Epilogue

I've been on American soil for over a week now.
I've eaten cheeseburgers and watched trashy television.
I've driven a car and showered twice in one day.

I tried participating in this thing they call a government of the people, by the people, for the people.
In this baby of a country, they actually elect their leaders. How naive these people are, right?
Despite what you might have heard I can walk outside at night and I haven't heard a single gun shot.

Next week, I'm going to give their public education system a try. We'll see how that goes.

E.


P.S. It's a surprise they let me back in looking like this...

Europe Pictures Redux

Amsterdam Centraal Station

Amsterdam Canal

Dresden Train Station

Prague Castle

Outside Prague's National Museum

The Last Supper (from a Falafel Stand)

The other night I roomed with some girls studying abroad from Southwest Missouri State. They gave me the impression that they thought California was more foreign than Holland.

Girl: So, you're traveling by yourself?
Me: Yep.
(Pause)
Girl: But, why?
Me: Well, I was visiting my dad who is living in Israel and then I decided to come through Eur-
Girl: So, you just walk around all day and talk to strange people?
Me: Um, basically yeah.

With all this walking around I felt I actually accomplished something. There is a point in time, as a foreign visitor to a city, where you begin to see places around the city and you just know where you are, and you can recall being at this place other times before, and you know where the closest internet cafe or bank or bathroom is. Even with the best built-in sense of direction, if you are only in a city for two days, it is very difficult to obtain this level of understanding. I eventually got this feeling after staying in Tel Aviv for a couple weeks and I think I finally feel that here in Amsterdam (although those canals are mighty confusing). It is comforting to know a place in this way, especially when you've been on the road for so long. Even when I am by myself without anyone to relate my experiences, I can look up and see the Artis Zoo and remember the nice pizza slice I had across the street when I was here over a month ago.

Unfortunately, all my walking/wondering/exploring has taken a hit because of all the rain. Right now, it is absolutely pouring outside this oasis of an internet cafe. But then the backpacking gods decided to smile upon me...

The hostel I chose (or was forced to choose based on financial and availability reasons) for my last two nights even advertises itself as a low-class establishment, with slogans like "enivronmentally friendly on accident" next to a picture of a barren mattress on the floor with no sheets. Its lobby feels well-trafficked and the main artistic theme is graffiti. But on the final stage of my trip, I really will take anything because I know my bed and my shower at home are just on the horizon. When I got to my room, I appeared to be the first one there. There are four bunk beds, blue graffiti-covered lockers (one says "Animal Mother"), and a small bathroom in which I have yet to see any cockroaches (although I saw one small spider). Good news is: no one else ever showed up! I think it is a glitch in their reservation system, because the place is supposed to be full. But Eli ended up with his own small motel room for only 20 euros a night! It is a much longed for break from the noisy and cramped accomadations that I have come to expect.

I had my last meal tonight from the same Falafel stand that I stopped at over a month ago. It seemed fitting, considering all the incredible falafel I have had on this trip. This was a very educational trip for me. I saw a lot and it will be awhile before I have internalized all of it and really understand what it all means for me and my global perspective. With that said, I'm not sure I could have done this trip one year ago. Being on your own on the road can be tough, but I think it was necessary for me to really understand what kind of person I am and my particular travel style. Thank you all for listening in and once I get home I will try to add some pictures to the blog for you all to see.

Much love,
E.

Drugs, Sex and Tourism.

Chuck Palahniuk, the author of Fight Club, says that to be a good writer one must know how to balance the extremely anti-social and secluded act of sitting down to write with the actual living of life, which of course is necessary for the gathering of ideas. So, while I haven't really written anything in the last week, let's just say I've been gathering some ideas.

In Berlin, I found a really nice English used bookstore and picked up a copy of Mark Twain's travelogue, The Innocents Abroad, which documents his trip to Europe and the Holy Land. Although 150 years separate his journey and mine, I am excited to hear another American's opinion on this strange land.

I am in Amsterdam now, the point of my final departure as well as my first arrival over a month ago. Due to some late planning, I am staying in 3 different hostels for my 4 nights here. Today, in order to get to Hostel #2, you could have seen me riding my rented bike all the way across town with my giant backpack on. In the rain.

Last night, I talked to a Chilean guy who worked at my hostel. We talked politics. I told him that someday California would become its own nation and then my country wouldn't have been responsible for imposing any dictatorships in his region of the world. We discussed the relaxed social laws in Amsterdam and I said that the United States probably won't lower the drinking age to 18 because the majority of the country still thinks condoms should be punishable by death. For me, the verdict is still out on Amsterdam's policies on drugs and sex, but I think it is an important social experiment. Although it has its problems, the population of hard drug users in the city is an aging one and drug related deaths are few and far between. Getting off the train, I walked right into the heart of the city, an endless row of souvenir shops proudly selling Amsterdam's party-hardy image. This city has chosen to embrace the effects of controlled hedonism, instead of shoving all that activity underground, creating a whole dimension of the city moving illegally. The dark side of these streets is by choice, not caused by poverty like it is in many places. The other day I saw a study that said there have been steep increases in crime in American cities over the last couple years and although it had been increasing slowly for awhile, now the downtrodden economy will make crime in the innercity skyrocket. Just ask restaurant owners in Oakland. Amsterdam has taken a dangerous aspect that exists in every city and turned it into a quite profitable tourist industry meanwhile taking a little danger out of that pleasure. I know America is far from adopting radical policies like this, but it might do some good to start shifting the way our culture views these things if we want to improve the situation.

Europe: Take Two

It was almost three days ago that I arrived in Europe, but I'll try to catch you up on my travels since then.

I got off the plane in Vienna on Sunday morning, thinking I had left the heightened intensity of the Middle East behind. Not so. Just as I was about to hand my passport to the border control agent, I realized that I had no passport to give him. My sweat glands hit overdrive, as I tried to systematically determine where this all-important little blue book had ended up. After a good 15 minutes of stifled panic and phone calls back to the airplane, I found it. Of course, it was in some hidden pocket that I never use, except this one time. It was as if fate was trying to make sure I stayed on my toes for this week-long solo portion of my trip. Well, it worked.

I only stayed in Vienna long enough for a baguette at a sidewalk cafe and a short walk through some familiar neighborhoods from my previous fling in this city. Then, it was back to the Sudbahnhof where I met my train for Praha.

It really is a shame that I can only stay for such a short time in these cities, but I look at this trip like a sampler plate. Someday, I keep repeating, I will return to my favorite places along this route and stay long enough to do the city justice with an apartment and maybe a proper companion. Someday.

I could see myself living in Prague, except there is no way I'm learning Czech. My hostel was a little off the beaten track, which meant that a trip into the city center was 10 or 15 minutes, but it's always nice to see what a real residential neighborhood looks like instead of just the shops and the hotels of downtown. It seems to me that, unlike Vienna, Prague has a bit of a working class edge that probably comes from its Communist past. However, the grandeur of its finest buildings can stand with the best of them.

I met a good number of people, passing through at the hostel. Most seemed to be on a much larger trip, 6 months or so, and heading east from there, Krakow, Riga, etc. For these veterans, the first tier cities like Paris and Rome are far behind, constantly searching out the new up and coming city on the horizon. Yesterday I saw a sprinkling of Prague's sights: the castle, the national museum, its main boulevard. Not nearly enough, but I'm trying not to think in those terms, as I said, and I did enjoy myself, finding time to stop into an English bookstore, or chill in a park to read my book.

Today, I made a stop through the city of Dresden (more on this later) and arrived in Berlin this evening, which is a city large enough that even 6 months couldn't cover, so we'll see what I can do with a couple of nights and a day.

Back on the Road

I am just now leaving Tel Aviv after being here for 19 days. I have been so busy that I have even done more things than I had time to blog about. Now, it is back on the road. My rough itinerary looks like this: fly into Vienna, train to Prague (2 nights), train to Dresden, train to Berlin (2 nights), train to Amsterdam (4 nights). I hope to keep up from internet cafes.

Travel Tip #37: If you are all out of money, you don't need to exchange any currency when you leave the country.

Through the Walls of Jericho

There are no walls around Jericho anymore. I probably would have known that if I had read The Bible. In fact, it seems quite isolated. From a distance it might seem to be just a tight community whose only predators are the rocks of the desert.

To get there, we hopped on a small bus at the bus station just outside the walls of Jerusalem's famous Old City. The signs inside this bus show the swooping script of Arabic words, not Hebrew's blocky characters, but that change doesn't really mean anything if you can't read either language. Only 15 minutes after leaving the city center, we had reached a Palestinian village that might be called a suburb. The streets are more clearly lined with trash here. On the side of the road, a dumpster's contents slowly burn. We are only here to transfer, but the driver of our service taxi is waiting to fill up with a few more passengers. Meanwhile, we sat in the car without air conditioning, while outside several men chain smoke their cigarettes in the shade, draped over plastic chairs. It is probably getting close to 100 degrees.

The city of Jericho is completely controlled by the Palestinian Authority. There is an Israeli military post about a mile outside the city's border, monitoring the road in and out. Other than that, however, the city's security and well-being are lead from within. Only a small percentage of the West Bank has this set-up, a step towards autonomy.
Supposedly, Jericho is the oldest continuously-inhabited city on Earth, with records dating back 11,000 years. Today it has 20,000 residents.

When you are in a new and strange place, your eyes may strain to focus on anything that can spark a feeling of familiarity. Pulling into Jericho's main square, my eyes almost fell out of their sockets. A Palestinian kid riding a bicycle towards us was wearing a navy blue shirt with the gold, script lettering of CAL on the front. In a second he was gone, like maybe I hadn't even seen it.

We circled the entire town center and appeared to be the only tourists. It was a pretty regular market day it seemed. Parts of pigs hanging from butcher shop windows, boxes of plastic toys lining curbs, falafel boiling in large pans of oil. We stopped to eat at what looked like the nicest restaurant in town, which meant slight air-conditioning and tables off the street. Our waiter was a young guy about my age who spoke a sprinkling of key English words and smiled a lot. Our food was plentiful and very cheap and we made sure to leave a good tip. When we were leaving, our new friend shook my hand and asked where we were from and then if I maybe knew 50 Cent Rapper. I told him yes and that next time I would see him in California. He laughed and smiled at us as we left and then returned to work.

My dad and I discussed what it takes for a guy like that to get to America. I suppose the best case scenario is he has a relative who has already made it and maybe can send money or a job opportunity back home, but you'd probably have to be one in a million to get hooked up like that. I think maybe if he worked hard enough at the biggest business in town or a hotel, maybe he could afford to travel, if he could get through the roadblocks, much less all the red tape. Learning English is a must.

After another half-hour game of see how long the Americans sit in the taxi before they realize its much hotter inside than out, we were heading to the city limits. An Israeli guard took our passports and peeked inside the car and we were off, speeding at 140 kilometers per hour back towards Jerusalem.

I think what I learned from my brief foray into the West Bank was not that the Palestinians were living in hovels or prisons, or that they were being forced by Israeli soldiers to walk in straight lines and speak only when spoken to, but rather that their oppression takes more abstract forms. When you see the upscale malls and bustling intersections of any big Israeli city it is hard to imagine anyone utilizing the land any better. However, the Palestinian land issue is not a matter of who would use the area more efficiently or who would keep it cleaner, it is a matter of basic freedom. When the Palestinians are forced to live behind a wall or a fence, its more visible impact is the destruction of economic opportunities for individuals and the community, but its less obvious result lies only within the minds of its people. By telling someone to move away from their home and live in a confined space, you are refusing them the ability even to imagine a life beyond borders. After spending the last 4 weeks traveling halfway across the world, seeing a larger array of cultures than I ever have in my life, I realized how much I take this for granted. It pains me to think that this waiter, no matter how hard he may work, will be tied to the ground by some faceless exterior force. I have enjoyed my stay in Israel immensely and by meeting people and seeing the country top to bottom, many of my political preconceptions have changed for the better, but as long as Israel remains an occupying nation, I have no choice but to see it as an oppressor, a barrier to some kid's simple dreams.

The Golan

My dad and I just got back from a two-day trip to the Golan, a region in the northeastern corner of Israel. This area was captured by the Jews only four decades ago in the Six Day War and its ownership has been a matter of conflict with neighboring Syria ever since (Its Wikipedia page is even disputed). We had booked a tour in a small bus that carried us around to a handful of different cities and sights, from our home in Tel Aviv to a Kibbutz at the most northern reaches of Israel where would spend the night. Then, today we hit another set of points on the way back.

Our first stop was in the city of Nazareth (yes, of "Jesus of Nazareth" fame). This was also our first stop that had made an important appearance in the New Testament. It would not be our last, as it seems JC had booked the same tour with Israeli World Tour Group just two millennia ago, hitting all the same locations. For every place where the Bible says anyone committed any deed, there is a church built on top of that place, and in some places there are two or three churches that all claim to be built on top of that place. Not only that, but every church is not the original church, because every few centuries it gets knocked down in a war, so they pool money from Christians all over the world to build a new church on the ruins of the old.

Here in Nazareth, there is a well at which Mary was getting some water when she was told by the angel Gabe that she was pregnant with God's kid. So, inside this giant church there is a hole cut in the ground and there is the well. Christians from the Argentina to Zimbabwe are snapping pictures, praying, and buying postcards.

Next door is another church. This is where Joseph had his carpentry workshop. I think it was underground in a cave because we kept looking down this hole in the ground. I'm not sure really why he would have built furniture underground, but our tour guide just kept saying, "In the Christian tradition, Joseph worked in this cave...," like he was not going to admit its truth, but he wanted to explain why billions of people still thought it was true, even though it might look completely ridiculous to the heathens in the group. This church was called St. Joseph's. My dad and I wondered what Joseph had done to become a saint. We agreed that any guy who believes his virgin wife when she comes home and says she is going to have a baby, but it's okay because it's God's, was probably a saint.

We then stopped at a series of churches at places where Jesus had committed miracles, like the church of the stone where he stood to make bread and fishes for an entire community and the church outside the old synagogue where he brought back to life the daughter of a Roman soldier. It wasn't even lunchtime before I was getting warn out by the deadly combination of piety and humidity. I would say, however, one very interesting aspect of all these sites is that they never just represent one group, but really each site is an amalgamation of at least three. Some places will have a mosque built on top of a church built on top of a Roman palace built on top of a synagogue. (And to think it's heavy that the Bay St. shopping mall is built on top of an Ohlone Shellmound!) Also, this means that at every gift shop you can see menorahs and crucifixes sitting next to each other on the shelf. If only, religious harmony could exist as well in people as it does in trinkets.


It is hot as hell (bite your tongue!) and I'm wondering why so much blood has been shed for this land while California sits miles away at a cool 70 degrees 365 days a year. But as we head further north, the golden brown of the desert that has been the theme color for every inch of this country starts to turn green. In the winter, they say it snows here. Tell that to my dehydrated camel. We drove through the Hula Valley, which looks a lot like Napa with big orchards stretching to the hills.

The word peaceful might have floated in my head just as we drove up to the town where we would spend the night, but it was only fleeting. We stopped at a memorial for some of the first Jewish soldiers to die fighting the Arabs for this land in the 1920's. Only steps away was a smaller, more makeshift memorial for Israeli paratroopers who had been hit by a rocket on this spot just two years ago in the Second Lebanese War. There were a group of soldiers that had stopped by in there trucks to look. This was a very real example of how constant and immediate the fighting still is in this country.

We were just a few kilometers from the border of Lebanon. Since going to Eilat a week and a half ago, I had now successfully traveled the entire length of Israel.

We spent the night at a hotel run by a Kibbutz called Kfar Gil'adi. This was one of those privatized kibbutzim, for sure. No commies here. Indoor pool, TV in every room, and an amazing buffet shown here:
On our trip back we surveyed the area known specifically as the Golan Heights. Until 1967, Syrian troops used to shoot down at Jews in the valley from its strategically significant higher ground. Once it became part of Israel, Jews began to quickly settle and cultivate the region. There are rumors that the Israelis might give this region back to Syria in exchange for a peaceful border (similar to the one in Jordan), which would provide tourism for both countries through easy passage, as well as other considerations. However, there are cities like Katzrin, which was constructed completely within that short time period and already has about 8,000 people and very well could be Lafayette. The Israelis can build civilization like no other. My dad tells me that the Chinese have even hired them to start building cities from scratch in China. You could have a plot of barren land, but give it to the Israelis and it will have a shopping mall and a post office in no time. The reason for building like this is obvious. They are trying to settle the land to show that is Jewish. In some respects it is very good. I like visiting clean, well-organized cities, and their efficient use of the land's resources is incredible. However, this makes it very hard, when say, you might have to give the land back to another country in order to sign a peace agreement. This is true all over this country. Everywhere I go, I am surprised, yet very comforted by the Jewish cities. It is all very Western. But I can't help thinking that there is a back end to this. Is someone losing out, where the Israelis keep winning?

Tomorrow we are going to Jericho. This is one of the big cities in the Palestinian-occupied territories. I have only driven through the West Bank's peripheral regions, so this will be my first true glimpse on the other side of the wall. I felt if I was going to be in this country for 19 days I might as well see a place like this.

The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan

After our departure from the Kibbutz, we took a bus down to the port city of Eilat. This city, at the very southernmost tip of Israel, owns a small portion of coastline on the Red Sea. The borders of Egypt and Jordan are only a few miles on either side and Saudi Arabia is only 40 miles down the road.

My sister, the only one brave enough for the Red Sea.

We were only in Eilat long enough for two lemonades and a quick evaluation of our currency situation, but we spent it down at the beach watching big oil tankers come in to dock and bikini-clad Israelis smoking their cigarettes go out to sea. With its towering hotels framed by desert mountains and billboards galore, it reminded us all of Las Vegas. And on that note we flagged a taxi to take us to the Jordanian border.

The border crossing was quiet. Supposedly it is packed at 8am as people commute to work, but by 11 the station was isolated. At the passport window, a radio in the back played Phantom Planet's song "California." We pondered whether they play homeland anthems for everyone.

The history of the relationship between Israel and Jordan has been a tumultuous one, but since the signing of a peace treaty in 1994, it has been relatively stable. Because of Israel's geography, its language, and other more quirky characteristics of the country and its people, it has given me a taste of the foreign. Its culture is strange to me, but it is still a very Western place and after only a short period of time (especially in Tel Aviv), you can forget that you are in the distant Middle East. Entering the Arab nation of Jordan, it hit me that I might be leaving my comfort zone.

We are one of those families that despises the classification of the word tourist. If it's possible we desperately avoid going to "touristy places" and eating at "touristy restaurants." Several times on this trip, I have wondered the streets of a foreign city for much longer than necessary because I would be mortified to pull out and unfold a large map in public, thus exposing myself as just another lost American. However, on our trip through Jordan, we decided to bite the bullet and hire a travel agency to book transportation and beds for us. We didn't really have to worry about standing out as foreigners though. The brightness of our white skin and the bulge of our fanny packs could have stood out to even a blind local.

Our first stop was the ancient city of Petra. First settled by the Nabataeans in the 7th century B.C., this region was the center of the global spice trade for centuries. The walking tour of the site starts with a stroll at the bottom of a dry gorge. The walls, tall as skyscrapers, still have carvings from the ancient civilizations that called this their holy city.

Now, the most famous feature of the "rose-red city" is "The Treasury." If you have ever seen the third Indiana Jones with Harrison Ford and Sean Connery, then, one, congratulations on having great movie taste, and, two, you will for sure recognize this amazing structure built straight from the rock face.

Future Album Cover

Camels, just chilling.

We stayed a night in a hotel in the town just outside the archaeological site. The next day, we drove to Amman, the capital and biggest city of Jordan. 80% of the country is desert, so that is what we saw on this drive, until we reached the outskirts of Amman. The city is very busy with lots of cars, which all use their horns as if they were turning signals. Although the parts of the city that we saw were far from third-world status, there appeared to be many positive signs of development. Immediately outside our hotel window, they were building what will be the tallest building on Amman's skyline.

Watch out King Abdallah, there's another monarch in town.

In the morning, we left for the Allenby bridge, the border crossing over the Jordan river to enter the Israeli-occupied West Bank.

Kibbutz/Desert Pictures

Welcome to the Negev. Last stop for water: 1 hour ago.

Looming from across the Jordanian border, might as well be the San Gabriel Mountains.

Howard contemplates emigration.

Inside the lush confines of Kibbutz Yotvata

The Kibbutz

We started our five-day journey on Friday morning from Tel Aviv. We took a train and a bus to make our way south through the country. It is not long before the lush trees and dense civilization make way for the sprawling desert. As far as the eye can see it is nothing but orange rock and sand. Soon we would grasp that this geographic style is a common theme in this part of the world. After deboarding the bus on the side of this desert highway, miles from the nearest CafeCafe (like a Starbucks) or theater showing of the ubiquitous Don't Mess with the Zohan, we entered the gate of Kibbutz Yotvata.

The Kibbutzim began to sprout up in this region decades before Israel's War of Independence in 1948. Generally started by adventurous European Jews, the Kibbutzim used the socialist theories of community living and applied them to the agricultural development needed for the large unpopulated areas of the country.

Growing up in Berkeley, the idea of picking up and moving away from your stuffy job in the States and going to work on a Kibbutz was kind of like how some people think of moving to Los Angeles to become an actor or writing the great American novel. For us socialist dreamers, the Kibbutz is the utopia that represents all that we wish we could do with our lives: work for our own food without relying on corporations to package and provide it for us, live exempt from the evils of our greenback slave drivers, and get to wear overalls. The knowledge that somewhere out there in the faraway desert there exists a community that works together and supports each other, gives us lefties a glimmer of hope that not all socialism ends up like Animal Farm.

Well, I suppose utopia is a bit strong, but after two days as guests in the community we were pretty impressed with the way things are in Yotvata. Once inside its borders, it is easy to forget the harshness of the terrain outside. 400 people live within its pleasant confines, enjoying a swimming pool, plenty of green lawns, a spacious dining hall and coffee parlor, and even a disco/gymnasium. Lucky for us, our first night coincided with an outdoor concert put on by members of the community with men, women, and children of all ages performed songs and poems under a full desert moon. I had been expecting to stay in a bunk, maybe next to a chicken coop or something along those lines, but our guest apartment had 2 bedrooms, a TV, a kitchen, and a refrigerator fully stocked with delicious chocolate milk. This was starting to not feel like the kind of socialism I had heard about. In fact, after hooking up with a big company that distributes its product, Yotvata has become the largest dairy in the entire country and is doing quite well.

There are some aspects of the system that I kind of thought were "cheating" as far as the original kibbutz model goes, but I suppose my ideals aren't exactly realistic in today's world. Everything seems to be a fair balance between practicality and some aspect of this great community concept. Almost all of the food we ate was brought in from outside (except the milk, of course), but it is all prepared and served by a Kibbutz member, a regular guy or gal who could very well be your neighbor. They hire outside help for big projects like construction, but someone from within does most every other job or helps out in some way or another with the production or just the general upkeep of the town: teachers, farmers, and even artists. Which brings me to the most radical piece of the organization: everyone gets paid the same amount. There are no salaries, except for a regular allowance that each Kibbutz member receives. This means that no money changes hands within the community.

The entire length of our stay, a consistent topic of conversation amongst our clan was The Fallacy, The Catch. What hidden attribute would prove the reason that everyone didn't live in a Kibbutz? If it was as pleasant and successful as this one seemed to be why was this not a more widespread form of living? I think the end result is that people generally don't want to have their lives governed by someone else. People like to make their own decisions about their money and their property and it is this reason that many Kibbutzim in Israel have already privatized, meaning that there are differential salaries and less community organization. Although it seemed like the people at Yotvata, and I agree, believe that privatization defeats the whole purpose of the community experiment. My dad was wise to note that, unlike the American communes of the sixties (of which he may or may not have lived in, depending on how much memory is resurrected), this commune is not driven by sex, drugs, or God. Going clean and secular, the goal of the community is solely the success and happiness of its participants and nothing else.

As we all left feeling both mentally and physically healthy, it appears this strategy is working well.

Tel Aviv in a nutshell

I have spent the last two days walking this city up and down, but you only need a few hours in Tel Aviv to understand why this is such an easy place to be apolitical. The sea is warm, the food is plenty, the beaches are gorgeous, as are the women and the long boulevards. Welcome to Secular Israel.

Tomorrow we leave for the Kibbutz (read: collective community). And then over the border into Jordan. And then to the city of Jerusalem.

Tel Aviv might as well be another American city, except for the language and the fact that "everyone is Jewish" (a phrase my Dad will repeat constantly, each time to amaze himself). It looks as if my brief respite from the vagabond lifestyle is over, but I am excited to get myself back out into the unknown.

More stories on Tel Aviv to come, but for now my journey leads to the desert (cut to footage of camels and sandstorms...)

Europe Pictures

This is just a small sample of the pictures I took on my first 8 days in Europe.

The many faces of a rebuilding Berlin














My sister and I in Vienna's Michaelerplatz














Berlin's Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe



















The Parliament Building across the Danube in Budapest














The elusive Potato Pancake looking delicious as usual














A snapshot of THE couch in Siggy Freud's first office

Landing

Today, I made it to Israel. This is what I wrote down in my notebook as the plane's wheels first skidded along the red dirt of the "Promised Land":

"I want to make it clear that my journey to this country is neither religious pilgrimage nor political campaign and greatly desire to remove myself from either title. I come to this region of the world as a traveler not a pioneer nor a revolutionary."

Even as I wrote these words it was difficult for me to clear my head of preconceptions about the people and the ideals at stake in this country. Looking around me I saw people about whom I could not help but make judgments, even though I had never heard them speak. This is the way it is in a land so soaked in the strong ideals of thousands of years of history. I continued as an observer, nonetheless, your humble journalist in the bush. Here are some notes I made on my journey from Vienna, Austria to Tel Aviv, Israel and my first day in the latter country.

1. Austrian Airlines was very nice. The security at the airport seemed much less than I am used to at American airports, even though I was on a flight to one of the most volatile regions in the world. However, I still felt safe. It is just that they, those crafty Austrians, have somehow removed all those security checkpoints in the States where you wait in line and say, "really? really, is this necessary?" Also, the meal on the plane had metal silverware, not plastic. And it was free. I tried hard not to start a riot.

2. I had a window seat on the plane and kept looking for telltale geographic signs to let me know what exotic foreign country we were flying over. First, there were lots of farms. Then, there were lots of beaches. Then, there was just blue. Deep Blue. Blue, blue. I guess this is the Mediterranean. Blue. Blue. And then BAM, the dusty tan of the city with blocks and blocks of buildings, coming at us like they had just risen out of the sea. This was my introduction to the country.

3. Ben Gurion Airport feels heavy. After exiting our respective airplanes we are all sent to one room to have our passports checked. All these Jews from around the world funneling into this one room, this one passageway to this one country. Jews with yarmulkes, Jews with Red Sox jerseys, Jews with really long curly sideburns, Jews with blonde hair and blue eyes, all here getting their passports checked. The waiting area is a big room with a giant ceiling where lots of people watch out for their loved ones. Some hold signs in Hebrew, some have red eyes from crying, some wait with the impatience of a 9-to-5er just putting in another day at the airport. Many feet in the air, the ceiling is dotted with silver balloons accidentally let go.

4. My Dad's apartment's neighborhood could be Berkeley, or Santa Monica, but the humidity is thick even at night. I feel very safe here (2nd time I've said that in one post: happy, Mom?). I went to go pick my sister up from the airport just now. Her flight arrived after midnight and I had to take the train. I kept thinking about what my Dad said, "Jews don't steal from other Jews, so it's okay." Well, despite the huge generalization, and the enormous amount of faith it requires in one's ethnic group, I am still impressed with the sense of security it gives me even in the darkest alley in the wee hours of the morning.

Tomorrow, my wonderful sister and father will be off enjoying a mud bath and massage at the Dead Sea, while I was given a guidebook and a handful of Shekels to enjoy myself in the city.

Will do.

One Week Mark: Viennese Sewers

If you've never seen The Third Man, go put it on your Netflix list. Now. Classic noir film packed with action set on the streets of my (yes, I'm using the possessive now) Vienna. This movie is to this city as Manhattan is to NYC or Casablanca is to Casablanca. It might as well just be called Vienna. There's a neat little art theatre here that plays the movie on the regular, so my sister and I crashed it and even recognized a statue or two from our explorations of the city

The one week mark of my trip has now passed and, yes, I feel older and much wiser (and bearded-ier). This morning I said goodbye to the first city that I probably won't get back to. Budapest treated us well and as my sister so truthfully put it, ''I wish this city was in Fresno so we could always just go and visit it.'' Budapest for Fresno. If only.

Tomorrow, I'm up early to catch a plane for Tel Aviv. This marks the end of the first chapter of my trip, but more importantly the beginning of the next. I am very excited to see my Dad for the first time in over 3 months, as he has been living here for that time. It will be interesting to see a city from the perspective of a ''resident,'' so we'll see how that treats me. A few things I look forward to in residential life:

1. clean clothes.
2. consistent naps.
3. consistent showers.
4. clean clothes.
5. less snoring (maybe not)

Ok, I'm gonna hit the hay to see if I can get any sleep before my 5:30 alarm goes off.

Relaxing

(Open on a brother and sister sitting in a Turkish Bathhouse in Budapest, she in her mismatched two-piece bathing suit, and he in his gaudy American board shorts.)

Brother: What pisses you off more? That 25 year-old girl over there making out with that 50 year-old guy or the fact that if you came here on a Monday, Wednesday, or Thursday they wouldn't let you in because you're a woman?

Sister: What would gross you out more? Having to share one of those mini side baths with that 25 year-old girl and her 50 year-old boyfriend or coming here on a Monday, Wednesday, or Thursday and having to see all these old Hungarian guys in the nude?

Brother: Touché.

Buda and Pest: It's actually two cities. Duh.

I would like to start out this entry by apologizing to the Hungarian people. There is wonderful internet access here. In fact, I am accessing the internet with great ease at this very moment.

This is why everyone hates Americans. We think everyone else is living in the Stone Age, while we are living out on the frontier of knowledge and culture. I'm not sure how much my readers keep up with this thing called history, but Americans really screwed up on the frontier. Just ask Sitting Bull.

My sister and I left Vienna this morning after a quick stroll through a very nice street market. Somehow, quick stroll + great food + big stomachs = 30 euros = like 100 dollars. Delicious. One word on markets though. I went to one in Amsterdam as well, which was billed as the "biggest in all of Europe." These markets are great places to be outside with wonderful food and mingle with all the locals, but they pale, absolutely pale, in comparison to the markets I have seen in Latin America and I assume to any in Africa, Asia, and the Middle East. Like a candle to the sun. But who's competing, right.

So, we took the 3 hour train ride to Budapest. On the way, I read up on a brief history of this country and its capital city. Vienna is supposed to be the most eastern city of the West, so Budapest must be the most western of the East. It has had a tumultuous few centuries (as every country over here seems to have had). The Hungarians, I am told, are a very proud people (aka don't try and rule over them, Soviet Russia). They have had at least 2 large-scale revolutions since our last one back in the States. Budapest regularly falls outside of the American student backpacker's trek and we only decided to travel here like a week ago with an unopened guidebook and one-way train tickets, so what was I to expect? Two goats and a stream?

All I can say is this city is amazing. Ok, so it is a little more ragtag then Vienna (where the streets are uncannily immaculate) and ok, they speak a language supposedly up there with Arabic and Japanese as the most difficult to learn, and ok, their money is called the Forint and you have to have more than a few dozen of them to buy yourself a single candy bar, but this place rocks. Every building seems to have a cultural history of its own. There are both Western and Eastern influences on every window and every doorstep. I have taken a thousand pictures already. I know once I get home people will say, "ooh that's pretty, what famous building is that?" and I will respond, "I have absolutely no idea. They all look that goddamn cool. I lost track."

My sister had booked a couple beds for us at a hostel inside an old apartment building. With free internet and free breakfast, we are in backpacker heaven. Then, we took off walking across the Danube on a gorgeous white stone bridge. From the top of Castle Hill, we could see the whole city stretched out below us, framed by the mountains on one side, the plains on another, and the beautiful river weaving its way through the center.

Tomorrow we are getting up early and going to these 15th century Turkish baths. The guidebook had a picture of a bunch of old Hungarian dudes playing chess in a pool. I am psyched. Also, we found a place that serves beer in front of a huge television screen playing the Olympics 24/7, so basically we're set for the day.

Viszlát! (Look it up, man. It's Hungarian.)

This is coming to you straight from the streets of Vienna, marking city numero tres on the summer tour schedule.

Last night I took the night train from Berlin. This time I had a reserved seat in one of those little compartments instead of a standing room only ticket (upgrade!) but actually it was a downgrade. When I boarded in Berlin there were already three German people, two men and a woman, sitting in my compartment. The first thing they did was ask me if I was in the right place (yay they speak English!), because, you know, these are reserved seats. I proudly told them I was and sat down. I was trying to be nice to them (aka smiling and looking in their direction silently because I don't speak a lick of German), but instead they ignored me and held a hour and a half long mighty interesting-looking conversation in Deutsch while sipping on the wine that this woman busted out halfway through (no, I was not offered any, even though I am of age on this damn continent). So they left at a town called Leibniz, and a couple boarded the compartment in their place.

Both of these two were speaking in English and were slightly younger, so I thought maybe it wouldn't be as bad. There were six seats in the compartment, two rows of three facing each other, and I was sitting in a window seat. Immediately upon entering, this couple folds down the four seats away from the window, creating two beds (tricky, I didn't know you could do that). But now I'm sitting there reading my Rick Steve's and these two damn lovebirds have folded out a complete double bed between me and the door. Ok there was no lovemaking going on per se, but there was way to much pecking and caressing going on for me to fall asleep comfortably. There is a scene in the movie (I won't say film) EuroTrip in a train compartment with a creepy Italian guy. That's all I could think about as I tried to count sheep as fast as I could. 9 hours later and in a new country it was all over, but my eyes had gained a bag or two and I felt dirty, and not only because I had missed a shower.

Stepping off the train in Vienna and seeing my sister was great. This trip has been awesome so far and I'm learning and seeing so much it's hard to keep up. But I have been alone up until now and at some point you say to yourself (maybe aloud in public if you are that deep into it) ''who the hell are all these people. There is not a single person I know for thousands of miles. Damn.'' So, needless to say, my sister brought me back from the brink a little bit. It's kinda your loss though because this blog would have gotten pretty damn interesting if I had actually lost it.

We spent the day exploring this city and getting acquainted with its style. It is a nice style too. Vienna is all about kicking back in a cafe and reading the paper for like all day. I think people work here, but the only person I saw working was the one guy waiting tables, and he seemed to be pretty laid back as well.

The one real event on the schedule was a trip to Sigmund Freud's apartment, which is now a nice little museum in his honor. As I have recently decided to become a Psychology major, this guy is supposed to be my hero. Good thing too, because he turned out to be pretty awesome. This apartment was his home and practice for a good portion of his life, sitting at the window, smoking cigars, telling everybody what their dreams mean, and being a total genius. At the end of his life he emigrated to London, right before the Nazis came in sending the entire continent into one of those decades that you would just rather skip over completely. I'm thinking about getting a big Siggy poster for my dorm room next year, right next to Jimmy Page and Darren Collison.

Maya and I are spending the night in a hip, little hostel, right off the Viennese Time Square. By far the cleanest and most spacious place I have yet to stay in, which Maya tells me is pretty impressive.

Tomorrow we are off to Budapest. This is where it gets crazy. Budapest is barely in the EU (I think they just joined in the last 5 years), they don't use the Euro, and they speak Hungarian, which I hope to master in the 48 hours we are in the country. Going to this city will be a test of our travel skills, but I think we can pull it off.

Ok more news coming tomorrow (if they have internet access in Hungary).

By the way, our Spanish is really improving on this trip, unfortunately everyone here in Austria is too busy sipping coffee to respond when I say, ''donde esta la biblioteca?''

A Day in Berlin: Walk Eli Walk

Today was my one day to explore Berlin. I am exhausted and it is only 17:00 (Oh, for you stupid Americans, that means 5pm.) I've spent the entire day walking in circles around the downtown area. This section is kind of like Washington D.C. in that the only people that seem to be here are tourists and government officials, but that's probably because the only buildings are giant megamalls and museums. To put it in vulgar terms that everyone will understand, this city is a historian's wet dream. Berlin has been the center of so much turmoil in the last century that it seems to be struggling to find a unified image. But that doesn't really matter because everyone still wants to go here to mingle with history and be able to say, ''yea, I was in Berlin.''

Last night I was in the more hip area of town where the cool kids hang out and drink beer on the street (for some reason in Europe you are allowed to walk around the block with your Beck's and sip it like you don't give a shit and then go smoke 600 cigarettes.) That is probably where I will spend more time when I'm back here next month because I'm pretty much historied out. Case in point: At Checkpoint Charlie (the old checkpoint betweeen East and West Berlin) they actually have two actors standing there dressed as an American guard and a Soviet guard. The actors stand there all day looking miserable while tourists from the world over take pictures with them and then go buy little trinkets to commemorate 50 years of Communist rule, like one of those little Soviet hats with a hammer and sickle and fuzzy flaps to keep your ears warm. Mostly I've just been walking around, wearing down the soles of my sandals, enjoying the sun, and looking for things to distract me from the fact that Pineapple Express opens in the U.S. today, but not in Europe for another two months.

The other day I noticed I was talking to myself as I walked. I am going to try and combat this with writing in my notebook when I have a thought. This will downgrade me from ''that crazy guy'' to ''that weird guy who keeps stopping in the middle of the street to write in his notebook.''



Also, I visited the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. It is about a city block in size and consists of 2,000 cement slabs of varied size. The ground also changes height so that by the time you walk into the middle, these blocks are towering over you. Down below the whole thing they have a sort of museum that tells you in more detail about all the horrible things done to the Jewish people by the Nazis. I was going to go to the Jewish Museum in Berlin which is supposed to be good, but I felt I had done my duty to my people for the day and honestly could not handle anymore death and fascism.

As a reasonably affluent, white American male, my Jewish heritage is really the only claim I can make for minority status. But that is such a stretch. At this memorial where I'm reading about all these horrible things that have happened to my people, I am standing next to this Black American guy. We're both thinking specifically about Jewish suffering, but he probably has a much better idea of discrimnation than I do. I have never felt at a disadvantage for my ethnic background. Albeit I have yet to play a round of golf with President Ahmadinejad, but you don't even need to look that sketchy to attract looks in a convenience store if you are Black or Latino. For me, being a Jew has only given me benefits: I got to go to an awesome Jewish summer camp, when I was in the seventh grade I went to some extra birthday parties, and I have this great head of curly hair. I guess my point is that I feel guilty asking for any of the pity or charity that the Jewish people ask for because I was not the one who suffered and I don't feel like Jews are the ones that suffer anymore. The Jewish people's motto has become ''never again.'' I agree, hate of that magnitude should never happen again, but that should be a universal slogan. Let's never let it happen again to anyone, not just the chosen people.

Day 3

So, I made it out of Amsterdam alive today. I enjoyed the city very much and I plan to spend at least a couple more days there when I return in a month. I didn't do too many of the touristy things, except I did visit the Anne Frank House.

It was just as moving as it sounds. Although her story is remarkable, it is the realization that there are 6 million other stories just like it that make it so hard to bear. After spending the entire day enjoying the freedom allowed by bicycle transportation, it pained me to read that one of the first things the Nazis took from the Jews was their bikes.

This morning I took the train to Berlin. Every car was packed full with foreign kids just like me. Everyone had a big backpack. Everyone was stopping at Amsterdam and Berlin. Everyone was reading a guidebook that said ''Europe'' in big letters on the cover. Everyone was writing down things in their notebooks so that as soon as they found an Internet cafe they could type up their experiences in a blog. And so on.

I fell asleep in Holland and was awoken at one of the first train stations inside Germany. The train stopped and everyone was kind of looking around to see what was up. Into our car walked a German police officer. He began talking to someone a few rows up from me. The second that policeman began speaking in German, I almost needed to change pants. I was taken back to every WWII movie I had ever seen. And this is after hearing the soft, soothing speech of the Dutch for 3 days and now we were all being pelted with the harsh syllables of the German authorities. Soon, a few more policemen entered the train and began asking to search this man's bag. Eventually, I saw one officer pass to another a small bag containing a few grams of marijuana. When the accused man was ushered outside, I realized it was a man who had been sitting next to me only an hour ago. He was a little strung out looking, but he certainly didn't look like the terrorist type. It was all very strange. I'm still not sure why they called out this man in particular. On a train full of college students recently vacationing in Amsterdam, it's not hard to guess that some of them are going to be carrying some pot with them, but this man was no student. Strange.

If this post so far wasn't enough of a clue (although I myself only recently came to the realization), this trip is going to VERY jewish oriented. Even the geographic layout of my trip is like a reenactment of European Jewish history. Everywhere I go there are Jewish museums and memorials. Tomorrow, in fact, my one full day in Berlin will be filled with them. I have yet to come to any fully realized epiphanies about my heritage, so I will leave that for another day, but if you are looking for some insight on the Hebrews, it is coming soon, I promise.

My hostel here in Berlin is in the Mitte District, east of where the wall used to be. Rick Steves, the author of my sole guidebook, can't stop talking about the reunification of this city. True, the joining of capitalist West Berlin and the communist East is a big part of the city's continuing history and the reason for all the cranes that are constantly at work here today. However, I was born the same year the Wall came down. It has been 19 years now since this city was divided. To a young person like me, and probably much of the young people in Berlin, it is like ancient history. The World War II history of Berlin actually hits me harder than its Cold War one probably because of its Jewish focus. But I have yet to fully explore the city so I will save my judgements for a later date.

(One thing I did notice: Here, Häagen Dazs is a restaurant, like a real restaurant with plates and waitresses and stuff. I thought that was pretty funny.)

On tap: One full day seeing the sights of Berlin and then the night train to Wien (Vienna).

Reputation

Me: I'm from Berkeley.

Hostel Roommate: Are you a musician?

Me: No, why?

Hostel Roommate: I just heard there's a lotta musicians in Berkeley.

An American Education

(Open on an American family, a husband, wife, and two boys, standing in line at the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam.)

Father: They figure that people are going to be doing it no matter what so they'd rather they do it in a certain place away from schools and families and things.

Boy: Oh, that's good.

Mother: Well, the thing is most governments think that's acquiescing- that it's just helping the problem.

Boy: But if people are just going to be doing it anyways-

Mother: No. Because the thing is Amsterdam has more drug addicts than anyone else in Europe. (Not true.)

Father: Yea.

Boy: Oh.

My first thought in the Netherlands was "damn, this place is green." (And this is before any visits to the "coffeeshops!") Upon flying into Schipol Airport, I saw cows and sheep just chilling out on huge green fields having a great time, which I took as a good omen for my stay. Anyone who has driven down I-5 knows that the cows at Harris Ranch probably have never even seen the color green. This really is a beautiful country and the capital city does not disappoint either.

After 5 hours delayed at gorgeous O'Hare International, Amsterdam had tough shoes to fill. Taking a friend's advice, I took the half hour walk to my hostel instead of hopping on the tram. It was a great introduction to the city. My guidebook said "Amsterdam is to bikes what Los Angeles is to cars." So true. First, this city is completely flat, so you can go anywhere in a bike without breaking a sweat. Everyone rides bikes. Old ladies. Men in suits. Tourists. Today, I rented a bike to get around. Amsterdam is not that large so you can bike from one end to the other relatively easily. You have to keep your eyes out though because with all the bikes, cars, and trams, it doesn't seem like it would take much to get run over.

Last night I went for a little walk. I look like such a tourist too. I thought coming to a country where everyone else is white would maybe hide my foreignness, but with my sandals and cargo pants it's hard to distinguish myself from just another stoner American visiting Amsterdam. I walked past a boy and his mom and I swear to God I heard him say, "look, a backpacker, Mommy." A hundred canals in concentric circles weave their way throughout the city. That's a lot of canals and of course I forgot my map. When I left the hostel, it was light and there were a good number of people walking the streets. By the time I realized I was completely lost, it was dark and the touristy-looking couples to strung-out street person ratio was rapidly decreasing. But I kept telling myself "this is not Oakland, this is Holland. They are famous for wooden shoes and windmills, not drive-bys." Needless to say, I made it back with nothing but sore feet.

Well, I've got more biking to do.

P.S. Still have not tried any pastries, but I've heard the stroopwaffles are delicious.

Departure

My bag is packed.
I am Rick Steves with style.
This is the last time I will see an American computer. The next keyboard I type on will probably have hella umlauts and stuff.

Good news for you:
From here on out, this blog will probably be actually interesting.

Instead of sitting around my room imagining some place I've never been before, I will actually be in that place, doing crazy things like attempting to speak Dutch and eating copious pastries.

More on the pastries soon...

"My Shangri-La beneath the summer moon"

I was not going to bring my iPod. One of my goals on this trip is to bring the bare minimum of possessions to maximize my freedom of travel. Although not physically heavy, my iPod is mentally burdensome. It is just one more thing to worry about losing while at a café in Vienna or a market in Jerusalem. But then yesterday a friend reminded me of the fact that I would actually be going five weeks without music.

For those of you old folks out there who are not a part of the “iPod generation,” this is called Acute Musical Addiction. AMA affects over 75 million young people in the US alone. People with this disorder will suffer severe withdrawal symptoms if away from their particular musical source (such as iTunes, an iPod, or some other direct connection to their favorite artists with the scroll of a click wheel) for an extended period of time.

Although the risk of accidentally gifting my iPod to the crack between seats on a German train is dangerously high, because of my disorder, I am physically unable to leave it at home.

More importantly, who could resist the opportunity to hear Plant’s screams echo off the dunes as Zeppelin blasts “Kashmir” across the desert.

Making History

I don’t leave for a couple days, but my trip is already behind schedule. I just found out it takes five business days to ship Eurail passes to the States. I’m down to a couple business days and half a weekend in the US, so as far as train tickets go, it looks like I’m going to have to just wing it once I get there.

Just wing it: that’s kind of the theme for this trip so far I think. I haven’t really had too much time to prepare, so my “itinerary” is about as vague as the Iraqi Exit Strategy. I know where I’m going though. I’ll be flying into Amsterdam, then making my way across Europe to Berlin, Prague, and Vienna. From there, I’m flying to Tel Aviv, to live three weeks with my Dad in Israel. Then, I’m flying back to Vienna, retracing my steps back to Amsterdam, and finally returning home to California five weeks later. Last week, I gave this lengthy summary to one of my co-workers who had been to some of these places before. After I had finished, he said bluntly, “you’re not gonna get past Amsterdam.”

We’ll see, I suppose. (Will our young hero have the will power to make it through The City of Debauchery to find his Father in the Desert?! Find out next week…)

I’m going to attempt to update this blog pretty regularly once I get over there. I’m using it as an exercise to practice my writing, but also because I don’t want to have to tell each and every one of you about every detail of my trip when I can just say, “oh, you can read my blog.” I have to admit that I got this idea from my Dad, which makes me the first person in history to ever say they started blogging because their sixtysomething year old Dad is doing it. Actually, it probably makes me the first teenager to say they did anything because their sixtysomething year old Dad is doing it. Well, look at this. It’s the first post and we’re already making history.