:: The Lost Beatnik ::

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:: 20040112 ::

At distance, relationships are brutal. Long-distance love is tough enough when you already have a strong foundation and/or significant time in a relationship. Building a committed relationship at great distance (across international borders), and sharing everything but the greatest pains over the phone, is remarkably more difficult. So much so that two of us, each of whom believes we were somehow cosmically cast for the other, almost didn't make it.

We at least made it to the next step. Every tomorrow is filled with a better promise, and every day brings new awareness. Tomorrow I begin a 4000 mile journey through the dead of winter. Within a day, the rest of the journey will be shared with my Bee girl. There is great hope in such an undertaking, especially when the final destination IS Hope.

Hope, British Columbia is a town of 7000 people nestled in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies. It's less than an hour west of the "Sunshine Valley", and yet experiences only 135 days of sunshine a year. The setting is a pristine mountain town, forged by adventurers, fur-trappers, and the intersection of no less than 4 major Canadian freeways. Throughout the valley and surrounding peaks, there are 25 sanctioned trails, 4 provincial parks, numerous campgrounds and 'exploratory areas'.

Our home is to be a log cabin, 2000 square feet, situated directly on a creek that feeds the Coquihalla River (which then feeds the Fraser River). We are near other cabins, but not on top of them. We are 'secluded, but not isolated'. Apparently, we also have a mountain towering over us. Of course, this natural setting lends itself quite nicely to my writing ventures, which I shall wholeheartedly tackle after my arrival there.

In the meantime, you can continue watching this space. As I've always done with my blog, I can go months at a time without writing. During this 9 day road trip, I don't expect I'll be doing any updates, though the adventures will surely be published at some point down the road. In the meanntime, 2004 is better every day.


Bon Voyage!
Mike L
:: 10:21 [+] ::


...

Heartbreak. It's something I'm not used to dealing with...mostly because I haven't previously acknowledged the presence of my own heart. It sits heavy with me right now, and I'm rife with pain. I do feel torn, right down the center, as to what's best for me, and trying to spare energy for 'us'. I don't feel like writing either.

Each word is like pushing the venom deeper in. Tomorrow I may wake up and feel better. I hope so. Today seems without end. I'm in so much shock that I've spent the day alternating between sudden outbursts of weeping, anger, guilt, denial, frustration, heartbreak and fear of loss - a grieving if you will. I've shivered and been sick to my stomach. My energy is dissapated to its very last strands. I hang onto reality by a thread.

Because, oh, you didn't know - and there's nothing I'll fill you in on. Who needs details to understand heartbreak? Besides, lack of understanding is what's at the center of this, and I'd hate to just add to it. Life moves in mysterious ways - and the Will of the Universe completely escapes me at times like these.

So I slog on, feeling the weight of my burden crushed under the weight of this relationship. But I can't shoulder both. I care, I desire, I want - but I will not suffer outrageous hurtful abuse, I will not ignore the great strides I've made, I will not give up on myself.

Yet, I still believe. I still cling onto hope, and to dreams, and everything so wonderful in my life. I am blamed, I am shamed, but my mistake was not so much as to cause this strife and ruin - nor to cause the extreme pain that was dished to me.

I lay in bed, wishing sleep to take me, but it doesn't. Or if it does, it's tortrurous and full of weeping. There is nothing else to be said, nothing else to be done. It is all I can do to keep my chin above toe level and meet the day head on -- even if it's on my back.

So Happy New Year to you. My wish and resolution is that each of the next 364 days is better than today.

:: 18:50 [+] ::


...

** Note to reader: if you'd like to read days 1-7, you can search methodically here or visit the NZ blog for a more straightforward report. **




Day 8: Dart River and Cow Lane.

Ferris Bueller said it best. “Life moves pretty fast…and if you don’t stop look around every once and a while, you could miss it”. That’s the idea behind getting up so early, despite being up so late. Sure, I’m tired, and instant coffee doesn’t quite do the trick, but it works. I gather up my stuff in the daypack and walk down to the Station, where I meet up with the bus and a couple other folks.

It’s ever so slightly humorous, then, that the bus returns to the Deco backpackers I’m residing in to pick up 4 loudly obnoxious American girls. If I’d known, I’m sure I wouldn’t have bothered with the walk, which was good for me anyhow, and I would’ve been stuck talking… you know, on second thought, I lucked out here.

It’s a 45 minute ride to Glenorchy, and it’s the same area where some of the best scenes from the Lord of the Rings trilogy were filmed within the last year. Along the way, I mostly enjoy the scenery, and punctuate the lulls by fending off pretentious grievances of the American traveling group. I’m not anti-American-girls, for sure, but many of the ones I meet have a tendency to whine far beyond my capacity to give a shit. Besides – this particular group seems the essence of spoiled daddy’s girls…

Once we get to the Dart River station, located right at the end of a gravel pit, we pile out and head for the wetsuiting station. We’re all suited up with those, 2 fleece, booties and a lifejacket. It’s a good day for dressing warm, as the sunny interlude of the morning is giving way to chilly Southerly winds that come scraping through the Dart River valley. I can’t see much of the scenery yet, especially from my particular vantage point, but it promises to be amazing. A thin cold mist wisps here and there, hanging about ever so slightly in the air.

We climb into the jetboat a few minutes later, and after receiving the tutorial, speed off through the shallowest shallows imaginable. This is to boating what hang-gliding is to flying. At times, we’re literally doing 40 knots through 6 to 8 inches of water in a fully weighted boat. Then Callan, the guide and pilot puts his right index finger in the air and swirls it clockwise a few times. I grip the bars just a little bit tighter as he jerks the wheel to port then hard over to starboard. We spin a dazzling 360 degrees and come to a full stop gasping and laughing. Wow. Ever do donuts in a parking lot? This is like doing them at 60 miles per hour – in a convertible – while your friend blasts you with a Super Soaker.


Our sister jetboat in action

Callan pilots us further upriver, taking us within mere inches of this World Heritage sites sheer rock walls. He points out some mosses that only inhabit environments where the oxygen is 100% pure – and I’m not sure how it gets that way, but I guess he means no pollution haunts these enchanting forests that hang their lives down to the river. He throws us through several hairpin turns, and even plays a bit of chicken with the other jetboat. It’s not long before we reach our destination beach and hop out to inflate our “FunYaks”. Justin pulls his boat up next to ours and unloads the rest of the group. All in all, there are about 15 of us, and 6 yaks.

I run off into the wilderness to dispense with a pee that had built up far beyond my ability to control my bladder. Yes, I know I’m wearing a wetsuit – but it wasn’t wet yet. I’m using a hand pump to force air into the red rubber FunYak that I’ll be traveling in. Callan and Justin point out the various film highlights of the area, including the party along the ridge scene from Lord of the Rings, and a few scenes from Vertical Limit. As we climb into our inflatable canoes, I brag to a nearby Aussie couple that I brought the good weather with me. This is a mistake, for as everyone knows, you don’t brag about the weather gods’ fortune while you’re still using it.


Mount Pluto on the Dart River

We paddle off downriver and the rain follows shortly. All in all, the sprinkles don’t dampen much but the mood and the views of the glorious Mount Pluto and stunning Mount Albert. There are many other peaks, of course, but the suns absence doesn’t lend as favorable a vista as the first two. After a while, we reach our secluded lunch area. It’s a pack-in pack-out place, so we haul drag our canoes through the cool rocky slippery shallows, and pull them up onto the shore. We drag all the picnic stuff out, and dig in. Gourmet meats and cheeses are the order of the day, along with fresh breads and juices – and even fresh fruits. It’s a great picnic except the rain has stopped – and since the rain has stopped, the sandflies feel that it’s only fair to bother us.





The hidden gorge awaits…

Sandflies are the bane of New Zealand. They’re a curse upon the islands, and the nemesis of all tourists. Several Maori myths account for these annoying creatures, but none of them explain their cruel wickedness to my satisfaction. Imagine a mosquito crossed with a vulture and you’ll get the idea. These things are relentless, and tend to swarm in packs. Swatting, bug repellants and even clothes do little good. If you want to see some of the most beautiful scenery in the world, you just have to put up with the little buggers. I manage to only eat two and kill a handful more. The rest live to torment me another day.

Once everyone has their fill and packs out the picnic area, we go for a nature hike up a short trail to a natural bridge (enhanced with wooden anchors and ropes) overlooking cascading waterfalls. There’s also an inverted house in the ground – like a sinkhole with a window overlooking the falls – and I toy with the idea of moving in. Jaunting back to our craft, we paddle into the gorge we’ve just gazed at from above. It’s narrow and cool, the forest breeze channeling into my face. All around, the cold clear water whispers, and the air smells thickly of moss and fresh greenery. It’s another hours paddle downriver to our pickup site. Lucky me, I’m traveling with the guide, and nary lift a finger, much less a paddle, I lazily cruise down the quiet river. The sun burgeons forth one more time as our activity draws to a close, and I give the Aussies a knowing smile. The girls champion themselves as heroines of incompatibility as they consistently refuse to work together paddling, and delay our beautiful day on the river, much to my bemusement. They get their revenge, however, as a no-holds-barred water fight assisted by paddles breaks out near the shore. The cold water is just that – cold – lacking any semblance of refreshment. The sculpted mountains leer at my shivering wet-suited form, advising me it’s time to depart the pristine area.


Riding with a guide is less work…

The ride back to town is quiet. We’re all tired, napping or dozing. I try to carry on a civilized conversation with Sybill, one of the American girls, but she’s being snide, so I give up and turn my attention to the passing scenery. I can’t get over how breathtaking this county is, how many opportunities cry out for a photo. Even though the bus is going to stop at Deco backpackers, I hop off at the Centre, and shuffle over to get my bungy photos from yesterday. They turned out great – and I also turn in 2 rolls of film and pick up the stuff I had developed. The total is something like $150 for 6 rolls of film with double prints and burned onto CD. I’ve seen better – I’ll probably see worse. The pictures themselves were largely good, but the CD quality of them was really shit. To get an idea, most of the included pictures on here are the original CD size, which isn’t saying much for resolution either.

I huff and puff my way up the monster hills back to Deco. After a warm shower, I leaf through my pictures some more while my laundry’s going, then jaunt into the ‘living room’ to hang out with the TV watchers. None of them seem too keen on the idea of chatting, so I remain steadfastly silent, enjoying none of the droll English ‘soap’ that’s on the TV.

After folding up my weeks worth of laundry – a process that takes naught but a minute or so, I head to the kitchen to feast on my Ramen noodles. It proves to be predictable in taste, save for the garish amounts of chili powder that I soaked it in. As I’m struggling through eating, the ‘water twins’ (though why I call them this, I’m no longer sure) stroll in. Nathalie and Majorlie from Holland are amiable flirty women. In my state of female deprivation, I’m all too eager to discuss life with them. Nathalie shows a keen interest in me, for purely platonic reasons, and spends many hours laughing and joking with me at the kitchen table. Alcohol, drugs, ghosts and religion are all fair-weather topics as we kill the night in a flurry of small talk which ultimately leads nowhere.

On to the night life then, and rather reluctantly at that. I feel a surge of my patented depression setting in for the night, as if life somehow tolerates my company, but refuses to provide me any cheer. What’s really sad is that I’m feeling this at all – here I am in a country of utter beauty, strolling through a remarkably safe party town at night, and all I can do is wallow in my self-pity. “Get over yourself” I think…

I spin a few emails off before going in search of my home for the evening. I check out the Edge and Surreal – both tiny posh haunts smelling of European discothequette – before moving on to Winnies. It’s packed in here, much more so than last night, and between the family dinner patrons and the snow-staffers exercising their exodus escapades, there is no room for my gloom. I end up at Frasers – a rockin’ techno club occupying the corner of a wharf building. I get some rum & cokes in me, tipping well, and decide to throw a beer at the British house DJ too – which seems to gain me some favor. After awhile, I’m tossed, and I think the staff is giving me doubles for singles price.

Tim, a fellow backpacker of Irish descent, strolls into the club with a few friends in tow. He’s feeling celebratory too, and by the time we recruit a group of 5 Aussie and Brit girls into our company, we’re all feeling quite outstanding. We make our way to Debajo – literally a hole in the brick façade – for more dancing and drinking. I spend a good amount of time chatting up Jo, a friendly blonde from somewhere along the Australian coast before the party decides en masse that it’s time to sleep. I watch them huddle into three different cabs and speed off in four different directions before deciding that I’m extraordinarily hungry (that half bowl of chili powder with a hint of noodle just didn’t fill me up).

I’m following my nose along ‘Cow Lane’, and I come across a rather appropriate monument to bovines: Fergburger. Now, I’m sure in your life you’ve heard friends and authors and critics share their recommendations on food and fun. You should always greet it with skepticism, and really strive to make your own decisions – except in this case. I’m telling you here and now, that this hole-in-the-wall one-of-a-kind trailer serves up what is positively unequivocally without a doubt the absolutely best burger in the world. I do believe that cows willingly sacrifice themselves for the chance and hope that they’ll end up as a hamburger patty at this place. The bun is locally made, not too thick, and slightly toasted. The patty is sizzled to perfection – completely done, but supremely juicy with a bit of pink shading the middle. The cheese is local, thick and flavorful. The lettuce and tomato must have been picked from steroid farms, and are boldly surprising in their flavor and moisture content. Then there’s the onions – which I’m sure are imported Maui sweet onions – so sharp, tangy and sweet all at the same time, that they become the ultimate compliment. By the way, this is just the cheeseburger, one of twelve or so varieties on their menu, and as an added bonus, they’re open really really late.

My taste buds fully satiated for the millennium, I head off towards home, stopping in one more terribly loud and obnoxious club. Obscure boastful easily forgotten lyrics flow out of an aggressive MC as his partner spins overly loud drum-and-bass. The freestyle atmosphere of the place is further complimented by the colorful psychadelia that adorns the walls, just above the heads of the hundred or so kids that are jammed into this tiny bar. I have to get three rum and cokes to use my card, but since I just want one, I pass the other two off and stroll away into the early morning.

As I’m sobering up (an easy thing to do on the uphill walk home), I realize it’s five a.m. It’s been a full day, and my sleeping bag screams my name in desire across the dark and quiet miles. Gaia whispers sweet nothings to me as I head home, and I listen to her birdsongs with a grin, my depression has thankfully evaporated.

I wake up twice that morning. Once at 7:30 to say goodbye to the twins, and Kang and Soo. The other when Tony rouses me at 10:20 and told me it was time to check out, unless I wanted to pay for another. I love Queenstown, and it’s been good to me, but it’s time to move on.

:: 20:52 [+] ::


...

Hell - it's only been two solid months since I've posted anything. You know, I was all about writing this summer, and I have no idea what happened... but that is quickly changed, if only in my mind. When I'm drifting to sleep, my mind awakens with stories, plots, twists and expunctions that are now half-buried.

It's sad, sometimes, that I can retreat so quickly into old and lazy habits. I long for a day when such intrustions do not overwhelm my desire to get outside and experience the world.

Now, on with the countdown. It's about time, but I've finally come around and am actively trying to Quit Smoking. I know it's hard for some of you to believe, but the time is now... and life is wasting away. (Well, perhaps not wasting, but my lungs certainly are...)

I've also met several interesting people over the last few days. By far, the most curious kitten and my personal favorite is Bee girl. She's like a wisp of dawn, or the gentle purring of a kitten in the morning... and I'm very grateful for meeting her - it seems to be well timed, almost uncannily so.

I've also just spent some more time in lovely San Antonio. I can never get enough of that place... well, actually I've had quite enough. but at least the food is still good.




Hopefully now, I can just get some geocaching done - sounds like a hoot - right up my alley, and since I don't have a TV, all I have to do is break away from the computer for a day. So - to all the loyal readers, and to those who are brand new - thanks for stopping by. I'll try to be better, but there is no try - do or do not, according to Yoda...and who can question him?



:: 23:03 [+] ::


...

Despite my consumption of aspirin mere hours ago, I find myself waking up with a headache anyway. I’m waiting for that coffee to brew in the kitchen – it smells delicious, and holds a vague promise of further alleviating the dull pounding of my forehead. As I join fellow backpackers at the picnic table out front, inhaling the blue death of my morning cigarette and sipping on my cuppa, the conversation turns to my plans for the day. A pretty young Japanese girl iterates several times that the whole thing is “scary”.

I pack it off after my cup is done and head downtown to the A.J. Hackett Bungy Centre. The place is alive, though my brain is still not. I check in, get my weight, pay for my package (which I’d arranged several months before on the net), and as a last minute though, pay for the media package too – it’s an additional $110 NZ, but I’ll have a VHS tape and 9 pictures to go along with my memories. Now I’m outside waiting for the bus. It looks like Charlie and Jo, two backpackers from the hostel, are also going flying today. We share conversation before heading off on our respective buses to meet our respective fates.

By the time I get to the Kawaru Bridge, the site of the first commercial bungy jumps, I’m extremely nervous. The little souvenir shack is packed with people, and loud dance music infiltrates every pore as it drools out of the speakers. I poke and prod my way to the counter, check in, and get a little ticket. Looks like all I have to do now is make my way out to the bridge and go for it.

Out on the platform, my nerves really start to get the better of me. Roller coasters are surely no match for the fear, fright, and fun one must feel while jumping. I’m harnessed up – the guys are busy, and I’m just another customer up here. They count it down as I wave to the crowd. There’s no backing out, I’m hobbled out to the edge of the wooden platform, looking down at a raging river.

Don’t forget to write! © AJ Hackett

“Three…”

Deep breath in, glance to the camera and the crowd

“Two…”

Another glance down

“ONE”

Straight ahead now – and, following directions like a good boy, I attempt to jump headfirst onto the road bridge 100 meters in front of me, splaying my arms out to my sides.

The first thought is something regarding my total lack of hesitation.
The second thought is something about gravity.
The third is pure adrenalin, as I’m now well on my way to splashing in the river.
I notice a sound emanating from my mouth – it’s a hybrid scream, yell, and thrill of excitement. The water is screaming at me quickly – too quickly – and before I know it….

What a rush. © AJ Hackett
BOOOOIIIINNNNNG

Well, ok, it doesn’t actually make that sound, but were I a cartoon… The point is, the cord holds and pulls me back up rather quickly. The river recedes, then approaches as I fall the second time. One more bounce, and I’m reaching for the pole being extended by two guys in a river raft. They pull me in, on my back, and I’m so delierious with adrenalin and joy that I can’t even comprehend what they’re saying for a few seconds.

“First jump, eh mate?” says one

I mumble, incoherent, “yes”

“Owa, you a yank? Wotcha doin’ out here?” says the other

I’m talking about my vacation. Holy shit – I can’t believe I just did that! Yes, I’m a yank, I’m out here on vacation….

“Yeah? Wotcha job?”

I tell them – a brief summary. They’re laughing and joking with me as they drop me off on the shore. My legs are jelly – I can barely make it up the four flights of stairs. I grab my pack, my video, and wait for the bus.

The bus out to the Nevis gorge bungy crawls through town due to the large amount of construction occurring. When it reaches the turnoff, we find ourselves creeping up a one-car wide ledge with a sheer drop on one side, and an immoveable stone mass on the other. At the top, we get a lesson in harnessing as well as the dos and don’ts, of which there are relatively few. Mostly, we’re advised to “relax and have a good time”.

Riggght…relax…sure. The Nevis Highwire Bungy, as it’s formally known in social circles, is reputedly the highest static bungy jump in the world – and definitely in New Zealand. It’s 134 meters (roughly 440 feet) above a snaking Nevis river, which being so small in width and so far away offers no ‘comfort’ zone for jumpers. In addition to being so high up, it’s called a ‘highwire’ bungy because it is a small platform quite literally anchored by cabling (or wires), and otherwise hanging free over the gorge. To get to the pod – which looks quite unstable from afar – you climb in a miniature gondola car, six at a time, and speed along at 2 km/h to the pod.

The Nevis pod of death. © AJ Hackett
To be fair, I believe this is actually scarier than the jump, in its own right. I mean, the jump is 8 seconds of exhilaration and falling, whereas the gondola trip is more like three minutes of terror – especially if you’re agoraphobic (and thankfully I’m not). Still, once arrived in the pod, we gathered around the transparent plexiglass floorpanes to watch the jumpers. It was quite a sight, until the person was out of sight anyway. There is a point about halfway down where the jumper transforms from a humanoid figure into a tiny blob with a bunch of sticks coming out.

After several jumps, it’s my turn, and I’m very amped. I have a seat in the barer chair as they connect the bungy rope securely to my harness. With a thumbs up, I inch toward the platform to receive my countdown. Peering over the edge is like staring at death in a New York subway and flipping him off when he asks what the hell you’re looking at. I feel sweat pour out of places that don’t have sweat glands. The drop goes on forever and lands on jagged stones. I can be heard muttering “Holy shit!”

Like I said…holy shit! © AJ Hackett
“2…..1…fly!”

I leap with all my might, arms straight out like a platform diver, legs spread as much as they will, and try desperately to fly forward like Superman. Alas, gravity has something else in mind, and I’m very quickly pointing at the ground and falling at an astonishingly fast rate.

I leave my stomach and my voice behind in the first fifty feet, but after that, and I mean this sincerely, it’s all extreme thrill and mortifying fear coupled together like Monica and Ross. It goes on forever, yet it’s gone in one terrifying instant. My lungs were emptied three or for times on the way down, but I don’t remember yelling. What I do remember is thinking about halfway down “is this bungy going to catch?”

Look ma, no hands! © AJ Hackett

You must understand that I’m utterly thrilled to be doing this, and when the cord catches my harness on my second return bounce, I’m almost sad to be done. On the way up, though, I release a catch like I’m supposed to, and flip right side up, only my leg is caught on the other side of the bungy cord, kind of wedged in like it may or may not be something that’s keeping me from falling. Naturally (or instinctively?) I hold my leg there and ride the harness like a bucking bronc all the way up, not wishing to plummet without a guaranteed way of getting back up. Damn that silly hydraulic winch.

The boys operating the pod give me some good-natured ribbing about my unfounded caught-leg fears before complimenting my jump as being “Kiwi natural” and “picture perfect”. What I wouldn’t give for a beer right now.

A few more jumpers head down, some of the sporting a giant Brazilian flag in their hands. Now, I was quite sure the flag would act as a parachute of sorts, slowing their descent, but I can’t detect any slowing. The flag flutters loudly like a giant sail in irons, and flaps against the individual jumpers all the way down. Then – disaster. Some jackass who hasn’t been paying attention for the last hour gets to the edge and on the count of one, proceeds to fall – not jump – fall FEET FIRST. It’s really more of a faux-pas than a disaster, but the jumper will get quite a muscular jolt as they’re whipped around once the bungy cord catches at the feet. Injury appears to have taken the day off, and the jumper is spared on all counts, save for a relentless and humorous tongue lashing by the pod crew.

After collecting our video tapes and souvenirs of the jump, it’s time to head back to AJ Hackett central. Back at the Deco hostel, I’m riding high, and telling everyone, whether they want to hear it or not, about my days jumps. Jo the Aussie has also made a few jumps, and we swap experiences like baubles. I try to catch a nap and rest up for my evening jumps at the ledge, but to no avail. So, back to the living room to share more tales of fright and fear.


The infamous Ledge bungy.

Eventually, the time arrives for me to head to the ledge. I drive my car over to the parking lot, and head inside to catch the tramway. I just happen to hop in a car carrying Andrea, a cute AJ attendant with huge crystal-pool blue eyes, stark blonde hair and an effective but snaggly smile. We chat amiably about working conditions at AJ Hackett as we traverse the slope via tram. Once at the top, we clamber over to the Ledge check in station and I present my jump card.

Here now, on a drizzling cool gray evening 400 meters above Queenstown, NZ, is the moment of truth. This time I’m wearing yet another harness, though the drop is of similar height to the first ‘tame’ bungy of the day. Why the difference? Here at the Ledge, below which there is not water but rocks and trees and a steep declining slope, you are allowed to perform tricks during your jump. Well, that’s a fine idea – and I think I’ll go for the flip-while-taking-a-picture maneuver, perfected in the early 90’s by adventure pioneers. With a five foot lead, and a running start, I run to the edge of the Ledge and flip off while snapping a fearsome photo.




Flippin’ good time. Both © AJ Hackett

What they forget to tell me is that I should be holding the harness rope out to the side so I don’t become tangled in the retrieving winch. Luckily, it proves of no consequence. I take another panoramic shot while suspended over crushing boulders and the lovely city of the lake. Ah…3 jumps of exhilaration and bliss have come to an end.

But wait, there’s more! For the low-low price of only $23.50, I get a fourth jump absolutely free (kind of)! The video guy even agrees to put it on the tape I paid a mere $25 bucks for, which I figure is remarkably kind. So, with a skip and wink to Andrea, I’m back out at the Ledge.

This time, I want to see how many flips I can do before busting my hip on the return snap. I aim for the sky, haul ass, jump high and tuck into a ball (a little behind schedule), managing to flip once, twice, and a half before being tugged back to reality. I love this country!


Queenstown behind, and a full day of fun

So, with remorse, I bid the Ledge, and my full day of adrenalin aideu. This had been one of my premire events, something I was really looking forward to, and now it was behind me. In my utter despair (grin), I decide to wash the feeling down with some beer and make some friends in the process. Conveniently, a package store is located just down the street from the hostel. I load up with a case of canned Speight’s, and two bottles of wine.

I put the beer and the wine in Deco’s kitchen, and embark on a mission to inform everyone staying in the place that I’ve purchased beer and wine, and they’re for everyone. I get a lot of suspicious “whys”, and happily tell them that I’m still high on adrenalin and I don’t know any better. Though I wish it to be a party atmosphere, I never quite generate one. No matter, for in the process I meet the Dutch twins Majorlein and Nathalie (the latter of which I am very enamored), as well as the Korean couple Kang and Soo. We sit in the kitchen sharing stories and lives, as I alternate between water and Speight’s. The twins are reluctant to have more than a glass of wine apiece, and though I earnestly try to convince them otherwise, they cease drinking before the moon makes an appearance.

Soo on the other hand is helping herself to the wine, and has already offered my stomach the chance to participate in her evening meal. Kang goes to the fridge, asking repeatedly if I’m sure it’s OK if he has a beer. “Yes, of course, please,” I answer, and then, waiting for the moment he takes his first sip, put on a face of fury, and demand “What the hell are you doing with my beer??!?!?”

The look on his face is priceless, but I cannot let him suffer long, and I tell him I’m joking. We all get a hearty laugh out of that. It’s spicy rice and curry time now, and as I digest the delicious meal, we share some more conversation. Around midnight, and reluctantly, it’s bedtime. Everyone else is gone, and the day tomorrow begins early. I leave a note on the fridge reminding everyone that the booze is in fact free before I head off to a restless night filled with dreams of falling.



:: 19:19 [+] ::


...

I'm still piecing together memories of Riga. I regret to inform you I'm having a bit of trouble with the timeline right now, but I shall endeavor to have it up by week's end. It's impossible to believe that I've been back 6 days already, but such is life. In the meantime, I've just composed the following rant. Enjoy it, and please feel free to offer your thoughts.

Sex and the Common [hu]Man

It seems the world, particularly America, still places a great amount of emphasis on sex. Not only the conventional act, but the education of American youth, and efforts to stop it. Not only the unconventional methods, but also the continuing debate on the morality of each specific sex act. Even respectable men’s magazines break the topic down into simple insightful quizzes and anecdotes regarding frequency, success, and technique. Unfortunately, the problem is not all this discussion of sex, but the continual mention of controversy; the fact that we are still hung up on talking about “it” is what’s fundamentally wrong here.

So who am I? I’m no expert, metaphorically, physically or intellectually speaking. I have what I consider to be an average experience level with women (though I’ve been suffering in a wretched dry spell for some time). I have what seems to be a fairly healthy sex-drive (though standards vary far and wide, and I’ve never had professional analysis). I try not to factor in any of my background for this discussion, but somehow I know that it all comes into play. I’m not your father, your pastor, or even your friend – and I don’t know what’s best for you. What I do know is how disgusted I am by groups like the religious wrong…er, right…that seek to suppress all behaviors not acceptable by the now archaic Victorian standards.

Imagine for an instant that you and your partner were not allowed to discuss sex, even in private. Forget all mention of anything remotely scandalous – you’re only allowed to perform intercourse once a month, in the missionary position, and for the sole purpose of producing children. Don’t even think about enjoying it – and oh, by the way, you only have 20 minutes to finish. Keep your clothes on too.

Does this sound a bit rash to you? It’s Victorian sex, and not the stuff that actually happened, but what the aim of all that repression and suppression was. It’s not far off from today’s voices that flood the media with outmoded stodgy sexual views either. In fact, it seems more an echo of the past than a vision of the future. We, as collective society, should be far enough along in our evolution to figure out the best course of sexual action for our society; this is why things like sexual revolutions occur, and yet forty years later, we’re still floundering over the morality issue. Why? Is there something about desire we, as a species, don’t get? Sometimes I think so – or, more to the point, we listen to outside influences we believe are our conscience.

It turns out morality and ethics are quite complicated. This philosophical realm has occupied sages, philosophers, philanders and phreaks for eons. The issues become mired in the bog of machinery, dependant on time and law to make their ruling for them, and, whether right or wrong, judge the outcome. We have common moral frameworks, however, that persist through the bonds of time; we also have commonalities with our animal brethren that should not be ignored. These common “rules”, for better or worse, are just another voice in the sea of insanity surrounding intimacy in its many forms. Universal agreements (though never 100%) when it comes to sex include fairly common thoughts: children are wrong, immediate family is wrong, animals are wrong, helpless partners are wrong, unhygienic and or dangerous practices (i.e. those that put an unwilling person at risk) are wrong, and dishonesty is wrong. Rape goes without saying here. On the opposite side of the spectrum, we should be able to agree that just about anything (and I mean ANYTHING) that does not fall into one of the above categories is encouraged.

That’s where the moral divide is. Already you’ve got some argument brewing in your head as to why a certain act is wrong (or isn’t wrong), and I can’t argue with you. I’ve already said I’m just another voice – there isn’t a reason why my views are more legitimate or original than any other view out there. I just happen to think that if you want to be or can’t help being polyamorous, ephebophilac, geriphilac, homoerotic, autoerotic, multierotic, or someone who likes to give or receive fellatio and cunnilingus and analingus, be dedicated to one, or none, or many sexual partners throughout your life – go right ahead. If water excites you – great. If urine excites you, or feet, or armpits, or corn, or massage oil – go right ahead. If you’re a breast man or a butt woman, or a nose fetishist, or you like to be whipped or humiliate your partner – fantastic. As long as mutual consent exists, in a state where all parties are mentally capable of that consent, who cares what you do? Door open, door closed, national TV, I really don’t give a fuck.

Just please remember – if it’s consensual at the time, no matter how much you regret it later, it is simply a learning experience, and not something to sue over. I’m sorry if your childhood or religion allows you to believe that anything strange and different is unacceptable – but get over it. Homosexuality happens. Bisexuality happens. Transexuality happens. Sadism, masochism, age play, cross-dressing, and all sorts of new and different fetishes you probably don’t even know about happen. It is said of sex that there is nothing new under the sun – no new positions, no new tricks, no new fetishes (with the rare exception of course, like people who are excited by car crashes). Voyeurs have been around for millennia, and if they’re not actually doing anything, they’re not actually harming anyone. If you want privacy, close the goddamn shade and stop prosecuting people for doing what’s natural for them.

This brings me to the next taboo – abuse of authority. I think it can safely be said that this single phrase incorporates everything morally wrong with differing sex acts. Anytime someone abuses authority, in any sense, they are doing wrong. This abuse may be categorized by position, status, violence, and even age or species; what is common is that is an abuse, and should never be tolerated. Were this utopia, I’d be stating law and not opinion here. Unfortunately, it’s not, and we’re relegated to a society that makes us feel guilty about nearly everything we do, right or wrong.

I see commercials for calorie-saturated foods followed immediately by Bally’s ® fitness. Ads for Sprite ® and the Ultimate Chopper ® are sandwiched in between Bowflex ® and underwear ads. I should be fat, thin, white, black, tolerant, devout, rich, poor, accepting, distrusting, careful and reckless according to popular culture. Nothing and everything are simultaneously taboo, and conflicting images rage in my mind. Maybe that’s the real reason I sold my TV. Maybe it’s the true driving force behind my desire to see the world. I don’t know why I like everything I like, nor where all my dislikes originate, but I do know I’m tired of advertising trying to sell these ideas to me. It’s the same with conservative and liberal watchdog groups.

I don’t want to argue too many things in one dissertation, so I’ll just summarize my thoughts on this particular issue. The morality of sex is a personal matter for you and you alone to decide. Aside from certain ‘given’ sexual ethics (namely abuse of authority), anything under the sun is fine with mutual consent. No person or organization should convince you otherwise. And hey, if you like to be monogamous, and continue using traditional sexual practices with minimal variation, I’m not going to piss in your Wheaties ®. Just be safe, and enjoy the fuck out of it.

:: 17:00 [+] ::


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Day 3

MTV woke me up from both of my fitful naps. I couldn’t stand the idea of sleeping the day away so I hopped up and faced Monday. As I’m writing this, I think I may have left a bit out of last night’s story – but it’s not really important. All you need to know is that it was typical. And I had a good time.

I must also tell you that much of the day is a blur here – I didn’t do anything startling or important. I did some scoping out of the hotel, watched some TV, played some harmonica, read, and eventually met up with the rest of the crew for beer and dinner across the way. Shannon had made it a point to tell us that the pilsner and food averaged about 1/3rd of the price as it was in the hotel. This is not entirely surprising considering hotel costs. The weather had chilled remarkably, and I found myself vaguely wishing for a jacket as I guzzled the beer and chowed down on the garlic pork.



The moment wouldn’t last forever though, and when the crew made it clear they were heading downtown to search out pubs, I made it clear it was time for another night on the town. I could smell the sunrise already.

J.C. and I hammered down the drinks until it was midnight. We left a quick message on J.P.s phone and headed down to the Roxy – a place of ‘free Mondays’. No cover is always good for me – and the Pils, being served in plastic cups, was costing a whopping 75 cents per 8 ounces. That settled it – no more rum and cokes for me!

Now, Roxy is your average smoky European dance club. It’s split level, with a lounging/viewing area and bar upstairs along with a few tables. Downstairs is the voluminous dancefloor, usually half-packed with people. The DJ sits in a very dark corner on stage and pumps out thumping techno tunes to the trance-induced throng. J.C. and I threaded our way through the crowd, finding hotties to pose for pictures. It’s not something I do every night, but it can be fun.

Still, our attempts at picking up girls was relatively foiled – despite my best efforts, I continue to come off desperate.

Number 45 at least gave me a kiss. Anyhow, the beer flowed rather freely, and I was feeling most excellent. Somehow, J.P. found us, and after a time of relaxing at a table, some Seattleites found him. What can I say? The guy is a magnet.

We sat around talking for the next 45 minutes, with me spilling at least two drinks and forcing us to move tables. It was one of those relatively embarrassing moments – but they’re so common with me that I just shrugged it off. As the place closed, we walked out together, presumably headed to their apartment or somewhere else for more partying. You know what though? My self-defense anti-cow mechanism kicked in and proceeded to go goofy style. Still, when you pass a “Slut Vs. Artery” sign, you can’t help but snap a photo.

We boarded a tram at the station – apparently they run late in Prague. It’s funny though, there’s no instructions on how or who to pay. Yeah – so screw it, we didn’t. My anti-cow defense went into overdrive, and I began to swing wildly from the support bars. I think that settled it for Seattle’s best and worst – they decided to hop off alone. Whoo hoo, no cow-sitting.

It just so happened now that the next stop was Karlovy Lazne. We were hungry, it was familiar, and we decided to bail. As soon as the door opened we took off running, and because it was our third free ride, we were laughing all the way too. Karlovy was still closed, but Lavka had some chairs set out. We got a few more beers and hung out on the deck for awhile. I used the opportunity to get some winning photos.







Here comes the sunrise – cloudy and drizzling, but nonetheless I knew the sun was back there somewhere. I love it, I can’t remember the last time I saw three sunrises in a row. Now it was time for the long haul back to the hotel. We didn’t feel like figuring out the tram payment system or shelling out money for the cab, so we hoofed it.

First stop is the St Charles Bridge, another famous landmark. I’m sure the residents of the fair Czech city would be absolutely appalled at some of the stuff I did on that bridge, so I’ll keep it reserved for another time. Still, I know at one point I climbed up a statue right on the edge of the bridge and about 15 feet above walking level. I was surefooted, but my buddies were so freaked out that they snapped the photo very quickly and ordered me down.

Next stop was the steps on the hill. I don’t know what hill, only that it was between us and the hotel. There were a lot of steps. I mean a fuck of a lot of steps. I didn’t count them, but 400 seems right. We were all huffing and puffing by the top, despite being relatively in shape. We were wandering through a quaint section of Prague now, snaking our way back to the hotel. The drizzle had picked up in intensity, but was still only a minor annoyance.

After a good 45 minute walk, J.P. sighted the hotel and we went running in. We were just in time for breakfast once again, and loaded up on food and water before retiring to the rooms. I set a wake up call for 2 PM to make sure I could accomplish everything I needed to, and tried to go to sleep. I slept fitfully, and my brain wouldn’t shut off – despite being so tired I managed about 2 hours total.



Day 4
Tuesday seemed almost like a rerun. We headed downtown, and I picked up my souvenirs. Shopping with the girls is only fun for the first five minutes. Once I had my stuff, I was very eager to get out of there. Still, I did manage a few good shots.

Back at the hotel, I ate at the place across the street again, and found myself doing more gokart action that night. It was groundhog day all over again. Now, I’ll give you $5 if you can guess where I went out that night. That’s right, Karlovy Lazne.

Need I say it? It was another night of drinking too much, dancing like a fool, singing words to songs at strange women, dropping my lighter on people’s head, getting flashed, laughed at, glared at, ridiculed in norsk and having my ass grabbed. We’ll throw in some stage dancing and a few too many tequila shots. Whoooooooo what a blast. Did we cab back to the hotel? I don’t remember – really. I have zero memory of what happened after the club. I do know that I saw another sunrise. And I had breakfast again. And I slept for three hours.

Packing didn’t take long, but I managed to forget the Pilsner glasses I had acquired. It happens, I guess, you always forget something. I met the crew downstairs and got us all checked out. Ah, Prague, thanks for the memories … if there are any.

Maybe it’s a shame that I didn’t see the castle, or the old Jewish ghetto, or learn more about the things I did see. No matter, I did what I chose to do, and that was party my ass off. I had hoped for female companionship, but Riga was still ahead of me, and I had a good feeling about Riga. The Baltic state was notorious for good looking women.


:: 16:16 [+] ::


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