coworker and his girlfriend. It was the first time we had properly hung out outside of work and had a few drinks. It's great to have someone there who's my age.

Continuing my exploration of California, my family and I hiked Rockville Hill in Fairfield on Sunday. Dad and I both used GoPros on our foreheads, and we hiked about five miles. It was fantastic to be outside in the warmth and clear air. It's not often it's as clear as that was in the Central Valley.

Finally, I did some day drinking with an old friend of mine in Davis before making the trek back to Porterville. It was here where I did my best to inspire my friend to do something big with his life, such as travel, to get out of his funk that has bogged him down since he broke up with his girlfriend. He's been very cynical of everything lately, so I told him to shut the f**k up, stop thinking about everything that could go wrong and just do it. Sometimes, inspiration comes in the form of flat-out bluntness.

22/2 - Life in Porterville these days has been enjoyable because I'm spending a lot of time analyzing why I am the way I am. I'm trying to figure out what I really want, both from a woman and with life, and it has been enlightening. This examination of myself has made me more self-confident, and I've noticed I have been sticking up for myself more. Maybe this is just all part of maturing, but I like where it's going.

My latest adventure was a short-and-sweet trek to Lower Coffee Camp in the Sequoia National Forest. There I messed around on the edge of the Tule River with a GoPro on my forehead, scrambling over granite boulders and slowly navigating the brush beside the river. The best part was finding a comfortable spot on top of some granite and lying down on the opposite end of a waterfall that spilled into a large pool. It was there I faced the sky, focused on my breathing while listening to the rush of water and let the time melt away, with everything turned off and me being disconnected, if only for an hour or two.

Los Angeles and a difficult trek into Ireland

21/12 - Los Angeles is a massive, smoggy, traffic-infested metropolis. There's trash everywhere, Spanish is prominent and lots of murals on building walls. Thankfully, Stephanie and Juan have given me a place to stay and are showing me around for the day I'm here.

They live in a small studio behind Juan's mother's house in San Fernando. You have to walk up the driveway, open the gate to the back and dodge the barking German shepherd (it bit a burglar, so the burglar sued the family for not having a Beware of Dog sign. The burglar won). Inside their studio is a cozy loft that makes excellent use of what little space there is, and a young, male cat that loves to run around the room and play fetch with a ball. I'm basically Couchsurfing, but not really. 

Today I walked for miles in an unglamorous part of West Hollywood. Stephanie and I wandered around, got some Guatemalan empanadas and rode the bus and subway (which I didn't even know LA has). It's been a while since I pounded the pavement of a strange city, so both of my knees are a bit swollen and sore, maybe because of slight tendonitis. 

I dislike Los Angeles. There are too many cars and sitting in traffic is a large chunk of your day. But on the way back to Stephanie's place, life got a little bit slower as we walked on the railroad tracks, something so simple yet so powerful when having an adventure. 

But for dinner, I got a taste of eating with a Mexican family. You'll continually be served chorizo tacos and quesadillas until you waive them off, unable to eat more. But our meal time was fast paced, as we ate while cooking more at the same time. So thanks to Juan and Stephanie for making my short stay in Los Angeles enjoyable. Both were great hosts and I hope I left a good impression.

As for LAX and Ethiopian Airlines...shoot me. The system for that airline crashed, so all of the tickets and information was processed by hand. I don't know exactly how long I was standing in the check-in line, but it was easily 90 minutes. I've never experienced anything like that, and I'll try not to ever use this airline again. Imagine that kind of frustration! And imagine the only time you ever arrive at the airport about three hours early, this happens.

22/12 - In hindsight, Ethiopian Airlines is fine. They did the best they could do with a crashed system. The plane was clean and the food was quality for the most part. It was a chilled out flight. I can't talk trash about the airline now. But...

I'M IN IRELAND!

My trip seems to be hitting more snags than usual, as I was held back at customs because I don't have a work permit for this WorkAway adventure. The customs officer had to walk away with my passport twice to verify information. At one point, he asked me how much money I have and what I'd do if I had to catch the flight back to Los Angeles that night. The thought of possibly getting deported back to America made my head explode.

But after verifying that I have a return flight back to America on Jan. 2, a place to stay in Dublin for the night and that I work for the Porterville Recorder (the officer pulled up one of my stories on his computer), I was free to go, but not before I had to take a mugshot. The Irish government is watching me now.

Because of that, I had to stop in the airport pub and have a Guinness, which tastes much better in Ireland. I've heard more Irish accents in the past few hours than I have in the past year in England. Besides the accent, though, it really isn't that much different from the United Kingdom.

Walking around looking for basic supplies, I had that stupid smirk on my face again which usually is the result of being in a new country. I'm stoked! This is the 16th country I've visited in 2015, and it's already started off with a great story. The next 10 days should be a blast. Not even my right knee, which feels a little bit stiff and swollen, will ruin that. I'm also looking forward to blogging regularly again. Hopefully it inspires others.