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“Traveler’s Song” – The Fruit Bats

“Out in the world when your only friend is a traveler’s song/When your time and your money and your best girl are gone.”

Where to begin about the ending of this whole wonderful rigamarole? How to reflect 5,000 miles from where I was? Contrivedly, probably, but I will try.

First there was a whirlwind tour of that gritty, pretty city, Berlin. I found a kind friend’s flat, dropped my bag and headed straight to the center as I hadn’t much time: two nights and it was already evening. The train wound through still un-built ruins of WWII into Berlin’s Hauptbanhof, the busiest train station in Europe. I walked out into the cool, gray evening straight to Brandenberg Gate, symbol of peace, spoil and survivor of war. Today you can walk freely through, east, west, north and south; young guys dressed as American and British troops stamp tourists “visas” for a fee, waive flags. Napolean and Hitler are history.

A lone guard patrolled the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe telling people not to stand on the concrete blocks. A five-minute walk away stood a thin, crumbling remnant of the Berlin Wall. It looked sinister but also so fragile — a sad testament to the fact that walls don’t solve the problems of division.

I meandered further, down toward the River Spree where a crowd gathered in the Lustgarten at the columned entrance to the city’s Old Museum. A giant neon for an ancient art exhibition read: “ALL ART HAS BEEN CONTEMPORARY.” The evening’s last light wrapped itself around the Berliner Dom church, a band of bright peach atop the turquoise metal dome.

I followed the river for awhile, had a beer, watched tango dancers embrace and glide by the water. I ate slowly and headed back out. Met an actor from New Jersey (A.K.A. Sgt. McLean) in the subway station. I asked for directions, he was headed to the same area, “long story long” we headed to the same club in a formerly abandoned building. Inside, artists, DJs, hipsters, travelers, and other nefarious characters mingled and danced in a seemingly autonomous enclave in the middle of the city. We left at dawn. I got off the subway at Berlin’s famous K-Dom street. Once above, the bombed steeple of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church stood eerily in the soft morning light, construction cranes hanging idly around. The old and the new; another stark reminder of war’s indiscriminate destruction.

After a brief sleep I headed back out roaming the former east side, Kreuzberg and the Kottbusser Tor bridge that separated but now unites Berlin. I walked by the East Side Gallery where a riverside stretch of the Wall is covered with incendiary art turning a tool of hate into a bright symbol of life. I explored Gorlitzer and eventually out to Prenzlauer Berg where I ate a delicious orange risotto with celery and red peppercorns at Slow Imbiss. And a glass of white wine, then a tram, a short train and a bit more sleep.

Woke up with precious little time left to see the New Berlin Gallery before catching my ride back to Munich. Such was my luck, the museum had a huge Dada and John Heartfield exhibition, not to mention Klaus Staeck; biting, brilliant, satirical, beautiful art using the very tools of the war and propaganda machines against themselves. Was inspired, ate a kebap, watched a summer squall blow rain into the city. Caught a train and then a BMW on the autobahn back to my temporary Bavarian home. My lovely hosts greeted me with new vinyl, a glass of wine and a wonderful meal.

Then came my last few days in Europe. There were beer gardens, of course, more aimless urban wandering, a visit to the Neue Pinakothek where paintings by Klimt, Van Gogh, Degas, Cézanne, Gauguin, Matisse, Manet and Monet greeted my eyes and pleased my spirit. A last sidewalk dinner with friends (maybe the best lamb I’ve ever eaten), Manhattans and cigarettes as we distilled the virtues and vices of the world. Then it was goodbye to Bavaria and tschüs to my fruende (danke Seth & Nadege!). Then to the bus, to the train, to the airport, to the plane.

I spent one too-brief night in Dublin. Drank two Guinness, one Jameson and crossed the bridge back to a short sleep. Chewed a cup of Nescafe in the morning and found my way to the delayed plane waiting to take me home. And then, suddenly, it was over. It wasn’t the grandest or the most adventurous adventure, but damnit, it was fun.

So now the retrospecticus, the recollections, regrets and revelery. First, music:

“You Only Live Once” – The Strokes

I lament that I did not see France, Italy, Greece, Eastern Europe, the Netherlands, Scandinavia, the UK, etc. Ah well, they’ve been there thousands, nay, millions of years. They’ll be there when I have enough dollars to return. There’s just too much to see in Europe: the ruins and the restoration; the tradition and transcendence; the tragic and beautiful history; the classy and the trashy; the humor and the humorless; the languages and senses of history as both part and parcel of an elusive whole. As one man I met appropriately said of Europe, “So many small countries with so many big personalities.”

To every stranger who showed so much kindness and hospitality to a traveler, thank you. To every hand that ever handed me a glass of wine, every farmer and artisan who produced the cheese I ate, every conductor, driver, captain and pilot who saw me through it safely. To everyone who opened up their home and life, thank you: I am a richer person for it all.

I will miss Europe’s ornate cities, the lovely plazas, the fountains and promenades, the romance. I will miss the music of the streets, the accordion player wooing lovers on the bridge, the tables the people gather around for such wonderful, leisurely meals. I raise a goodbye glass to you, Europe, whoever you are: Here’s to your style and Godspeed on your journey toward a complicated but magnificent union. Thanks and ciao, friends!

The time spent living freely, answering only to the whim and happenstance of myself at a particular moment surely was sweet. As the modern economy still shook from a blow to its core, I wandered working only a little for food and bed, relaxing and worrying less about moving so fast and accruing so much and scrapping so haplessly for the last free money. It seemed a fitting way to endure this so-called crisis. The hardship is of course all too real for too many vulnerable people, but we in the perpetual motion of the Western world needed a good helping of home-cooked humble pie; a walk in the park when we once went to a bad movie; an evening spent making dinner instead of watching fools fake reality on TV; a bike ride where once we drove; a morning spent alone when once we fumbled for numbers on our phones; a sense of community when it was once everybody for themselves.

To be part of the world at such a particularly hectic point in time and to have lived only from what I could carry felt an apt answer to the economic jitters of our excess, shortsightedness and material clutter. I don’t have any particular insight other than being able to say it was a breath of fresh air. No phone, no job, just a dwindling bank account clock above my days, a camera to follow, a journal to wax terribly poetically in, a hat I still have (not without near losses), a few souvenirs, postcards, memorable meals, impassioned conversations, new friends, strange encounters, love letters, scenic views. Good livin’.

Four planes later and I found myself fortunate to be back in my good girl’s good graces and again around family, friends and a familiar landscape to put me at ease. So here I am, compelled home by love and money. This transient American now has a proper job. There is even still some summer left, still time to savor all that is short and sweet. So disfrutas, amigos! See you out there in the scenic world. I’ll leave you with a video from my moment of fame as a Portuguese rock star and a song to close the curtain to. Exit, stage West.

“After the Curtain” – Beirut

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“The Sound of Music” – Julie Andrews

Upon entrance into Switzerland I am greeted by fair blond maidens who adorn me with wreaths made of flowers, Swiss chocolate and Swiss Francs. We twirl and dance and sing the songs of the hills. A cow chimes in on cowbell and I ride him into the mountains to a giant lake of bright, white milk. A waterfall turns to chocolate and the lake to a foamy Swiss mocha. I swim and drink and am full. A fairy carries me to my home inside a beautiful hollow where gnomes bake bread, smoke pipes and play the flute. I am lulled to sleep on a pillow of captured clouds. Or was it all a dream?

When I awoke I was with friends from Montana at a country villa outside Zurich. We ate well, celebrated the beginning of a new family, frolicked in the misty forest and hiked up a mountain. Misty clouds swirled in the sunlight at the edge of the mountains framing and obscuring craggy cliffs and the distant valley below. The echo of a mountain goat’s tiny bleat bounced across the towering rocks. We descended and cooled our barking dogs in a cold crystal lake. We returned to the city to swim in the river and mingle with the movers and shakers in the richest city in the world. Ahhh Zurich. I almost bought a $30,000 watch but became distracted by a chocolate shop instead. Methinks the chocolate a better investment. I went to Credit Suisse and inquired about my ancestral Swiss account; they pretended like they knew nothing. I await word from my boy President Hans-Rudolf. Big ups, Ha-Ru!

I hopped a train to Bern and was greeted with a rooftop breakfast and the esteemed company of Manuel (re: Spain) and his lady. I swam in the river and joined new friends for some footbal. I wore Barcelona colors. I somehow scored goals, made a fool of my American self and stopped not the onslaught of kicks from the opposing team’s female striker. We climbed a churchtower, swam some more. I descended into an underground esoterical bookstore where the Gandolf-like proprietor stood counting stacks of coins on the counter. I asked if he was still open. He said it wasn’t a store and as such was never open or closed. I asked if I could look around. He told me not to touch anything and that nothing was for sale. I wondered where the coins came from. I inquired about some Tolkien. He asked me why I inquired. I said because I might want to buy a book if he had it. He angrily told me nothing was for sale. I bid him farewell and disappeared in a magical burst of smoke.

Manuel and I ventured to the Berner Oberland (upperland) and hiked to a classic Swiss village with giant glaciers spilling off giant mountains into the verdant valley. Back at Manuel’s parent’s home we ate raclette with delicious country cheese, cold beer and fresh cherries. I slept well and awoke to the smell of a baking cherry pie.

Or was it really all just a dream? Were the hills really alive with the sound of proverbial music (kept at a tolerably low volume, of course)? Do gnomes not exist just because humans have never seen one? Is Michael Jackson really dead if we still dance to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” in posh Zurich plazas?

I have not the answers to these quandaries, but dreams and magic are often unexplainable. And one can never have enough good dreams and/or magic.

Dankeschoen Switzerland!

R.I.P. MJ

“Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” – Michael Jackson

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2009/07/07/arts/20090707_JACKSONREADERPHOTOS_SLIDESHOW_7.html

“2080″ – Yeasayer

Guten tag from Germany, Bavaria and Munich. Such contrasts here.

Verdant (and well-zoned) countryside rises to the beautiful, snowy Bavarian Alps ringing the southern border of Deutschland. Munich is a gorgeous, clean city laid along the pure, clear Isar River with beautiful, old church towers defining the skyline. Pure pilsner and hefeweizen floweth freely and cheaply and the people (by and large) are lovely, warm and gracious.

Still, everywhere is the sense that this city and this country gave birth to the one of the most brutal and violent regimes in human history. A visit to Dachau, just twenty miles outside Munich, brings to life all the horrid history and images we’ve grown up seeing from World War II. Walking through the “work camp” you keep asking yourself how it ever came so far. As a soft summer rain coaxed the most beautiful smells from the lush forest, I walked to the crematorium and tried to comprehend the acrid smell that rose so cruelly from its smokestack. It is all truly difficult to imagine, even when you are actually there.

But this country and these people are so much more than that. It is also important to remember how Germans suffered economically and psychologically under Nazism too. The fact that the Germans emerged from WWII to where they are today with a sense of identity, pride, spirit and eventually the respect of the world is a testament to humaityn’s willpower to overcome and transcend. Germans and Jews live here together in peace and prosperity. There is still a tremendous sense of guilt about Nazism here and it must never be forgotten. But it is the past. What we must always remember is that the capacity for such evil somehow lies within all of us, though I still believe our capacity for love is stronger.

OK, enough of all that already.

I am here in the supreme hospitality of two old friends. I’ve walked all over the city and back through many times over; biked around a country lake; hiked to a hut in the mountains for the summer solstice and spent many a lazy afternoon enjoying the serenity of having nothing in particular to do. One of my favorite and most relaxing places in Munich so far — though you might think it morbid — is a beautiful and very old cemetery and park nearby my friends’ place. As the city buzzes around, the cemetery and the river are humbling and calm places to collect one’s thoughts. I go to both often and every time I walk away renewed and more at peace with my impermanence.

Yes, it’s quite a fascinating place, Germany. Plus, it also gave birth to ancestors of yours truly. So, this one goes out to my Grandpa, Adolf…Unzicker!

“A Sweet Summer’s Night on Hammer Hill” – Jens Lekman

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“Ragged Wood” – Fleet Foxes

I headed north and was hemmed in by high, lush hills on a little farm tucked off the coast. Euskadi; el Pais Vasco; the Basque Country. Spain’s lush north Atlantic Coast where cool air off the ocean collides with warm southern winds bringing consistent, stormy washes of rain to the land. The mossy forest covers the rugged hills hiding their rugged relief; it is so rugged that the Romans and Moors never claimed this neck of Iberia and the Basques’ strong sense of identity lives on today.

The farm is owned by Guillermo, a Dutch fellow, and his Basque wife, Konchi. It’s a quiet, organic, free-range, solar-fed, wind-powered, manure-fueled biogas-collecting, beautiful piece of living in the hills just off the north coast. Vistas bonitas, homemade sheep’s milk cheese and enough beautiful brown eggs in two weeks to give me a heart attack at my tender age.

The days were routine: in the morning Dave the contented Israeli farmer and I reached through wool dingleberry dreadlocks to milk the sheep for the cheese; we put the sheep and stubborn ponies out to pasture; we worked demolishing and reconstructing a terra cotta roof and then in the garden a little. Then lunch, siesta and a bit more work. In the evening we would bring back and count the 57 sheep, the horses, feed them, feed ourselves, read, sleep. Somewhere throughout the day I would have one-sided conversations with the various geese, duck, chickens, cats, dogs and a peacock who every day struts and displays for the chickens, who are frightened by and oblivious to his advances.

I was there for two great weeks, wiling away the days before seeing Wilco in San Sebastian. I called it Farming for Wilco.

On a sunny Sunday I left for San Sebastian, the crown of Spain’s northern coast and my favorite of the cities I’ve visited in this beautiful country. There I met Pablo, the Mexican-Canadian-Portuguese connection. We spent many a quality hour on the beach and enjoying rare San Sebastian sun and a small slice of the area’s world-renowned wine and cuisine. All range of possible subjects were discussed, digested and discussed again. Solidarity established.

On one particularly serendipitous evening we sat at the port by the fishing boats having a beer outside a bar when who should walk by but Wilco. We apparently haunt the same San Sebastian bars. I told Jeff Tweedy he was merely my second favorite musician. That ought to ground his ego! The next day, just as I was expecting would happen, I met a guy from Chicago and he and his girlfriend bought me my ticket to the show, dinner and drinks. Exquisite rock and roll was had by all. And all on the fifth anniversary of my father’s death. Not a bad day to be alive.

I’ve had my last travels across this beautiful peninsula for now. There is too much to write, too much I haven’t seen, too much history I can’t comprehend. But it is time to go north again. So, with fond memories of Portugal’s beautiful coast and the infectious, festive passion of the Spanish people, I bid Iberia adios for now.

“Wilco the Song” – Wilco will love you

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“Red Cave” – Yeasayer

I touched down in Marrakech, Morocco (Africa!) Monday morning after having the good fortune of chatting with a local Moroccan (via the UK) on the plane. Nick is your average young English ex-pat living with his wife in a restored riyadh in the Medina (old city) of Marrakech while recording and producing a young all-girl Moroccan pop band. You know, that old chestnut. I happily accepted an invitation to share his taxi and stay at his place and the next thing I knew I was sipping a beverage above a resplendent classic Moroccan patio, the entire beautiful house at my disposal. Nick also let me use his bike, which I took for many a bemused ride weaving in and out of the chaotic Moroccan traffic.

The Medinas are cities within cities, literally walled off from the outside world with beautiful Islamic gates scattered as entry points around. Inside lies an immense labyrinth of tiny streets and winding walkways leading in and out of strange markets, shops and open plazas. It is easy to get lost inside, which I did several times. Each time I was always put back on my path by a friendly stranger. Nothing I had heard about the thieving, conniving, hassling nature of the Moroccans held water in my experience there. Yes, they hound you to buy something from them (in person, not through billboards) and yes, traveling there is different for women. Though I found them curious (plenty of staring with eyes that asked “Who is this strange scraggily bearded man who is not Muslim?”) and mischievous, I found the Moroccans incredibly kind, generous and helpful at almost every encounter.

On my first night Nick’s housekeeper and cook made us a classic Moroccan chicken tajini. After dinner Nick and I played guitar and he even recorded one of my songs. It’s about f#&$ing time somebody got me into the studio! I am expecting stardom in Morocco upon it’s release. World tour should commence soon after. I hear I’m already big in Japan. And yes, fame already went to my head.

The next day I boarded a brightly decorated local bus bright and early for the mystical city of Fes. The Moroccan bus system is a curious one and I’m not sure 22 collective hours spent riding said buses gave me any clarity on the matter. You arrive at the “station” and are immediately besieged by ticket sellers who then take you aboard the bus and take your ticket money plus a little more for showing you just how to properly enter the bus. Each bus has a specific ticket taker or two and they are loyal to that bus to the bitter end. I call them the “Loyalists.” It is good to make nice with the Loyalists.

With 15 minutes to spare before we left I ran across the street for some food. By the time I had the bulk food system figured out on my third time through the check-out line I had to abandon it and run for the bus. Fatal error; the bus left over 20 minutes late, literally inching its way out of the station. Once it finally did leave I would remain on it for 11 hours, sans food.

I fell asleep and woke to a parked bus. I looked out the window and directly beneath me the two Loyalists were elbow deep in grease fixing something on the bus. Eventually a stream of black sludge poured out onto the ground. They tightened up the bolts, gave each other looks of “good enough” and on we went. Later in the trip there was a problem with the tire, which held us up for an hour. At one point one of the guys was scavenging in the parking lot for a piece of garbage to incorporate into the fix. It eventually worked. We trucked on.

At virtually every station quarreling broke about between the ticket takers and Loyalists, and I mean loud, animated quarreling. Eventually, as we inched out of each station, they would resolve it and our faithful Loyalist would catch up and hop into the door on the back of the bus. One of our Loyalists got into it with one of the passengers to the point that the driver stopped the bus to give them time to work it out. I’m not sure if they worked it out or not, but 15 minutes later we drove on.

I arrived in Fes at 8 in the evening. I was so over it I didn’t even thank the driver. Shameful after all we’d been through, but I did thank one of the Loyalists after he wished me “Bon voyage.” I walked through the gate and soon disappeared into the walls of Fes el Bali (Old Fes), one of the oldest living Islamic cities in the world. As I sat drinking a mint tea before bed a man made conversation with me saying, “Welcome Mama Africa.” Indeed.

I woke up at about 6 the next morning, had coffee, answered the Call to Prayer in my own agnostic way and set steadfastly about to get properly lost in Fes’ ancient Medina. I soon hired a guide.

Abdul turned out to be great and showed me architectural and cultural hidden treasures I never would have found in a hundred days wandering on my own: beautiful fountains; tiny markets; bath houses; leather, brass and ceramic manufacturing districts. He also broke the ice with the locals and made photographing them much easier. Of course, he could have led me to my doom in some dark, hidden corner, but he did not. At one point he led me into a very poor part of town outside the Medina. As we crossed the railroad tracks and a small landfill I anxiously asked, “Where you take me Abdul?” We pressed on and it turned out to be a priceless, authentic tour through parts of the city the tourists don’t see. I joked about the tourists often with Abdul and he would always reply “You are not a tourist” with alarming sincerity.

Abdul and I parted ways in the afternoon and I was left to my devices wandering the Medina less ambitiously and contentedly watching the theater of the streets from my window and roof: holy men shuffling through the crowds; lost tourists; veiled women; hipsters; mule coaches; children; blind beggars; venders of a thousand things.

I walked out among them all, through the rainbow of fruit and vegetable stands, perfect piles of bright spices, shelves full of homemade oils and canned goods, past kind-eyed old men and some of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen with dark, mysterious Berber eyes. Every guidebook on Morocco uses this phrase: “Morocco is an assault on the senses.” What a tired and incorrect cliche. It is not an assault; it is a careful, jarring, enchanting, mysterious, reverent tribute to the senses. You walk through it and suddenly your senses come to vibrant life soaking completely the smells, sounds and sights. That’s right Lonely Planet, I’m calling you out, again.

That night, after watching the sunset from my roof in the middle of a graceful swarm of feeding swallows, I walked as far as there was still light out of the tourist district and found the smallest hole-in-the wall local eatery I could find. They warmly invited me in. The food was good and so spicy I almost shat myself.

I walked back slowly taking in the street scenes (though it is important to note there are no cars in Fes el Bali). As I walked by one shop loud Moroccan folk music (Gnawa) spilled into the street. I stepped back and looked inside where three men played percussion instruments. They all looked at me, I signaled approval and the white-robed, turbaned, mustached giant silver bling ring-wearing proprietor enthusiastically invited me inside.

The musicians played two more songs at which point the proprietor’s helper brought them some hash. They were then gone in a flash, leaving a slightly awkward, quiet scene inside. I took the time to look around: scarves, a couple other garments and at the head of the room a painting of Bob Marley and directly next to him, in the same painting, a portrait of the shop’s proprietor. He showed me some pictures of him near his home in the Saharan Desert. In one of the photos of himself he had written “Snoop” in cursive in the sand. I can’t remember his name, but I call him the Sultan Snoop of Fes.

I should not make fun; he was gracious and kind to me, so much so that I decided I would buy a scarf from him instead of one of the other shopkeepers like I had originally intended to do. My inquiry into the scarves led him straight past the scarves and to one of the traditional Saharan get-ups he was wearing. He brought it to me and, not taking no for an answer, put it on me. I must say I actually looked pretty good in it, but I couldn’t imagine an occasion back home where I would don it again.

I sat in that regalia for quite awhile trying to figure how to artfully get out of it without causing a scene. “How much would you pay for this?” the Sultan asked.

“If I could afford it I would pay a lot because it is worth a lot,” I replied.

“No, how much?” he retorted.

“I would pay whatever you would ask because that would obviously be a fair price,” I again replied.

“Four-hundred Dhiram ($40),” he said.

“I would certainly pay that if I could afford it,” I said.

“You pay 400 then?”

“No, I’m sorry, I just think it’s more than I need. I was thinking maybe just a sca…“

“Four-hundred then.”

Eventually, with verbal trickery, I got him to show me some scarves. He had his friend pull down the first one I inquired about. The Sultan gracefully unfurled it revealing giant rust spots and holes where it had been hanging from a rusty pipe for who knows how long. He tried to brush it off with a casual nonchalance I could not help but laugh at. With a defeated mumbling of something in Arabic he threw it into the corner. I inquired about another scarf. Same story. Four times we went through this. Finally I thought I’d found one that looked unblemished.

“No, you can’t have that one.”

“Why?”

“It’s too big.“

“How big?”

He took it down, had me hold one end and then comically spun around unrolling it. He was in the middle of the street blocking traffic by the time he reached the end of it.

“OK, you’re right. That’s too big,” I conceded.

Eventually I found a nice scarf with only minimal blemishes, paid too much for it, sheepishly took off my Saharan suit and bid Sultan Snoop farewell with an awkward hug and a high-five. So ended my last night in Fes.

I begrudgingly boarded another local bus back to Marrakech early the next morning, was sat next to by several large old women and breathed many an exhaust-choked breath. After one half-hour stop they hurriedly put me on another bus where I was again and happily the only foreigner. I want to make a short film about a traveler who has the same experience spending the entire day on the bus only to end up back where he began.

I also began to understand why they don’t have proper bus stations in Morocco: they don’t need them. The buses stop everywhere, anywhere, for anybody. The bus could pass by a building where some guy is sitting in his underwear smoking a cigarette four floors up with absolutely no intention of taking a bus but after seeing it approach he decides he’d fancy a trip. With only a casual wave of his hand the Loyalist would somehow see it, yell and bring the entire bus to an abrupt halt to wait for this coveted new passenger.

Despite and because of all this, however, the bus was a wonderful experience. It is good to travel as a local and the views of the High Atlas on the way back were worth it alone.

Back in Marrakech I met an American guy at the Cafe de les Negocants, a perfectly alluring place to rendezvous on one’s last night in Morocco. As we walked back to his house I inquired about his year and a half in Morocco. “You must like it then?” He trailed behind me a bit saying, “It’s not bad” and then vomited violently into the nearest tree. He felt better later and we played some Woody Guthrie on guitar. “I ain’t got no home, I’m just a ramblin’ round/Work when I can get it, go from town to town/Police make it hard, boys, wherever I may go/And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.” So ended my last night in Morocco.

I left with my intestines intact and a swirl of strange and wonderful memories to think about on the plane back to Spain. Such a sight was the Strait of Gibraltar as we flew north up the coast, with southern Iberia (where the Moors ruled for quite some time I might add) seen as a patchwork of farms, mountains and lakes with that small strip of water separating it from the immense and hazy hills of Africa swallowing the entire southern horizon. No longer just a point on a map.

It may sound silly but I realized in Morocco how important it was just to set foot in Africa and also to travel as an American in an Islamic country. Never once did I worry about saying where I was from. One time a guy even congratulated me personally for Obama and bought me a tea. I wondered how many teas were bought for Americans abroad in the name of Bush.

There is something about Morocco and Islam that I can only describe as mysterious. This perception is of course partly because I am an outsider, but there is a palpable yet indescribable beauty about the quiet, dedicated reverence and the attention to intricate detail of the Moroccans. As with all things mysterious, it left me wanting more. I scratched not even the surface of this amazing country in six short days. I suppose I will just have to return one day and take another strange cross-country Moroccan bus. And I will enthusiastically wish the Loyalist salamu’lekum as I board his bus.

Salamu‘lekum to you too, friends.

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“Tenuousness” – Andrew Bird

Lisbon:

A bridge over a bend in the ocean-washed Rio Tejo.

A mosaic of unpolished, white-washed and pastel walls hemming in the labyrinth of winding city streets.

The sound of seagulls calling between the banter of neighbors as they shout playfully from window to window.

An aimless walk through the maze of Alfama, Lisbon’s best barrio.

Fado echoing melancholic through the streets.

Listening to live Portuguese folk songs while fading in and out of sleep outside a church as the sun softly lightens the morning sky.

A stranger is again taken like family into a wonderful group of friends.

Bittersweet and boarding a night train back to Spain.

Muta Obrigado Lisboa!

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“Underwater You and Me” – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah

The ancient Romans believed the Sagres promontory to be the end of the world, a sacred place where the sun made the water boil and hiss as it sunk down into the ocean. From the edge of the cliffs at Sagres Point and Cabo se São Vicente (Cape of St. Vincent), the southwestern most point in Europe, it’s easy to see why; the entire Earth abruptly falls off into a wall of cliffs straight down to the roiling and seemingly endless Atlantic.

The Portuguese conquered the Algarve in 1250 and as they began to build their maritime empire Prince Henry “the Navigator” established a School of Navigation on the promontory (although this is apparently disputed) and brought Europe’s elite astronomers, cartographers, navigators and seamen to Sagres. Most of the great maritime discoveries passed by here. When Columbus reckoned the world to be round he set out through here on his way West. The rest, as they say, is history.

Columbus was lost but as it turns out the world is round, although I still can’t seem to get my mind around that one. Lacking a ship and on a slightly less ambitious adventure, I rented a 1980 faded red Toyota Corolla for €10 a day and headed out across the Algarve.

At sunrise I drove to our local beach and walked along the dunes and wildflowers before dropping down to the ocean at low tide. Mist shrouded the cliffs and a lone fisherman tried his luck from rocks exposed by the tide. Funnily enough, he grew agitated that I was taking pictures of him (from a freaking distance). When he caught a small and apparently unwanted fish he motioned to me, showed me the fish, unhooked it and threw it back in the water with an angry motion of the hands. Ouch. However, it was the fish and I who were laughing; we were both free and I was in too good a mood to let a salty fisherman sour my day.

Headed up north to Odeceixe beach, a classic Algarve cove beach with a river emptying in to the ocean. Had a swim in the river and watched the tide slowly creep up the river with a wedge of water that sent tiny, smooth waves shooting along the banks. Stopped into the village and redeemed myself by convincing a woman to let me take photos of her hanging up laundry. I don’t know why air-drying laundry is so visually stimulating to me, but she obliged and we even had a little conversation about the windmill she lived by.

Then headed south to Carrapateira (Carrots & Potatoes), a very different beach with sprawling sand dunes and one lonely little surf and snack hut that was unfortunately closed. Another swim and then south.

The Sagres Fortress encompasses the end of the promontory and you can walk literally out to the edge of Europe. I walked the perimeter imagining mighty masted ships bobbing below. I manned the cannons when I sensed danger then drove over to Cabo se São Vicente, got as far southwest as I could, admired the view and drove back to Sagres Point for the sunset with a bottle of Sagres beer I cooled in a shallow tide pool.

I didn’t hear the ocean hiss but the sun did turn the water red and it was remarkably beautiful and still mysterious even though I know the world is round. It really did feel like the end of the old world; the mapped mark of imagination and mystery on the consciousness of a species living on a round, water-bound world. However, unlike the explorers before me, I was less concerned with what was beyond (my home, eventually). The stars and the lighthouse were not there to guide me but simply to be observed. Although I crossed an ocean to get there, I was just there to be there.

I will leave the Algarve exactly two months after my arrival. So I say goodbye to my beloved red Corolla, my wonderful new friends and a beautiful land formed and defined by the Atlantic Ocean. Oh, and I stood up and surfed a wave today for three brief but glorious seconds.

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-Camerón, not sure the name of the song

“To me, photography is the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event as well as of a precise organization of forms which give that event its proper expression. I believe that through that, through the act of living, the discovery of oneself is made concurrently with the discovery of the world around us, which can mould us. A balance must be established between these two worlds, the one inside us and the one outside us. As the result of a constant reciprocal process, both these worlds come to form a single one. And it is this world that we must communicate.

But this takes care only of the content of the picture. For me, content cannot be separated from form. By form, I mean a rigorous organization of the interplay of surfaces, lines and values. It is in this organization alone that our conceptions and emotions become concrete and communicable. In photography, visual organization can stem only from a developed instinct…We work in unison with movement as though it were a presentiment of the way in which life itself unfolds, but inside movement there is one moment at which the elements in motion are in balance. Photography must seize upon this moment and hold immobile the equilibrium of it.”

-Henri Cartier-Bresson, The Decisive Moment

I include the above quote not to attempt (with what would be total delusion) to include myself in the company of one Henri Cartier-Bresson. I do so for three reasons: 1) I just finished a book about Magnum Photos, which Cartier-Bresson and Robert Capa (see first Scenic World entry “Arrival and Departure”) co-founded; 2) Photojournalism and documentary photography couldn’t be described better or more beautifully; 3) My photographic intentions were brought into question on two recent occasions.

The first time was in Aljezur, Portugal where I asked to take a picture of an older couple as they sowed seeds in the fertile fields separating the old and new sections of town. Many Portuguese still farm completely manually and chemically free, which is really refreshing to see. As I walked by one day I asked them if I could take a few photos. They obliged and I treaded across their field being careful not to walk where they had planted. The man was working really slowly and was obviously quite tired. After about five minutes he started saying something angrily to me in Portuguese, which I interpreted to be, “You f*#%ing tourist, I’m old and tired and I’m working my ass off just to feed my wife and I and here you are on your little holiday walking through my field photographing us like we’re some novelty postcard you can send back to wherever the hell you’re from just to say, ‘Look, I was in Portugal and it’s soooo quaint.’” I got the point, thanked them and left.

The second time was in Carmona, a beautiful pueblo outside Seville. I was wondering the side streets when I came upon a family walking towards me. Two of the kids were playing fútbol and I asked the father (in Spanish) if I could take a photo of the kids. He looked at me cautiously and said that it wasn’t normal for someone to take photos of children. I explained that I was harmless and that it is what I do for work but by that time the moment was gone and he still seemed suspicious. Being thought of as a perv really tends to ruin the magic of such a moment.

These aren’t unique experiences to photographers; they are realities working photojournalists have to deal with every day, usually in much more difficult situations than my recent ones. I had an interesting discussion with my friends about it on our way home. My argument was that, first of all, I asked; secondly, it’s a public place; and thirdly, I think it’s a sad situation when the first thing a person thinks is that I’m photographing their children for sinister purposes. My argument was that it was ridiculous for the man to think that I would take such pictures in broad daylight and while asking permission. My friends said that I have to understand that the parents are just trying to protect their children and that I should understand not everybody knows my intentions. Fair enough, although I didn’t need to be told that parents have to be mindful and protect their children from the many dangers of the world we’re living in.

So, what are my intentions, I kept asking myself? In the case of the farming couple, I wanted to document a form of agriculture that is sorely and destructively lacking in our world. It was — however vain in its efforts — an attempt to pay tribute to their arduous and important work. I couldn’t explain that in my horrible Portuguese, but I don’t suspect he would have been interested anyway.

In the case of the family and the children, what can I say but that kids are cute? That’s probably not a sufficient explanation (and probably still sounds dubious). So, I’ll try my best: my intentions were simply to capture a careless moment of play to show its innocent beauty. Plus, adults — including myself — need to be reminded of how important those carefree moments are.

Maybe I’m looking too far into it. They’re just photos after all, but this conversation keeps coming up in my travels. I guess I really don’t know how to explain it in the end, especially because I often see a moment and take a photo without asking. In those situations to ask would be to interrupt the scene and ruin the moment. And who am I to ruin a beautiful moment? Just another shameless stealer of souls, I suppose. I can’t help it; it’s a scenic world and we’re all part of it.

Speaking of shameless photography, we went to see the last two Semana Santa processions in Seville on Easter Saturday evening. They weren’t letting anybody in so I strolled up and told them I was a photographer for El Mundo, the largest newspaper in Spain (I’m not). When they asked for credentials I gave it the ol’ pocket pat and search until they finally just let me in. Sure it was a lie — and in front of one of the largest cathedrals in the world no less — but something tells me Capa and Cartier-Bresson would have approved. Maybe even Jesus too.

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“Rebel Rebel” (in Portuguese) – Seu Jorge

“The world is turning. Hope it don’t turn away…Now I’m living here down on the beach. But those seagulls are still out of reach.” -Neil Young

I can see the Atlantic Ocean from my camp here in southern Portugal, due west in the form of a deep blue upside down triangle perfectly set in the white sand on its tip. I am in Tipi Valley, home of Surf Algarve, a surf and yoga retreat near Portugal’s spectacular western coast. The ocean is a beautiful sight for these landlocked eyes, and in the morning my ears are greeted with birdsong and the soft, steady roar of breaking waves.

Laurie Quirk, an Aussie, started this place four years ago as an alternative to the prevailing holiday retreat model. There is minimal impact on the land, no permanent structures and all the existing structures are built with simple, natural, recycled and reused materials. Solar power, solar showers, composting toilets and a beautiful setting to an escape for people to unplug, do yoga and surf. Or try to at least.

I am also proud and happy to report we put in a large vegetable garden this spring, complete with homegrown seeds from a greenhouse and a full irrigation system. Once summer hits the gardens should provide nearly all the guests meals with organic, onsite veggies and herbs. It’s a bit strange to be planting in the ground in March. Montana this is not.

The crew started out just Laurie, Joe (another Aussie), Victor (Romanian strongman), and myself. Oh, and Laurie’s princess of a pooch, Shisa. Now there are eight of us, setting the stage for Survival Portugal, Europe’s hot new reality-drama TV series. I’ve yet to start filming, but believe you me, it’s going to be gripping.

On the hunter-gatherer front, Joe and I canoed, literally, to the ocean via the Aljezur River near our camp. We fished, unsuccessfully, but on our way back we collected a slightly easier prey: mussels. Not just any mussels either, but easily the biggest most beautiful mussels I’ve ever seen or eaten (Am I swayed because it’s the first and only time I’ve ever harvested mussels? Maybe.). We pulleds them from rocks along the river and cooked them with garlic, parsley, butter and white wine. We downed a ridiculous amount of them in short order. Sooooo delicious, but the latent effects helped little the plight of two dudes alone in a secluded valley.

Along the canoe ride we also spotted schools of huge fish surfacing all over. So, being Montanan, of course vowed to bring one in on a fly rod. And so I set about fashioning a rod out of a cane pole. First try, was a failure. I had high hopes for the second one but when I completed it and tried my first trial cast it snapped at the top and the bottom. I used it anyway, trying bread and insects I found in cow patties, casting hopelessly into a strong wind. Nada. So I made another, complete with wire eyelits and duct tape reinforcement. Again, nada. They started calling me “Huckleberry Finn” and “A River Runs Through It.”

My pride at stake, Joe and I resorted to violence: we made a spear out of a piece of eucalyptus and a trident we found. We were about 0 for 20 when finally Joe nailed a really nice fish. Then I got one right through the head. We were four for four after Joe’s first hit at which point we called it quits and brought our catch proudly back to camp and cooked ‘em up. They are ?????, ocean fish that come into the river at high tide. Huge chunks of flakey white flesh. Really tasty, probably even more so because they were so hard fought for. Now Laurie calls me “A Spear Ran Through It.” And, speaking of that, I reread my Granada entry and realized I used the word “haunt” in one form or the other one too many times. Sooooo Norman MacLaen. If I use it again, ever, please let me have it.

Not much else to report right now. I’m living a simple, healthy existence here. Life moves slowly and quietly in Portugal and I’m pleasantly along for the ride. The ocean really crushes your ego (speaking of, I haven’t successfully surfed yet but stay tuned) while filling you with a sense of absolute serenity and quiet power.

Portugal has a real jewel down here — lush, rolling hills that give way to huge cliffs and perfect cove beaches. It’s no secret anymore and this open coast is a fleeting entity in Europe. After seeing Costa del Sol’s concrete calamity and several poorly planned (and now stalled) developments here, I sincerely hope the Portuguese continue to protect this wonderful place while welcoming the world to come enjoy it responsibly. Laurie is helping to show them how here in this beautiful little valley.

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“Scythian Empires” – Andrew Bird

Where was I?

Ah, Valencia, when the computer gods looked unkindly upon my laptop and handed it a most unfortunate fate: “Obsolescence,” the computer guy broke it to me in bad English. My dear readers, I will spare you the mundane and difficult details. Suffice to say credit and good friends eventually saved the day. I now communicate to you through a brand new technological device, tethered once again — for better or worse — to the modern world. Sorry for the delay.

Anyway, a ludicrously long bus trip brought me from Malaga to Valencia mid February. In Alicante the cops stopped us, boarded the bus and hauled off two African immigrants to unknown fates. The bus driver told us they found hash but I saw no sign of that and it seemed obvious they had only committed the far worse crime of entering Europe illegally in search of a better life. As I watched their fearful faces from inside a safe window I couldn’t help but think about my situation as one of the fortunate few, traveling not for escape but for exploration. There I was searching for a piece of my history and there they were fleeing theirs. What had they been through to come all the way here only to be plucked off a bus, humiliated and hauled away? I don’t pretend to have any answers to the problems of immigration in Europe, but I think of them when I start to gripe about going through the rigamarole of traveling logistics.

At 2 a.m. the bus driver brought us barreling into Valencia at breakneck speeds to make up for the delay. As I rose to the next floor on the escalator at the station I immediately recognized the voice of my old friend Katie speaking in Spanish on the other side of the stairs. You just don’t forget the voice of someone you’ve known for 20 years no matter how little you see each other. Katie and I met in fourth grade, and though she rolls her eyes every time I tell this story, I’ll say it again: When my family moved back to South Dakota she was the first kid who was nice to me (we played footsie in class). She’s been a dear friend ever since.

She is living with her fiancé Guillermo who is Argentine and has been living and working in Valencia for about five years. I had never met him and was eager to see if this hombre passed muster enough to marry someone I basically consider a sister. My first impression was good, but it was not until the next morning when he served me strong coffee and played a classic David Bowie DVD did I decide he was in.

That day we took a bus ride to Sagunto, an ancient Roman castle ruin outside Valencia. We looked toward the valley and sea from atop the crumbling walls and imagined what it would have been like during the Siege of Saguntum to see Hannibal arrive with his army and war elephants to conquer Sagunto. From there he would cross — with elephants — the Pyrenees and Alps all the way to the heart of the Roman Empire. Que cojones!

We ate well in Valencia, usually cooking big dinners ourselves — Mussels Valenciana; fresh mandarin, jámon, bleu cheese, toasted walnut and arugala salad; old-fashioned hearty meatball pasta; jámon, fish and fresh fruit plates and on and on we went with candlelit dinners, red wine and a spinning record player. One of the best foods I ate, though, were caracoles, or snails. When Katie worked late Guillermo would show me around the city and we would always stop in this classic little Spanish restaurant (now run by Chinese) where we would swill beers and suck down spicy snail after spicy snail. You wouldn’t believe it to see the things slithering around on the ground but they be good. Guillermo speaks even less English than I speak Spanish, but we got by just fine speaking profoundly (with profound hand gestures if nothing else) about every topic under the warm Valencian sun. Funny how you can understand such complex things with such simple words. We took a ton of photos and talked a lot of history, ultimately and unwittingly taking the very same photo near an original gateway to Valencia where you can still see the marks left by Napolean’s cannonballs.

On a perfectly random Tuesday after Katie and Guillermo finished work we walked to the city center and the gargantuan Ciudad de las Artes y Ciencias. The occasion…Franz Ferdinand…for free. The immensity and strangeness of the architecture at this place is beyond adjectives. Impressive, absolutely. Cold, excessive and inaccessible, completely. The main buildings look like giant spaceships that were made to look like insects…from the future. Guillermo put it best when he said they looked like spaceships that someone never got around to finishing and now simply sit idly in the city waiting for the unreachable beyond. A whole lotta nada, we all agreed. But who cares when you’re seeing Franz Ferdinand for free!?! We met some generous concert goers and together we all rocked properly out, particularly when they sang “It’s always better on holiday. That’s why we only work when we need the money.” And speaking of work, behind and above the sea of reveling concertgoers workers welded away on yet another section of the “City,” showering the night sky with sparks from surreal heights. Franz was fantastic, or “Franztastic” as one sign read: tight as a drum and catchy as hell. I was really impressed by their live performance. And of course, it was my first live MTV event, completing a crucial rite of passage.

We also caught the first day of Las Fallas, Valencia’s infamous March festival of parade floats and fireworks, fireworks and fireworks. All year long people make extravagant, giant floats they parade through the streets only to set on fire during the last week. They begin the opening day with the Mezclata, which basically means the entire city gathers in the main plaza to drink in anticipation of about five minutes of thundering fireworks after which they go home as the smoke slowly clears and the cacophony of blasts subsides.

And so ended my last day in the city of fire, oranges and paella. Katie, Guillermo and I enjoyed another wonderful meal together and I encouraged them to come to Montana to collect on my debt from their supreme graciousness. I sincerely hope they do. It is inspiring to be in the company of such love and I’ll never forget my time in Valencia. So, Kat and G: Felicidades amigos! You’re both beautiful people and I am so happy for your new lives together. Thank you for everything. Hasta pronto, espero…

Madrid, Otra Vez

Boarded a bus back to Madrid en route to Portugal. Found myself in the wonderful company of Lucia and her supreme friends again. On a random weekday we went to the Thyssen Museum, an incredible collection equally incredibly owned by one very dedicated (and rich) Madrilenian woman. Degas, more Picasso, and most importantly my first Van Gogh. My God, those beautiful globs of bright paint!

After a whirlwind tour there we spent the rest of the afternoon indulging in tapas and cervezas. Lucia, Carlos — a great guy even though he doesn’t like rock and roll — and his crazy ex-girlfriend Laura and I hopped from tapas bar to tapas bar on a proper tour of the capitol. Laura was constant entertainment stealing everything she could get her sticky fingers on from everywhere we went: sandwiches, straws, ashtrays, and a cocktail glass she promptly smashed on the street not long after having a random lady take a picture of her bra stuffed with napkins she, yes, stole from the bar. She was a train wreck by the end of it (early evening) and though it was tough to watch I couldn’t stop from staring in dumbfounded amazement.

My favorite story about her is one she told me about when she hooked up with a guy from Ohio. I asked how she met him and she simply said “I was walking down the street and saw him. He was really fit.” Can you imagine the luck (good or bad, I do not know) of this Ohian dude just walking down the street on one of his first days in Madrid? Apparently he was a fencer and came to Spain thinking he could just saunter into an arena and start fighting bulls. Classic. There’s a script there for anyone willing to try.

Before all was said and done that day I chimed in on a lively conversation at Lucia’s where everybody was telling stories about mean things they’d done in their past like kicking somebody’s doll or some such silly stories. In bad Spanish I told them that I killed somebody, which quickly brought the conversation and night to a close. Tough crowd.

Went to the Prado Museum on my last day, followed by another great meal with Lucia and her mom followed by another great meal with Lucia and her friends. The quality of company and graciousness of Lucia and her friends cannot by overstated and I thank them all from the bottom of my corazón. Muchisimo gracias, amigas y amigos!

Drove by night to Ecija, a gorgeous little village outside Seville. Stayed with another new friend, Mar, before catching an early morning bus to Lagos, Portugal. I felt the world get quieter the minute I crossed the border. So different these two cultures sharing Iberia. As it goes in Europe, there is not exactly an outpouring of mutual love between these two neighbors. They both wielded over vast empires at one time or another but those days are long gone. Now they both strive to keep their cultures and identities whole while simultaneously trying to be part of a Europe that is in many ways another world away. This is just a humble tourist’s opinion, and though they may not admit it, I think they’re good for each other. More on that later, I suppose.

As I left Spain the noise was still humming in my ears: the laughter and firey conversations at the smoke-filled bars and always flamenco and the feverish clapping of hands calling me to return. Hasta pronto, España…

Miscellaneous along the way

-A frustrating day spent walking all over Valencia in the rain trying to buy a computer but thwarted at every attempt. And when my friend and I went to seek solace in suds and snails, I literally threw my hands up in the air bitching about it and promptly knocked the tray of beers the waiter was delivering all over the table, covering my stuff in beer and shards of glass. “It is not your day,” my friend said to me. No, it wasn’t, but every dog has those days.

-The realization that sometimes no matter how hard you try to control things the less in control of them you are.

-Remembering who you were and are in the company of an old friend.

-A hilarious Spanish TV show called Muchachada. This clip is Spanish, but I’ll set it up for you: It’s called “They Call Me the Rabbit” and he’s interviewing for a job in the opening scene. “It’s because I’m a rabbit, isn’t it?”

-In Ecija. a drunken man lurching over the counter at a bar whispering slurred, sweet nothings to a giant piece of cured meat.