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Europe Journals
Tim Donlan

Part I

Prelude – Out to Sea
9/5/04

In the morning, shuffle my bare feet across rough asphalt down to
the beach. It’s a blustery gray day, and the sky and sea is
desaturated, as if the color has been sucked out. The horizon is
a mundane line where the curve of the earth hides vast stretches
of the abyss, beckoning.

I dip into the water, letting the waves pull me south and out.
The wind is brisk, biting into the swells like countless teeth,
dimpling the salty crests.

And the morning sun, filtered through the ill-defined clouds,
latches onto those dimples, sparkling like a million untouchable
diamonds.

I drift like a dead buoy, the dirty sand and silk bruising
against me in playful pushes, thousand ton tugs. And in that
mindless, colorless morning, I remember.

The other day I had a lucid dream. A dream not only filled with
astonishing clarity, but the central sole beautiful ability of
consciousness. Most dreams are movie theaters under the influence
- untouchable images and visions rolling past on the 35mm reel of
the mind.

But a lucid dream is different. Instead of watching a dreamscape
through the fixed lens of unconscious, I was the director and
actor. The setting wasn’t completely mine; I couldn’t teleport at
will. But I could talk, walk, move, feel, look, touch.

I remember arcing through a bustling city street in the back of a
taxi, some smooth skinned young thing in my lap. Of course I
groped and prodded. My lips battled her red wet smile, and her
skin was supple silk under my fingers.

And then I remember being shirtless in a gray room, jaws clenched
in some forgotten fury. On the wall was a frosty mirror, and I
had the conscious wish to walk over to it, look at myself.

Of course, the clouded mirror was appropriate. In ordinary
dreams, recognition of a person is instantaneous. Features and
faces are not defined in perfect clarity. And yet, when I saw my
face in that clouded mirror, it indeed was my face. At the same,
it was the face of another. Some deep-seated childlike confusion
with reflection must have been unearthed.

It’s no great secret that recognition is easier
than recall. I assume that axiom holds true in facial recognition
as well. The fact I could not draw a picture perfect image of my
face in the lucid dream illustrates this well. Facial memory is
probably a lossy algorithm; this facilitates speed and meaning,
which are far more vital to the human mind than bulk image
storage. Perhaps data storage of images other than text, should
keep this philosophy in mind. Text is by definition abstract, so
information processing is a default attribute. 3D and 2D images,
coded in binary, share none of these attributes. If semantic
qualities could be given to images, a semantic language could be
designed for image manipulation.

…The semantic engine of our minds – such a blissful thought.
Organic Turing machines churning on a windy overcast day,
wallowing in the surf. Moving by impulse and biochemical demand,
as innocent and blameless as the seafoam bubbles, prisming the
sunlight like rainbow oil slicks, pushed by the wind across the
flat, gray expanse of the wet shore.

Beaming girls with streaming blonde hair and sharp cheekbones,
gliding along crowded bike paths.

Coffee shops are dark bars where travelers roll joints and listen
to music, bathed in a hazy earthy aroma.

In the Red Light District, red neon squares form prison cells,
with a girl in question for sale. It’s window-shopping for
whores. Catering to all fetishes and styles, there are California
beach bunnies, European trash sluts, black hoochie mamas and
lithe Filipinos that look to be fourteen. Surprisingly, the Red
Light District isn’t all that big, and can be hard to run into if
you’re just out for a stroll.

My Hostel, Hotel Anna Marie is very much like a dorm, with
laughing rowdy kids abusing chemicals. The owner is the
friendliest guy you could imagine, fixing breakfast, answering
questions, and even rolling you a joint.

As much as cultures change, guys going out to drink beers and
watch sports is consistent. I did this the other night with an
American, a Canadian, two Brits and an Aussie. I think one of my
Australian roommates tripped on shrooms two nights in a row; he
was sleeping and moaning in his bed for 12 hours straight.

However, the streets are split into lanes for cars, trams and
bikes. Pedestrians get separate crossing lanes from bikes or cars
or trams. I would estimate a large percentage of the locals use
bikes to get around. This covers all demographics; from
businessmen with suit coattails swinging behind, to high school
and college age kids, woman shopping, and of course those
stunning blondes.

The learning curve to adjust to these things is quite small, and
by days end you wonder why the hell isn’t there anything so
genius back in the States. What the hell is the reason? Is
America deficient? Heartless?

An English guy named Andy remarked that America was the most
wasteful country on Earth. I couldn’t disagree, only precipitate
the mental imagery to clenched-jaw fruition. I kept visualizing
cut scenes from old John Wayne movies, WWII propaganda, Hellfire
Christian ministers and commander in chief George W., clad in
boots, a big hat and twirling his chrome six shooter. We’re the
rowdy straight-line cowboys of the world. And while the
Netherlands is friendly, organized, clean, fun and above all
rational, I can’t help but think this leads to a kind of blissful
apathy. Only through constant pressure can progress continue.
What kind of progress though? You have to wonder what
“progress” and “world superpower” mean. A
work ethic, booming industry, and the power to subjugate lesser
peoples. Yeehaw.

I plan to head to France tomorrow, taking a long train ride
south. Hopefully I can reach Josh by Monday on the French
Riviera.

The Dutch and northern French countryside is very peaceful, with
smooth rolling hills and cookie cutter plots of wheat and corn.
In the distance are stacked blocks of simplistic masonry centered
about a dark Baroque church or a crumbling medieval tower of
bleached stone. A few windmills turn silently, waving bright
flags.

Here, the sky is vast, with multi-tiered cloud formations
towering in cataclysmic luminosity, like the breath of God
against a cold backlit window.

It was dark and gloomy when I reached Paris. I really had no clue
where my hostel was, but I figured it was in Belleville, since
that was where the smudged postage-stamp sized map said on the
computer printout.

I asked a pretty girl at an info counter which train to
Belleville. ’21′ she said. ‘Merci’, I muttered, shouldering my
sagging pack. Whether through ignorance or malice, that girl
sealed my fate. Little did I know this would be a big mistake, a
one way ride on a train of doom!

I looked at the pathetic map in the train car, without any
orientation, of a place I’ve never been and a language I don’t
understand. It did say it went to Belle, though. Perhaps it was
close to Belleville? I thought. Wrong!

I figured I’d take the first exit and look at a map; see if I was
going the right way. My trepidation started to build when the
train hadn’t stopped in ten minutes. With lingering dread at
twenty minutes. At thirty, I was just a resigned poor soul,
knowing it was very doubtful I’d reach my hostel. It was now
approaching eleven. I got off and stumbled with language, trying
to find out if there was another train to Paris tonight.
“Non” the lady jibbers with a glazed look, her face
devoid of any concern. No taxi. No Bus. No Hotel.

So I’m stuck in a dark North Paris suburb of Persan-Beaumont,
with no place to stay, no one around. I have a forty-pound pack
on my back, so conspicuously out of place it hurts. It seems
Europe mostly shuts down at eleven, except in tourist trap
locales like the Red Light District. I stand at the platform for
a few minutes, pondering my course.

Staring north into the blackness of an abandoned train station,
it comes like a horrific nightmare. A dirty brown locomotive,
trailing behind jagged cars of petroleum. It is colorless in the
haze, a monochromatic master, traveling fast enough to melt the
tracks, horrible metal corners and wheels cutting the air apart.
And then it is past, a vacuum in its wake, screaming into the
night.

I walk through town like some explorer or solider, no knowing
what I’m gonna do but contented to do something. Eventually I
find a map, rotate myself towards a large green rhombus, and lean
into the shoulder straps. Robespierre Park.

There’s a group of young guys sitting around a picnic table in
the corner of the park, jabbering on. They begin to shout
nonsense at me, and because I’m completely ignorant, I feel no
social qualms just to wave my hand and keep walking, feigning
deaf ears.

The park is dark, with a pond and stream sheltered by big mature
trees. They put out quite a canopy, so the back of the park where
I make my camp is shrouded in shadow. Out from under the trees, a
splendid night sky is doing battle against the city of lights,
winning. More stars than in Atlanta, the air must be considerable
less carcinogenic and smog filled.

A chill wind ripples across the pond and through the billowing
tons of leaves above, sounding like rushing rain. But thankfully
the sky is clear, save a single wispy cloud trail snaking across
the constellations like a set piece for Les Miserables. I keep
thinking of a black-cloaked Jack the Ripper character, stalking
through the trees, to pierce me with fear before slicing my
throat.

Perhaps that’s why this was a defining moment, something to
write about. Rather than the amused stoner smiles, weaving
through carnal canals of Amsterdam – it is a night shivering
outside in a park under the stars. I began to think about it a
while ago – a well-spent life isn’t about being happy all the
time. It’s about living through adventure. It’s about being able
to adapt, triumph and flourish.

The opposing thought chains dance around and motifs are exposed:

History, Horror, Humanity, Heroism.

This isn’t a trip about having a really fun time. It’s about
groking the wide world, and in turn, groking oneself.

In the morning, I wake up sprawled on dewy grass. I get up, piss
against one of the giant trees, then trudge back to the station.
I didn’t have to pay for a hostel, and the only scars from the
ordeal are a few dirt stains on my fleece and cargos. I write in
my journal on the train ride, all the way into Paris.

Europe Journals
Tim Donlan

Part III

Nice
9/16/04

Today drained like a sticky, smelly, late summer day. All the
rough edges of the world causing abrasions. Annoyances.

The day started with miraculous coincidence. We ran into Josh’s
friend from Princeton on the way to the beach. We weren’t even
expecting to see him in Nice, and there he was, trudging along
the street with a heavy backpack. Franco the Tanko. He had
disappointing news – he had been playing for a division IV
soccer, but had been kicked off the team for late paperwork. Fed
up with Italy, he rented a car and drove the windy cliff side
roads to Nice, Fance. And here he was, slapping fives with
Kaplan.

Franco went and got some food and drink to assuage a brutal
hangover, and Josh and I continued down to the beach. It was
nothing to write home about, just as my guidebook revealed. The
actual beach was made of smooth stones, with interesting grains
and patterns. The waves crashed and sucked back through the piled
stones, make an odd wheezing noise. Getting into the water was
difficult, as the crashing waves flung hard rocks into my feet
and ankles.

Once Franco came back, we figured out it would be cool if he
could drive us to Monaco in his rented car, and then drive us
down to Cinque Terra the next day. After a relaxed stroll through
the cafes and busy streets, we made it to the parking deck where
Franco had his car.

Passenger side window busted in. Little crumbles of glass all
over the seat and floor. Franco stands with his jaw agape before
initiating a flurry of curses. Bad luck to cancel out the morning
miracle.

Those nights in Nice, we end up drinking cheap wine with a
middle-aged lawyer from Tennessee, talking about travel, European
economics and politics, America, and everything in between.
Kaplan and I stay up late into the night bantering over
philosophical futility. And then Josh almost convinces me I
should drop my girlfriend.

Josh says: “Your middle name is Lou, as in The Great Greg
Lougayness. TGGLG”

Me and Josh have started to get in a routine. We roll out of
bed in late morning and get something to eat, usually
massive slices of focaccia, then stroll over to the beach. We
might go for a dip or hike around the coastline, till we reach
the cliff walls.

For dinner we’ll head down to a nice restaurant and get pasta
or lasagna and Mineral Water. On the walk back, we’ll get gelato
cones, then pick up a few liters of cheap red wine.

We get shitty under the stars, pissing into the rocks,
chain-smoking Camels. After 11, the town all but shuts down. All
that’s open is a single bar filled with Americans studying abroad
and rowdy Italians. Seeing so many Americans reminds me of that
movie The Beach. Traveling halfway around the world to a
beautiful secluded place to go to a bar and chill with other
Americans.

I did feel a little sick here. Maybe it was some bad food in
Nice. It’s important to remember not to romanticize the past.
These places of beauty were constructed from the blood, sweat and
tears of those in the middle ages. I can imagine the toil it took
to built these outposts and towers on the cliffs, or till the
hard rocky earth into vineyard terraces.

Fearful doubt and feelings of mortality were very strong
yesterday. Being in a place so beautiful, yet unsure of myself,
queasy, worsens the doubt. It makes the entire trip tangential,
diversionary, a calm before the storm of my life. And I can see
my envious reflection in Kaplan’s silver platter.

I wonder if his optimism is real or manufactured? More and more
I’m realizing it doesn’t matter. There are benefits to instilling
“Conservative” precepts: cause and effect, capitalism,
harsh realities; rather than blind open-mindedness, equality and
helplessness.

I’ve been genuinely thinking of living a pious, monastic
lifestyle, not to assuage any wrath of God, but for the above
reasons – to lessen the swing factor of psychology that vices
instigate. Because I am desensitized, relativistic, godless -
there are hints of darkness in my soul. It’s something I struggle
with, and perhaps if I wasn’t as blessed or lucky, it could
consume me.

What’s better – to indulge vices and impulse, or resist
self-imposed temptations meaningfully?

I see sharp cliffs topped by steep walled castles. A WWII
pillbox left as an antique remnant – still pockmarked with shell
holes.

At night, we burrow under the cliffs, blocking out reminders
of electricity and civilization, watching the ancient
constellations, and dust immolating itself in the atmosphere,
shooting into our consciousness. Listening to the lapping of the
black water at our feet.

There’s a cool dark wind at my back, and I leave Josh and some
girl behind, searching out to find fear. Just like the suburb in
the north of Paris, alone in the night. I climb up the maze of
stairs into the tree-covered apex of Monterosso.

These are cobblestone pathways and narrow stairs, looking out
over the warm city, but ever so dark. I’ve heard there is an old
cemetery up here.

I strafe around a blind corner like Wes Craven’s camera, fear
slowly inching into my blood. There’s a stark silhouette of small
angel crouched at the top of some stairs, grinning like a
gremlin. Above, a Christmas light garnered cross – a waypoint to
the heavens in this Mediterranean paradise.

The wind blows and I am alone. Many dangers could be revealed,
from drunken thugs with shivs to ancient demons from Dante’s dark
imagination. I breathe deep and suck in the breeze, almost
smiling. Then I turn back, walk down and find Josh.

Eventually Kaplan and me storm the cemetery on adrenaline,

reaching the misty top just to say we could.

We do flips and 720s off the coast of Italy, and I realize
this is the end of summer.

And these lyrics drift into my ears as though they were
written just for me:

Up on a hill, as the day dissolves
With my pencil turning moments into line
High above in the violet sky
A silent silver plane – it draws a golden chainOne by one, all the stars appear
As the great winds of the planet spiral in
Spinning away, like the night sky
In the million insect storm, the constellations formOn a hill, under a raven sky
I have no idea exactly what I’ve drawn
Some kind of change, some kind of spinning away
With every single line moving further out in time

Europe Journals
Tim Donlan

Part V

Venice
9/24/04

It was an overcast rainy and dreary day on the train. Left around
11 heading to Venice. Along the way, watched the fields roll by
and blow in the wind. The train encountered some mechanical
difficulties about an hour from Venice, so we sat there with the
car lights blinking and the trees outside blowing furiously.

Eventually I made it into Venice over a narrow bridge that seemed
mere inches above the water. I was absolutely clueless as to
where I was staying, so I bumbled around, lopsided pack on my
back, half full bottle of wine in my hand until I found an
Internet cafe. This was incredibly overpriced (3,50 to look up my
email and print directions). Anyway I’m back outside in the blowing
wind, hiking over canals of gray green water and dark, narrow
maze-like streets. Venice seemed very old and gray today, and the
facades of many historical buildings were tired and crumbling. I
quickly managed to get myself lost, and with the sun dropping
beneath the rooftops, things were beginning to look grim.

I crossed an empty, puddle filled
square, two stark trees struggling to grow out of musty plots of
earth. A few stores formed the outskirts of the plaza, so I
entered a Tabacci and bought a map. Thankfully, the kind
storeowner circled my present location and destination, and was
generally helpful, though he couldn’t speak a word of English.

With a “cio!” and a wave, I was out the store and on
the street, shouldering my burden and navigating the ancient maze
that is Venice.

The hostel, Palazzo Zenobio, was
located on a cold street that was sinking into the murky canal
waters. Instead of a welcoming sign, there was only a red painted
number and a monolithic green wood door. I timidly rang the bell,
said I was here for the hostel, and with a buzz, the heavy gate
yawned open.

The inside was very foreboding, and if I didn’t know better, I
could have sworn I was inside some corridor of the Vatican. The
floor was an intricate stone and marble mosaic pattern. Carved
Columns. Big, framed paintings and candelabras. And when I got
upstairs, a massive ballroom with mirrors, frescoes and an ornate
ceiling.

It turns out this place was once a palace for a Venetian family
from 1600 to 1700, and later, in the 1850s, Armenian monks turned
it into a collegio – a monastery. Now it was used as a hostel and
concert hall.

I have two Australian roommates that are headed to Innsbruck
tomorrow. I think I’ll tag along with them – getting up early,
dropping my bags at the station, and then quickly touring the
city before an 11:30 train to Austria. We’re all planning to stay
at the same hostel, so here’s to less hectic times.

One of the coolest things I saw in Venice was in the Piazza San
Marco. This is an old church with a massive courtyard. Thousands
of pigeons congregated here, sitting on the roofs and pecking
around the cobblestones. Suddenly, a tourist walks through the
center of the dense flock, and the birds rise into the air,
moving together. It is a fascinating sight, to see the patterns
they churn in the air. There is no central leader of the group,
yet the “signal” of the movement propagates through
every distributed organism, emerging into a symphony in the air.

If I could pick a visual metaphor
for the majesty of life, this would be it.

Innsbruck
9/25/04

The Aussie (pronounced Ozzie) roommates, both named Matt, turned
out to be very nice guys. They are both software developers who
run a small consulting company. They’ve been very successful
taking on projects for various industries. Currently they are
leading the pack in publishing software. We talked a while about
software dev in general, and one of the two Matt’s was telling me
that starting my own company was the only way to do what I wanted
and make “fuck you” money. It’s not out of the
question, but I think I need more programming experience first,
at least in industry level stuff.

The hostel is nice, though it’s rainy out. Innsbruck reminds me
of Chamonix, though bigger. The mountains have not yet appeared
from their shrouds of precipitation, though I did see the icy
veins of a glacier through one cloud break.

Within the dark brooding sky, the
sun looks trapped, its white fired chained.

I think traveling has instilled
laziness in me, like I want to melt into a seat in the pub and
inject good beer through my tongue. I am simultaneously tired,
buzzed, horny and bored – though mildly for all.

Looking in the fashionable stores along the Innsbruck streets, I
think I’m becoming attached to European style. Not terrible
Eurotrash stuff, but I think I’ll make some changes when I return
to the states. I especially think some of the girl’s fashion is
interesting and very sexy.

Tall Matt, the Aussie hacker, is on his 7th cigarette in this
pub, and we’re listening to German covers of 80s pop songs and
reading paperback novels. The beer is good – wheaty and sweet. I
think the sun is out so hopefully we’ll get outside and do
something within the hour. Might have to wait for Matt to burn
through his whole pack first.

9/28/04

When I wake, my piss throbs heard through my tubes, looks like
orange juice, and smells up the closet sized bathroom. I stagger
into the blinding sunlight, and suddenly the open sky and the
roaring mountains consume any hint of a hangover.

The last few nights I’ve gotten pissed drunk and talked with
various other English speakers about traveling, world politics,
and accents. It’s funny cause Aussies call Americans
“Seppos”, short for Septic Tank, cause we’re full of
shit. There is definitely a good-natured rivalry running through
the whole place.

One Aussie guy named Matt charmed us with his stories of
traveling in Africa, and some primal appeal was instantiated.
Europe is cakewalk and Africa is the real fucking deal. He told
us about almost getting mugged by twenty black guys upon setting
foot out of the airport. He explained how hotels are like
compounds, with 20-foot reinforced concrete walls, barbwire. He
talked about bribing border patrol guards with a pack of
cigarettes, when they were armed with AK47s and demanding $400
tariffs. And he talked about how you could basically live like a
king for dirt money, basically.

It reminds me once again of the Beach – there’s always a better
place to go, ballsier, more exotic and foreign. The threat of
danger is half the appeal. I just finished Heart of Darkness as
well – the Dark Continent has not lost any of its appeal or
danger in over a hundred years.

I did some good hiking yesterday, and was happily impressed by
Austria’s network of trails. These are real Hansel and Gretel
type shit forests. A few miles up, under the press of conifers
and the rickety cable car tower, there are well marked mountain
bike runs, trail signs and fresh springs. It was good to do some
strenuous physical activity considering I’ve been such a bloody
binger the last few weeks.

We ventured out into the city last
night, 12 of us, including the savvy Aussie Matt, a few other
Americans, a friendly French girl, and a Mexican that was
disturbingly similar to Akash. We got a few drinks and acted like
fools, and eventually Matt and I are sitting on a street corner,
drunkenly talking about deep issues. He reveals he’s gay, and I
say I completely understand. We talk about the logical reasoning
behind attraction, aesthetics and physical drives, and I talk a
lot of nonsense about hardwiring and innate ideas. It’s always
the same with gay guys. We can have this great conversation, and
then they play the gay card, as if the whole debate was a prelude
to a flirt. Were they testing the waters with me? Usually I’m
pretty empathetic, and try to see the world through their eyes,
but then they think I agree too much, and I’m a closet
homosexual. How wrong he was.

Perhaps they were just regular guys with strange sexual
proclivities and an emotional, open mind. Culture and herd
instinct did the rest. Matt, at least, wasn’t a big fan of the
entire flaming homosexual scene. But if you want to find other
guys easily, that’s the arbitrary culture and niche you’ll have
to buy into. Same with the bar scene – I hate it but I suppose
I’ll have to live with and accept it.

There’s some “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” type
shit going on with Stephanie. As much as I have these reasons for
disliking her, there are internal forces that make me feel very
fond of her. Beyond a physical lust, there is compassion and
intimate closeness I felt with her. Perhaps these feelings are
only flavors of her chains. It will be extremely difficult to
break away from her, and without stronger reasons, what’s the
point of tearing myself apart?

Off to Fussen now, without much of a plan, just plop down on a
train out of Austria, backpack and notebook beside me. Hopefully
I’ll see some cool castles, but really all I want to do is sleep.

This is my last week here. Munich will continue the binge fest,
and I think Amsterdam is going to be an all out Blitzkrieg.

As I was trudging up the misty mountains yesterday, I reflected:
“This is the calm before the storm.”

Fussen
9/29/04

I’ve finally gotten into some kind of confident routine with
traveling. To get to Fussen I had to switch trains with a
four-minute window, then catch a bus jam packed with middle
school kids. The trip only cost me 15 euros, and I managed to do
it all speaking German. I ended up stopping by the very efficient
tourist office, where they printed up a list of available hotels.
I stayed at this old woman’s home, which she had converted into
rooms for rent. Breakfast was part of the deal, and I was happy
to say I negotiated and conversed with her primarily in German.

The town and countryside is very beautiful and picturesque. I
hiked down to Romantique Road out of Fussen towards the two
nearby Schloss (castles). A quaint paved path ran along the road,
cutting through pastures and cold coniferous forests. All the
cows wear bells, so aside from the gentle breeze, there is always
a lazy ringing wafting through the air, like wind chimes.

A few kilometers distant, I could see the stark white walls of
Neuschwanstein rising out of the forest, a sheer rock face as the
backdrop. The sky was half overcast, roiling, and covering the
mountain peaks with mist.

I could imagine leading a Roman
caravan through these paths, wary of marauding Germanic hordes
ambushing me. Or a cloaked messenger, cantering on horseback up
to King Ludwig’s opus castle, chill air cutting into my lungs.

It is locales such as these that inspire imagination, a sort of
cultural memory, a romantic notion. That you could live a hearty,
peaceful life with cobblestone streets, pastures and mountains,
then sleep forever in a grass covered grave, the sound of
cowbells above a final lullaby.

On the train to Munich the next day, I see a boy on a train and a
girl on a horse, both charging across the Bavarian landscape,
eyes aligned, in love. The boy waves, and perhaps for a moment,
you think they can sprint together forever. Then the train picks
up speed, the horse breathes, and the two young lovers are pulled
inevitably apart.

It’s only imagination, but I could be that boy, in this land, a
hundred years ago. And even if it’s only a fantasy, the emotions
swell just as strong. Then it’s gone, and I smile.