Leaving Cherbourg, Walden and a new filter

15/6 - In two days I'll be back in California. Of course, I still need to pack my things and clean the flat (always leaving these things to the last minute). I'm excited to make the journey back to my hometown!

I saw a video last night where the speakers talked about the importance of simply trying something and putting forth an effort to make it work. If you try but fail, it's not a bad thing because you weren't afraid to give it a go.

There were many reasons not to move to France: I quit my job and couldn't get one there because of the visa, I didn't speak French, I didn't know anyone, I was laid off from my part time job, the country was unsafe, etc.

But I followed my instinct, which told me to go to France because that's what felt right. In other words, I gave it a try.

Eight months later, I'm glad I drove to the French Consulate in San Francisco four times to sort out the visa. I'm happy I learned basic French in order to get by. I'm proud I made Cherbourg my home during this time. I'm happy I tried.

I didn't fail, either; It was a massive success!

By quitting and moving to France, I removed myself from routine that made me unhappy and feel stuck. I removed myself and did a restart, so to say. Coming here enabled me to examine the inner reaches of my core being in solitude. It's appropriate to say that I was a bit like Henry David Thoreau when he went to live in the forest and wrote Walden.

"I went to live in the forest because I wished to live deliberately, to suck the marrow out of life..."

My forest was a tiny, 3-story flat in a French seaport. Is there really any difference? This comparison only recently came to me, and not once did I ever have the arrogance as to expect to have a Thoreau experience. Hindsight is a funny thing. I certainly feel as though I sucked the marrow out of my time in France, because now I'm a bit more self-aware than before. 

17/6 - I was emotional when I left England for the final time, because I wanted to stay; that was an incredible year and I wanted to keep traveling. My final days in Porterville were difficult because I realized how I had acted and was ashamed of myself.

Leaving the flat in Cherbourg for the final time was remarkably easy. It was strange because this was such a big part of my life, but it wasn't difficult to leave the flat or say goodbye to my friends. There was no longing to stay a few more weeks to see the upcoming music festivals in the area, no inner disappointment that the stay lasted only eight months.

I feel completely satisfied by my time in Normandy. I accomplished everything I set out to do, I learned new skills and have a new hobby. Besides meeting Marie-Amance in person, there wasn't much more I could do.

In other words, it felt right to leave. My head and heart had drifted off to another place once again, leaving my physical body in limbo. At this rate I wonder if I'll ever be able to settle in one spot for more than a year.

Wanderlust is definitely an addiction and I've had my fix for the time being. Because I live with this affliction, I dunno if I'll be able to lead the "normal" life of working a job for 40 years in an office, buying a car, house and whatever else the American Dream involves.

I'm in my element when on the move. I'm a stubborn, nomadic vagabond. I'm a lone wolf perfectly comfortable operating alone in a strange land. Travel gives me purpose and a sense of accomplishment.

Why would I ever move away from that?

There ends my story in France. I want to thank those of you who have followed along on this adventure. You all definitely know a little bit more about what goes on inside my own head. But keep in mind this is merely the end of a chapter, as new travels are approaching quickly.

Les Dunes de Biville

Les Dunes de Biville

22/6 - Greetings from California, and Pacific Standard Time. Thankfully the jetlag is no more. A new piece of photography equipment has joined me here, and the results are in the photo below.

Back home on the banks of the Sacramento River, accompanied by some new equipment.

I created this shot with the help of a neutral density filter, which is a darkly tinted piece of glass that covers the end of the camera lense; Think of it as sunglasses for the camera. By using this filter, I can limit the amount of light that enters the lense during a long-exposure shot in the daytime. The picture above took 20 seconds to complete. Without the filter, the picture would be much too light. 

Stretch run in Cherbourg, photo contests and a lighthouse

29/5 - Spring and summer have arrived in Cherbourg, with warmth and humidity. I've begun hearing the sounds of doves, which will always bring back the memory of Grandma Honey's house.

With the trek in Italy finished and no more travel on the horizon before my return to California in a few weeks, it's time to reflect on my time here with the help of hindsight.

As I sit at this cafe surrounded by the sound of British voices and watching horse-drawn carriages carrying tourists recording the ride with their phones, I find it difficult to organize and marshal my thoughts. There are many things I want to say, but I'm not exactly sure how to write them.

You all know the circumstances of my arrival. It was a low point, fresh off six months in the most toxic work environment possible. I was feeling ashamed and guilty of how the previous year in Porterville had played out and how I treated people during that time.

I was dealing with the fact I could not communicate because I didn't speak French. Self confidence was low. It was a difficult first couple of weeks because I had taken myself far outside of my comfort zone.

But, I persevered. I got comfortable in my new surroundings. It was an accomplishment to get the basics of French down to the point where I could "get by" because I started from zero. It was a gutsy decision to take on this adventure and if I could do it, anyone can.

Since I've spent almost two years of my life living in Europe, I can finally say with certainty that I'm ready to go back to California. The ravenous hunger for travel has been satisfied for now, at least around Europe. There are many places I've yet to visit on this continent and I will see them in time; I'm only 27 years old after all.

The thought has been in my head for a while. I've visited 23 countries in my life and seen some amazing things, but I've seen only a tiny fraction of the world (perhaps half of Europe). It's time to branch out. Asia is calling. South America. Africa. Australia.

31/5 - Throughout my time in France, I've written about what I perceived to be my purpose for being here, and how it was in a constant state of flux.

I had some expectations for what I'd focus on while being here, such as improving my work ethic and improving as a person; some of those were dead on. While I had some goals, at the same time I felt lost in the first few weeks here, like I was stagnating again. But I knew my actual purpose would reveal itself in time.

It did.

My second long-term stint in Europe taught me that it's no longer all about me, an only child who has only ever thought about himself. I've learned that true success comes from pulling more weight than necessary, and that's done by putting others first.

I've learned how to put aside my own emotions for the sake of appreciating a situation. Letting emotions of the moment dictate a decision is not OK because logic goes out the window. For this, I will thank world-famous works of art such as the Mona Lisa.

I've learned that when we work, whether it's for a job or personal, 100 percent of our mind, heart and soul must go into it; The intensity must be high. Otherwise, it would be a waste of time not only for myself but for my coworkers, employers and personal goals.

I write this as I sit against a large tree in Emmanuel Liais Park, listening to the fountain of cascading water in the pond and my bare feet in the grass. My time of self-imposed exile is coming to a close, and I can't do much but be thankful for the time I've been given. .

Cherbourg will always be my home. It has been such an important chapter of my life that semi-formed ideas for another tattoo that involve the crest of Cherbourg are floating around in my head. This was also the city where my interest in photography was awakened, and it's been a thrill to learn about the capabilities of this camera.

It has been helpful to enter photography contests and challenges online because I've been able to see the work of photographers much better than me. Their jaw-dropping shots give me inspiration. And short day trips to places close to Cherbourg such as Barfleur and Gatteville Lighthouse also provide plenty of opportunity to compose photos.

Jim Morrison, mastering emotions and a familiar museum in Paris

14/5 - We hear all the time advice about keeping our emotions in check. Mastering them. Until recently, I had never truly understood this concept or how to accomplish it.

Diego and I visited The Louvre art museum in Paris this weekend. It's world famous for obvious reasons, because the Mona Lisa is there. This was my third time visiting, and I enjoyed it much more than the other two because I finally understood this concept; It was a breakthrough of sorts.

I hated my two previous experiences inside the Louvre because I let outside influences bother me. The sheer numbers of people, the camera phones, the jostling, the stressful environment of fighting crowds of people to see artistic masterpieces overwhelmed me in the past. It was sensory overload.

My idea of an art museum is a quiet, calm place where one can contemplate the piece on the wall. It should be a place where anxieties vanish. The Louvre is not this place. It's fast-paced, like the city of Paris itself. But then again, there is nothing typical about The Louvre.

This time, however, I controlled my own emotions and how much outside factors got to me inside the museum. I reminded myself that I can't control how many people are there or what they do. I caught myself getting stressed a few times, because I personally don't understand the point of taking a picture of a painting when you can Google it and get a better image. But I digress.

Diego and I strolled at our own pace, looking at the art. I took a few deep breaths and muted those around me; I began to feel separate from them. The large groups of tourists all craning their necks and stretching their cameras in the air at an attempt to get a picture became simply another feature of the museum.

This left me with yet another opportunity to study the Mona Lisa from about 20 feet away, behind and right to the rock-concert-like mosh pit of people. I noticed she had no eyebrows. The background of the painting was blurry. Her wrists looked swollen. The size of the painting was larger than I had remembered it, but still entirely unremarkable to me.

This experience helped me contemplate the concept of being in control of emotions, rather than vice versa.

As humans we're going to succumb to fits of anger, annoyance, rage, sadness, indifference, joy, ecstasy and so on. We should recognize those emotions and let them flow. What we should not do is allow them to influence decisions. We should wait until those emotions burn out so we can make a decision during a more stable, logical mindset.

I learned inside The Louvre that my annoyance, anxiety and anger shouldn't prevent me from enjoying the museum. I shouldn't let them form my opinion of the gallery. During my two previous visits, those negative emotions dictated my experience and opinion.

17/5 - This is a story of one of my most unique travel experiences, and it involves a graveyard.

Before taking flight later in the day, Diego and I visited Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. There are many famous names buried here, including the playwrite Oscar Wilde. But my biggest draw was Jim Morrison, the lead singer of The Doors, who died in 1971 in Paris after being found dead in his bathtub in his 4th District apartment. My favorite song from this band is Riders on the Storm.

This cemetery is centuries old, and there are many large gravestones and memorials crowding one another, among small dirt trails between them. It's quite a big place, and finding particular graves can be difficult as was Morrison's.

Diego and I walked along the cobblestone pathway, which curved to the left and uphill. Clutching a map of the cemetery, we turned our heads this way and that in the general area along with two other women also looking for the same grave. Not until a man pointed it out to us did we find it.

Morrison's grave is tucked behind several other larger memorials and is easy to miss, but the many gifts of colorful flowers gives it away. Diego and I found a metal fence in front of the grave, to keep people from getting too close. We jumped over it while several other people watched (and one commented on my legitimate camera).

Diego asked me if I had anything to say to Mr. Morrison. After a pause I said, "Jim Morrison, Rider on the Storm, we salute you."

I've been listening to The Doors a lot ever since then, and the band seems much more real and closer to me than before.

Road tripping in France and Switzerland with a familiar face

19/4 - It was around this time six months ago that I moved to France.

Six months in France.

So, to celebrate, I went on a road trip with my old friend Danny and his dog, Rocky over the Easter weekend. This was our third such road trip together, but this time we took a somewhat familiar route by driving south through France and ending in Basel, Switzerland.

It had been almost two years since the two of us drove north to Loch Ness, Scotland from Bournemouth, England, and exactly two years since we drove south to Italy, a distance of 2,200 miles. This time, I met him in Calais, after taking a train from Cherbourg and meeting total strangers in Caen to carpool four hours to Calais.

Though the trips were separated by two years, I noticed things haven't changed much with either of us. My emotions, the cause of so much anger and stress during my time in Milan and Genova, Italy, are still there. I'm still prone to submitting to moments of anger and annoyance, though this time they were much less noteworthy.

While my travel partner relies on his phone's GPS to a fault at times, there were moments when it seriously helped on this trip. Though there are many tolls throughout the major motorways of France, it helped us navigate in such a way where we avoided all tolls on our way back north by using smaller roadways, windy paths through damp and cloudy mountains, and one-lane roads through sleepy villages. It also helped us avoid the €50 toll at the Swiss border by simply leaving the highway and driving through the city streets of Saint-Louis, France to cross the border into Switzerland.

Both of us have accomplished a little bit since leaving Bournemouth University. We've grown into different people and collected vastly different experiences and stories, but we're still great friends. Though we do get along, there are times when we royally piss each other off like that couple who nitpick every aspect of each other.

The biggest difference now, though, is the newfound interest in photography for both of us. Danny uses a Nikon D5100 and I have the Pentax K-30, both DSLR cameras but with different capabilities, especially in regards to lenses.

I practiced with Danny's Nikon D5100.

The last time we pounded the open road, I didn't have the desire to stop every hour or so to take a picture. This time, however, I've been known to stop in random places and snap shots, such as when I waded into a field of yellow rapeseed flowers near Strasbourg, under a stormy sky. My pants got wet, my socks became soggy and my shirt attracted tiny yellow debris, but I snagged a cool picture or two.

This was a better idea in my head, and I never noticed the water droplets on my lense.

I didn't know the rapeseed flowers would be wet.

During the last road trip, I didn't have a child-like wonder of the sky. During this trip, the several hours driving in the general area of Nancy gave us a view of a spectacle in the sky, something that distracted me from my driving duties. The rays of the sun found ways around the clouds and down to the ground providing a natural spotlight for the ground below, like fingers from the sky curiously touching an unknown substance. It was incredible, and I was itching to pull the car over on the side of the road and put the camera to work.

Colmar - taken through the bars of a fence.

There was one point, just after sunset, when we drove along a long, straightaway road, next to several wind turbines in an open, green field. There were no trees. It would have been the perfect spot to shoot the sunset, but we were an hour late so the only thing breaking the black sky was some dark purple clouds on the horizon.

21/4 - It's also just about two years since Danny and I took that road trip from Bournemouth all the way down to Italy. For the past week, we've been driving, and driving...and driving. Or to put it more accurately, I've been driving because of Danny's lack of skill with the manual transmission.

Mont St. Michel is swamped with tourists during warm weather, but it's always fun to visit.

I've shown Danny the World War II sites in Normandy such as Omaha Beach, Utah Beach, Normandy American Cemetery, Pointe du Hoc and other tiny villages in the area. I showed him Mont St. Michel; it was my third time here and it was the warmest visit yet, despite the place crawling with tourists. However, that was Danny's birthday! Just like when my parents were here, it was fun to see the reactions of a person visiting for the first time. 

I've taken other photos of Les Braves, but not with the added benefit of a good camera!

When we arrived back in Cherbourg that evening, we witnessed the sunset from the top of the hill overlooking the city. It was magnificent, like when I looked upon Big Ben in London, in 2014, for the first time in a couple of years. From the wide angle, the thin clouds crisscrossed the light-blue sky, which eventually turned to pink, orange and red on the horizon. But from a closer view, the sky was nothing but orange and red. This 135mm lens makes all the difference because it can zoom in.

Taken from the top of Cherbourg at sunset.

There were many stops during the week: Strasbourg, Colmar, Basel, Kayserberg, castle ruins, and a bird show. There were big cities, touristy villages and opportunities to explore the area alone.  But the best part was having the opportunity to show a good friend my newest home.

Chateau de Kintzheim, once a castle, is now a bird sanctuary.

Kayserberg is a village nestled between two hills. There is a winery on the southern hill. 

There are castle ruins in Kayserberg, but I stumbled upon hiking trails which led me to this view. 

It also showed me that both of us admire what the other is doing. Danny is working in England and commutes to London once per week. He's supporting himself while traveling to many different places with his dog. He's ambitious with many business opportunities in his head and stays disciplined enough to steadily complete them. I, of course, have spent the past six months living in France, in near solitude, learning a new language and aspects of myself (and doing a little bit of travel). We each have respect for what the other is up to.

I also saw how Spanish is still a part of me, because I could understand the conversation between Danny and his mother. It reminded me that this has become a forgotten skill, one that needs attention. This will be something to work on over the summer.

22/4 - Danny left Cherbourg.

It was a blast showing my home to another friend. But as with most of my activities during my time here, I'm suddenly on the other side of it, looking back and reflecting. This is the temporary moment when I'm not quite sure what to do with myself, possibly because I feel melancholy that another adventure has passed. But I'm not sad that those road trips are finished.

As with everything so far, I'm just happy I was able to experience them.

There are other adventures on the horizon for me; until next time. 

A quick trip to London

9/4 - I went to London for a job interview last week. Rather than writing about it, I created a video blog. Obviously, my strength in communication comes from writing, not speaking. 

Some clarity has come as a result of the trek to London, because the idea of going back to California feels right. My time in Cherbourg is up, and I've achieved what I needed to achieve. 

Hindsight, family in Vichy and the language reversal

16/3 - Just like in Mexico and Spain, I now have family in France.

The Reichmanns and I did a lot of things this week, including shopping at the grocery store, having dinner with Phil and Genevieve, exploring the ancient village of Charroux, hiking the Puy de Dome volcano and having another large dinner with some of the same friends who had a wild party a week ago. But, one thing seemed to be a constant.

This was my attempt at recreating a postcard I found in Charroux.

Charroux is an ancient village. We bought a jar of rooster testicles on this street.

Puy de Dome is a dormant volcano near Clermont-Farrand.

All of us seem to be a good fit with each other. Upon stopping by quickly one night with Genevieve, Phil (who curiously lives about 50 yards down the street) commented on the good atmosphere we seem to have. We're comfortable with each other. It feels like I've slotted in as an older brother, because I've taken to keeping an eye on both of the kids.

Dany has gotten close, as he held my hand at the grocery store a few nights ago. Nathalie and Philipe asked me to carry Dany after he had fallen asleep during the dinner with Phil a few nights ago and the dinner tonight with more of their friends. I enjoyed having a small body snuggle into my shoulder while trying to keep the feeling of sleep and took pride in making sure he didn't lose himself in the grocery store.

I'm proud to say these were some of my favorite memories of Vichy. I've said before that I don't want kids because it will tie me down, but the idea is growing on me. I like the idea of taking care of another life more and more. And the memory of that sky-high voice asking a simple question will stick with me.

"Tu fais quoi?" What are you doing?

17/3 - There are many devices or experiences in the world that anyone can understand or relate to, even if they don't speak the same language.

Math is one. Love. Pain. Joy.

Laughter is another. I played foosball with the Reichmanns and their friends last night, and all of us were laughing hysterically, fueled in small part by alcohol. But in those few moments, all of us spoke the same language fluently.

We sat around the dinner table, drinking, sampling rooster testicles, laughing, hurling jokes, discussing the different ways one can refer to the male and female genitalia and giving me a bad time, especially about my beard. But it was nice because the family could see I was trying my best to speak in French, so they tried their best to speak in English. This reversal is a funny thing.

The fact I can't understand everyone immediately when speaking French is just that: a fact. Like a week ago, I accepted that and and relaxed. I felt in control again. It did not matter one bit that several of the women my age said the beard makes me look old (it does) and that smoking cigars is something an old man does (true). I just looked into their eyes, grinned and shrugged in a playful way.

As I ride the train away from Vichy, I reflect on what I've gained over the past six days. Other than stronger French skills, I've gained a new family. Like my family in Mexico and Spain, I look forward to the next time we cross paths.

I recently read about one way of finding inner peace and calm is to provide service to the community, to make yourself useful regardless of whether you get paid with money. My week in Vichy was a way for me to help my fellow human, and all of us benefited. Nathalie and Philip are better with their English and, like me with my parents in Paris, translating French to English for me helped them.

Nathalie, however, is better at English than her husband, as he usually looks to her when struggling to find the correct combination of words.

18/ 3 - It happens every time. When I reflect on what I've done through the prism of hindsight, I'm always amazed. March had always been shaping up to be a busy month, but it's been a whirlwind with my parents visiting and the exchange with the Reichmanns. Every time I finish some sort of trip or plan, I have that momentary moment of nostalgia, a melancholy feeling that I have nothing else to look forward to.

I had been looking forward to both of these for months, and suddenly I'm on the other side of them. My mind has been stretched once more. I think a better time to properly digest my experiences will be next week, as I'll host friends from England this weekend.

As a final thought, I took pictures yesterday in Paris while waiting for my bus. I found myself in La Defense, the area of the city with many tall and shiny skyscrapers. Once again, this camera has stunned me.

Tour EDF, the building that houses France's main electricity company.

A difficult party, Vichy and the language exchange

I've started this off a bit out of context. The article will explain my situation eventually, so bear with me to begin. Also, please enjoy the pictures, as I have had a blast playing with the new camera. 

11/3 - I've been reading about power lately. One thing we must learn to recognize is when to submit and how long we must endure that period.

For example, the Reichamanns hosted a party tonight. There were 15 people and I was the only non-French speaker. At first, it was stressful. For a few moments I went back to the days when I would become flustered and struggle to say the simplest things in my new language. But, I remembered something.

The most important thing we can learn is how to control our emotions. So, I took a breath and relaxed. I opened my mouth and just spoke. I spoke French to the Reichmanns' friends and they understood me. In fact they were impressed that I've only studied French since October.

This was one of those situations when I accepted that I had no power, so I could just ride the wave. In a room where I was the only person with a different native language, I figured my best option was to laugh at myself and all of the jokes and pleasantries thrown my way. Laughing at oneself cures everything.

But I also remembered from my readings to keep myself in control. I stopped drinking wine and beer after a while and observed the other guests descend into intoxicated oblivion, eventually to a point where some began smearing cake on each other's faces. It was quite funny to watch, and the fact I was laughing at myself made others around me relax.

So, even though I didn't have much power there in terms of fluent communication, I still retained some power by relaxing and controlling how I projected myself to the rest of the guests.

So by that reasoning, I was the most powerful person in the room!

13/3 - Now to introductions. Marie-Amance's father, Phil, collected me from the train station in Vichy last week. It was excellent to see him again, and he showed me around downtown on foot. He introduced me to his girlfriend, Genevieve, and eventually took me to the Reichmann's house where we all had dinner. Phil gives English lessons to the Reichmanns twice per week, and it's here where I'm staying for seven days in a French-English language exchange.

Jean-Phillipe has a goatee and bald head, and is shorter than I am. He built a successful plumbing and heating company, which he sold back in September, and he's a fan of American muscle cars; he owned a new Camaro until recently. 

His wife, Nathalie, is a long, lanky and slim woman with red hair; she's elegant. There are some pictures of their wedding in the house inside this spacious home; my favorite of which is of Nathalie, in her wedding dress, pulling a bemused-looking Jean-Phillipe by his tie.

They have two children: Dany (6) and Jade (8). Both of them were shy on the first day, but they warmed up quickly to me. Dany, especially, enjoys throwing plastic-tipped darts or playing Playstation 4. I have trouble understanding him sometimes because, as all young children do, he speaks in that much-too-cute high-pitched voice. Jade speaks quickly and has a large birthmark on her face, which sort of looks like an old burn.

There are similarities to my month in La Almunia de Doña Godina in Spain a couple of years ago, but Jade and Dany are a bit more calm compared to Alex and Nuria; there have been no temper tantrums, and the only loud piercing screams have come from Dany when he scraped his back while climbing a tree or skinning his wrist upon falling down into gravel while running. The two kids are quite polite, especially at the dinner table; I noticed they always say "please" and "thank you," in both French and English. 

But before arriving in Vichy, I foresaw the similarities and pledged to myself to use the lessons I learned in Spain for this experience. In Spain I learned how immature I still was and that I had forgotten how the mind of a child works. Nuria and Alex tested me, because I took myself so seriously. Only now do I understand that Nuria and Alex were still in their unchanged natural states, whereas I was wrapped up in social protocols that had been drilled into me since I was their age and expectations of others, as well as myself. 

Anyway, it's only been three days or so here in Vichy, but the Reichmanns already seem more comfortable speaking English and vice versa with me and French. But, Spanish is still in my mind and the odd Spanish word slips out instead of French. Just like in Spain, though, I have noticed a sort of reversal. My brain is switched into French mode, so I think and speak in French even when explaining English. It's the opposite for the Reichmanns. 

As for Vichy itself, it's a quiet place, so unlike Paris (and thus, like Cherbourg). The fact it sits near a dormant volcano means one can find both hot springs and natural sparking mineral water springs around the area. There are several taps around the city which tap into these deep underground springs, and the resulting water is free of charge to the public. People can just walk up and fill several large bottles of the stuff. Though I usually dislike sparkling water, this is a bit less carbonated and has a different taste. 

A cruise, a photo and some humble pie

8/3 - As the violin and piano dueled, the lights on the Eiffel Tower seemed to be in the same chaotic tune, blinking quickly with frequency. 

As he sat there, transfixed by the sight, he was reminded by how fortunate he was. His parents sat opposite of him and without their help and influence, he would not have been on the boat then, or six years ago during a much different time. He owed everything to them.

Without his parents' help, he wouldn't be infected with the chronic travel sickness he is today. Without them, Planet Earth wouldn't have shrunk. Without them, he wouldn't have connections on every continent in the world (besides Antarctica). 

This was a first for him. Paris is a familiar city, as are the cheeses, escargot and merlot wine. But the fine dining on the Seine River, piano and violin, were not. At times, the melancholy sounds emanating from the instruments seemed appropriate during the cruise, however cliche they came across. All of this combined to humble him because if its absolute bliss. 

As they sailed down the Seine, he was again reminded of his desire to live in the City of Love, how he ached for a companion to sit next to him while he drew her close with his arm. Paris, just then, had passed London as the city he'd most like to inhabit.

10/3 - It was an honor and a pleasure to show my parents around Normandy and Paris. I've been lucky enough to be able to live here and visit Paris many times, but it was satisfying to help others see all of it for the first time. 

Perhaps it was fitting, then, that our last few moments together were spent battling the current of rush-hour metro foot traffic. I watched them struggle to get their luggage through the ticket barrier, then watched until they turned a corner and disappeared.

I had been waiting months to host them, excited to show them my new home. It seemed we were closer than ever, despite being farther away in distance. It seems they too have caught the travel bug, finally. 

France has been a place of firsts for me, and the discovery of photography has been another. There was one photo during the past week in Paris at the Palace of Versaille, that shocked even myself. I had never done anything like it. 

I found myself in a room with a work of art acting as the ceiling. I went to sit on the ground in the corner because it felt right. I'm starting to see that I can see a picture before I actually take out the camera; sometimes they look better in my head, other times not. 

But this picture was lucky. I took only two or three shots. As a result, my mother looks regal, like a model of a sophisticated photoshoot. 

I now have the fortune of keeping this camera for the next few months so I can practice with it. It will be fun to take it to Norway. 

But now, it's time for me to head south to Vichy, for the week of language exchange with the Reichmanns.

A haircut, anonymity and chakras

23/2 - The wolf has awoken.

I noticed something earlier today when I was sitting in the coiffure (barber) chair and looking at myself in the mirror, while the French woman with the firetruck-red hair and black leather jacket carefully cleaned up my head.

The ghost of a grin was on my face. Yes, I love getting a haircut, but this was more than that. Even to myself, I felt a bit of mystery. Why did I have that twinkle in my eye? Why was I smirking like that? It probably looked odd to the woman cutting my hair.

I examined my own features and found that I liked them! Even my lazy eyelid looks cool now because it provides my face with asymmetry. My bushier-by-the-day beard elongates my round face, and the faint lines on my still-young forehead gives it character. I looked directly into my hazel, gray-green eyes and pictured my inner wolf; It was smiling as well, sitting proudly upright and excited to have gained a bit of knowledge about itself.

I met a friend for a drink tonight at a local brewery here in Cherbourg, and the first thing she said was that my new haircut looks great and I have a different look in my eye from the last time we saw each other. Was it a coincidence from earlier today?

Soul searching for the past couple of weeks has been illuminating for me. It's helped me to understand that I must carry the lessons from the past with me, but not the guilt of previous mistakes. It's taught me that memory is unreliable when it comes to remembering exactly who we were in the past, because our own memories are in a constant state of flux.

But most of all, this soul searching has uncovered my inner wolf and helped it break free of its self-imposed muzzle, collar and leash.

24/2 - The wolf is not an alcoholic. Never has been. But Step No. 12 (Twelfth Tradition) of Alcoholics Anonymous captured its imagination today.

Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our traditions, ever reminding us to place principles before personalities. 

One must put aside their personal desires, emotions and self-beliefs for the good of all. Anonymity can also be represented by selflessness; these two abstract ideas can mirror each other. Anonymity can be achieved through selflessness, but selflessness can also be achieved through anonymity. There is, however, a minor roadblock to both: we can never achieve total selflessness or anonymity because neither totally agrees with the human mind.

The very concept of anonymity, especially in our capitalistic society where social media exists, is a foreign idea (and somewhat feared). We're encouraged from birth to put ourselves ahead of others in order to gain an advantage. We are taught to create our own brand; anonymity means we're irrelevant. This is difficult because, as human beings, we all want something for ourselves; the brain just works that way.

The ideas of selflessness and selfishness seem to be closely related. They also resemble the mystery of whether the chicken or the egg came first. We can do a selfless deed and not expect anything in return, but we get a great feeling from helping another person. Thus, we ultimately benefit in the end, and we know we will always receive this feeling. Is this selfish in itself? Is recovery in AA a selfish endeavor?

Another fascinating concept of Step No. 12 is "principles before personalities." We must treat people the same, no matter our level of dislike for them. Honor, respect, loyalty, patience, understanding. We must listen to the message, and not the messenger.

25/2 - This blog has mentioned chakras once, how my discovery of a fear and subsequent release of that fear was like opening one of the body's seven major chakras. It seems that, throughout 2017, I've been clearing out a couple of these chakras with my release of self-guilt and shame. With the commitment to accepting myself and all of my various flaws, telling others about my feelings for them and being totally honest and open, more of these energy centers are receiving attention.

Unintentionally, I've been helping myself spiritually these past few months. I've never been a spiritual person in any sense of the word, and the fact that I'm studying ideas from AA, spirituality, existentialism...would have been surprising to me back in October. I think the aforementioned story of my haircut highlights that, because my own view of myself is changing.

Something has clicked.

Thoughts about memory and my inner wolf

19/2 - I recently wrote about a woman I broke up with a few years ago before Valentines Day. I wrote how all I can do is laugh at my own harsh treatment of her, how I was cold.

Now let me tell you why this is fucking stupid, and how our own memory fails us.

I seem to beat myself up much more than necessary these days, regardless of the situation. I need to remember that sometimes the outside details, such as the fact her grandfather had recently passed away, are not my fault! It's terrible that happened, but I don't need to stay with someone because of that.

This morning, I saw her picture on Facebook for the first time in three or four years and suddenly remembered why I wasn't attracted to her.

Ultimately, this doesn't matter because it was in 2014. It was the past. This is only in my mind because I've invited it to stay; I've given it power. The same goes with what happened to Stella. It doesn't matter anymore. The past is bullshit, an abstract idea concocted by the human mind.

What does matter is that it was sunny and warm in Cherbourg today. What's relevant is that I can hear church bells while sitting in Parc Emmanuel Liais while hearing birds chirp. What matters is that I live in Europe and that I can learn every day. Right here right now is what's relevant.

Fuck feeling ashamed about what I did in the past. I made mistakes. Cool. But I don't need to keep carrying them around with me.

Ultimately, I'm holding on to this self-guilt for no reason other than because I can. It's some seriously mentally weak shit, and I'm pissed off that I keep this guilt within myself and am holding myself back! This guilt is like a collar, lead and muzzle around the neck and face of this wolf. Wolves don't enjoy that shit, and neither do I.

Do wolves dwell on the past? Do wolves doubt themselves in the present based on that one time they were unable to secure a kill? Of course not, and neither should I.

This is a reminder that memory is unreliable. Memory is fluid, constantly changing. Like how the mind constantly evolves with each new experience, our memory is in a perpetual state of flux with the passage of time. It will never be the same as what actually happened. We will never remember ourselves exactly how we were in the past.

In my case, I've been fooled by my own memory of myself. My mind has led me to believe that I was a shithead in the past who hurt anyone who crossed my path. This is untrue, and it always has been.

What I know now is that I have defined myself in the present based on my past actions. But the influence the past has is overstated. The lessons I learned will always stay with me, but I am not me from the past. I am me, right now, sitting on this bench in the park. I will choose to do the right thing that is relevant for today, this evening, this afternoon. I shall define myself based on what I know about myself today.

I do know that I have fears that have controlled me in the past. I know that I have anger. But I also know that the man today will not succumb to either like the man in the past did. Those fears and anger will never vanish, rather they will always be with me. However, I control them instead of them controlling me.

It's now almost six months since I left the newspaper. The person who was ashamed and embarrassed of his own performance is still there six months ago, whereas I am here right now. We are two different people. One exists...the other does only in constantly evolving memory. I am no longer him.

Valentines Day memories, another fear and a Friends reference

My head spins. Writing this was difficult. I wasn't emotional, but rather it's a subject that floats just outside of my understanding. 

13/2 - Politeness is a gag. Social pressure ties our shoelaces to each other and our hands behinds our backs. The expectations of others form the quicksand in which we're trapped. The high expectations of ourselves form the blindfold which shields our eyes. Guilt is oppression, comparison creates an invisible barrier and falsehoods are landmines, because they harm both ourselves and others.

The willingness to avoid expressing feelings is actually a self-destructive device attached by a tight chain around the throat. Societal "normalcy" is a farce. It's a costume the theater production in which we all have a role.

Remove all of it. What remains?

This is the question I face. Who am I? How do I describe that unencumbered feeling I have while riding a motorcycle, other than it's the greatest high I can think of?

I cannot answer definitively because I'm too wrapped up in self-shame, guilt and impossible expectations of myself. I'm held down by the societal "norms" with which I have been conditioned since birth. I'm limited by learned connotations of certain words.

I have said that I'm selfish. That I'm ashamed of myself and my past actions. That my trek to France was selfish in nature. That I wish to experience selflessness! But as Joey Tribbiani once said to Phoebe Buffay much to her disagreement, there is no such thing as a selfless good deed.

Everything we do is selfish. We wander through life searching for the warm and fuzzy feeling that follows when we do a good deed for another soul, thus making it all about ourselves.

The vicious circle.

But there is good selfish, and bad. My decision to come to France was selfish, but because it was something that I needed to do for myself. It was essential, a need, like water, food and shelter. The way I describe my own selfishness, though, has been tinged with the negative connotation due to my tendency to beat myself up.

Because of this, another question comes to mind. How can we truly know who or what we are when we are hopelessly contaminated by self-bias? How do we know what's actually true and real about ourselves? How do we actually know if we're generous or courageous? Loving and adventurous? Brave or cowardly? What is actually real?

And a thought just hit me. Specific details about something I can't fathom are unimportant. What matters is what I know, right here right now.

So, my name is Michael. I'm 26 years old. I'm a writer. I'm a lover. I'm a man who has visited 20 countries and is still immature in many ways. I have trouble expressing myself, particularly with positive emotions, but they're there! However, I'm learning about myself and what I'm doing in this life. I am who I need to be and everyday I will be better at becoming the person I am meant to be.

14/2 - My next flight has been booked. After two previous failed attempts, I'm headed to Oslo, Norway next month. Finally.

I first tried to fly to Oslo in 2015 while I lived in England, but my dissertation got in the way. I tried again a couple of months ago. This time I wanted to fly to Tromso in the far north of Norway in an effort to catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights, but alas I was indecisive.

Norway is one of the most beautiful and mysterious countries I can think of. It's the one place that keeps eluding me, like a thought that's impossible to put into spoken or written words. Its sharp and jagged mountains and fjords are like a silent, majestic beast, forever guarding Scandinavia. Like the Isle of Skye in Scotland, the wildness and ruggedness represent me at my core being. Wild. Primal. Beautiful yet chaotic.

The wildness of Norway will grace me someday, but not this time. I will spend three days in Oslo visiting one of my parents' old exchange students and his family.

15/2 - Yesterday was Valentines Day. As a part of my effort to let the past go, I thought back to one such Feb. 14 when I lived in Visalia, California. Instead of feeling awful, I laughed at my younger self and his severe lack of compassion.

I had been on a couple of dates with a woman that January. She took me to a couple editions of the Loud Mouth Poetry Slam, which was held in a back room of a pizza parlor. She was a beautiful woman. Gentle. Peaceful. Kind. Smile for days. She deserved nothing but the best.

She had even shared one of her poems in front of the whole room. She was a total Goddess for doing that and much stronger than me. I never got the balls to stand up and share my own poems.

I'm writing in hindsight. At the time I didn't feel a spark. I wasn't attracted to her.

On our final date, which was right before Valentines Day, I decided to break it off with her so as not to lead her on and play with her feelings. In my mind, I was doing something to protect her from me. But I was also doing it knowing that her grandfather had recently passed away. She was emotional. She needed a rock to lean upon. She needed a comforting presence. That person...was not me.

I gave her the gutless go-to line we spineless men always use in this situation. "I hope you understand, but I think we should just be friends."

She was rock-solid in the moment, playing it casual. But even then I knew she was crushed into a million tiny pieces because I could see it in her eyes...I never spoke to her again. Think about it. I broke up with a woman a day before Valentines Day who had just lost her grandfather.

This memory came back to me because I wish to make peace with it. It's part of my past and I accept it. I accept that I was (and am, to an extent) cold. I don't mean to be. Sometimes my actions just signify that I'm a jerk. So, please, laugh at my past. I definitely am.

And recall to the first paragraph in this post when I wrote about "the expectations of ourselves," because this is important. I have such high expectations of myself that I'm afraid of letting myself down. It's a fear! 

I write about myself as if I'm a scumbag who hasn't even remotely come close to minimum expectations. There are ideas in my head about what I should be doing at this point in my life, and none of them feature me in my current situation. I do compare myself to others and what they've accomplished.

Discard all of that. Time to rewire my thinking.

This is not a race. I'm exactly where I should be, nowhere else. I was meant to move to France and meet the most interesting person in the world, to know him on a deep level:

Me.

Suddenly, the sole purpose of learning French seems so shallow now.

Until next time.

Fears, freelance and crepes

26/1 - In my Nov. 6, 2016 post, I wrote that my sole purpose in France is to learn French. Within the past few days, I've come to understand that my reasons for being here go much deeper than that.

I wrote that I may not understand those reasons until a later date. I was correct.

Though I've only lived here for three months, Cherbourg will always be my home because of how it has helped me evolve. This has been (and still is) a metamorphosis. And those unknown reasons for being here back in November?

I've discovered personal fears. I've been able to think intellectually again. I feel refreshed!

I spent a year in England, but these past three months on the south side of the English Channel have been more fulfilling, as if I've spent years here. This is truly the time when I tapped into my inner Self and seriously examined it, finding aspects about myself I never explored before.

My goal for 2017 is to iron out these parts of me, such as conquering my revulsion to intimate vulnerability. I've had such bad luck in the past with relationships that it has developed into a legitimate fear, like a fungus, and this is why I choose to safeguard myself rather than try. Affirmative thinking possessed me, and led me to the belief that I am not supposed to find happiness within a relationship; that was only for other people to experience.

The discovery of this corner of my psyche was emotional because I am choosing to let it go, to clear it out. It was intense. Compare it to clearing out a blocked chakra, which is a center in the body where spiritual energy flows.

When I had this revelation, I imagined myself squeezing the hell out of a pencil in my hand, holding it away from my body with a straight arm. Eventually it gets uncomfortable. But the only thing holding that pencil inside my hand is...my own hand. I chose to drop it. My fear was like that pencil.

I felt clear. I felt positive. I felt relieved.

Many other valuable ideas have come to my attention - Energy and intensity, the concept of respect, taking life for granted, humility. My time in Cherbourg has truly been sobering and humbling.

Writing is fun again. I arrived in Cherbourg broken, but the opportunity to step back to the sideline of the rat race of life has been so beneficial to me that I can't adequately put into words. I am seriously recharged, and excited to reenter the real world to apply all that I've learned here in Europe.

I arrived with a shallow desire of living abroad once again, to simply live in a different country, with the selfish purpose of traveling more. The time for me to leave France, whenever that point comes, will not be a disappointment. I will have been (and am) a changed man having experienced a bit of enlightenment.

I've experienced and learned much more than I ever imagined.

27/1 - While having a cup of coffee at the cafe today, I was entranced by the woman making crepes and goufres (Belgian waffles) 15 feet away from me.

She had blond hair tied back behind her head and a black sweater. She was a one-woman wrecking crew, as efficient as possible. She handled cash from a steady flow of customers, even while the crepes took shape and the waffles solidified from liquefied batter.

After she poured batter on the circular hot plate and used a wooden tool in the shape of a "T" to evenly spread it, I saw how steam shrouded the plate and rose into her face, making each as unclear as the distant future. It was a transformation with the help of heat, of energy. I imagined the molecules solidifying, their physical characteristics evolving into a different state of being.

I watched her expertly handle a long, flat, steel tool to flip the crepes onto their uncooked side, flipping the instrument itself to help roll the crepe flat. She fearlessly folded the crepe with bare hands while still on the hot surface. Each squirt of chocolate sauce or powdered sugar was in her muscle memory.

This woman was a crepe-making virtuoso, hypnotizing those nearby with her expertise in creating this French staple. It was a form of art. 

I had a brain wave.

I'm like one of those crepes. My time in France represents the cooking time for the batter to become solid. I'll eventually return as a work of art.

31/1 - Throughout college, the concept of freelance writing and editing never appealed to me because I was always one who preferred a constant, steady job. So, I never gave it serious thought or consideration.

The developments of earlier this month during my three-country trip necessitated investigation into freelance. This is actually the best time for me to give it a go because I'm in a place where it's difficult to find a steady job. It's the time when I must adapt, and this means freelance.

Friends have suggested two freelance websites, and suddenly the prospect of staying in France seems not only possible, but positively simple...

Within the past several days, excitement for the future has flared up inside me, like a lantern. Even the study of French, helped along by the availability of national newspapers in the library, has been more fun as of late. The instances of me completely forgetting how to speak French are more rare, and it's beginning to flow naturally.

I'm bursting at the seams with positivity. My smile stretches beyond the confines of my face these days.

Nous sommes ici parce que c'est là que nous sommes supposés être

We're here because it's where we're supposed to be.

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.

The final adventure of 2016: Sleeping in homeless shelters in Cherbourg

29/12 - I spent last night sleeping in a homeless shelter a couple of miles away from where I live in Cherbourg.

This was an unplanned adventure that spanned 22 hours in the streets of the city. I was fuming throughout, but at the same time I knew it would be a funny story in the future; It was the unlucky combination of circumstances that made this tale so shitty.

Here are some seemingly unrelated elements which joined forces to become a massive inconvenience to me over this time span, one worthy of documentation:

• I left with a light jacket and a scarf, over a T-shirt and a pair of gloves. 
• The three other people who live in the flat are not here, though I did not realize this at the time. 
• My American bank had locked my debit card, thus disabling my ability to withdraw cash; I have been using a credit card.
• My phone was dead, and I did not have a charging cable.
• Hotels usually close for the night at 9 p.m.

As you read this account, pay attention to all of the places where the aforementioned limitations hindered me. It was a perfect storm of lousy circumstances and bad luck, the kind of foul concoction I might never encounter again. But, also take note of the treatment I received from others throughout the night; They tried their best to help me. Those of Cherbourg have been friendly to me so far, and I have noticed that people tend to automatically switch to English when they hear me speak French. But, I still made myself understood in French, and that alone is an an accomplishment.

The act of traveling almost always calls for critical thinking, because sometimes plans have to dramatically change. You have to find where you will lay your head at night, as well as transportation; it's like a puzzle. But, last night my mind was constantly racing. What do I do? Where should I go? Who should I ask? Though I made some bad decisions fueled by alcohol, it still ended up fine. And now, in the warmth and comfort of my own flat, I can't help but laugh at myself and that situation. Repeatedly.

Finally, I kept a useful quote in mind from the infamous Jack Sparrow, because it would keep me calm: The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude about the problem.

It all stemmed from the fact I had left my flat without my key yesterday afternoon to buy groceries.

I decided to wait by the front door of my flat until someone entered or exited. I pressed each doorbell multiple times throughout this time, and I rapped on the windows. After several hours of this and nothing happening, I walked to the Irish pub in the center of town because it has free Wifi. I do not have a French phone number so I couldn't call anyone.

After a couple of beers and my friends being notified of my situation, I learned about the existence of an old lady who lives near me and has a duplicate of my house key. But before I could learn specifically where she lives, my phone died for good. I went back to the flat, thinking someone had returned by now (19:00). No one was there. By this point, more than a few colorful sentence enhancers escaped my mouth.

With the load of groceries in my backpack still a burden and after a brief time pondering a plan on a bench, I walked to another bar near where I live. I had another beer. By this time I hadn't eaten anything for about six hours. Under the inevitable influence of French and Belgian lager, the dark idea of violently smashing the window on the front door entered my conscience. I would NOT spend the night outside. So, I slyly deposited the beer bottle into my backpack before leaving the bar, with the intent of throwing or jamming it into the window pane. With the window broken, I would be able to reach inside and unlock the door.

Back at my flat around 1 a.m., I looked both ways for foot traffic. Nothing. All was quiet. Even the flat opposite me, where television light had been shining through the windows earlier, was dark. I focused on the door window again. I raised my arm as if I were Dracula pulling my cloak around me...WHAM! The cacophonous bang as a result of my elbow slamming into glass seemed to echo more than normal throughout the sleepy street.

I threw my left elbow as hard as I could against the glass three times. Nothing. I tried my right elbow. Nothing. I then resorted to the tin can of red beans in my backpack. As if I were wielding a knife to attack, I jammed the can against the window pane. Nothing, although the tin can has a large dent in it now. Since that didn't work, I decided against using the beer bottle because it was too light.

This is when I began thinking about where I would stay for the night. The temperature was dipping, and I knew I had to protect myself from the cold; my clothes were not adequate for those temperatures so I tried to sleep in a parking garage. It just got colder. I could see my breath. My next thought was to ask the police, wherever I could find a car (I had come across a police car earlier, but decided to break my window instead). Luckily, I found a police car after 10 minutes of searching.

In some broken English and French, they told me they could call a locksmith, but they only take cash. I said this was impossible as I can only use a credit card. They then drove me to a hotel where I could check in using a machine. My card didn't work. The officers looked perplexed and I just stood there helpless, with no idea what to do. They then drove me to a homeless shelter next door to where AS Cherbourg basketball club plays.

Luckily there were beds available, and I got a spacious room with a shower and plenty of blankets, along with a toothbrush, shampoo and towels. It was warm. The woman who checked me in and made a copy of my driver license spoke only French, but I could understand some of what she said, including when she asked if I had alcohol or knives on me. I was thankful to be in the warm; my immediate goal of finding shelter from the cold achieved.

After the sun rose enough to my liking in the morning, I quickly left the shelter and began the walk back to Cherbourg, on a mission to get into my flat. I knew it would happen. I was motivated. But the temperatures had dropped to below freezing overnight, and I was lucky to have found the police. As I walked back to town, a temperature gauge read 0 degrees Celsius - freezing point. There was frost on the ground, and the cold bit my unprotected face.

I visited the tourism office where the woman spoke perfect English. She suggested going to the police station. After some muddled conversation in French at the station (which was a short walk from the tourism office), I got my point across to the woman at the front desk and my address to where to send the locksmith.

When the locksmith arrived and let me into the flat about 45 minutes later, I felt a mammoth sense of relief, but my adventure was not quite finished. He then charged me 90 Euro in cash for minimal work, but since I could not withdraw cash he took my California driver license and told me to meet him in a couple of hours. In the meantime, I asked my friends for help, and fortunately one of them answered the call. After paying the locksmith, a relieved, albeit tired, hungry and thirsty me bought her lunch, my ordeal finished.

What a way to end the year, eh?

30/12 - It's the end of another year. I'll keep this post short, since I've already written a novel for you all.

I visited two new countries in 2016 (Mexico and Portugal) and discovered the joys of Chicago. I benefited from visiting a doctor in Tampico and experienced nostalgia in England, specifically in London and Poole. I found a new home in France, thanks to a wonderful opportunity from a friend.

I felt pure, childlike joy and bliss while riding Ducati motorcycles this year in California. It's a high I don't often feel; those rides left me emotionally drained and my voice hoarse. I feel the most free while riding curves of beautiful roads on a high-performance motorcycle.

But most importantly, 2016 provided me with a chance to rectify the mistake of moving back to Porterville by returning to Europe. This has allowed me to reset my life, so to speak, after a troubling time in the Central Valley of my home state. In Cherbourg, I have been able to learn every day, to think, to discuss, to read, to grow as a person. For that I am thankful.

For 2017, I will continue my ongoing and never-ending education, and it all begins with travel. In January I have a trip (halfway) planned to yet another new country (plural?), but it most likely will not be a happy venture.

This is the final post of 2016. I thank all of you for reading, following along on my adventures and evolution, and keeping in touch. Expect more in 2017. Cheers!