I am home. I arrived at PDX at about 8:30 Sunday night, and was asleep for 13 hours straight beginning at 10pm. Here it is Tuesday and I feel like I've fully recovered from the time difference, though not the culture difference. I went in search of a decent caffe and croissant this morning in Forest Grove...I should have known better. The first joint I tried had the audacity to call itself a "coffee bar and deli." Pffsh! I asked for an espresso and a croissant and they looked at me as if I'd asked for two dancing buffalos and a water gun. "What flavor espresso? You mean you don't want anything in the croissant? Toasted, with butter?" All I wanted was a simple croissant with a little cup of super-strong coffee.

I will not return to that place.

I had better luck with the third coffee shop (the second didn't have croissants). I explained to the third that I was newly back from Europe and the barista was sweet enough to ask if I even wanted one of the little ceramic cups. Of course I did! I was satisfied but I clearly need to lower my expectations a bit if I plan on continuing my European breakfast routine.

So about the last bit of my trip, just to tidy things up around here:

Paris: The City of Lights.

I arrived early in the morning from an eventful night train with fellow backpackers to learn that, "I'm sorry you can't check into your room until 3pm." Desperately in need of a shower, I took to the streets of Paris. Perhaps this is how the French get a bad rap for body odour? It's not the locals but the tourists who fill the streets in the summer anyway. Regardless, I bought a baguette and followed Rick's tour through the historic core of Paris, admiring Notre Dame's flying buttresses, the hustlebustle of the Latin Quarter, and dropping my jaw at the skyrocket price jump compared to Barcelona.

I returned to my (overpriced and underexciting) hostel after three for a much needed pillow crash followed by an even more necessary shower...possibly one of the most cathartic showers I've ever taken. Just as I was preparing to hit the nightlife, a torrential thunderstorm took the city by surprise. I watched from the comfort and warmth of my room as rainsoaked tourists ran for cover.

Settling in to update my journal and plan my day, I was joined by another solo traveler doing the same. She mentioned she was considering visiting the late night Musee d'Orsay but was giving up on the idea for lack of motivation. Seeing the rain had cleared I simply said, "close your journal, I'll come with you." Missing the last call for entrance, we took to the night streets of Paris instead. It was her last day and my first, so I had a guide on the neat places to see. We saw the twinkly lights on the Eiffle Tower (whose foot I gave a good swift kick for good measure), ate crepes, and enjoyed a tasty meal of leg of duck with red wine. All that in the first day.

Paris is an exhausting city. Too much to see and do.

I spent the next two days hitting sights and museums. d'Orsay with its ipmressive impressionist collection was my favorite over the Louvre, which was really only good for crowd watching and Venus de Milo and some obscure, unvisited ancient Persian relics. Keeping to my M.O. of climbing stuff, I scaled the 284 steps to the top of the Arc di Triomphe for a commanding view of the city and the world's only roundabout in which car insurance is offically nullified. My nightlife was uneventful since I couldn't find a social hostel to meet up with bar buddies, but I did more walking and touring than any other city. Paris could easily require three weeks.

Then there was the 22 hours of air travel and layover during which I had to come to grips with the fact that my holiday is over.

But my desire to travel has just been kindled. Horizons aren't static, nor shall I be.

Until next time,

Goodbye, and thanks for reading!

Too mqny stories, too little time

It has been only a week since my last post but it feels more like a month. The last seven days have been some of the best of this trip. I'm now in Paris wondering a) how to top the last week to go out on a really high note b) how to find quality company so as to not be alone in the world's most romantic city and c) whether or not I should try the oh-so-famous snail specialty. Perhaps I can roll all three into one with a romantic dinner (if can snails be part of a romantic dinner then I will have found myself one cool woman).

I have only a few minutes to share what has felt like a few weeks. Barcelona is a city to which I could return without hesitation. So much is happening in that wild city of Gaudi, tapas, sangria, and festivals. Even with so many Spanish on holiday, the place was alive and colorful. I did some tourist stuff, but most of my time was spent in the company of good friends I made along the way. Simply enjoying the lifestyle for a while was refreshing.

The internet timer is blinking at me, reminding me that i have a city to explore.

I will be back soon to share stories...

cliff jumps, romance, and pesto

Cinque Terre: Italy's coastal paradise. Frequented by pirates in feudal times, today the five tiny, pastel towns are an oasis for weary travelers seeking to abandon schedules and soak in the sun. I've spent about three weeks in Italy and this has been, hands down, the best leg of my holiday.

Naturally, I took the Cinque Terre walk, a several hour hike connecting the five cities. Starting at the fifth town, I conquered the most treacherous strech first. The narrow, up and down trail clung to the cliffs like the steep, terraced vineyards but afforded the best views of the day. Stopping in each city to explore, eat gelato and pesto focaccia, and play with my new tourist priced mask and snorkle set, I took a total of about nine hours to reach city number one. Completely knackered, I sat down at a bar perched upon a cliff to enjoy a chilled glass of Cinque Terre's famous D.O.C. vino bianco as the sun set over an azul Ligurian Sea. I slept well that night.

The next day I followed the advice given to me by a few past hostelmates. "go to Riomaggiore and ask any local, 'where is mamma rosa?'" Sure enough, I found the white haired old woman by the train station, watching the day pass by. Speaking only the necessary english for providing accomodation, mixed with the constant chatter of friendly Italian, Mamma Rosa showed me to a perfectly sufficient place to sleep with a sign reading 15 euro. "You look. you like, 15 euro. no like, you go. pay 25 euro in city." You had me at fifteen euro, Mamma Rosa... this was certainly better than the playground equipment I'd slept on a few nights earlier, and here I wouldn't be jolted awake by the 3am automatic sprinklers.

Accomodation accounted for, I took to the water and to the 35 foot jumping rock for a day of sunbathing and entertaining passing tourists. I truly don't understand how these large guided groups can come to Cinque Terre for a few hours and leave thinking they've experienced the place...tourists...

Day three made this the best experience of my trip. Two weeks ago, in a remote, hilltop town in Chianti, I'd eaten a lovely picnic lunch in the company of a stray cat. Then two Brasilian sisters and their Italian host sat down on a nearby bench to do the same (although the cat kept my company). After a while they invited me over and shared a few grapes. We chatted, ate grapes, and sat in awe of the powerful thunderstorm rolling through the hills of Chianti. Then parted ways wishing all happy travels.

Fast forward to Cinque Terre. I'd just bought my favorite lunch of meat, cheese, and fresh bread with fruit from the local shop when a familiar face caught my eye. It was (the cuter and older) Brasilian woman from Chianti! She had just arrived and was planning on leaving for Switzerland early the next day. I told her that was silly and that she should stay here at least two days. "Think about it and meet me in the piazza at nine," I said, thinking I had to keep her from missing the Cinque Terre experience.

While I've rarely been truly lonely, Ive often thought about (and discussed with other solo travelers) the tragic irony of trekking alone through some of Europe's most romantic places. Sometimes this presents fruitful opportunity for a shared experience, sometimes it doesn't...more often the latter. Meeting Carolina (the Brasilian elementary school teacher) in Cinque Terre was perfect. My holiday could have ended there and I would have been happy.

In other news, I am an Italian chef! I cooked my first real Italian meal for Carolina, made with fresh ingredients purchased at the grocer down the street. Penne with tomato, basil, and tuna. It was topped only by the five star meal we ordered the next night in Vernazza, the fourth town and also the one known for its cuisine.

Quite happy with her decision to prolong the Cinque Terre experience, Carolina hopped her train to Sardinia (Italy grew on her and Switzerland could wait), an hour before I boarded my France bound rail.

As I write this, I am in Nice, a city where too many people have too much money. This city may be bicultural in its heritage, but it is strikingly French compared to my last three weeks. (It voted to severe its Italian ties and join Napoleon III's France in the late 19th century...thank you, Rick Steves...). Stepping out of the train station, the first real French I hear is a taxi driver cursing his passenger in French-soaked English: "YEW AHRE TAKING MY TIME, YOU FAWKING ASSHOLE!!"...okay...duely noted, must not anger a Frenchman.

It got better from there. The woman behind the pastery shop counter was very kind in helping me pick the best croissant, and the servers who satisfied my craving for Thai food gave me heaping portions. Yes, I satisfied a Thai food craving in France. I'll save the French food for Paris.

Today I wait for my overnight train to Barcelona...which cost only two Euro to reserve...perhaps I am sleeping in a fuel tanker?

Now, to the beach!

Rich Italia

This post has to be as fast as italian driving. That means very fast, and I would know...

I arrived in Napoli on Tuesday and took the one hour local oven-on-wheels to Sorrento. At the campsite I met a South African couple I'd spent time with in Roma. Andrew raved about his day on a scooter so naturally I decided to rent a scooter the next day.

WOW.

I couldn't have had a more intimate experience with the italian culture than that day on the scooter. From 9am wednesday to 9am thursday, I was as Italian as I will ever be. (yes, mom, I wore a helmet, they all do). The driving, though, notorious, is actually an art. It's not the Italian drivers I worried about, it was more the tourists such as myself who concerned me. These driving know EXACTLY where their motorized vehicle is (this means scooters, cars, and miraculously, buses). I figured it out, though. Travel at whatever speed is comfortable on the right and just be predictable. Yield to passing traffic in either direction and stay the hell out of the way of the buses (who kindly honk before approaching hairpin curves). There are also mirrors everywhere to aid in taking curves.

So from the scooter I saw very little of the unbelievable views (eyes to the road and mirrors). I took many stops and even more pictures, though, as I wound my way along the coast to Almalfi. These coastal towns are so beautiful, I could stay here for months!

But I can't stay here for months, I have places to see and things to do. Today I'm off to the north with Cinque Terre as my destination. I don't know if I'll be there tonight, I may hop off the train in a nice looking town and stay a while. Only 16 days to go!

Ciao for now!

Tom