Posts by Berck

I’m at Jim’s flat in London, and will be headed back to Somerset with Michael tomorrow morning provided all goes well. The following is a detailed, though not necessarily exciting account of the Glastonbury Pop Festival.
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Lloyd, a friend of Dad and the O’Briens, has a friend named Vince who sells food for a living. Lloyd told me that Vince needed some more people to work for him at this Glastonbury Festival, about which I knew nothing at the time, and that I would be doing something relating to the sale of hamburgers. I would be paid 4 pounds/hr, get in free (90 pound/$135 ticket), and eat free, staying at Glastonbury Thursday to Sunday. I said, “Sure, why not…”

Well, as time went on, and I told people I would be working at this festival I got some interesting looks, and people kept dropping hints about the size and insanity of the festival. I began to wonder…

No need, before long, all my questions were answered. Tuesday night I got a message that Vince’s daughter would come by the O’Brien’s and pick me up tomorrow, Wednesday the 22 at 8am. Too bloody early in the morning, but I got ready to go. Lucy showed up at about 8.45 to pick me up. I told the O’Brien’s goodbye, Peter waved at me from his window, I tossed my backpack into the boot, and hopped in. We got to Vince’s house, but no one was there. Lucy says that this guy Simon was supposed to take me to the festival with him, as she had lessons to attend that day. She called various people, and told me that she would take me to Simon’s house in Wells and that Simon would take me to the festival. She handed me piece of paper that said “THE TICKET” on it, and a date and signature and stuff. Didn’t say what THE TICKET was for, I suppose it didn’t have to.

Lucy drove us to the house that was presumably Simon’s, whoever Simon was, and I followed her around the back of the house where she knocked on an unanswered door for some time. Eventually from around the other side of the house, a man yelled “What do you want?” Around the corner stepped a somewhat overweight older man without much of his grey hair left on his head. He smiled at Lucy and we walked around the house and in the front door.

I stood in the kitchen for awhile, and the older man shouted up the stairs. Eventually a short fat guy who looked about 20 stumbled down the stairs, having obviously just woken up. His neck was covered with bruises, to which Lucy pointed at and laughed, saying something about “love bites”. Lucy left and Simon pointed to the couch and told me to watch TV. I took a nap instead.

I woke up when a girl walked in, introduced herself as Simon’s girlfriend, and turned on the TV and proceeded to watch some pointless talk show about men and women and sex with a yelling audience. I don’t remember much more about it, as I didn’t really pay attention but tried unsuccessfully to sleep.

Simon came and he and Kate (I think that was her name…) proceeded to do things that made smacking noises on the other couch. I fell asleep, woke up, and looked at my watch. It was noon. I was somewhat annoyed at having been dragged out of bed so early for nothing. I asked Simon when we were going to go. “When me mate gets here to pick us up.” Simon speaks with a thick cockney accent and I can barely understand him at all. His mate, Butch, showed up around 1pm in an ancient, beat-up VW-Golf, into which the four of us and our luggage barely fit.

Butch dropped Simon and I off, after much prolonged goodbyes between Simon and Kate during which Butch threatened to just leave. Eventually Simon and I trudged toward “Pedestrian Gate 1.”

I should point out at this time that Simon was told several times in my presence that I could only get in at gate 2, because that was the only place I could get a wrist band that signified I was staff. I reminded him of this and he shrugged and said something I didn’t understand. Great, I figured, I’m going to be lost in this festival with a pack on my back and no idea where to go because Simon’s already got a band, and he’ll probably just march right in. I decided not to let it bother me, I’d figure something out.

Simon marched right in through the gate that said “RE-ENTRIES ONLY” and told me to follow him. I did, and handed the person at the gate my ticket. She pointed at a man a few feet away, and told me to give him my ticket. I did, and he handed it to the guy next to him who proceeded to very carefully tear it in half down the middle. The first guy asked for my wrist and he placed a blue band that said “Glastonbury 2000” on it on my wrist. I felt like a cow, and was glad I was merely tagged and not branded. The second bloke handed me the bottom half of my ticket and said I’d need it again. I wondered what for. I never found out, as no one ever asked for it.

Simon and I walked for a good half an hour through a good bit of mud, stopping to let Simon rest. He said that I should be glad the mud wasn’t knee-deep like it was two years ago. I didn’t believe him until I saw pictures from two years ago. And the year before that. Several feet of mud covered many of the festival fields.

Simon and I walked through endless fields of tents and vans and so on. Eventually we got to a trailer that said “British Meat Carvery and Grill”. I met Vince, who gave me an orange band to put on my wrist that would allow me to get into “the compound” where I was to pitch my tent. I walked around with Simon, and found a spot to put my tent in between a truck and another tent.

Vince gave me an apron and showed me how to make roast pork rolls, roast beef rolls, roast spuds and gravy, bacon rolls, bacon and egg rolls. I worked for 6 hours that day, and ate a good many roast spuds and gravy. “Roast Spuds and Gravy” is something of a misnomer since they’re actually fried, and we made the “gravy” from powder. I think they were actually roasted partly, then frozen before Vince bought them. In any case, we fry them for about 2 minutes at which point they’re done and mighty tasty.

I never want to work in the food service industry again. Actually, working as a bartender or something in a nice place might not be as bad. At the festival I served endless streams of drunks, crack-heads, and generally messed up people. I worked the midnight-6am shift twice, during which time no sober person (who isn’t high) shows up wanting food.

I was amazed by the sheer number of people at the festival. The official estimates that I saw last were 126,000 people. The city council only allowed them to sell 100,000 tickets, so desperate others hopped the fences, bought fake tickets, had someone with a car pass smuggle them in, or some other various means of illegal entry.

I’ve never seen so many people in one place at one time that I can think of. There were 18 official stages, most of which with music, and many other unofficial stages. A few of the artists whose names I either recognized, or saw, or both: Counting Crows, Live, Pet Shop Boys, Nine Inch Nails, Willie Nelson, Macy Gray, Travis, David Bowie, Ocean Colour Scene, Bluetones, and many more. There wasn’t any music I was REALLY excited about, because most of the music I like isn’t popular, so why should I expect it to be at a pop fest?

I think I saw more marijuana there than I did in Amsterdam. The police were everywhere, but in spite of their best efforts there were something like 1000 tent thefts among other crime. I didn’t hear of any violent crime, except for the woman who came up to me at 4am and asked me to find a security guard because there was a man who had been stabbed and was bleeding to death outside her tent. I don’t know if she was being truthful or not, I somehow doubt it.

While Ocean Colour Scene was performing I was in the middle of the field in front of the main stage, reasonably close to the front. While the bands were shifting I worked my way to the front, not at all sure that I wanted to see the next band, but figured I might as well, since I was already at the main stage, and didn’t feel like finding one of the others if I wasn’t going to like the music that came on. Besides, the band after next was going to be Travis, and I knew I wanted to listen to them. The next band was Pet Shop Boys, who were amusing even though they didn’t play any music I liked. Well, the didn’t really play any music. One guy sort of stood in front of a synthesizer wearing silver coveralls, spiked hair, sunglasses and silver headphones. The other guy stood on the front of the stage and sort of danced or strummed an ac acoustic guitar from which I never heard a note. The speakers made synthesized noise that people who like noise that came out of the 80’s call music. His backup singers included a large black woman in a short dress, and two fat black guys in overalls, boots, and baseball caps. They all sort of stomped about and sang falsetto. They weren’t really dancing, it was sort of choreographed silliness to the beat of the music. It was at least a nice variation on the average backup singer group.

By this point I’d gotten pretty close to the front of the stage and it was getting pretty crowded, but I figured that the crowd would thin out a bit after the Pet Shop Boys left, and I could move back a little and breathe. It didn’t, I just got shoved forward, and before I knew it I was a good 15 feet from the front railing that was as far as any spectator could get forward, and about 50 feet from the stage. It was about 60 degrees outside, but I was extremely hot because of the incredible amount of body heat coming from the crowd packed around me. It soon became a challenge to stand up because of the crowd pushing and shoving, as they tried to support the weight of the various people crowd surfing. The security guards at the front were helping people off the tops of the crowds and out. In fact, we just started lifting people who were panicking and tossed them to the security guards who let them down the other side of the railing to calm down. We had a half hour to wait before Travis came on, and I was wondering what I was doing packed with a bunch of people who hadn’t showered in a few days and probably smelled bad anyway. A bunch of guys started passing around a Vodka bottle into which they urinated then tried to get some poor suckers to drink it. A guy next to me asked why I had bands around my wrist, and I told him that it was because I sell food and that’s how I get to where my tent is. He seemed to think I was lying and that I really had a backstage pass and they tried to rip it off my wrist. I stopped them and explained it wouldn’t work unless they actually had them strapped properly around their wrists, as they checked. “If I had a backstage pass, why would I be here, anyway?” I asked them. That didn’t seem to phase them, and they proceeded to steal my hat and long sleeve shirt, I guess because I’m so famous. Luckily I had another shirt on under it…
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All in all I’m glad I went, and besides, I got to say “cheers” to several hundred people as I gave them their food…

It was early in the morning in Oslo, and I rarely seem to be properly functioning early in the morning, especially after having spent the night in a train. Furthermore, my hopes for a shower had just been dashed, since Gina was going out of town. I collected a map from the tourist info place. It was actually a decent map for being a tourist info map, and I’ve seen a lot of them. Some places when it is very difficult to get around, such as Venice, I’ll spend a few dollars and buy a proper map, but usually I try to get by with the tourist maps. I frequently get frustrated by such maps because while they work splendidly if you are trying to get from one huge tourist destination to the next, this isn’t generally what I need out of a map. I often do my best to avoid the areas frequented by tourists, so the maps can be infuriating as they invariably show only the largest of streets in the most pathetic level of detail. I managed to figure out which street was going to be the biggest tourist street in Oslo simply from looking at the map. It was easy to spot as since ran from the train station all the way to the royal palace. As I started down it, I discovered that it was not only tourist-infested but completely pedestrian.

I feel that should note, at this point, that Jayne O’Brien, the lady of this house, just brought me tea. This is quite delightful, and I fear I’m going to pick up quite a habit by the time I get back. It’s easy to see how tea can become an essential part of life, especially when it is this good and you get used to milk and sugar. And it’s even more wonderful when someone randomly brings you tea all the time. It’s not like you can refuse the tea, and they make it incessantly.

I found a large McDonald’s whose toilet I utilized. I returned to the street to watch a guy busking. Busking is not a word I’d ever heard before, maybe it’s just me, or maybe it’s British. And while this spell checker doesn’t even recognise it, I know it’s a word because I’ve seen signs in the subways that say, “No Busking”. Busking itself is quite familiar, it’s simply the word that is unfamiliar. Busking involves playing an instrument in hopes of having money tossed in your instrument case. This guy was playing Bob Dylan on his guitar, while playing a bass drum by kicking his right foot which has a string attached the drum on his back. He also had a tambourine tucked under his left elbow, which he had no trouble playing simultaneously with the guitar. He also had a harmonica and a kazoo around his neck, which he played from time to time as well. The reason I stopped to watch him is because he was thoroughly, dreadfully, contagiously, happy. Or, at least made himself appear so. He changed the words to everything he sang to make it fit his surroundings. He sang things such as, ‘You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful, but you’re not smiling’ to a passer-by. He’d comment on everyone’s dog that came by, while singing, referring to the dogs as “woof-woofs”. The men, for the most part, ignored him. The women smiled, or looked embarrassed. The children loved him. I just sat around for what must have been an hour, dozing against the building behind me and people-watching. He left eventually, and before long I did too. I didn’t toss him any money. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever given any money to someone playing on the street. I’m not sure why. I frequently stop and listen to them for a minute, but never feel obligated in any way to give them money.

It had been awhile since my last shower, in Paris sometime, and my hair was feeling quite nasty and must have looked worse. I wanted a hat, but had lost mine in the church of San Giovanni in Laterano during Roman reconnaissance the second day or so of the Rome semester. I decided to buy one, provided I could find one for less than 10 dollars, something I thought would be a stretch in Oslo as everything in Norway is dreadfully expensive. I saw a department store and wandered in, up the escalator, and right to the area with some baseball caps. I found a plain, nondescript grey baseball cap with no writing whatsoever on it, for less than $6. I was proud of myself, bought it, and walked out of the store quite glad that I didn’t have to succumb to sporting a swoosh or some such nonsense.

I continued down the road to the Royal Palace which was surrounded by a well tended park with green ducks and green grass and not so green lovers. Scattered throughout the grounds are armed guards who march about looking a bit like something out of Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks. (A related, but chronologically misplaced note: In Oslo I watched a travel documentary on the BBC by none other than Michael Palin, former member of Monty Python. Although his travel show is funny and well put together, Monty Python was certainly funnier. At one point he flags down an entire express train in British Columbia, Canada which stops, and lets him on board. I wish I could do such things while travelling. (Wow, I had no idea ‘travelling’ had two l’s.) He always appears to be in nicely ironed clothes and have clean hair, something I’d sure like.) I took a nap on one of the park benches, and mused to myself about the extents of the Norwegian right to public access camping. Basically, in Norway, one can pitch a tent anywhere within 150m from any building, farmland and gardens excepted. I somehow wasn’t up to testing it out on the Royal Grounds while the Ministry of Silly Walks patrolled with not-so-silly rifles. I must say, there is something intimating about a man with a gun, no matter what country I’m in.

At this point, I’m going to interject a bit about my present days. Aside from going to Glastonbury yesterday, I haven’t done much travelling at all. I’ve been doing absolutely nothing and enjoying every minute of it. I haven’t really had much of a rest since Last summer? No, even then I was working or travelling. I find travelling relaxing, but only mentally, not physically. I’m just relaxing here. The house I’m staying in is absolutely beautiful, with wonderful gardens surrounding it, and an extremely delightful family. I’ve attempted to help out a bit while I’m here, so as not to be a complete burden on my hosts. I’ve offered to help Rodney (the Dad) paint the cellar, I’m cooking dinner for them all tomorrow, I’m helping Jayne (the mother) with her computer, I’ve attempted to teach Anita (Daughter-16) a bit of trigonometry for her math exam, and I’ve accompanied Peter (son-18) to a pub with Sebastian and Nathan, two of his friends, on several occasions. It doesn’t seem like quite enough, so I hope I can find something else to do in order to be a bit more helpful. As it is, I’ve been doing mostly nothing and enjoying it. I found a huge used book store in Glastonbury, and bought a Heinlein book as well as a bit of CS Lewis. I’ve read about half of the Heinlein book this afternoon with their cat, Kit, sleeping on my chest, which is somehow appropriate. I’ve missed having a cat about, even if my itchy eyes don’t. I told Rodney a moment ago that I think I shall miss the incessant tea and shall have to buy some to take back to the states with me. Saturday I’m leaving in the morning to go to Reading and spend the day with Lauren Bedsole, a friend from high school.

I’m in Somerset, which, I fear, I’ve been spelling incorrectly for some time now. The O’Brien family, with whom I’m staying, has been kind enough to allow me to use their computer. This arrangement is provides a luxury I haven’t had in a long time. I’m not paying by the minute for I can actually compose offline now.

I wrote a large e?mail in London a few days ago, but lost it before it was sent. I’m rather upset at that, as it means that it’s the second such email I’ve lost. I was typing it in Word, even, so it would be backed up in case something happened. The console I was at froze and restarted itself. This would have been fine, except these terminals do an interesting thing when they restart abnormally. Rather than trying to make sure everything is okay upon restart, it automatically reinstalls Windows after wiping the hard drive partition clean. It does it over the local ethernet so it only takes about 5 minutes. This is clever, as windows is so unstable that a clean install is sometimes the only way to get it stable for a while. The only problem with this, however, is that the backup file of my document was lost. So, once again, you guys lost out on an update.

I suppose I shall start from Paris. The first time. Well, no, its not the first time, for that was with Robin. The second time I was in Paris then.

I took a night train to Paris from Zurich, the last place I’d written from. I shared a compartment with a Canadian girl who was studying in Norway, and a guy from Florida who was working in Kobenhavn. Neither of them provided either interesting conversation or amusement. I slept quite well that night, though the conductor woke us up dreadfully early, a whole hour before our departure. It’s not like I can take a shower or anything on the train, so I don’t know why he woke us up so early. A half an hour before arrival is too early for me, but I can understand why some people might want that much time. But an hour?

There was nothing open when we got to Hamburg, even though our train was rather late. It was early in the morning, but I can no longer remember just how early. I was starving, but I didn’t want to change any money because I was only staying in Germany for a few hours and taking the next train to Copenhagen. I changed 50 francs I had leftover from Paris, and with a grimace walked into the only place open which I could also afford. McDonald’s. I bought my grease and Coca Cola, and while looking for a place to sit down, was hailed by the Canadian and Floridian from the train who were sitting at a table for four. I decided to be polite and sat down next to them even though I didn’t want to. My pommes frites were absolutely nasty. Who knows how long they’d been sitting out there. I’d have gotten breakfast only I couldn’t because Europeans, save the British, don’t have a clue what it’s about, and a European McDonald’s is apparently no exception. No egg McMuffin for me. The Canadian girl agreed that the French fries were nasty and got them to give her new ones. I was a little annoyed that she got fresh ones. I’d already mostly finished my nasty ones, not thinking to complain. I wasn’t about to let food go to waste that I’d paid for– nasty or not.

The train to Copenhagen was kind of neat, it was the first diesel train I’d been on in Europe as they are all electric. I didn’t understand why until the train drove onto a ferry, something the electric ones would have a bit of trouble with, I imagine.

Copenhagen was okay, but not terribly exciting. I wrote a lot about it, but unfortunately, you didn’t get that letter. I found the little mermaid statue which is disgustingly covered with tourists climbing all over it. I couldn’t figure out how they’d all found it, since it took me some doing. There are signs, but they simply say “Der Lille Havfrue” which I couldn’t translate at the time. Then a bus drove up and dropped off a whole buttload of tourists, and it all made sense. It’s a lot easier to find if a bus deposits you. It was one of those huge sightseeing buses. I’ve never understood anyone who tries to see a city from a bus, why bother? You go too fast, you can’t really see anything. Such buses are always full of lots of old people and Japanese people trying to take pictures of anything and everything through the windows. They got out of the buses, climbed all over the statue to get pictures of themselves with the mermaid. I think they ought to wire her up with a nice electric charge, so if you touch her you get quite a shock, as I can’t believe the thing is even in existence after all the abuse its been put through. It’s a neat statue, but not terribly exciting. While shooting pictures of the dumb tourists around the mermaid, I realised [Editors Note: My spelling tended to become more and more British when it was subjected to a British spell checker.] that my roll of 36 exposure film hadn’t wound properly, and I hadn’t actually exposed any of it. This wouldn’t have been quite so annoying if I had shot any more film than that since Budapest. I hadn’t, and was quite annoyed at myself. I mean, I carry that camera everywhere, and since I’ve left Rome, I’ve taken few pictures. I’m not sure why, as much as I usually shoot, one would think I’d be going mad. I guess everything I look at, I think, “Nah, it’s not worth it, besides, I want to save money on film.” I wanted to rent a bicycle, but as Michael discovered, 1 June is an obscure Catholic holiday during which time bike shops were all closed. Most things, including all the museums, seemed open, but for some reason all the bike shops were closed. I don’t KNOW that ascension day was the reason it was closed, but it’s the only reason I could come across. Actually, I few other businesses were closed as well, but not many.

In any case, I decided to go ahead to Norway, because I’d heard it was beautiful, and Joanna had given me the number of a girl in Oslo she met in Italy who would probably give me a room. Beautiful and I could stay for free, sounded like a good combination to me. I took a night train to Oslo, and got there fairly early in the morning. I decided that 8.30am on a workday wouldn’t be too early to try her home, but I got an answering machine in speaking in Norwegian. I called her work number, and someone answered the phone in Norwegian. I’ve been climbing strange mountains, sleeping in strange places, and this is all fine, but for some reason I was simply petrified of calling this girl I didn’t know and never even met to beg for a place to stay. To make things worse, I don’t even speak her language. I didn’t even know how to ask, “Do you speak English?” in Norwegian, something I try to learn in most languages. Most Norwegians, I found out later, speak English. Most of the Danish did as well. “I’m looking for Gina?” I said questioningly. “Yes, this is Gina,” she said in a thick accent. It turns out that I had the worst timing as she was going out of town for the weekend on her job, and couldn’t offer me anything, as it was Friday, but would be glad to feed me and give me a place to stay Sunday night. She was most gracious and actually sounded a bit upset that she wouldn’t be able to give me a place to stay. I thanked her and told her that I wasn’t sure if I’d still be here on Sunday, but that I’d give her a call if I were.

Just a quick note to let those of you that both care and worry that I’m alive. (I’ve only got 7 minutes left from 10…)

I’m in Paris, I got here this morning at 6am. I really liked Zurich. It was too bloody expensive though. When I get rich, I’m moving to Zurich. Maybe it’s just because it’s a modern city for a change… but it’s more than that. In general the Swiss just have a wonderful sense of taste. Nice cars, nice shops, nice watches, THE BEST BLOODY CHOCOLATE, mountains and so on. The Zurich Hauptbahnof (main train station) is in and of itself quite impressive. I spent a couple hours exploring it, trying to do laundry, and getting free stuff. I managed to score a free meal, (apples oranges, chocolate and others from big company, mostly bank, promotions in the station), but had to walk across the street to McDonald’s to go to the bathroom for free. I take great pride in walking into McDonald’s wherever I am and using the bathroom without paying anything. The German word for urinal is pissoir, which, for some reason, I find humorous.

I walked around Paris today, saw a good bit of it, got a little lost, and spent too much money (6 bucks) on .5 kilo of damn good cherries. I want some more. Tomorrow is museum time. I think I’ll do contemporary art tomorrow and the Louvre on Monday.

I was going to meet Michael at a cafe (aka bar/pub in American speak) late tonight, but unfortunately, the Metro stops running at 0030, and I’m in a rather seedy part of town that I’m not sure I want to walk throw early in the morning. So I think we may just meet for dinner tomorrow, but I’ll talk to him again tonight. If nothing else I should spend a couple of weeks with him in London.

Anyway, 55 seconds left.

I’m in the niftiest Internet cafe I’ve been in, sitting in the nonsmoking section (What? A European establishment that acknowledges some people really hate cigarette smoke???) and sipping a Coca Cola with lemon. I never drank much coke before I got to Europe, I drink it all the time now. With lemon when possible.

I had a Dr. Pepper in Prague. It was… well… not very good. Either I’m over my addiction or it tastes different here. I could really go for a cold IBC root beer though.

I don’t know how Europeans keep from being perpetually dehydrated. It takes much effort for me here. I find it difficult to get water sometimes, especially at restaurants. If you order water at an eating establishment, you get a minuscule amount of fizzy clear stuff that somehow isn’t what I associate with water. And it’s expensive. Tap water is beyond them. So I’ve been drinking coke whenever I’m not eating grocery store food because it’s just as expensive as water and tastes better than that fizzy stuff.

I spent the last two days in… Innsbruck! After having lived on 1302 Innsbruck Dr., I felt some compulsion to visit Innsbruck. It’s silly, I know. I was wondering where to go from Berlin, wanted mountains, saw Innsbruck on the map.

Innsbruck was the site of the Olympic games at some point. I don’t remember when. Now that I’m not responsible for dates for a few months, I think my brain goes out of its way to not learn them.

In any case, it is absolutely beautiful. The city is an overgrown ski town (180,000 people, I think) and is surrounded on all sides by snow-capped mountains. The Brenner pass heads toward Italy in the south, and the Inn river surrounds the city to the north. Just across the Inn is the Nordkette.

I looked at the Nordkette after I got off the train with my pack and decided to climb it. Then I realized that if there was snow at the top, climbing it alone was going to take awhile, and it wasn’t going to be easy, and doing it alone was probably not bright. I went and got lunch at a cheap pizza place.

I like European pizza places. It’s like a little bit of home everywhere I go. There’s probably something wrong when I consider little reminders of Italy, “home”, but being there for 4 months… it grew on me. Most of them serve fairly Italian pizza cooked by Italians. Most of them speak Italian, which is great, because they love it when I speak Italian to them. I can speak just enough to get around in a restaurant. I always get a Pizza Margharita, not because I’m not adventurous, but because I like it, its always the cheapest, and comparing Pizza Margharita from different places has become a sort of hobby.

I ate my pizza, and decided to write for awhile because I just didn’t feel like getting on a bus to go find a campsite. Paying for a place to pitch a tent is annoying, when for a dollar or two more I can be sleeping in a bed. So I wrote a bit in my journal and a letter or two, then got up and paid. I chuckled to myself as the guy said “Caio!” with a German accent as I left.

I was walking along the river, and when I came to a bridge, rather than crossing it I headed down to the river bank next to it. It was about 6 feet down, and there were about 2 feet of wet rock and mud along which one could walk between the wall holding the river in and the river which wasn’t high enough to actually go up the wall. I passed a girl playing a guitar. I wanted to sit down and listen, but she gave me an evil look as I walked by, so I decided not to. I kept walking and looking at the mountain. I wanted to climb it. It looked possible. There were snow fences at the top for avalanche control, and a little cable car went up it a good bit. Cable car. How annoying. Full of Americans heading up for a view.

I took my guidebook, train schedule, dirty laundry and a few other non-essentials out of my pack, and put them in the small daypack I have. I climbed the wall of the river, and buried the backpack in the bushes in a spot I’d remember where it was. I probably should have left it at the train station, but didn’t feel like walking all the way back.

I put on my substantially lighter pack and smiled. I was going to climb a mountain. I stood in the river and let it wash off my waterproof boots. They’d gotten filthy and scuffed, and a few minutes soaking in the water helped them a lot. They needed to be scrubbed, but I was about to climb a mountain. I’d clean them when I moved into an apartment, I decided.

There was something purifying about letting the Inn river clean my boats with the knowledge I was about to hike up a mountain. I like standing in water with my boots, watching the leather(ish) material soak up the water, while my feet stay perfectly dry. I reflected on the $160 spent on them, and was decided it was definitely a good choice, and probably my best investment on the trip before I left. They are now my only pair of shoes as I left behind, in Rome, my leather Bass walking type shoes which I could have worn for another month before they developed holes in the soles. (Say it outloud, “Holes in the souls.”)

I started walking toward what looked to be the highest peak on the closest mountain. The Nordkette is the name of the mountain; Hafelkar is the name of the peak as I learned later.

I found a little foot/bike road leading uphill, and started walking on it, noticing signs for the Alpenzoo. About 20 mintues later I found the Alpenzoo. It smelled like a zoo and had lots of kids outside. I dislike zoos, the animals inside all look so sad. I walked around it, and found a gravel path with a sign that said, “Hungerburg”. About another 20 minutes later of walking uphill I was pretty tired, but had arrived at the little village of Hungerburg. I’d consumed 1.5 liters of water on my way up. I filled up the bottle outside the cable car stop, and kept walking up, snickering at the tourists and their cable car. I walked on the gravel path for awhile, while a few amazing people bicycled up past me. A few really old women with their dogs walked past me. I was feeling beat. I took a trail that said “GeosomethingorotherinGerman”. It went up and around some cool rock formations, and past a neat natural cave. Also went past a door in the side of the mountain. A solid metal door with the sound of water behind it. It was locked and said something in German. The geo trail met up with the other one after awhile. I kept going up, stopping frequently. I tried taking a little trail numbered 216 with red and white markings. I lost it in the woods, and just wandered up without a trail for awhile. I found the gravel road a bit farther up. People went whizzing down on their bicycles at amazing speed. I didn’t see many people still going up. I found 216 again, and finally realized how to find the trail markings. The trail was easy, but there were few people on it. I say easy, but it was just dirt and rock, some of which was slippery, and went mostly up the side of the mountain with just a few switchbacks. Every 10 meters or so, or when the trail got confusing, there was a little red dot with a white circle painted on a tree. Sometimes I had trouble finding the trail. On some of my many stops to catch my breath, a German, typically in his late 40s would march on past me with a small pack and two ski poles. The ski poles were a rather good idea. They’re light, and make good hiking sticks. I figured I’d pick up a stick when I got to where I needed one.

The trail got steeper and steeper, and I had to stop more and more frequently, until I was stopping every 20 meters or less. It was a beautiful day, about 65 degrees outside, a cool breeze, and I was sweating like a pig. And running out of water, even though I’d completely refilled my 1.5 liter bottle. I thought I was going to just have to collapse on the side of the mountain and hope for unconsciousness, I was so exhausted. I made myself keep going though. Up, and up, and up. The trees got smaller and smaller. At about 5pm, the trees got to be about my height. The ground got rockier. Further up, the trees were just evergreen shrubs, and the ground mostly rocky. Footholds got to be more difficult, and my pack which had felt so light early in the afternoon on the riverbank, felt as if I were carrying around lead for the heck of it. I kept running through my mind every little item I’d left in my bag. I thought of nothing I wanted to just leave on the mountain, though there were a few things I figured I probably should have left on the riverbank. My tent and sleeping bag were the main problem, light as they were. My camera was the next heaviest thing.

The trail would disappear, and I’d just head straight up the rocks, and it would reappear awhile later. I saw a building ahead, as it approached 7pm and I thought my legs would do nothing else. The building was built into the mountain and surrounded by a fairly grassy area with not as many rocks. I could see straight up to the top with its snow capped peaks, even though it was a long way off. The little hut had people sitting around drinking beer and eating dinner. I found no menu, no signs, no indication of how anything worked. I wasn’t sure at first if it was a private lodge, or if they were open to the public.

I finally got the courage to ask for a Coca Cola. The lady inside handed me one, and I went back outside to sit and drink it. The sweat started evaporating and I cooled off. I even got a bit chilly. I wondered how to get something to eat. Swallowing the last bit of pride, and wandering inside like an idiot, I just sort of announced, “Can I have something to eat?” A lot of German was hurled at me. I felt really stupid as about 20 people just stared at me, pointed, and laughed in German. “Does anyone speak English?” I asked. Germans tend to. Rural Austrians apparently do so less. One man with a thick accent said, “Yes, what do you want?” He looked to be in his 50s, had a completely grey mustache, and sat in the back corner surrounded by a crowded table. “Something to eat.? “What?” “Something good.” He laughed, pointed a plate with something unidentifiable to me, and asked if I wanted one of those. “Yes,” I said. “Sit down?” He asked. They all squeezed around a bit, and made room for me. “Where are you from?” “Texas,” I told them. I don’t really consider myself from Texas, but its a good enough answer. They laughed for a good bit at that. We talked for awhile, and they warmed up a bit after discovering I wasn’t just an annoying tourist, and was actually interested in them and their culture. They brought me a plate with a salad kind of stuff on it as well as fried cheese with stuff fried in with it into a little pattie. It was very good. “Just like McDonald’s?” they asked, and laughed at me. “No, McDonald’s bad, this,” I pointed, “very good!” They seemed happy I liked it. I finished and he asked if I’d like the same thing in soup. I said yes, and he spoke to the woman, Etna or something was her name, and before long a fried thing in some really good soup showed up. They asked if I wanted to put some… sauce stuff in it. It looked sort of like soy sauce. I indicated that if he ate it like that, I would as well. He told me to pour a little bit in. I did, and he laughed, said, no more more. I handed it to him, and he poured a good bit in while everyone else at the table started protesting, and laughing at me. The stuff was some sort of pepper sauce. I didn’t find it too hot, the soup was wonderful. After awhile Etna brought us all some clear liquid in little shot glasses. They gave me one, I hadn’t ordered it so, I didn’t take one, but they conveyed it was a gift from Etna. I smiled, and took one. They all held up there glasses and looked at me and grinned and said, “Cheers!” I laughed, said cheers, and knocked my glass against theirs. Then we did it again in German, only I don’t remember what it was. I wasn’t sure how to drink it, if it was supposed to be sipped or downed. They downed theirs, so I followed suit. It tasted almost like grappa, only more like Metaxa, but not quite. (Grappa: The Italians take the gunk from the bottom of wine barrels and distill it. You get clear stuff they call Grappa. Tastes sort of like Ouzo or Sambuca (clear sambuca, not sambuca black) only not as licoricy. I don’t like it. Metaxa is Greek homemade brandy stuff, usually looks like brandy, though sometimes clear. I like it better than Grappa, but I’m not a huge fan…) I smiled and enjoyed the warming sensation. When it came time to pay, they charged me all of 60 schillings, a little less than $4. And it was a REALLY good meal.

Most of them headed down the mountain as the sun began to set, though some stayed at the little hut. They asked where I was going to sleep saying that the hut was full. I thanked them, but told them I had a warm sleeping bag and wanted to camp. I pitched my tent on a “flat” space about 20 meters up the mountain. It wasn’t really flat, but had few rocks, and didn’t slope TOO much. I pitched my tent, climbed in my sleeping bag and tried to get warmed. Before I knew it the sun was up, and I was hot. I rolled over and went back to sleep, I hurt everywhere. I finally got up at about 11am after some noisy hikers on the trail woke me up. I packed everything back up and around noon, sat down for lunch at the same place. They brought me food and a coke. A guy who looked sort of out of place sat down by me. After awhile they asked him if he wanted something and he spoke in English, pointing at my plate. Astonished, I started talking to him. He was from Chicago. He’d taken the lift up to the top and was walking down. We ate a leisurely lunch, and for some reason the guy from Chicago decided to come up the mountain with me. I told him I would be very slow, he probably didn’t want to do that. He said he wasn’t in a hurry. He tried not to look impatient as I would sit down on the trail for quite some time, looking up at the sky. There were four or five hang gliders up the sky, soaring the thermal rifts. They reached amazing heights, would come swooping down and ridiculous speeds, then zoom away from the mountain at the last minute, and spend the next 15 minutes riding the thermals back up. There were a few parasailers as well who seemed to get even higher up than the hangliders. In fact, watching some of them land, it looked like they had to work to get the things to actually come down. The hangliders would have to dive, and the parasailers would pull in parts of their sails. At one point I heard a whizzing zinging sound and looked up to see a beautiful glider zooming barely 100 feet above me. I saw a few gliders, they were amazingly fast compared to everything else up there. It looked like they could all defy gravity as long as they wished. I suppose they probably could until the sun started setting. One day I will hanglide. It just looks like so much fun. I found out I can do it in Interlaken, Switzerland riding tandem. $80 for 10-30 minutes. Sounds a bit steep to me, but oh so tempting.

I was having trouble breathing, and my head hurt. Thin air. Chicago was doing a lot better than me, he eventually took off without me after much prodding. He wanted to take my pack from me, I wouldn’t let him. He was worried he would miss the last cable car down, which was at 5pm. He left a little before 4. The trail headed into a huge snowfield. I couldn’t follow it, the snow was too slippery. The mountain slope was headed up well over 60 degrees, it seemed. It was slow going without a trail, carefully trying each foothold. I no longer could really just walk up the mountain, I had to grab onto rocks for support. It got harder and harder the further up I got. I could see the whole city below, it was beautiful. The peaks of the Brenner pass across the city, and the valley running through the city with a bit of air traffic. I could see the runway as well, and watched little dots land and take off on it. The trains were little snakes. I couldn’t see any people or cars.

The trail would occasionally dart out of the snow and I could follow it, but it would dart back in before long. I finally made it to the top about 15 till 5. Which was good, because I could grudgingly catch the cable car down as it would be far too dangerous to try to climb DOWN the same way I’d come up. The cable car was the only way down. A few tourists looked down amazed at me as I made my way up the last 20 meters. I sat for 15 minutes until the cable car was leaving, looking out at the Alps. I was proud of myself.

I only had to pay $6 to get down to Hungerburg, after which it was easy going on foot. I only had to buy a ticket for that one short bit because they’re not used to people buying tickets down but not up, so it was pretty cheap. Roundtrip up and down the mountain is something close to $50 I think.

I spent the night in an annoying HI hostel. HI hostels have to conform to certain standards, and seem to be run by nazis. They always kick you out of the hostel early in the morning for one thing. They dorms are segregated which is okay except that it seems that frequently there are a lot of guys and few girls, which means that they’ll pack 10 guys into a 10 bed room, and 1 girl into a 10 bed room, which doesn’t make for good sleeping in a mostly empty hostel. Private hostels tend to be cheaper, co-ed, flexible with their rules, and generally more enjoyable. I suppose if I were a girl and traveling alone, HI hostels would probably be good.

This hostel had a guy with a shaved head who had wet laundry hanging from his bed. This isn’t atypical, hand washing laundry is something most of us do, and your bed is the only place to hang it. Only he had girly stuff hanging from his bed. Panties, little striped girly socks, a tank top shirt with spaghetti straps… It was all a bit weird. He was up and left before anyone else.

I had a rough sleep, which annoyed me because I’d payed for a bed and slept much better on a mountain the night before. No one snoring on the mountain. And it was nice and cold up there. Oh well.

I’ve typed for something like 2 hours now, so I suppose it’s time for me to pay and leave.

I called and reserved a place to stay in Paris for Saturday night. I’m not sure what I was thinking, I meant to try for tomorrow night, leaving in the morning for Paris as I plan to come back to Switzerland with Anne. Only, I said Saturday. Finding a place was tough as well. There were no night trains from Zurich to Paris though, so when I found the place I’m staying at tonight, I went ahead and told them I’d stay for two nights, and they made me pay for both in advance otherwise they were going to give the bed away. And now I rechecked the train schedule and found there IS A night train from Zurich to Paris, only not on Saturday. So, I could have left tomorrow night, but I payed for a place to stay already. I could have tried to change my reservation for Sunday, and night traveled Saturday, only the train doesn’t run Saturday. ARGH. I hate traveling during the day, it’s such a waste of time. Night trains are so nice.

I want to go to Scandinavia. But in a few days, I think I’ll be meeting Anne in Switzerland, provided she emails me again, if she’s still alive down there in Israel. So its not enough time for me to get up there and spend any amount of time. I want to go to Spain as well, but I think Spain isn’t going to happen. I spent one night in Paris and saw very little of it. I want to go spend at least a day in the Louvre, then a couple other days seeing other sites….

I bought a copy of the Herald tribune. I like the Trib, it’s a European paper, in English. It’s slightly liberal, and is basically an amalgamation of anything newsworthy from lots of other newspapers such as the Times, the Post, then they have lots of Reuters and AP stuff. Unfortunately, I’m being spoiled. I like it because it’s the only English newspaper that actually has news in it, not crap about the traffic in the United States, and which presidential candidate smoked what where. There is usually a few newsworthy bits from the US, but US stuff ALWAYS get the front page. It makes me happy. It’s also depressing, I get to read about all the wars happening everywhere. Sri Lanka, Eritrea, the Balkans, Israel, disputes between Pakistan and India, North and South Korea, Russia and everyone. The US giving billions of dollars here and there to help one side of the battle or the other. It just seems so pointless. I guess I’d have made a good hippie.

So then I turn back to my Tolstoy. I’ve been reading a few of his short stories, but I’m almost done with the book I’ve got. Annoying, because then I’ll have to find an English bookstore.