The Chronicles of Wanderboy

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”

-Robert Louis Stevenson

 

Ask ten men to describe it and you will likely get ten different answers.

Countries, towns and beach resorts all erroneously claim its moniker and people from around the globe and across the broad spectrum of history have spent lifetimes, often fruitlessly, in the pursuit of it.

It took me 26 years, 5 months and 3 days to find it, and when I did, at last stumble upon it, it was in the dead of night, and I was soaked to the bone, alone and shivering in the dark.

But I found it.

Paradise.

Before, had I been pressed to describe my idea of paradise, I may have reverted to the generic, post-card version of turquoise water, impossibly white sandy beaches and leafy, coconut-laden palms. The 35 degree version of paradise that comes attached to an all inclusive package to the sub-tropical, under-developed country of…. wherever.

If you were to ask me now, I can tell you with a wistful smile what paradise smells like; like a fresh alpine breeze, through snow-capped peaks, carrying the faint scent of olive groves from the valley below mixed with wood fires and home cooking.

I could tell you the names of residents, what days the post is open and the price of a bottle of red wine from the one tiny general store.

Ask me now, and I can tell you the name of paradise. And I would not simply pronounce the sum of its letters but recite it with fond recall, like a one word poem.

Saorge

My version of Paradise is a remote French hamlet near the Italian border nestled high in the Mediterranean Alps with a population of about 250 and it is, to put it simply, the most magical place I have ever laid eyes on.

The village clings to a southern facing cliff-side overlooking the river valley and the many villagers who spend their days there tending to their olive groves, orchards and vineyards. The village itself is thin and spread out at its uppermost reaches but bulges at its base where the gentle slope gives way to a sheer 1000 meter drop. The homes here seem to have been built right on top of one another haphazardly with open disregard for structural integrity and they jut out precariously over the precipice in a desperate jumble of cement and timber, mocking gravity and modern engineering.

Walking through the lanes and passageways of Saorge is one of its most enthralling charms as half of the buildings are built directly into the rock and often you find yourself walking through subterranean burrows lined with the wooden doors of  homes, or past stone staircases winding up the cliff and others descending into the medieval bowls of the mountain.

The main streets pass under garden paths and arched walkways to the front doors of buildings above, and every now and then you emerge from the cloistered alleys to find yourself in an open aired square of a church or fountain providing stunning views of the surrounding peaks and the swift river far below, snaking its way along the valley and out of sight, behind the mountain folds.

Like most versions of Paradise, life is slow and simple. There is one tiny market. The post is open 3 days a week from 8:00-11:00AM and there are no police. If a cop wants to enter the village he must first ask the permission of the mayor.

And for one week, I called Paradise my home.

The day after my win at the poker tables of Monte Carlo, armed with the name and address of Isabelle’s cousin, hastily scribbled on the back of a crinkled receipt, I made the bus journey further along the Mediterranean coast and up the long, winding mountain pass to Saorge.

As there are no street lights and the village is essentially vertical, I was urged to arrive before nightfall to avoid the hazard of fumbling my way up a treacherous cliff side in the dark.

By the time the bus arrived, it was just before midnight and the skies had erupted in a deluge of biblical proportions. Saorge was the last stop and I was the only passenger. I gathered my things and hopped off into the torrent.  In the seconds it took for the bus to turn around to make its twisting descent, I and everything I owned was completely drenched.

After some soggy, aimless wandering I knocked on the door of a local and asked for directions. She grabbed an umbrella and led me through the cascade, up the steep stone pathway to the top of the village.

“Voila! Chez Baup.” She exclaimed. She rapped on the door and disappeared back down the mountain in the rain.

The door opened in a cloud of reefer, and for an instant, I had flashbacks of Amsterdam.

I stood in the downpour, shivering but smiling “C’est Connor.”

“Aaaah oui! Entrer. Entrer.”

Nicholas Baup was a gangly, big nosed, narrow faced kid of about 20 with a deflated mohawk. He had the squinted, bloodshot eyes and toothy satisfied grin of a recently re-pledged stoner. A look I would become very familiar with.

 The smell of cooking and marijuana permeated the small loft and a welcoming fire crackled in the corner, gently washing the interior with a flickering golden glow. I  Dripped in the entry way and slung my wet pack to the floor. I hung my saturated hoodie by the fire and after formalities, sunk into the worn leather couch beside the hearth. I surveyed the small loft and its basic design. It was simple and quaint and perfect.

The storm raged against the windows and sent a shudder through my shoulders. As the fire melted the chill from my bones I realized that a glass of red wine had magically found its way into my hand. I let out a sigh that needed no translation.

“Bienvenu a Saorge.” Baup beamed. His grin had somehow gotten bigger.

I spent a week in Saorge, helping Baup on his little chicken farm further along the mountain, gathering eggs, fixing the rabbit cages and chopping fire wood. We got there every day on Baup’s little tractor that he would pull to life with a piece of nylon rope tied to a crescent wrench. I rode in the back, sprawled out atop sacks of chicken feed taking in the view as Baup negotiated the narrow mountain path with notable expertise.

One morning while collecting eggs for breakfast I was struck with a simple thought that brought a smile to my face. There were more chickens in Baup’s coops then there were residents of Saorge

 By night his friends would join us for dinner and wine, and music. None of them spoke English, and I did my best to join in with my limited French.

It was with no little reluctance that I left Saorge, but the call of the unknown is a powerful force, strong enough to pry a man from paradise and send him over the mountains in search of something he knows is unattainable.

But there are few things I have ever been surer of than an inevitable return to Saorge. Places and people that touch your soul so profoundly deserve as much time as you can give them and I have a strong feeling I will be spending a considerable amount of my future in my French mountain paradise.

Baup took me to the train station on the back of his motorbike. We kissed each other on each cheek as is the custom and said our farewells. I was predictably late and had to run for the departing train. I turned to wave a final goodbye to my host and my momentary lapse in concentration proved costly. I felt the slick gentle squish of excrement under my shoe.

I had spent more than a month carefully plodding around France, thoughtfully considering each placement of my foot. I had effectively obsessed over keeping my shoes unspoiled and with my last footstep in France, I had become a statistic.

 But there was no time to waste reasoning what breed of hell hound possessed the biology necessary to produce such amounts of foulness. I hopped on the train, cleaned my shoe and looked ahead to Italy.

My 6 weeks in Italy began in the North, CouchSurfing in Turin, Milan, Lake Gaurda and Verona.

In Venice I was unable to find any CS hosts and was forced to book a hostel for the evening.

Arlo’s House, as it was so cleverly named was the house of a man named Arlo and his family. A few of the more neglected rooms had been filled with cots and called dorm rooms. Strips of grimy wall paper had come loose and bowed from the wall in limped defeat, a curious brown film had settled on the windows and turned them opaque and crudely cut plastic bottles sat on the floor catching the dripping radiator fluid.

It was there in that fetid dwelling that I met Asai Nakamura, a 20 year old Japanese architectural student on the first week of his 5 month trip around Europe and Asia to study architecture and improve his English. Against the wishes and stern warnings of his family he had left the consoling embrace of mother Japan, alone for the first time to brave the perils of the outside world.

Everything had been going swimmingly.

And then he met me.

He, eager to practice his English, and I, desperate to salvage my waning Japanese, decided to hit the Venetian streets in search of the local drink.

Italy claims that Venice is a city, but after 3 days of close assessment, I deduced that Venice is not a city. As accurately as I can surmise Venice is no more than an inhabited island labyrinth. It is a maze, riddled with canals, bridges, dead ends, drop offs, narrow lanes and open piazzas. I couldn’t tell whether most people I passed in the street were in fact residents or simply lost Italians, unable to escape.

As we navigated the network of channels and bridges in search of our first bar, Asai turned to me with enthusiasm and asked if I was a strong drinker.

“Among my people I am considered above average.” I told him.

“Me too.” He bubbled. “Very strong drinker!“

“Honto?”

“Honto!”

This went against all of my personal experiences in Japan. While fond lovers of the drink, the Japanese are not renowned for their tolerance.  In addition to their slight frames, they lack an enzyme important for metabolizing alcohol. Even biology it seems is against them.

I looked at him, my forehead crinkled with scepticism.

“Most Japanese people I know are not such strong drinkers.” I probed.

“I drinking very strong! For me no problem!” he boasted garishly as we entered our first bar.

3 hours later, as paramedics pried Asai’s vomit stained arms from around the cold porcelain of the bar toilet, I couldn’t help but think that he may have slightly exaggerated his drinking prowess.

At first, I had been impressed with Asai. He had kept pace at the first bar as we gulped down our giant steins of beer, and remained with me when we switched to a wine bar. It was the 4^th establishment, a small restaurant with glasses of house red for 80 cents that would prove to be Asai’s downfall.

After a round of shots with a Dutch couple, I noticed that Asai had been missing for some time. I found him in the bathroom, where he had chosen to make his final stand against oblivion.  After 20 minutes of unsuccessful attempts at resuscitation the paramedics showed up in their speed boat, checked his vitals, and brought in the wheelbarrow.

I have been graffiti drunk, loser drunk and black out drunk. I have been Irish drunk, piss-the-bed drunk, Oktoberfest drunk, cling-wrapped-to-a-tree drunk and “I slept with WHO!?” drunk, but wheelbarrow drunk, I have never been.

I got a paramedic to mark the hospital on my map, and took a break from my drinking game with the Dutch couple to watch Asia rolled out of the bar in the basin of the wheel barrow; the result of a small Japanese boy trying to go drink for drink with an accomplished Coaster.

I left Venice two days later as it sank slowly into the Adriatic and I continued further into the south of Italy.

In Florence I wandered the streets around the Duomo, watching street painters push their creations in the city of masters and marvelled at the perfection of Michelangelo’s David.

In Rome, I explored the Coliseum and the Vatican and stared up at the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel and St Peter’s basilica in awestruck silence.

On the Amalfi coast I sipped homemade Limoncello gazing over the lemon orchards and out to the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean.

In Pompeii I spent hours walking alone through the ruins, in the looming shadow of Vesuvius.

From Naples, I caught an overnight ferry to Sicily and reconnected with Jaime, an American girl I had met in Rome, who worked as a teacher at a catholic school and lived in the dorms of a converted convent, still under the watchful eye of the nuns.

During my 4 days in Sicily, I never ventured outside of Palermo. There was so little time to explore that I passed my days in cafes, catching up with Jaime and my evenings, waiting for the nuns to go to sleep before hopping the wrought Iron fence to spend my night hours among the dorm rooms fraternizing with Jaime and the good Christian girls of the convent who, to my delight, turned out not to be such good Christian girls after all.

As Christmas approached I accepted the offer of Tea Simunov, a girl I had met in Milan, to spend the holidays with her and her family in Croatia. So after 2 flights, 2 busses, 2 taxis 1 lost backpack and an exorbitant amount of coin I made it; the Simunov residence in Zadar, Croatia at 11:30PM on Christmas Eve.

I spent a month with the Simunovs between their home on the Croatian coast and their summer cottage on the Island of Dugi Otok. I was welcomed into their home like an old friend and after a hectic several months on the road, the warmth and familiarity of a loving family was rejuvenating. I basked in their hospitality, avariciously gulping down Bobo’s homemade wine, gorging myself on Desa’s delectable cooking and growing very close with Tea in the process.

Bonding with Bobo came early.

On my 3^rd day living with the Simunovs I found myself in an awkward position. After a 2 hour battle with a clogged toilet that was not swinging in my favour I admitted the seriousness of my situation and asked Bobo for any help he could offer.

He doesn’t look too put out. I thought as he rose silently from the sofa and started outside. This probably happens often. Shoddy plumbing no doubt. I’m sure he has an easy solution.

As if in answer to my inner monologue, Bobo proceeded to the shed to retrieve the hammer and chisel and started chipping away at the cement covered emergency valve, which had most definitely never been breached before.

It was while I worked the wire snake around in my hands, shoulder deep in the filth stained pipe that I wondered whether or not a hotel may have been the smarter option.

At that point I had hardly spoken to Bobo beyond formal introductions and had been hoping for some time to talk with him alone, to turn on my charm in an attempt to impress the father of a girl I fancied. And this was how we spent our first moments alone together.

 Well, at least I’m making an impression.

There was only one bathroom in the house, and from that day onward, every time I approached the toilet it was with a kind of wary scepticism, as one might act around a sedated beast.

I would reason with it aloud about how we both had duties to perform, neither of which required any complications and it was best for all parties involved if we performed our respective tasks without incident; which may have perked the curiousity of anyone listening at the door, wondering who it was I was telling to “Just fuckin’ do what you’re supposed to do. Please!”

More than the immediate embarrassment of re-clogging the toilet was the threat of becoming something of a legend that weighed on me. It was more the long term, infamy I was hoping to avoid; the knowledge that years down the line, over a family dinner, when Desa would turn to Tea and inquire about that ‘pleasant young Canadian boy with the mutant bowels.’

After my relaxing month in Croatia it was decided that India would be my next destination and I made the 3 hour journey to Zagreb to deal with the formalities.

It was January 20^th but being somewhat sceptical of the standard of efficiency to be found at the Indian embassy in Croatia, and hoping to spend some time in Turkey, I had booked my flight to New Delhi out of Istanbul on the 6^th of February.   That left a seemingly ample 3 weeks of buffer to process my visa should the lethargy of Indian bureaucracy live up to reputation.

4-5 days – The time embassy officials assured me it would take to process my visa application.

2.5 weeks – The actual time it took to process my application and return my phone calls with word that my visa had been denied.

Unsurprisingly, I was shattered.

“On what grounds!?” I demanded, trying to keep the acid bubbling in my veins, from seeping into the receiver.

“First time to India. Must be applied within home country.” He said with the jaded emotion of a man with no intentions of helping anyone.

“I told the officials in Zagreb I am travelling and haven’t been home in over 7 months! They assured me there wouldn’t be a problem. Why wasn’t I told this when I was at the embassy weeks ago?”

“The Decision made in Canada. Not here.” His answers were deliberately short and infuriating.

“Is there anything that can be done? Someone I can call? An appeal I can write? Anything!?”

“The decision is final.”

I had a flight to Delhi in 4 days and I had no intentions of missing it. I was not giving up on my dream of visiting India so easily.

“Well, I refuse to give up.” I told him matter-of-factly “I’ll contact the Indian High Commission in Canada and beg if I have to. May I have your name please.”

*Click*

It is a strange mix of emotions one feels, something between inconsolable rage, dumb-struck disbelief and juvenile hilarity, when an embassy official hangs up on you in the middle of a visa crisis.

I thought about calling back but decided instead that there was no help to be found in Croatia and shifted my focus to Canada. I marched up stairs, a man possessed, and using my vitriol as motivation, typed a strongly worded e-mail to the Indian High Commission in Canada.

I received a reply within 48 hours that my Visa was waiting for me in Zagreb and I caught the next bus to the Croatian capital.

Upon arriving at the embassy I was called into the commissioner’s office.

The commissioner was behind his desk, looking every bit the part of a diplomat. 2 underlings sat across from him, fidgeting nervously.  I was there on stately business and so had no intentions of openly admiring his facial hair, but it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least to find out Mr. Manbir Singh had procured this reputable position solely on the merits of his moustache.

It should be noted that the Indian Embassy of Croatia does not boast a lavish appearance. It is tucked modestly into the basement of a moderately sized duplex in a quiet Croatian suburb with little to distinguish it as anything but another residence aside from the ostensibly, out-of-place Indian flag hanging above the back door in the alleyway.

The 5 male bureaucrats working there seem to recognize this and compensate for the meagre decor of their bureau with a troupe of striking moustaches.  But of all the moustaches working at the Indian High Embassy of Croatia, undoubtedly it is Mr. Singh’s that is the most impressive.

I watched his moustache twitch and shift in contemplation as he listened to the details of my ordeal and then he spoke.

“Very peculiar Mr. McKenna. This is not accurate, the information that this man is telling you. This is all very much against protocol. Do you remember his name?”

It was one of these two men that had been the cause of my anxiety, of that I was sure. I briefly considered pressing the issue to expose this asshole’s ineptitude to his co-workers and perhaps prevent the same thing from happening to others in the future but I had won my visa, it was feet away, and this close to my prize, I had no intentions of stirring the pot.

“No. I forget his name.”

While seeing the guilty man squirm under the scrutiny of his boss would have been deeply satisfying I was happy admiring the latest addition to my Passport: a 6 month, multiple entry visa to India.

I caught a cab straight from the embassy to the train station and began the longest train ride of my life.

Of the 31 hours spent alone in my cabin on the train from Zagreb to Istanbul, 30 of them were thumb-twiddlingly dull. Hour 27 though, presented some excitement.

At 3:30 AM we screeched to a halt at some remote station on the border of Turkey and filed off the train for a final visa check.

The cost of a visa for a Canadian entering Turkey is 45 euros, triple that of almost all other tourists. It was a cost I had overlooked. Slightly put out by this injustice, I asked in a huff where I could find an ATM.

“No ATM.”

“No ATM?”

“No ATM.”

“Great. No ATM.”

“Yes.”

“Wait. Yes there is an ATM?”

“No. I was saying “yes” to you saying “no ATM.””

I had no intentions of getting sucked into a Laurel and Hardy routine and struck out in search of a sponsor for my visa. I asked a pair of Brits for a loan but they only had Turkish dinars and in a cruel case of irony, Turkey does not accept its own currency for the purchase of visas.

I had minutes to procure the appropriate funds before the train left without me and I was getting desperate. I approached a pair of Turks in line at the duty free store. They were one of the most peculiar looking pair of human beings I have ever seen

One of the men wore an enormous overcoat. He was heavily bearded and so fat he was approaching spherical. The other was delicately frail and his gaunt features seemed awkwardly stretched over his emaciated frame. They looked like the opposite ends of an eating disorder.

And after some anxious pleading, I was able to convince them that my visa into turkey was more important than their duty free purchases and with some reluctance they lent me the required 45 euros and another visa disaster had been narrowly averted. I boarded the train with promises of repaying them in Istanbul.

“Where will I meet you?” I asked as we climbed back aboard the train.

“You will see us”, the fat one told me with a grin, clearly aware of their peculiar appearance.

A few hours later I hopped off the train in Istanbul and spotted them at once.  There they were, my physically opposite duo of saviours, standing beside each other on the platform, looking like the number ten.

I paid back my loan with interest and caught a cab straight to the airport. The week I had intended to spend exploring Istanbul had been reduced to a few hours killed in the airport waiting room.

Thank you Indian bureaucracy.

My gate was announced and I boarded my flight

After 8 months spent gallivanting around Europe, It seemed I had embarked on a trip that was only gaining momentum.

What new adventures would Asia have in store?

In Europe I had survived close encounters with bulls, Frenchmen and bagpipes. I had slept on the streets, gambled my way to the penthouse, hitched all over the continent and put my liver through an ordeal that may never be fully forgiven. I had found, lived in and left paradise. I had snuck into rock shows and convents, partied with bullfighters and rock stars, hospitalized small Japanese architects and overcome visa complications.  As Europe transformed from the details of a city, to an indecipherable blob of colour beneath me, I looked ahead to India with fervent optimism. I knew I was entering a world totally foreign to me, but now, as a seasoned adventurer, I felt confident I would be duly prepared for whatever challenges the sub-continent could throw my way.

It is ceaselessly baffling, just how wrong one man can be.

“Life is ether a daring adventure or nothing. To keep our faces toward change and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable.”

-Hellen Keller

A journal entry…

‘It is December 18th and I have been on the road for exactly six months. Christmas is a week away and while I have received offers, I still have no idea where I will end up. As I write this I gaze out of the 3rd story window of my hotel, overlooking the city of Pompeii. Vehicles crawl around the busy streets, circling the main square, speckled with clusters of bundled Italians in tilley caps, chatting and sharing laughs while the cars honk unnecessarily at the slowness of it all.  There is smoke billowing from rooftops, where within, cozy Pompeians prepare for Christmas and huddle around log fires to fight off brisk December chills. My gaze reaches further out past the city and upon the 2000 year old ruins of Pompeii, in stark, lifeless contrast. Remarkably preserved, they tell of their violent history in a somber, eerie silence.  I look beyond, up at the imposing bulk of Mt. Vesuvius, looming in the distance, the very symbol of the fatal majesty and harsh indifference of nature. I take this all in and reflect on my journey so far, the lands I have explored, the characters with whom I have shared my adventures and the loved ones eager for my return home. A nostalgic smile finds the corners of my mouth and for a brief instant my petty, mortal concerns seem to fall away and I am simply at one with this fleeting moment of my life. I briefly caress what it is I have been chasing from the start and as I flirt with enlightenment there comes, washing over me, one perfect inescapable truth.

…to possess clean socks and underwear is a privilege, not a right…

My eyes dart back inside my hostel room, landing on the bulging white plastic bag in the corner, emitting a subtle funk, confirming this latest epiphany. I try to remember how long it has been since I had clean clothes but I can’t recall. I gather coins for the laundromat and put on my new winter coat, recently bestowed upon me by a concerned Italian Grandmother. It has been a lazy day in Pompeii. I had planned on climbing Vesuvius this morning, but I woke to light rain and a deterring wind and postponed the ascent until tomorrow. I am about to slip out of my room with my laundry when I am struck with another realization. I am long overdue for a travel update. I sit down and open my computer and I start to type.’

My last post recounted the experience of my first few days of San Fermin which took place back in July. That leaves over 7 months of stories to recall; a daunting task considering the sheer amount of content but necessary if I am to finally get caught up to date, and change format to the smaller bi-weekly updates which I have been planning.

So, in light of a 7 month recap, stories will be summarized and characters will be left out, chapters will be skipped and details omitted; for now at least. The voyage up to this point is deserving of a more comprehensive retelling, and it will get one. But for now, a light skimming will have to do.

It only makes sense to continue from exactly where I ended the previous installment, rolling in the grasses of Spain in fits of laughter…

…I spent a few days in the grass with those Ausie boys. They were funny, and enjoyed their drink and had life in them. Strange though, that I was able to run down narrow stone streets with a thousand other frantic souls, feet away from incensed bulls intent on violence, and emerged unscathed but a few nights on the piss with those boys left me blackened and limping.

You see, our campsite boasted an obstacle course, and while we drank in bliss, still giddy over Toney’s misfortune, the campsite staff began setting it up, meters away from us.  Before the third obstacle had been assembled, challenges had been issued.

I was of course dragged into the competition and paired up. Things got physical. I ended up winning my heat but not without injury. In exchange for the Ausies’ respect and bragging rights during the festival, I received a black eye, a scraped and bruised mid section and a deep gash in the calloused part of my heel. I almost looked as bad as Toney.

The next day in the main square of Pamplona, I stood alone amidst the merriment and soaked in the atmosphere with my face towards the sun.

I felt a gentle poke in my side. It was a native, concerned with my injuries. He had come over to offer me liquid therapy. He handed me his beverage and started to walk away but turned after 10 feet to satisfy his curiosity.

He pointed toward my bruises and scrapes with concern and put his index fingers to the sides of his head “Toros?”

“No.” I shook my head as I limped away, “Australians.”

I was approached minutes later by another concerned Spaniard, this one caring for my emotional well being. His name was Rodrigo and he was taking it upon himself to ensure I was having fun during my time in his country. He was curious what it was I had been so feverishly scribbling in my notebook. When I told him my subject was Spain, it was settled. I would be joining him and his countrymen for the remainder of the day and celebrating San Fermin properly and that was that. I hadn`t the energy or desire to protest.

I joined the group of a dozen or so in the square and they welcomed me warmly. They were informed of my plan to travel the world and write a book and immediately dubbed me ‘Hemmingway’ and sloshed over-brimming cups in my direction.

After our introductions they asked me what I thought about Spain and San Fermin. The food? The weather? The women? The festival? Top marks, all around.

I asked them about life in Spain. As it turned out, they were bull fighters from Seville, here to take in the festival and cheer on their friends in the ring.

I asked Rodrigo, how one gets into such a profession.

“I,” he slapped his chest, “am a bullfighter. I love bulls.”

I had just seen the brutality of a bull fight first hand and if loving bulls meant exhausting them, then stabbing their spines and piercing their lungs and heart with razor sharp swords to the thunderous applause of thousands, then yah, he was positively smitten.

I was offered places to stay in Seville if I ever happened to venture that far south. I was stuffed with snacks, pickled with alcohol and stumbled my way back to the bus depot to catch my ride.

2 days before the festival ended, I was convinced that the party had reached its peak.  I was certain I had seen the extent of partying and debauchery that Pamplona could purge from its fabled streets. Then Spain had to go and prove me wrong by winning the World Cup.

I watched the final match from the main square with 20,000 football fanatics. The game itself will not go down in history as the most exciting ever played, but the lightning that crackled across the sky after the winning goal and the nation-wide after party made up for any inadequacies. Our eclectic bunch, freshly purpled and still dripping with sangria, stumbled from bar to bar, joining the locals in an all night fiesta.

Having stretched to capacity, my bodies limit of dance, liquor and how many times one can hear “We Are the Champions” I tottered out of a bar into an unsympathetic sunlight and off towards the bull course. I witnessed my last San Fermin bull run and stumbled back to the bus stop at 8:30AM to wait for the 9:00AM bus that would bring me back to my campsite refuge. I sat on the floor, a spent, sticky mess, and leaned my head back against the cool, cement wall.

I’ll close my eyes for just a moment. I thought. Just for a few minutes… just while.. I wait for….

I woke up at 1:00 PM, sprawled out on the cold concrete of the bus depot, startled and disoriented. My bag was missing. In a hung-over delirium I reasoned what had been stolen: My SLR camera, my laptop, MY NOTEBOOK. Shit.

There was little use in moping. I had learned early on, a valuable travel lesson: The Spanish are not to be trusted.

I returned to my campsite disheartened, but thankful for one thing. I had backed up all of my pictures on my external hard drive hours before leaving the campsite for the World Cup Finals.

A journal entry…

“Well, the festival is officially over and it’s time to head south. I’ll be trying to make it to Barcelona today by the power of my thumb. I should be excited but I still somehow feel a little empty. It’s a lonely feeling being in a campsite by yourself. I always fret a little when a group of newly made friends presses on and leaves me on my own again. It only ever lasts a few hours before I’ve made new acquaintances and we become wrapped up in each other’s adventures but there is always that initial dismal feeling of ‘maybe this time I really won’t find anyone’. This sentiment may be a little more potent than usual today because I had my notebook stolen on Sunday; more specifically all my contacts. I know what will cheer me up: whipping these little kids at ping pong…

…well, I just got embarrassed 6-2. I’ll have to chalk that one up to being out of practice and a couple beers deep…  Small victory: they just lost their ball. It’s time for me to get out of here.”

San Fermin had ended and the campsite had all but cleared out. It was time to hitch-hike south to Barcelona. I filled my leather bota in the public fountain and began the uphill trek out of town.  The roads in and around the village were windy and dangerously narrow; a hitcher’s nightmare. I cut through vineyards and perfectly groomed, golden hayfields for about 2 hours until I came upon a straight stretch suitable for hitching and stuck out my thumb.

Hitching proved easy. Two quick rides and I was in Pamplona and the third was a four hour, dream ride that brought me to Reus, about an hour out of the center of Barcelona. I was dropped off at the train station at midnight. The trains had just stopped running for the night. Given my recent history with falling asleep in public transportation hubs I was a little reluctant, but found a snug corner anyway, tightened my straps and tried to get some shut eye before my morning train. I was promptly kicked out of the station as security locked up for the night.

The area was remote and the city slept. I wandered the shadowy streets of Reus in hopes of last minute accommodations with little luck. The only people I came across were ladies of the night and I would have considered them down right hospitable had they not been demanding money for such kind offers.

After a time I gave up on looking for indoor lodging and switched my focus to as comfortable an outdoor dwelling as I could find. The first few nooks I spotted were occupied and I settled on an alleyway close to the station, hidden in shadow and with a metal gate to rest my back against. While it made for an adequate, temporary roost, the smell of urine was pungent and I did not like the idea of meeting anyone in a dark Spanish alleyway in the middle of the night. My knife stayed in my hand.

Sleep was slow to come. It was smelly, it was dodgy and the gate I had chosen to lean against was part of a major cat route. Every 15 minutes an oblivious kitty would scurry under the gate, almost bump into me and let out a startled shriek which would shake me out of anything resembling sleep.

I tried the age old method of counting sheep but my envisaged lambies, before leaping over their brick wall, kept pissing on it.

The cats eventually abated and I nodded off into a shallow sleep. I caught the first train of the morning into the city. And what should have been a week or two in Barcelona turned into a month.

Absinth bars, good friends, girls, beaches, delectable meals and a botched hitch hiking attempt kept me in the city for longer than intended. But of all cities to get stuck in, I could think of few finer than Barcelona.

I wonder if you guys have ever heard the one about the Canadian, the two Welshman, the Ausy, the American and the Polish girl who all walk into an absinth bar.

You know, the one where everyone gets deliriously drunk, the Yank doesn’t actually make it to the bar because he’s a pussy, the two Welshmen fight a pimp, then each other all over the city, the Ausy drinks himself into a giggling stupor and the Canadian goes home with the Polak and has a free place to stay for four nights. That one.

It’s a good one, I’ll tell you about it sometime.

I did, at one point, try hitching south to Seville to visit Rodrigo and the bullfighters, but there was a language barrier between me and my well intended driver. I was trying to head 1000km south and instead was dropped off 5 minutes down the road at the train station to get back into the city. Discouraged, I returned to Barcelona and took comfort on a bar stool.

While using the Pub’s WiFi, I got to talking with Jim, an Australian who had also been at San Fermin and while showing him some of my photos from the festival he stopped me at this one:

The expertly placed hat was his friend’s and in return for the photo which he blew up and made into a T-shirt for his friend’s birthday he let me stay at his illegal hostel in the city center for free.

It was a moderately sized apartment for 4 with 16 people, all of them quite insane, calling it home. And it was, without compare, the most disgusting dwelling I have ever had the pleasure of staying in. The graffiti on the wall came off on your skin when you touched it, dirty laundry, beer cans, garbage and dishes laid disregarded around the living room. There were life forms growing in the sink as yet unknown to science and using the kitchen for anything other than boiling water was a serious health risk. The ‘beds’ were more often than not, any bare spots on the ground that you could find and you somehow felt dirtier after using the shower than before. I threw my pack in a corner and made myself right at home.

Making friends with Holly, Alan and Saurin, the 3 Irish in the house, proved easy. I purchased a flat of beer for the group and before the first dozen cans had been drained, I had been offered accommodations in Dublin.

A few nights out with my new friends and I eventually abandoned my plan of southern Spain. I flew back to England and was in London just long enough to meet my family, hang with Pria for a few days and set off with my new travel partner, Rowan, for a few weeks in Scotland.

We arrived in Edinburgh during the world’s largest performing arts festival. Fringe Fest was in full swing and the city was alive with crowds and performers. Day and night the streets and pubs were packed with dance, drama, magic, music and comedy and we stumbled over each other down each narrow close, from one pub to the next, taking in our fill of the arts, scotch and the Scottish cuisine (If Haggis, deep fried mars bars and baked potatoes can be deemed ‘cuisine’).

Mike Meyers described the food of my father’s homeland brilliantly when he said “I think most Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.”

Before we bid farewell to Scotland we decided to take a 3 day tour of the country. We would leave Edinburgh, make a brief stop at Stirling castle and on up through the highlands to the Isle of Skye for a night. From Skye we would drive West to Loch Ness and back down to Edinburgh.

A few hours outside of Edinburgh, as we meandered north, the gentle river valleys, and sweeping plains of the lowlands gave way to the crags and rocky cliffs of the Highlands. I knew that experiencing the magnificence of this landscape through the window of a bus just wouldn’t suffice.

A journal entry…

“I wanted to walk through every field and sleep under every lone tree, to feel the country like it ought to be felt; every wisp of wind, ray of sun and drop of rain on my face. Chris revved the engine and we bounced along the windy road. I made a silent promise to Scotland that I would be back to wander these highlands proper someday as we zipped along though the drizzle.”

We spent our first night on the Isle of Skye, in a quaint family B&B. We had been made aware that their young son was an accomplished bagpiper, and after returning home late from a scotch fueled evening with Row, I made the silly request of our hosts to hear their son’s piping before we left the following morning. So at 7:30AM groggy and slumped over my breakfast, hardly remembering having expressed this desire, their son brought his bagpipes into the 12×12 dining room and performed what can only be described as a full on cochlear molestation.

The bagpipes have their fair share of detractors. I am not one of them. There is a quality to their sound that is mournfully poetic and should be appreciated, but by god, it is something that should be appreciated from a distance.

About the pipes, Alfred Hitchcock once said “I understand the inventor of the bagpipes was inspired when he saw a man carrying an indignant, asthmatic pig under his arm. Unfortunately the man-made sound never equaled the purity of the sound achieved by the pig.”

There is even a Scottish proverb that says; if thy neighbor offends thee, give each of his children bagpipes.

I don’t know whether or not the parents had offended one of their neighbors or if I had offended anyone with my absurd request but we were blasted, at close range with a sensory assault that made the yokes of my eggs quiver and my morning coffee unnecessary.

Shortly after our return to Edinburgh I parted ways with Rowan, as she flew off to Germany to meet Anthony and I took a ferry across the water to Ireland with the sole purpose of drinking the country dry of Guinness.

In my first week in Ireland I spent a few nights catching up with my old friend, Andrew Wright and woke up, plenty of mornings on unfamiliar sofas, in the living rooms of strangers I had met in pubs. It is safe to say I grew quite fond of the Irish.

A journal entry…

“There is a undeniable beauty to this city, a pleasance and warmness found not in grandiose architecture, or great monuments but found sitting on its pub stools and park benches, found driving its taxis and busses and walking its cobbled streets. The true beauty and charm of Dublin are its people; genuinely kind, engaging and cheerful. Here, I am not politely tolerated as a tourist but welcomed and celebrated like an old friend. ”

I soon met the Irish trio and we continued on from where we had left off in Spain. I slept at Saurin’s gaf in Rathmines and followed my mad, young, escorts around the city from the banks of the River Liffey to the tables of their favourite pubs and restaurants.

A journal entry…

“I had been in Ireland for 5 days and while yearning to explore the city and experience the culture, I had seen little more than the inside of pubs. It was while with a group of Irish lads, sipping on my 3^rd Guinness before noon that I reasoned I was in fact having a most genuine Dublin experience.”

One of my fondest and most bizarre memories of Ireland came when our motley foursome decided we were sneaking into Electric Picnic, one of Ireland’s largest music festivals, held on a massive plot of private land in the woods outside a tiny village called Stradbally. Without any semblance of a plan we made the 2 hour drive into the Irish countryside, parked our ride in a field and did the only thing that we could all agree on, we walked into the village to get drunk and consider a way to sneak in without paying the €250 ticket price.

Phase one of the plan was accomplished with little more than a bottle of vodka, but phase 2; breaching the 15 foot high ,outer-wall to the festival still needed some discussion. A few ideas were flung around, examining the perimeter for weak points, creating a diversion, rushing the gate, none of which made a lot of sense considering the members of our group. Saurin was wearing a bright yellow, full body, Pikachu costume and Holly was wearing a giant Indian head dress. Not exactly the most covert bunch.

But before any of these foolhardy ideas were put into action, Alan and Saurin approached me with a breakthrough. They had met a man named John Lynch in the market who lived adjacent to the field where the festival was being held. He had been informed of our plan and was eager to aid in our infiltration. He had told the boys to knock on his bright orange front door after dusk and he would see what he could do to help.

I wasn’t sure if the John was taking the piss out of the boys or if the boys were taking the piss out of me, but I felt someone’s piss was being unlawfully taken.  Sure enough though, after dark, our group, which had grown to about 10, walked the main street of the village for less than 5 minutes before we came to a bright orange door.

We knocked.

Old Johnny Lynch, stuck his head out the door with a mischievous grin and motioned for us to go around the side. He opened the gate to the yard and herded us all in to the garage eagerly “In ya get, in ya get.”

I was stuck pondering for a moment, why there was a large, black hearse parked in the garage, but once I saw the assortment of coffins it made sense. Old Johnny was the village undertaker.

Drunk and curious we explored his cluttered garage for 15 minutes, posing for photos in the hearse and with the coffins.

He was a strange duck but true to his word, John brought us outside, told us to keep quiet, set up a ladder against the rock wall at the back of his property, another on the opposite side and hustled us over the wall, one by one, into the thicket on the other side.

It wasn’t long after we were safely inside that we were all separated. I spent two unforgettable nights in the woods meeting new friends, partying, enjoying the music and evading security and somewhere in between it all I managed to meet another Connor Mckenna.

The ‘Most Random Travel Partner Ever’ award goes Trenna, daughter of the legendary country singer Steve Earl, who I met in Dublin on a night out with the lads and accompanied, out west to Galway. It was here I had my first real taste of Irish music. Irish quartets in Galway pubs held sway over my emotions. The same night they had me pulling girls out of chairs, onto the dance floor for a jig, they had me, a few songs later, listening silently, shedding a tear into my Guinness. There is something about the music of my ancestors, combined with a few pints that makes me susceptible to passionate bouts of veneration. To quote Tyler Durden, it makes me “go a big rubbery one.”

I was invited into an afterhours bar and heard young men sing old songs of rebellion over glasses of whiskey to silent, smoky drunks who, raised their glasses in reverent approval and gave cries for “Another tune!”

I was always asked if I had something to sing and to my eternal shame, I never did.

Near the end of my time in Ireland I hitched out to the Cliffs of Moher and stood in humbled awe, looking out to sea, from atop the 650ft cliffs that surely, must have been regarded by someone at sometime as being the edge of the world.

I never did drink all the Guinness in the country, but believe me when I say that I put up a valiant effort. I was of course, not alone in my efforts. It seems there is an ongoing race in Ireland between those trying to consume and those trying to stock the dark tasty brew. I heard this idea most most eloquently expressed in a pub restroom in Galway, when an Irishman, in the midst of proving his own statement, exclaimed to no one in particular. “The Irish are just a complicated machine for turning Guinness into piss.”

I was reluctant to leave Ireland but it was time to meet Anthony in Prague and I made the flight, excited to see what Eastern Europe had to offer. We stayed with Anthony’s buddy from U-Vic. His name was Kamen and he was, as Anth accurately described, “The most typically Bulgarian looking person you could think of.”

We spent a few days in Prague enjoying the historic city but couldn’t linger long, as we had commitments in Munich. I had maintained contact with my two Bavarian roommates, Anita and Caro, from my first night in England and they expected me and Anthony in Germany for the last weekend of Oktoberfest.

Waiting for our train to Munich in the station we joined the mass of people gathered beneath the digital board waiting for our departure platform to be announced. After some impatient milling about, the platform was revealed and what seemed like an entire train station moved in unison, all bound for platform J, in a mass migration to rival any grazing wildebeest showcased on Nat Geo. The season was at hand, our herd was healthy and strong, we had no natural predators and driven by inherent instincts, we moved quickly and thirstily to our promised wetlands.

We arrived at Anita’s house in the evening and chatted with her family over homecooked Sausages, and beer. We met Caro for a late evening on the town, and I suffered for it the next day.

We were up and adorned in lederhosen before the sun and caught the early morning train into Munich, armed with no less than a crateful of 750ml beers for the ride. I make it a regular practice NOT to get blackout drunk before 10:00AM but there are times in a man’s life when he simply must skull his drink. When you are in Munich at Oktoberfest, dressed in traditional garb and you are told by a sexy Bavarian wearing a revealing dirndl to finish your beer, you bloody well finish it.

I was three sheets to the wind by the time we arrived at the giant beer tents of the festival. The four of us found seats on the upper level, overlooking the hundreds of giant tables surrounding the raised square stage on which a brass band belted out traditional Bavarian drinking tunes for the thousands of costumed drinkers filling the enormous pavilion.

It was somewhere around the 2 hour mark when my powers of communication started to break down. I remember little of the last half inside the tent, or the train ride back, but I was informed I had a long, restful afternoon nap. Hardly conduct befitting a Beer Olympian, much less a gold medalist.

Determined to represent my country in a more respectable showing, on our last day in Germany, Anth and I made the journey back into the city with the priority of staying conscious for more than a few hours. Our routine was the same; polish off a minimum of 6 beers on the train. Arrive at the station. Find the tents. Continue aforementioned sloppiness.

The first morning we had had the girls to lead the way to the tents, this time around we played ‘follow the Lederhosen’ and eventually attached ourselves to some locals for another, longer, more successful, more conscious, all day bender. We embraced our German compatriots, arms on shoulders, and swayed back and forth to the music, fumbling our way through German drinking songs. We gorged on pretzels and sausages and chicken and more than kept pace with our steins. We represented like true Coasters. And with his golden locks and bright blue eyes Anthony even looked more German than the majority of the festival.

We drank till the late afternoon and caught the evening train back to Kamen’s place in Prague. We were soon off again as the three of us decided to spend our last weekend together in Bratislava, Slovakia. My knowledge of Eastern Europe was, to say the least, limited and as none of us had ever been to Slovakia, whatever notions I had of Bratislava, I had formed from this video: Bratislava

We made the 4 hour drive from Prague and arrived after dark in the capital. We checked into a hotel with a stunning concierge. We all fell in love with her immediately.

We got spruced up and headed out for a taste of the Slovakian night life.

It was about 4:00AM when we returned to the hotel, Kamen and I took a seat at the Lobby bar and Anth hopped online at the computer just behind us. We ordered drinks and flirted with the gorgeous Slovakian bartender/concierge. We were soon joined by 2 French guys who before long got into an argument with the bartender about not wanting to pay in advance for a drink. They were upset that a tab couldn’t be added to their room bill. The bartender insisted it was policy, Kamen and I confirmed that we too were paying upfront, but the sulky pair took this inconvenience personally and instead of accepting reality and enjoying their drinks, they decided to hurl insults at the bartender for 10 minutes from their barstools.

Anth was behind me on the computer, Kamen had disappeared, and I listened to the two of them abuse this girl for exactly as long as I could stand it. I tried my hand at civility. I asked them politely, to refrain and was told somewhat uncouthly, to go fuck myself.

That’s when I did something that I have only ever done 3 times in my entire life. I got in a fist fight.

I don’t consider myself a violent or aggressive guy. I aim to get along with everyone and  have a good time  over any sort of confrontation, but every so often when the stars are aligned just so, and I have a suitable amount of drink in me, and a pair of French assholes won’t stop harassing a hot Slovakian bartender, a good scrap becomes the only option.

I extended to them, a less than cordial invitation to join me in the fresh air, to which they less than graciously accepted. We got up from our stools and started for the door in an orderly line. I realized I was now making my way outside in between two guys eager to teach me lessons in minding my own business. Adrenaline took over and I slanted the odds.

After 5 steps I turned sharply and landed a clean right cross to the bigger mans nose. He was caught off guard and dropped. The smaller man turned but before he had time to react I had him by the jacket and with the momentum of 3 good strides released him and sent him flailing across the lobby floor. I had aimed for the open door, but a vacuum had been left in the way. He tripped over it and lay sprawled in an awkward heap in front of the entrance. I knew a 2 on 1 in close quarters was not an ideal place to start or finish a fight and without stopping my momentum jumped over the Frenchman in the doorway.

And as I sailed over the downed Frenchman into the open night air and prepared for a fight against 2 men, I saw a sight that rivaled any Irish cliffs or Scottish Highlands. My large Bulgarian friend was to my right, at the foot of the stairs, having a smoke. As I leapt down the steps I summarized the events of the past 5 minutes as concisely as I could.

“WE’RE IN A FIGHT!”

He looked at me with the slightest tinge of surprise and immediately turned his sights toward the door with determined malevolence. I turned as well, to face the inevitable emergence of two, vengeful Frenchman.

Out they came, smaller one first, bigger one right behind. The shorter one made his way down the steps and charged right for me, clearly unappreciative of his trip across the lobby. The bigger man made a line for Kamen.

I knew Kamen could handle himself and focused on the approaching threat. I knew already what both of us were going to do. I squared up as if to box, and the Frenchman met me on the concrete, still running and swung high at my head; a mistake.

I dropped levels, under his punch and grabbed the back of his thighs in the textbook form that had won me ‘Junior Tackler of the Year’ in high school rugby. He was easy to lift, and easier to slam down. The sudden stop against the pavement forced a wince from his mouth as it drove the wind and the senses out of him. A few calculated punches and he was no longer a threat. I looked up, ready to help Kamen. Kamen stood over the other Frenchman dominantly, holding him by the collar.

Anthony, ever the gentleman, made sure to type ‘hold on, be right back’ in his three Facebook chats before running outside, ready to ‘throw a sleeper on someone.’ But by the time he made it outside there was no fight left in either of them.

The smaller man stirred and eventually got back to his feet. He zig-zagged his way to his friend, and Kamen pushed them both inside with one hand, advising them to go to sleep.

The sheer confidence of the man was amazing. I looked over at Kamen to give him a nod of approval and to my astonishment, saw him take a slow, relaxed drag off his cigarette. He hadn’t even put down his smoke!

The two Frenchmen milled about inside the lobby for a moment, no doubt debating admitting defeat or risking another attempt at redemption. While I shared a smoke with Kamen, they returned to their room and we did shortly after. I changed out of my ripped shirt and washed the blood from my knuckles, assuming the police would be showing up shortly.

No more than 5 minutes after our return to our room, we peered out the window to the flashing of police lights. Soon after, two officers knocked and entered our room. Before anything, they asked to look at my knuckles. I explained my version of the events, corroborated by a hotel attendant and they left appeased.

The next night after the club I returned to the Hotel ahead of the others and sat down at the lobby bar. I apologized to the bar tender for last night’s rowdiness. She pointed over my shoulder. The bigger of the two Frenchmen was sitting behind me on the computer. He turned his mangled face towards me. I invited him over for a beer, we made peace, and after one final shirtless challenge to an arm wrestle which he lost, we bought vodka shots and retired to our respective rooms as Facebook friends.

The next day our trio departed to Vienna, a mere 30 minutes drive. An uneventful week in Vienna, saw Anthony and I part ways. He made the flight to Bangkok to meet another friend, while I stayed behind to continue my tour through Europe. I took in the sights and sounds of Vienna, drawing open stares from the Austrians whenever I would wear my shorts and flip flops in the cool autumn weather.

I celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving with a few of my countrywomen in a hostel bar, and over shots, we discussed with fond recollection, all of our favourite holiday foods. There may not have been any of my father’s turkey or my sister-in-law’s stuffing on hand, but in good company far away from home we gave our thanks and turned in as memorable a Thanksgiving as I can remember.

Before leaving Vienna I CouchSurfed with a lovely trio of Swiss girls who cooked me dinner, stuffed me with chocolate and, over bottles of wine, convinced me that Switzerland ought to be my next destination. There were no arguments from my side and within a few days, I was on a train to the Swiss capital.

My stay in Zurich was a brief one. Any city that charges $10 for an egg McMuffin is officially out of my price range. And as if the city’s prices couldn’t relieve me of my money fast enough, the one and only night I spent in an overpriced hostel, one of my roommates made an early morning departure, with the remaining contents of my wallet… a Spaniard probably.

I had met some Irish boys in Vienna who had given me their address in Switzerland. I escaped the costly clutches of Zurich and spent a few days with the lads in St. Gallans, shooting pool and chasing girls.

From Switzerland, I caught an overnight train to Holland. I sat with a group of American students with a week off from their studies in Vienna. Introductions turned into friendly laughs and before long a bottle of vodka had made an appearance.

I was eager to reach Amsterdam. After the last few months my liver and I had been looking forward to a restful few weeks in the infamous marijuana capital of the world. Little did I know that in less than ten days I would be taking part in a Dutch sex show, drunk, on stage, defiling a leather-clad dominatrix to the applause of hundreds, in time with nauseating European techno.

The Americans were gabbing on about their studies and my focus had shifted out the train window. I had money in the bank and vodka in my blood and the world was laid out before me to explore as thoroughly or as haphazardly as I wished. An overwhelming feeling of freedom and contentment settled over me and sent a satisfying tingle up and down the back of my neck.

The Americans were discussing the anxiety of their upcoming exams but I was paying little attention. I just smiled, gazing out the window, watching Switzerland and my life, whip by under the moonlight.

 

“It is difficult to speak adequately or justly of London. It is not a pleasant place; it is not agreeable or easy or exempt from reproach. It is only magnificent!”

-Henry James

 

I arrived in Gatwick airport at 7:00AM local time, but my body wasn’t buying it. We had chased the sun the entire flight from Vancouver to London but my internal clock was ticking at 11:00PM. After being herded through security and having a similar chat with British Customs as I had had with their Canadian counterparts, I boarded a train bound for the center of London and had a few celebratory beers to mark the official commencement of my adventure. I hopped off an hour later at Victoria station, in central London and marvelled at the size of it.

 It isn’t until you are standing in the middle of a major train station in an unfamiliar metropolis, wearing a cumbersome back-pack, tired, tipsy, and without any idea of where to go or how to get there, that the full gravity of the situation begins to sink in.

As exhausted as I was, food and internet were obvious and immediate concerns.  After a long, bemused walk around Victoria station, I eventually happened upon a pub with cold lager, hot food and Wi-Fi. I filled my gullet, did some quick research and set off towards a cheap hostel of the most debaucherous repute.

Unremarkably, it was full. I found the closest one to it.

The girl behind the desk said something about room prices in an eastern European accent but I made little sense of it. The energy usually reserved for interpreting sounds, was at the moment, totally focused on keeping my eyelids unshut. I handed her a fistful of pounds, pocketed my room key and slid down the hallway wall in the direction of my bed.

I opened the door of my 4 man room to a welcome silence. I placed my customary hostel-8-pack-of-instant-friendship on the window sill, slung my pack in the corner, laid on the bottom bunk and gave in to weariness.

I woke up with a start. It was 8:00PM.

 I was fully clothed and disoriented. I cracked a beer and processed my surroundings. There is something quite lonely about an empty hostel room, a place that should be full of greetings and travel stories, listless and vacant. I began to fret that my first night in London, a Saturday, may be spent alone and that my hostel-8-pack-of-instant-friendship might turn into my friendless-8-pack-of-loathsome-solitude. I sipped the second beer under a scowl. I had been in England just over 12 hours and I had already begun to reconsider the whole notion of travelling alone.

And then I went downstairs.

A hostel common room is a stimulating place.  It’s a place where individuals with their own tales and adventures all converge and overlap and get wrapped up in each other’s lives. It’s a place where crowds huddle around World Cup games to cheer on their teams over the chatter of keyboards and the clamour of pots. It’s a place where travel stories are exchanged as passionately as the beers are guzzled.  It’s a place where I feel in my element.

In no less than ten minutes my friendly banter with a pair of siblings from Oregon had turned into offers of free Patron, and with such an opportunity to strengthen my kinship with my Southern brothers and sisters, I would have been neglecting a diplomatic duty had I refused . The fact that Patron sells for $129 a bottle is inconsequential.  This was American hospitality, catering to Canadian charm with Mexican alcohol; a truly glorious example of North American unity.

We decided we would continue improving international relations in the form of indulgent drinking at a nearby nightclub and I made my way upstairs to freshen up for the evening.

I can say with the utmost sincerity that there are worse things in life than returning to a previously lonely room, to find you are now sharing it with 2 beautiful Bavarian girls. A few brief minutes of introduction and chatter, and the girls had confirmed with relief, I was neither Italian nor East German. The only thing these two particular Bavarians despised more than the fall of the Berlin wall was the success, and excessive diving of the Italian soccer team. I agreed adamantly about the diving, and in doing so, made 2 friends quicker than I can boast with any 8 pack of beer. I now have 2 places to stay in Munich. Oktoberfest, here I come.

And this is how it went for my first 4 days in London; new hostels, new friends and parties, using the abundance of World Cup games to justify each of my hangovers.

On my 5^th day, the hostel where I had been staying was fully booked, as were most around the city. My reluctance to bother my relatives was eclipsed by my unwillingness to sleep on the street and I found myself in a phone booth dialling my father’s cousin’s daughter Rachel, a woman who I had never met, to ask for her kindred charity.

She sounded genuinely happy to hear from me and assured me that if I wanted to stop by in the next couple of days I would be well received. Next couple of days? This poor woman was obviously unfamiliar with my reckless spontaneity. She was caught a little off guard when I explained that I had more immediate accommodations in mind. Luckily for me, Mrs. Rachel Palmer’s hospitality is nothing short of enviable. I asked for directions and told her I would be there in an hour.

Necessity trumps prudishness every time.

I was staying with an incredible family, with my own comfy bed, in a beautiful North London home, with cousins as acting guides in a country with a common language. I even had my friend Pria, a fellow Sunshine Coaster, to reminisce and -more importantly- dance with. It felt like slipping into a hot bath more than diving headfirst into the deep end.

I had even scored a date with a complete stranger through no effort of my own.

Spontaneously, I had received an alluring message from a fellow couch surfer. It was from a Thai girl, named Somthip Chaloonpinyosawat (say that three times fast. Hell, say it one time, slow). The message read as follows.

‘I saw you are traveilling in London and so do I. How long will you be here? Would you like to discover London together or coffee or drink?

Cheers
Ice’

I did what any warm blooded, heterosexual man would do at that moment. I immediately and scrupulously scoured her profile for any pictures I could find. I was pleasantly surprised. I accepted her offer and made plans to catch a train together to the beachside city of Brighton the following day.

I received a prompt confirmation and was informed that Ice’s friend B would be joining us. I was positively tickled by the idea.

But during a more thorough investigation of her profile, I came across something that held my attention in a vice grip. Among her many couchsurfing references, all of them positive, I found one that set off alarm bells. It was this:

‘Ice is a formidable girl, it is the person whom I recommend. She(it) well makes you visit Toulouse. She(it) is brilliant. She(it) misses me enormously. In quant your return in France my love. I love you trés hardly my baby.’

Now, ignoring the plentiful, and humorous grammatical errors, and aside from over-analyzing what it means to love someone ‘trés hardly’, there was a worrying pronominal consistency in that message. Why did this bloody Frenchman keep calling Somthip (it)?

Normally I wouldn’t have registered the minor detail. I would have left her profile, giddy such an attractive woman had approached me out of the blue and excited for our date but for the undeniable fact that Thailand is famous for its staggering abundance of lady-boys and prostidudes.

As much as I wanted to disregard the Frenchman’s short reference, the realist in me could not help but acknowledge the fact that I had likely just planned a day trip to a beach with a pair of He-shes.

Now, I consider myself an open minded fellow. I try to avoid prejudice in all its ugly forms. It is a poison, too easily spread and too corrosive to buy into. That being said, I re-examined those photos with hawk-eyed scrutiny. I considered the construction of every facial bone, every fold, curve, bulge or blemish. I conducted a thorough investigation for anything resembling an Adam’s apple and acutely analyzed every follicle of renegade body hair.

My inner sleuth was appeased. I knew how total and convincing some of these operations could be, but there was nothing in Somthip’s profile that led me to believe I was going to the beach with anyone but an attractive Thai girl. Nothing except for 3 bracketed ‘it’s that would not go away. And ‘Ice’ was a little suspicious. Common among, WWF stars, professional fighters, singers and strippers, rarely does one introduce themselves under a one syllable moniker (Ce?). Was it common practice amongst Thai lady-boys? My inner pessimist said it was so, my inner optimist laughed at the thought, my inner lady boy told me to “sstop being sso ssilly”.

I slept in the next day and had to rush to the small train platform in Winchmore Hill to get into the city. The train hadn’t arrived by the time I got there. I threw on my headphones and zoned out while I waited. Midway through ‘Good Day Sunshine’, reality, suddenly and contemptuously came piercing through Mr. McCartney’s 2^nd verse in the form of a single distressing thought; My train should have been here minutes ago. I looked at the clock. 9 minutes ago. I glanced up at the digital schedule on the wall.

Bright, sweeping LED lights drove the harsh truth home. NO TRAINS TODAY FROM SOUTHGATE TO WINCHMORE… TRACK UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

It was at that precise moment I was approached by an old friend. Our conversation was brief and familiar. It went thusly:

“Hi Connor!”

“Oh Hi Panic! What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’ve just come to set in.”

“Of course you have. Appropriate timing. Do your thing.”

“You know the drill.”

I sprinted up the stairs towards the exit, already reasoning my best option. Trains were out, buses were too slow, hitching was laughable and so a taxi, expensive as it was, was my only option. A cab was hailed, situation was explained, and my cabbie, Paul, set off towards London Bridge Station at a speed better suited for the Autobahn than the city of London. We rode a green wave through empty Sunday streets (my only saving grace). We arrived at the station with 4 minutes to spare. Even Paul could barely believe it.

It was while running to the ticket machine that the absurdity of the situation hit me. I now had 3 and a half minutes to buy a ticket, find the platform and board a train, before I scoured it for 2 potential He-she’s I had never met so we could all go play at the beach together.

There were 3 ticket machines, I chose the middle one; a bad choice.

Only after selecting and confirming my ticket, pulling out my cash and looking for a slot to jam it in, did I realize this particular machine was of the ‘card only’ variety.

25 precious seconds, wasted.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I ‘body checked’ the tiny blonde woman approaching the adjacent ticket machine, but my size advantage was utilized. She could tell by the gritty determination in my eyes that I was not to be trifled with. She diminished back into the line with a ‘snort’ and I printed my ticket.

The sprint to the train was a short one. To my chagrin it was hardly 30 paces, a straight shot, from the ticket machine. I was on board a full minute before the train doors closed; eons by my standards.

Now to find my lady-boys.

At this point it didn’t matter. After the ordeal to make the train and the 40 quid it cost me to get there, I was going to have a party on the beach with these two Thais, Ice and B, whether it was to be a sausage party or not.

The train lurched away from the station and I walked the aisle, surveying the passengers for Somthip, her face now indelibly etched into my psyche from the time spent poring over her photos. I walked the entire train from back to front. Nothing. It was a purposeful search, but I knew I had missed some seats.

I sat down in an empty seat at the front of the train and figured I’d give (it) a call.

I borrowed a stranger’s cell and called the number I had jotted down that morning.

It was a jarring moment, hard to put into words. “Hello?”

It was a single word that confirmed all of my absurd trepidations. The voice that answered was deeper than my own.

I asked hesitantly, clenched and with squinted eyes, as if about to be struck “Somthip?”

“What? Som-what? Connor?”

My shock was as intense as it was brief. I recognized the voice as my cousin’s.

“Chris?”

And so I filled him in on my scenario and how I must have copied down the wrong number in my haste that morning. That realization was both a major inconvenience and a colossal relief at the same time. He wished me luck and I continued my search.

On my way back through the train I examined each seat much closer. Perhaps I was a little too prying. I was getting all kinds of unkind stares in return. I sat down in defeat with 2 cars yet to be checked.

The couple across from me was from Ontario, recently moved to London. When I told them I was from Sechelt he let out a laugh. He had kayaked all over the Sunshine Coast (I refuse to quote an incessant Disney song). I chatted with them almost the entire trip. They found my predicament amusing and agreed to watch my stuff while I searched the rest of the train in the last 10 minutes before arrival.

They were sitting precisely 4 rows away. B and Ice. We recognized each other immediately. We all had a good laugh over my trying morning which set the tone for what turned out to be a tremendous day, full of sun, beaches, fish and chips carnival rides and beers. I even stopped examining their bodies for traces of sex change operations after the first hour. They were and always had been females (I’m almost completely certain).

We caught a late train back to London and said our fond farewells.

 I will be catching up with Ice in Marseille and B in Bangkok if the travel gods see it so.

So after a few more days in London it was time to head to Manchester to see an old couch surfing friend, Jim. The running of the bulls was a week away and it was time to leave my comfortably hot bath of London and head north. Manchester with Jim would hardly be the deep end and I would still have water wings. It would take a few days in Spain to completely relieve me of those (among other things).

The night I left, I met Pria in the small town of St. Albans. We bought food and wine and headed to the park for a late picnic beside some ancient Roman ruins. We talked and ate and laughed into the evening until it was time for me to leave. We said our goodbyes and I boarded my train north. It was invigorating being on the road again and to be on my way to see my friend for the first time in years.

I nodded off on the train to Manchester and dreamt. I can’t say I remember any images of my dream, but the sound stuck with me. It was a sound that began faint as if in the distance, and grew louder. It was a sound that was both beckoning and threatening at once. I fell asleep and dreamt of the deep guttural snorts of disgruntled Pamplona bulls.