Good bye

I head back to the states tomorrow - can't push off the evil taxman any longer.

Good bye Amsterdam.
Good bye Wendy.
I love you both.

Tags: Amsterdam, journal

Promoting Democracy or Obstructing it?

This is the second post in a series started with Time for a New Solution and followed by A History of Poverty and Racism.

Due to the escalating violence in Iraq and neglected domestic issues revealed by Katrina, American citizens are waking up to the realities of war. Over 60% of the American people now support full or partial withdrawal of soldiers. Furthermore, when asked how to pay for the problems caused by Katrina, cutting spending for the Iraq war was the most popular choice and by a wide margin. The majority of American citizens want out of this war plain and simple. I am among them and this is why.

Invading Iraq was a Mistake

During the build-up to war we heard two reasons for the invasion: weapons of mass destruction, and “freedom and democracy.” We now know (many of us already knew) that there were no Weapons of Mass Destruction. The administration wanted to invade Iraq, regardless of WMD’s, and changed the facts to support its goal.

This leaves us with the “freedom and democracy” justification, but you cannot force “freedom and democracy” on a nation with bombs and guns. It is a contradiction in terms. It is Orwellian logic: war is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength.

We should have never invaded Iraq in the first place and the majority of American citizens now agree.

Remaining in Iraq is a Mistake

If the majority of us agree that invading Iraq was a mistake, why are we still there? The main argument used is that if we left now, Iraq would erupt in turmoil.

The problem with this argument is that it implies the only way to fix Iraq is by keeping our troops there. In truth, it is the presence of our troops that is the problem.

First of all, attacks by the U.S. and multinational forces are responsible for more deaths of innocent Iraqis than the terrorists. Furthermore, it is our very presence that is motivating the terrorists. Robert Pape of the University of Chicago has collected a database of every suicide-attack in the world from 1980 to 2004. From this analysis, he comes to the conclusion that suicide-attacks are not motivated by religion as much as they are motivated by one country occupying the homeland of another. The violence in Iraq is happening because of the American military presence on Iraqi soil. Pape points out that before our presence, there were no terrorist attacks in Iraq:

“Before our invasion, Iraq never had a suicide-terrorist attack in its history. Never. Since our invasion, suicide terrorism has been escalating rapidly with 20 attacks in 2003, 48 in 2004, and over 50 in just the first five months of 2005. Every year that the United States has stationed 150,000 combat troops in Iraq, suicide terrorism has doubled.”

Another argument often used to justify our presence is that pulling out now would embolden the terrorists. But if we left, the terrorists would have no real motivation to attack. Jihadist leaders would likely continue their efforts, but without an American presence on Muslim soil, they would lose their most effective recruiting tool.

As Nir Rosen, whose experiences in Falluja were published by the New Yorker, recently told a room of national security and foreign policy experts, "An American withdrawal from Iraq and an Israeli withdrawal from the Occupied Territories to the 1967 lines would do more to fight terrorism than any military action ever could. So would American empathy."

What We Should Do Instead

Remove all troops immediately. If our military presence is the problem, then it makes sense to remove it. This does not mean that we should abandon the Iraqi people. There are other means of support.

We should offer our expertise on matters of political systems, economy, infrastructure, and any other way we can. But it should not be thrust upon Iraqi citizens.

We should continue economic support, but reconstruction efforts must be put in the hands of the Iraqi people, not American corporations with close ties to the Bush administration. The beauty of this solution is that once we release our stranglehold on Iraq, other countries will likely step up with assistance also.

Most importantly we should place all decisions in the hands of Iraqi citizens. That’s what freedom and democracy are about. No doubt, there will be power struggles and violence, but there are already power struggles and violence. Was America’s history any different?

The Iraqi people have a right to create their own history, their own economy, their own problems, and their own solutions. It’s time for America to get out of the way and let that happen.

Tags: Iraq, Katrina, Bush, politics, war

Stephon

Stephon is 6’5” or so, with strong facial features, broad shoulders, and enormous hands. Physically he reminded me of Lurch from the Adam’s family TV series, but with big, blonde curls. He told me that he is a black belt in Kung fu or Tae Kwon Do (I don’t recall which), and I have the sore arm to prove that he probably is. He’s an imposing figure, but within minutes I knew he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s a gentle giant.

I met him last night on a grassy shore of Zee-Ijs Meer (Sea Ice Lake) – Amsterdam’s city lights glittered on the rippled surface. He came up to me and asked for a swig of my beer. I figured, “Why not.”

He liked to talk, that was obvious. Sometimes it was difficult to get a word in edgewise. He had an annoying habit of going off on tangents and getting caught-up in the details. For example, he was telling me what it was like to take care of his dying girlfriend. He mentioned some kind of fish - it was the only thing she would eat. I asked him what it was (I didn’t realize it was a type of fish at the time). He told me it was a type of fish and starts getting into a long, detailed description on how to properly prepare it.

After awhile of that, I decided to be blunt: “Dude. I don’t want to hear about the fish. I want to hear about you and your girlfriend.” That got him back on track.

You can’t imagine what it is like to take care of someone that is dying unless you’ve gone through it. You come face to face with death and realize the end is near. The sickness is in the air. It gets into everything, and the worst is when it gets inside your head. That is when his girlfriend gave-up. She died five years ago.

Stephon lives alone in a nearby campground haunted by memories of her. As much as she went through in her moments of sickness, I suspect he got the worst of it. He has to live on with the empty space left by her.

As I was on my bike saying good-bye, he reiterated his point. You don’t know what you’ve had till it’s gone. You don’t realize how close you were to that certain someone and how special it all was until it’s over. I rode home and made a promise to myself: appreciate Wendy and what I have, now.

Tags: journal, essay, Amsterdam

Time for a New Solution

Bush’s approval numbers are taking a dive; a majority of U.S. citizens support withdrawal of some or all troops from Iraq; and the issues of racism, poverty, and global warming are back in the American consciousness. Rita and Katrina could go down in history as the catalysts of an American awakening, or they could fade from our memories like so many lost opportunities of the past.

First let’s talk about the Bush administration and corruption.

Bloggers and the mainstream media need to keep the heat on this administration. Citizens want to believe in their leaders. It’s their natural disposition to do so. Those of us that know better must continue to work against that tendency. We must continue to expose this administration for the corrupt and deceitful malfeasance that it is. But our job isn’t done there.

What are we going to replace the Bush administration with? Will a Democratic administration make much difference? I doubt it.

To come up with an effective solution to any problem we must first recognize the root cause. This is the most important step and we (humans in general) often get it wrong. Instead of the root cause, we usually find a symptom disguised as a cause, and focus on that. Dishonest politicians are a symptom. A political-socio-economic system that promotes and rewards dishonest people is the problem.

Our society’s highest priorities are money and power. No? What is consistently the number one concern for most voters? Isn’t it jobs and the economy? What does that say about our value system? I’m not saying jobs and economy are unimportant, but I am saying they are almost always the number one concern, and that is a reflection of what we value most: money.

Furthermore, don’t we admire and look up to those with money and power? We don’t question where it came from. We don’t ask if the person acquired it morally. We just see the wealth and power, and admire it. What does that say about our value system?

Corruption is a natural byproduct of a society whose highest priorities are money and power. You cannot eliminate it with rules and regulations, especially when the people with money and power are the ones making the rules and regulations. The only way to eliminate corruption is a fundamental change in the value system of society.

I know what you’re thinking – impossible. But it isn’t impossible. A value system on money and power isn’t innate to the human condition. Many societies and institutions exist, and have existed, that value other priorities at a higher level, priorities such as family, love, compassion, and the environment. With time, effort, and, most importantly, the will to do so, we could change our value system.

This is the first in a series of posts that will discuss problems exposed by recent events and real solutions. It is followed by: Promoting Democracy or Obstructing it, A History of Racism and Poverty, and Poverty, Racism, and Economic Growth.

Tags: Bush, Iraq, global, warming, Katrina, Rita, politics

In the Morning

This is part of an ongoing series ….

I love Poland and I hate it. It’s the land of clear blue skies and rolling green hills. It’s the land of busy, new construction and concrete. Good-bye beautiful green. Hello ugly gray.

I spent my first night not far from the Czech border sleeping in an open field on a hillside among sparse houses. The field was once a farm, but now it was marked off for more homes. It seems all of Poland is busy building something. Everyone is in a race grabbing for his piece of the pie, but the pie will soon be gone, and we’ll have nothing to show for it, but one hurting planet.

I had a hard time falling asleep. Too many questions were roaming through my head. I was starting to question why I was on this trip. Was I getting anything out of it more than the knowledge and sadness of how fucked-up things really are? Not just in the U.S., but everywhere.
The morning brought a new outlook. I woke to a sky of brilliant orange. I continued to laze there half asleep and half submerged in my surroundings: dewdrops hanging from green blades of grass at eye-level with my lying head; a bird soaring directly over me – probably didn’t even realize I was there; the bountiful tree next to me existing in peace. “Good morning tree.”

Even through the night I would briefly wake and look at the sky, watching the evening progress: the first star, then another, and another; the infinite stars revealing themselves one by one, then disappearing just as slowly; and finally the faint light that signals a new day.

Such are the experiences of sleeping directly on the earth and underneath the vast heavens.

I soon got-up, got ready, and within no time I was on the side of the road with my thumb-out looking for that next ride toward Krakow. Next to me was a church and from its loud speakers some anonymous baritone belted out a melody. It was a new day full of endless opportunities …

Tags: travel, Poland, nature, environment

Trust Yourself

Another gloriuos Amsterdam sunset

My latest thrill is bike riding around the parks and streets of Amsterdam while listening to my walkman. Sometimes I do it in the morning for exercise - a great way to greet the day; sometimes I do it under the moonlight when I’ve got a good buzz going on and I’m howling at the moon; and sometimes I do it anytime of day just for the hell of it. It’s a simple concept really: add the sound of music to motion. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

Blame it on the experts.

Years ago, when I was in my Buddhist phase, I was reading a book on the subject. I read many books on the subject during that time. Anyway, the author described how he was walking in a park, and a flock of birds soared overhead. It was an inspiring scene. At the same time, a jogger listening to a walkman passed him by. Directly over her head one of life’s special moments was taking place and she didn’t even notice. Why? Because she was listening to a walkman. She was so caught-up in her own little world that she was blind to the world around her.

The author wasn’t necessarily saying listening to a walkman in the park is “bad” and should never be done. But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I thought that’s what he was saying. And since he was the expert on Buddhism, happiness, and enlightenment, he must know. Right?

Experts, we give them superhuman status, taking every word they say on a given topic as gospel truth. But they’re human just like we are. They make mistakes, they have prejudices and bias, they sweat, they laugh, and they cry. We forget that. And we forget our own expertise. We doubt our own knowledge, innate and learned, we doubt our own feelings, and our own idea of what’s “right” and “wrong”.

Well I’m here to say it doesn’t have to be that way. Trust yourself. Nobody knows what you need to be happy more than you do. That information may be buried under all the pressures and expectations from the outside world, but it’s there, somewhere. You just need to start digging and find it.

Tags: philosophy, Amsterdam

Borderless

I was pretty hungry by now and a hot meal of substance sounded like just the thing before crossing the border. The look, smell, and taste of Kielbasa and fries had been running through my head for a couple days. I found a nice looking place. It was dark and cool, a nice relief from the hot day, and not too crowded. Eating alone in crowded places always makes me feel so much more alone. The customers consisted of one old guy drinking a beer at a table by himself, and at the other end of the room, a couple of people up at the bar. I took the middle ground and sat at a table in the center. The friendly waitress came up, and, as I expected, she didn’t speak English. She handed me the menu, all in Czech. Hmmm…I asked if she had one in English, but the only other lingo available was Deutsch. Luckily, the one word I recognized was “Kelbas”. So, I pointed to it and drew a U-shaped Kielbasa in the air to make sure it was what I thought it was. I didn’t want to end-up with a plate full of goat innards. The waitress smiled and laughed a little, but didn’t know what I meant. She asked the guy smoking and drinking up at the bar. He said something to me, in Czech I guess, but I had no clue what. So he motioned for me to follow him. Ummm, OK. As we started approaching the kitchen I realized he was the cook and was going to show me the food. Great idea! He took me to the freezer and pulled out a string of Kielbasas. I shook my head in approval and held up a finger to convey "one". I also saw a plate of half-eaten fries on the counter. I pointed to it and he understood.

It’s kind of funny how it all came about. How I wanted Kielbasa and fries going into that place, and how they were the only things I could order. I’m not saying it was fate, destiny, or Providence… not necessarily. I would hope the cosmic forces, God, what have you, have something better to do than make sure I get Kielbasa and fries, but it sure seemed strange.

I left with the happy glow of a good meal, and the whole “yeah, I can travel all alone in a foreign land, I can do anything” buzz.

There was one more thing for me to do before crossing into Poland: cherish the moment. Beer in hand, I found a bench at the Czech-Polish border, and enjoyed the scene: a river representing the border lined on both sides with a green strip of trees and grass, and behind the strip, on both sides, a quiet village. A group of men were sitting at a bench further down the river than I, drinking a couple beers, and talking, probably politics; several people were walking dogs; and a group of kids walked by carrying a bottle of vodka and something to mix it with. Memories of my rebellious, alcohol laden, adolescent years flashed by. An ocean away from home, and people are still much the same.

Borders are a funny thing, so defined and absolute, yet so abstract. All I had to do was cross an imaginary line and I’d be in a completely different country…. different language, different foods, different laws, different culture. But really, what is a border? Isn’t it just a man-made line drawn across a map? Is there that much of a difference between one side and the other? The government will surely differ, but what of the people? Do the language, foods, and culture suddenly change once you cross that border? My travels would imply the answer is no.

People change gradually. Romanian cities in the region closest to Hungary often speak more Hungarian than Romanian, but as you move further into Romania, Romanian dominates. Eastern Romanian food is influenced heavily by Hungary and the city street names will differ depending on the map: there are both Hungarian and Romanian versions. Southern Mexico is similar to its southern neighbor, Guatemala, but as you move further north, it becomes more and more like the U.S.: more cars, more roads, and a faster pace. The southwest corner of Germany speaks a language closer to that of its neighbors, Switzerland and France, than the northern part of Germany. The food and culture are equally influenced. People in northern Belgium speak the language of their northern neighbor, Dutch, while those in the south speak the language of their southern neighbor, French. We’re all influencing each other border or no border.

With a healthy dose of beer flowing through my body and intellectual thoughts of “what is a border?” vanquished, I crossed …

Tags: travel, europe

Hitchin' II

Prague is precisely four hitched rides from the Polish border. That’s what it took me anyway. In terms of time, it took me a day and a half… a day and a half of impatience, stress, and excitement.

Impatience dominated on the side of the road as cars blindly passed me by. “Come on, give me a ride. I’m a good person. What would it cost you? Where’s the love? Where’s the humanity?” But I never had to wait more than fifteen minutes. I’m just impatient by nature.

Stress was always looming in the background. I had two days to get to Krakow before the rains would come in and had no idea how long it would take to get there.

Excitement rushed through me with each new ride and the endless opportunities it promised. “What is this driver going to be like? What kind of things will I learn? What kind of things will I see?” It was all new territory to me.

Hitchhiking is a great way to get a glimpse of society. Each ride reveals yet one more piece of the human mosaic. My rides ranged from a kid that had just flunked an important exam. He didn’t seem too upset though. Maybe because he was on his way to his girlfriend’s, and as he said, “Czech women are the most beautiful in the world.” From what I had seen, he was right. There was the middle-aged guy working for a computer firm in Sweden. He said there were a lot of Czechs working in Sweden. I didn’t ask why. And there was the tall, thin, shaggy kid that picked me up in his work truck. He spoke a little English, but didn’t seem interested in trying. That was fine with me. We just listened to his CD’s and watched the countryside. Then there was the curly-haired rich kid driving his parents’ BMW (I assume it was his parents’ car). Surprisingly, he didn’t speak English either. But he took me to the border and gestured, by pointing and walking his fingers across his open hand, that I had to go through the tunnel to cross the border into Poland.

So, there I was, a day and a half after leaving Prague, at the Polish border. Taking a bus or train certainly would’ve been easier, but what of the people I met, the adventure, and the challenge? Life is what you make of it. It is an array of choices. Do I choose the route of ease and comfort, or the one of hardship and adventure? The key lies in finding the balance and it's not the same for everyone. Perhaps that’s what this whole trip was for me: trying to find balance. I still had a ways to go.

Tags: travel, hitchhiking, Europe

Imagine

I was busy resisting. I knew about Katrina, but tsunamis, hurricanes, war, murder…it goes on everyday. I guess I’ve just grown callous to the world. What changed it for me was when Wendy and her friends told me of the helicopters being shot from the skies of New Orleans. I thought to myself, “what the hell is going on over there? Sounds like a post-apocalyptic nightmare. And why is it Wendy and her Dutch friends know more about it than I do?”

I slowly began to read articles and watch the images on TV. I slowly began to open my heart and mind to the magnitude of it all. A city the size of New Orleans brought to its knees; one of the most influential cities in the most powerful nation in the world, torn, battered, and beaten. I read of the bodies floating; of the thousands of people trapped inside the Superdome knee deep in trash, shit, rape, and murder; I listened to a man describe how he held onto his wife’s hand when the floods came in, how he couldn’t lift her, how she told him that he had to let her go, he had to promise her to take care of their three children, and how he let her go and watch the water take her away. What misery! What devastation!

I am thankful to the people down there, on the ground, lending a hand to people in need. I’m thankful to all those that are living examples of compassion and sacrifice; people willing to help others not for what they can get out of it, but simply because others need their help. And I wonder, where are the stories of these people in the media.

I suspect a few token stories exist here and there, but I haven’t seen them. I see plenty of stories about how the government failed to do their job. What a surprise. I see some stories about the obvious racial implications. It’s about time. Wake-up America! And I see stories about the victims. Also very important. Those things need to be covered and I’m thankful that they are, but where are the stories about the acts of heroism and hope? Just today I read an article that mentioned some men that stole a boat and a car to help get people out. The government wasn’t doing anything, what else were they to do? But the article only mentioned it in passing. I want to know more about the guys that risked their lives and broke the law to rescue their neighbors. What was going through their minds and hearts at the time? Were they scared? What kind of obstacles did they face?

In times of disaster, there are plenty of people taking advantage and wreaking havoc, but there are also plenty of people stepping-up and performing acts of courage and selflessness. Let’s hear some more about them.

The world is full of darkness and pessimism. But we make our own world. When the media focuses almost all of its attention on stories of thievery, rape, corruption, and war, people act accordingly…suspicion, fear, hate, and cynicism. And when people are suspicious, scared, hateful, and cynical, they resort to thievery, rape, corruption, and war. It’s a cycle.

Let’s break the cycle. Imagine the influence on society if the media spent as much time covering stories of love, compassion, and generosity as they do covering stories of hate and corruption. People would realize the world is not such a dark, dangerous place afterall. But, as I said, it's a cycle. We, the people, carry some of the responsibility ourselves. The media covers negative stories, because that's what people pay attention to. We give-in to anger and cynicism way too easily. That needs to change and I don't have any easy answers how. It's a long and slow process. As a start perhaps we could pay more attention to the positive things in life; focusing more time and energy on stories about what people are doing to make the world a better place for example. We can all make the world a better place. We all have a role to play. It may not be easy, but we owe it to our children, to ourselves, to our neighbors.

“You may say I’m a dreamer,
but I’m not the only one.”

John Lennon, Imagine


Tags: Katrina, media

Why I Resist

Yeah, I had heard all about Katrina and her toll on New Orleans. How could I not? It's in the headlines, on the web, on the mouths and tongues of my friends; it’s everywhere. Perhaps that’s why I chose to ignore it. People get so caught-up in the latest catastrophe. They stop acting as freethinking individuals and get swept away in a frenzy of mass hysteria. The media turns its focus from the last catastrophe, already fading from the hearts and minds of the masses, to the next distraction; politicians churn-up their propaganda machines to take any advantage they can; and perhaps worst of all, even the non-profits shift their fund raising systems into overdrive*. It’s time to feed on the public’s concern and sympathy.

So, when a Tsunami hits Asia, terrorists bomb trains in London, or a Hurricane hits America’s southern coast, I mostly tune-out. I pay some attention. I read an article or two, maybe watch a news story on the tube, maybe more. I don’t want to be completely ignorant. And when I see the images or truly think about what the people in those situations are going through, it breaks my heart. But mostly I try to resist. I resist joining the masses. I resist joining the mob mentality.

Why? Because a mob acts on pure emotion without thinking. Don’t get me wrong. I think emotion is a wonderful thing, not something to hide from or repress, but it needs to be balanced with reason. A mob doesn’t use reason. It just reacts, and the politicians, the business leaders, the marketers, and advertisers, all the greed and power mongers of the world know this, and they know how to manipulate it, and they do manipulate it. I don’t want to be manipulated. There’s already too much of that in the world. I want to be free.

Tags: Katrina

Hitchin'

Wendy was gone and I was getting bored of Prague. It was time to move on. I could hitch or take a bus or train. When the idea of traveling through Eastern Europe originally came into my head, I wanted to do it the hard way. That’s the way I like to do most things. I don’t like to follow the masses, in anything, and the masses always take the easy way. I prefer the road less traveled.

My first imaginative glimpses of this trip consisted of lugging my backpack along desolate roads; sleeping in forests, empty buildings, and on park benches; and perhaps more importantly, hitching rides. Now was the time to start realizing that vision, but inertia was against me. I had had it too easy for too long: sleeping in comfortable beds; traveling by car, train, or plane; living a good, comfortable life. But the good life has its drawbacks. I had grown soft. I was looking for excuses to take the easy way out, to simply take the bus or train to Krakow, Poland, my next destination. And there were plenty of excuses: the weather, lack of time, and the language barrier to name a few. But I was just being a wuss and I knew it. I really had no choice. I had to hitch to Krakow.

Hitching does not completely exclude buses. In fact, it is virtually impossible to hitch a ride from the center of a big city. You need to get to the outskirts and city buses are a good way to get there. I took a city bus to the nearest town in my direction, in Krakow’s direction. The ride was uneventful, or if it was eventful, I didn’t notice. I got off the bus in a slight daze, wondering what to do next. I quickly oriented myself, got to the road running through the city, and did what I do so well, dragged my feet just a little bit more. I sat in a patch of grass for a dinner of canned sardines and crackers. That task being accomplished, I could no longer avoid the inevitable. I hoisted my pack onto my back, walked to the edge of the road, and put my thumb out.

Hitching a ride didn’t take long. It is a very common practice in the Czech Republic. The roads between the cities are lined with kids looking for a ride.

My first driver was a guy in his late twenties. He spoke very little English and, other than the word for beer, pivo, I knew absolutely no Czech. While climbing into the car, I somehow communicated that I spoke no Czech. He subtly rolled his eyes as if it say, “oh boy, this is going to be a long ride.” I began to wonder about it myself. And this was just the first ride. How was the rest of my journey going to be? What if nobody speaks English? What if it turns out to be a long series of uncomfortable rides in oppressive silence, sitting in car after car with some stranger unable to communicate. That wasn’t my vision for this trip. Why didn’t I just buy a bus ticket and save myself from all of this aggravation?

The reality wasn’t too bad. The ride consisted of a lot of broken English, hand gestures, confusion, embarrassed laughter, and, yes, long bouts of silence. It was a little uncomfortable, but it was tolerable, even exciting. And as I continued to hitch rides, I got more imaginative. I became better at communicating without words or with very few. After all, necessity is the mother of invention.

The driver was willing to take me to the next big city, but as we were driving along I noticed the tinted horizon. The setting sun was painting its first dashes of color on the summer sky. I didn’t want to spend the night in the middle of a busy city. I wanted to pitch a tent in a quiet patch of forest. I asked him to pull over and let me out. After a mile of trying to communicate this to him in different ways, he finally understood what I meant, and did so. He found it quite strange that I was getting out in the middle of nowhere. I told him I was camping, but I don’t think he understood, and, at that point, I don’t think he cared.

I got out, gave a heart-felt thanks, and walked into a patch trees. It was only a small patch surrounded by farmland, but it was good enough to conceal my tent and myself. The mosquitoes descended upon me, fresh blood. I rushed to get my tent-up, climbed in, read, slept, and looked forward to the next day, waking in the forest, free, among the bird songs.

Tags: travel, hitchhiking, Europe

Prague II

I'm baaackkkk!!!!!

This is the 2nd part in what will probably be a series of journal writings based on my travels through eastern europe...

Prazsky Hrad (Prague Castle)

Upon checking into the hostel, I was told the only other person in the dorm room was a guy from Canada. I was glad to hear I'd be rooming with a solo traveler, being one myself. He was already out and about though. So, I unpacked some things and headed out myself. I had already done enough sightseeing with Wendy, so I spent the rest of the day doing nothing in particular - just passing time. I was back in the hostel by 7PM figuring a quiet evening of reading and catching-up in my journal would be good. These are the types of things you can afford to do when traveling for months at a time. It was approaching 11PM by the time my roommate returned.

David was a young guy – in his late 20’s and fit. We talked till sometime past 1AM. We talked of travel, philosophy, architecture, society, economics, politics, and relationships. It seemed we talked of everything under the sun. His trip was spurring him toward some kind of personal exploration and the type of growth that always accompanies such a thing, and he was obviously excited about it. I wondered if he was always like this – so full of energy, inquest, and curiosity. He was talking a mile a minute. I soon found the reason: he drank three cappuccinos that day. He claimed that he couldn’t feel the effects, and I thought, “Bullshit! If only you could see yourself through my eyes”. I let him keep his illusion though. Eventually we both winded down and welcomed a good night of sleep.

The next night we went out for a few beers. We started by hitting a couple bars, but they were overpriced tourist joints, so we bought a couple liters from the tabak shop and went to a nearby park, my favorite way to party. We found a bench sitting across from a building that looked like a small version of the White House, a fitting place to roll-up and smoke.

In tune with the surroundings, we talked politics for a while. Although the conversation lasted for some time, I can summarize it in two words: "Bush sucks!"

With our bottles empty and the topic of conversation exhausted, it was time to get-up, and search for more beer. All the stores were closed. Damn, we wanted more beer, and in a bad way. We continued to search. Eventually, we found a store. There’s nothing like that feeling of coming upon an open beer store, late at night, at that moment that you’ve just about given up all hope. It’s happiness; it’s relief; it’s the feeling that for that one moment, you’re the luckiest son of a bitch in the whole wide world.

We each bought a half-liter and started walking out the store. Within a couple steps, David read my mind and asked, “Should we get another one?” Calmly I replied, “sure,” but really I was thinking, “Hell yes we should get another!” We did.

With two liters of beer and a film canister of weed we were now ready to face the night. The only question was where to go. It couldn’t be anywhere. It had to be somewhere special, somewhere fitting for the occasion. I knew the right place. Wendy and I had walked past an old, overgrown cemetery several times and each time I felt drawn to it. It was beautiful, green, and wild. It was perfect. It was destiny.

Along the way we walked passed a shop with an obnoxious, cutesy, character on display. It was an obvious marketing ploy to sell some horrible, little desert to unsuspecting children. It was a cross between the Pillsbury Dough Boy and the gingerbread man. “Look at that stupid thing,” I said in disgust. Spontaneously, I made a slow, long step forward while extending my arm in a karate-type punch, adding sound effects to emphasize contact, “dphhhh”. David laughed out loud. Apparently, he understood my anti-social humor.

We arrived at the cemetery and quickly hopped over the iron fence. English Ivy was crawling over everything in a comforting, shroud of green. It covered the headstones, crawled up the trees and blanketed the ground. Mother nature was claiming what was rightfully hers in a display of death, decay, and rebirth; reminding us of the inevitability of it all.

We found a bench and sat in the shadows of the trees among the ivy. As David rolled-up a joint, he kept saying over and over, “I can’t believe I’m in the middle of Prague, partying in a cemetery.” I couldn’t either. An hour or so later, with the joint smoked, beer gone and our minds exhausted, we were climbing over the fence once again. This time, the sleeve of my fleece jacket got caught in the fence and ripped. Every time I look at that tear, I think of Prague, David, and that cemetery.

The next day David and I said good-bye. He was catching a bus to Vienna and I was hitching to Krakow, Poland. We would probably never see each other again. Traveling is like that. You meet someone, become friends for a day or two, and then say good-bye forever. You hope that you'll keep in touch. You convince yourself that you will, to ease the sadness, to avoid the finality and akwardness of saying, "See you ... ummm ... never. Have a good life". But you know you won't. Even while pieces of paper with your e-mail addresses scrawled across exchange hands, you know that you'll look at it on and off for the next few days or weeks, consider e-mailing the person, but you won't. And eventually that piece of paper will be gone. That's what traveling is: meeting people and saying good-bye. That's what life is. But if you're lucky and it's important to you, the memory lives on.

Tags: Prague, Travel