The Follow Up

I have been home a week now.  Most of that time I have spent inside my apartment, sequestered and safe. It's strange because for all the time I spent outside during my walk 'outside' now seems unappealing and even frightening at times. Of course I am in the big city which makes a difference. And San Francisco is certainly becoming "the Big City" as more and more high rises claim every available open space blocking out views, sunlight and that open feeling that added to SF's charm. Even the big city lot two blocks from my place that I helped turn into a beautiful urban farm/garden was razed while I was gone and is slated for more expensive high rises. I'm choking here.

But inside I feel good. I have slept much, read, listened to music, sat still. It is a refuge. Being quiet has helped. I still am not keen to talk about the walk too much; I believe I need to distance myself from it a bit more before I can begin to digest it all (over again). It was/is a lot. Fortunately, many friends have been respectful enough to give me the space I need and have tried to understand where I'm coming from. I don't expect everyone to empathize because some just cannot. My friends, however, that have traveled far & wide and for long periods of time, they get it. My former Peace Corps friends get it. My friend who walked this summer in peace against the Keystone Pipeline, he gets it. In fact, he is going through a bit of the same thing I am right now and his journey was only three weeks.
I have read a little (there seems to be only a little available) online about "post-hiker depression". How to make sense of it all. How to reintegrate after months of being so close to the earth, especially now surrounded by so much concrete. I'm maybe less depressed than I am confused. I'm just not sure what-next, where-next. I am trying to get back to my pre-walk life but except for a few things it doesn't fit right anymore. So there is now a rearranging to come, to figure out how to live. Out with the old, in with the new. But more immediate, I just want to walk outside and breathe again. I want to hear birds not cars. I want to listen to the rustle of leaves in the breeze not young hipsters yelling to their friends. I want to see sky not buildings. For now I must accept that I am smack dab in the city, in a rent-controlled, affordable apartment and find my peace where I can.

I may have done something very brilliant before I left in March--I accepted some work in early September that has me outside the city, in more open spaces. Already I am relishing the escape, to be outdoors and feel the tranquil environs of nature. Until then, I must continue to rest and build up my strength. I went out yesterday to run a few errands on my own. Parts of my feet are still numb, I'm guessing from nerves that were a bit overused. The bum knee I had originally dealt with during the start of my walk is fairing well as long as I do my daily stretches. But it was my legs that got wobbly after an hour, as if I were a newborn colt standing up for the first time. And I got woozy, light-headed too. I realized I had reached overload so I closed my eyes, blocked out stimulation, breathed, and got centered again before I continued.

Time heals all, right? This will be no different. I just wonder where I'll be when it's time to rebuild and move on. Something new must emerge. Something. One friend has already asked when I will be walking the next portion of the world, namely "Istanbul to Beijing". When I read that I thought, 'you gotta be kidding, I just stopped'.  Moments later, however, I was giving it consideration. Walking just makes sense. And at this point I rule out nothing.

The Hardest Part

I am beginning to wonder what was/is the hardest part of this whole journey? Is it the walk and its various parts or is the return back "home"?

When I arrived in the U.S. (I first landed in Charlotte, N.C.) I went through the usual customs procedures only then to find myself having to go through a second, Homeland Securities search, whereby some very stoic official tore apart every single thing I had with me down to empty plastic bags and folded up socks. He claimed I had been to too many countries which thus warranted my shakedown. I felt like a criminal in my own land.

I had crossed so many borders during my previous months and at nearly all, I received smiles, congrats on my walk (miles done up to that point) and even welcomes. In my own country I received nothing, not a "welcome back home" or smile or anything. Only the unfriendly patdown of a convict. It set a rotten tone.

The U.S. citizens at the airport were also a different breed from the folks I had been interacting with these past months. Movements were faster, everyone was on a handheld device, little courtesy, lots of swearing.

Since I had missed my connecting flight from Charlotte I was fortunate to find a United Airlines rep who was very sympathetic and booked me on another flight on a different carrier without much layover time. I needed his friendliness to get me through the next couple hours.

I arrived in Cleveland, Ohio to spend time with my family. Things started off well and I tried everyday to maintain a sense normalcy. But to be honest, my head hasn't adjusted to being back, my body is drained of energy, and it ended up not being my best family visit.

On the eve of returning to SF I question how I will feel walking into my studio apartment, being surrounded by city. I feel unsure. By not walking I do not seem to process my days as well as I was when I was on the road. I'm not making the best decisions. My head spins suddenly and then it stops but I am not entirely sure where it has stopped. If I was the Happy Wanderer in Europe then I feel like the Lost Soul in America. Maybe all I need is more rest and time to reaquaint myself to home life. I hope so.

A Dream Within A Dream

If Dr. Seuss was a Turk he'd most definitely be from Cappadocia. What a strange and beautiful place. The "fairy chimney" formations are remarkable shapes of whimsy, dollops of cream stone, pinnacles, castles, fat phallus forms, balanced rocks, witch hats, and many carved into years ago as homes, monasteries, churches, pigeon houses, storage areas. The history of the region goes back to 8,000 BC. Some of the rock hewn churches have original paintings inside that are 100s of years old when the Xtians moved in. It is all very mind-boggling. Cappadocia should be a number one choice for any traveler into art, history and nature. Walking through some of the valleys has been a perfect antidote to time in busy Istanbul. I am reminded of a mix of Death Valley, Zion and Bryce but all with it's own specialness. Four days was a good way to wind things down.

But I must admit that much of how I feel is dream-like. The walk seems so very distant now. It too does not seem real. How can something so long and arduous and indelible feel so far away? It's nearly as if it never happened. Someone explain this too me. Sure, I get a flash of a moment from my walk during the daytime but I have also gotten that from some of my vivid dreams too. Which is real? Maybe it has to do with the stopping of movement. When I walked the past several days in the valleys of Cappadocia I have felt very happy and invigorated again. Thoughts flowed freely. But when I've stopped for periods during my waking hours I have felt more muddled, unclear, not sure of who I am or where I am or where I was, what I did. Maybe I just need some time to ease back into a non-walking road life. I know I adjusted to life on the road, to a life of full, daily motion. And that took weeks.

I leave in a few hours for a bus to Ankara and then wait at the airport for an early AM flight(s) back to the US. It has only been 5 months that I have been away but it feels like a year. My body is looking forward to just sitting around for 24 hours but my mind is dreading it. At least the planes I will fly will be traveling at great speeds even if I will rest comfortably in a still chair.

The Last Pıece Of The Puzzle

Am I a masochıst?

I awoke two nights ago at 3AM and needed to pull out my maps and look at them. I wasn't feeling right. My original intention was to walk from Gilbraltar, known in ancient times as the gateway to the west, to Istanbul which was the gateway to the east. The whole of the European continent. But I never walked to the edge, I never did walk to the Bosphorus and look out over to Asia. I needed to finish my walk.

Catalca was satisfactory as a landing as it was just inside the Istanbul border. And I was so tıied last Sunday that it was fine with me. But with strength coming back I started to feel that I could have walked the final chunk had I only the power at the time. That time was now. I knew I could now walk most of the rest of this route, especially with my big pack off my shoulders.

I took a taxi this morning before 4AM to withın about 10-12km of Catalca. There is a stretch before that which might not have been very good to walk on because of the vehicular movement. Where I started was, for the most part, with some sort of sidewalk area. A few times I had to run across exit ramps (I was on a motorway) which I never could have done with my 33 pound backpack. It was so much easier without the weight on my shoulders. Luckily, my morning was full of cloud cover and even a few sprinkles.

I walked about 45 km with my ipod on to ease the sound of the freeway. In the neıghborhood of Topkapi I  got to see a huge chunk of the old city walls which was marvelous and then I continued straight to Hagia Sophia and the Sultanahmet neighborhood. From there I went through the gardens of the Topkapi Palace which was a peaceful respite from the rest of the morning and a lovely way to wind things down. Finally, I went to the water's edge where the Marmara Sea and The Golden Horn meet with the Bosphorus Straight which separates Europe from Asia. I made it to the end of Europe. And today it really feels like the walk is complete.

I am not too tired though my feet retaliated a little. I am going to see whirling dervishes tonight and tomorrow will take a boat cruise up the Bosphorus. I leave Istanbul in the PM for some inland rest at Cappadocia.

I am sure most folks who tuned in to the last blog will not even read this because they will think the walk was over. But it did not feel over for me and I think I would have had regrets had I left Istanbul without finishing this final piece of my walk. I think I will really feel at peace now.

July 28, 2013, 7:21 AM, local tıme

Istanbul. I made it! I made it.
4 paırs of shoes, 14 countries, 17 weeks, 120 days, 3,240 mıles (100 more than my N. Amerıcan trek).

I am here.

And I am ın recovery mode now.

When I last blogged I was in Greece. I left the country that same day, I wanted no more problems with border crossıngs and I had none. But Mr. Patrol was waiting for me at the exit. I could tell because he mentioned my walking a long distance when I got to his depot so I could tell he'd be forewarned of my coming. Despite the glitch at the border I very much want to go back to Greece someday and really see the country. I could tell from my brief stınt there that the people are very warm and fun, unlike ın Bulgaria. They had that genuine spark of life and the graciousness of welcoming a stranger.

Turkey was no different. I walked long that day from Greece to Edirne. Along the way I followed a stretch of shaded, cobbled street with old trees and restaurants lined on the banks of a river. A man stopped to inquire where I was goıng and I explained to him what I had been doing. He said, "you are Superman" and I said, " no, I am crazy man" to which he countered, " no, you are beautiful man". Beautiful is a word they use in Turkey to say something is very good. To me it was like a congratulations for all my hard work and a shot of elation soared through me. I felt like Sissy Spacek as Carrie on prom night--well, at least until the bucket of pigs blood was dumped all over her. I was beaming.
I came to a brıdge which crossed over the river and there in the distance was a huge, four-minaret mosque looking like a Muslim Magic Kingdom. It was gorgeous. I got a room at a hotel. Then I  walked out to explore, turned a corner, and before me was a stone, pedestrian street with fountains and statues and lots of people out, all smiling, kids on bikes saying, WELCOME to me. It felt so wonderful to be there....and in my last country. A nice way to usher in the final days.
I got food at a small restaurant and a mother and daughter invited me to sit wıth them to eat. Very rare on this trip for women to do that. I asked about the Turk's friendliness and the daughter said, "we like tourists".

I wısh I could say that the days that followed, my final days, were as glorious. They were not. In fact, they were horrible and my worst. The yellow road I got on through the towns of Kirklareli, Pinar Hisar, Vize, Saray was mostly flat, unshaded, very hot (I left one morning at 5AM and it was already over 90 degrees), and without decent food. The road got so hot that my shoes squished atop the soft tar. When vehicles drove by it sounded like it had just rained as the black mass of melted goo liquified. So I did what any abnormal person would do....I walked my ass off with very little stopping. I skipped my stretching, I skipped eating, I skipped resting. I just walked. I walked so I could be done as soon as possible. The scenery was ugly, mostly sunflower fields and cut hay meadows but with very hazy skies and a dirty horizon my eyes were not pleased with in any way. After a few sunflower fields I just barely noticed them.
Top things off wıth a lot of garbage, cowcrap everywhere, and the stray-wild dogs and I was not very happy in europe anymore. Except to know I was almost done.

There was one bright light of good news. Folks started to tell me that Istanbul was such a large cıty that its borders extended out far and that I would not need to walk as far as I thought to reach the borderline. That was exciting to hear. Then, in Saray, at a mom & pop hotel where I decided to bunk for the night, the father told me that Istanbul started in the next village, the one I planned to walk to the next day! HUH? But he said there was no sign there. So his friend offered to drive me in another directıon about 20km to where there was a sign that said Welcome To Istabul. There I could make pictures but still go the route I wanted to in the morning. So that's what I did. Only, when we drove we went in the direction I was going to walk the next morning. Was he confused? We drove and drove and drove and when I tried to stop him he waved his hand for me to wait (he spoke no English). We got to the village Safaalan but still no sign. Then, after the village was a big sign that said ISTANBUL with something in Turkish underneath. I had the driver use his cell to call the hotel owner's son (who spoke english and in fact had spent three months working at Cleveland Hopkins Airport in 2006 as part of an exchange program. Talk about how small the world is gettıng.....well, on second thought I just walked a continent and it doesn't really seem that small) and he translated the sign as ISTANBUL BEGINS HERE.
I had the driver take some photos of me. I was ecstatic. I would finish so many days earlier than thought. I'd get off the road.
I had little sleep that night, not from excitement but from the man in the room next to me talking loudly all night and smoking incessantly. Then, at 2AM some guy with a snare drum walked up and down the streets banging it mercilessly. I decided to leave and walk in the dark. The driver had written down for me that the distance we had covered to sign was 35km (he had made some motion with his fingers which looked like 17 but 35 seemed more realistıc). It was cool at 3AM and there were stars. This was the way to end my walk, not like my hellish day before when I was getting ready to throw myself over the edge. A pack of 9 dogs tried to attack me but I managed to escape from them with my crazy yelling and throwing of rocks. Otherwise it was quiet and peaceful. The road was unlike the earlier yellow roads. There were trees. No villages for miles and miles. And hardly any traffıc.

But then a weird thing happened. Dawn came and before I knew it I was in Safaalan. There was no way I could have walked 35 km and then it hit me--O/W was 17km and R/T was 35. I had walked 17KM. What was so weird was that, in the car the day before, the distance seemed so much longer as a drive than it was as a walk. 17km in a car seems to be much longer than 17km! I came to the sign where I'd made my photos and completed my ceremonious crossing. But something didn't feel right. I had the feeling that this sign delineated where the DISTRICT of Istanbul started, not the city because I was still very much out in the sticks. Was that good enough for me? I thought it would be ok but I also didn't feel like stopping. It was such a peaceful morning I wanted to absorb the ending a little more. My surroundings were bucolic with rolling hills and much green.
I got to a little village called Binkili and some Turks were pulled over, obviously not locals but probably Sunday drivers from Istanbul out enjoying the countryside. I asked them if I were in Istanbul. They had a map. And that map showed the borders of the city. I was not there. But I wasn't too far either. It meant I would need to walk a long day and then some the next day. I was OK with it. And things went well until sleep and food deprivation crept up, the heat soared, and traffic picked up. I pushed myself too hard on Saturday. I was cracking. I was ready to throw myself in front of a car. I took 15 minutes to stop and find enough reason and strength to make a best decision. Someone had told me a hotel existed ın Subasi. I recovered my solace and went for it. I walked 60KM that day and got to that hotel dead tired. Catalca was to be my destination the next morning. That was a border to Istanbul according to the map (A lot of Turks said the border was here or there, it was never entirely clear until I saw that map).

Ten km was all I walked the next morning to Catalca. It was very UNceremonious. And I felt virtually no triumph. In fact, I tried to block out the reality of finishing because when I thought about it it was too much to comprehend. I got a bus and in no time I was whisked to a very urban environment which got more and more urbanized with each passing mile. I had NO IDEA where I was going so I got off at a place I thought might be close to the city center but not terribly far away. HA! I picked so far away....this city is massive. But I didn't care either. I found a hotel and was ready to collapse. I needed food and sleep; my body wanted me to make good on my promises. So I delivered. I got food, then went to my room, turned on the AC and slept much of the day and then all night. I have rested more today too but I did go to a nearby mall and have never been more happy to shop for new clothes in my life.

I have eaten a lot today. Tomorrow I venture into the old part of the city where a new hotel awaits me. A tour guide I met at the Albanıan border will pıck me up and take me there. And there I will continue to eat and rest and explore Istanbul. I will be ready to start this tomorrow. Slowly.

I leave Turkey on August 9th. My friend Rachel helped facilitate my return ticket. Little did she realize that I now leave to fly back to the US exactly 5 months to the day I left SF in March. And then I start to readjust to being back in the States. It's bizarre but already my walk seems so very far away. How can that be? Maybe I just need to remove myself from it for awhile. And in time let it all sink in.

Some of you may ask, "well Stevyn, have you gotten it out of your system?" To that I say, the "IT" you refer to IS a part of my system. It's as vital as my heart. But one thing I told myself throughout this journey was, if I finish safely then everything else in life will be considered a bonus. I still plan on having more excellent adventures but if they don't work out, for whatever reason, I will always have the string of 120 long, epic, adventurous days of 2013 to reflect upon. This has been one grand journey.

I regret not having pictures posted on this blog. Rest assured I have taken between 5-6,000 photos and there are some very precious ones. I plan to make a slideshow with select pictures which I expect will take me months to finish. But if you are interested in receiving the link to it when I'm done then drop me a note at: happywandererineurope@gmail.com and SLİDESHOW in the heading.

I also really want to thank those of you who took the time to send me notes or post on my blog. I have been negligent ın responding back but your words of support and care really have meant very much to me.

This blog will remain active for awhile. For those interested, I will post some post-reflectıons during the upcomıng weeks. I invite you to read how the after-effects transpire.

Four months seems like a short amount of tıme. But try walking it sometime. I guarantee your idea of time will expand.

On a final note: I bought a tee shirt at the mall that reads, NOT ALL WHO WANDER ARE LOST. It's true. I'm in Istanbul.
Peace,
STEVYN

Here I Come Constantinople

OMG, I cannot believe how close I am. I left Bulgaria this morning by the skin of my teeth. I simply do not get the whole European Union (which Greece and Bulgaria are members of) and something called Schengen which Greece is not part of. But border patrtol was not going to allow me passage into Greece (I am in the very tiptoe of the country) because it was not an official border for folks from Australia, USA...basically, non Europeans. I waited over an hour. I was told 7 times I could not cross. I asked what I could do since I was on foot (and they knew it).  My prospects were grim. Eventually, the female border patrol who saw my tear-welled eyes came to the rescue and made phone calls and a fax and, well, she told me I could NEVER cross here again. Believe me, I will not! AND THEY LET ME GO INSIDE WITHOUT A STAMP.

I am going to keep this a bit shorter again though there is much to write. Macedonia really came through after my last blog from there. The people were very friendly from Prilip onwards. I had an overnight stay offer in Karvadarci. I was hugged by a man from Strumica in a grocery store to congratulate me and wish me well. But poor Macedonia is living in the stone age. When it was part of Yugolslavia it was the center of agriculture. It still is poor rural farmers, all with donkey pulled wooden carts. I came into Kavadarci after descending a mountain for 6 HOURS!!!! All down. But I really found a soft spot for the country. My last encounter before crossing the border was from a farmer picking watermelons in his field. He called me over to give me a huge melon but I refused because it weighed too much. Nonsense, he would not have it. He threw it on the ground, busted it open, and had me eat the fruit pieces.
I was glad to exit Macedonia though because the vehicles are in bad shape with things rattling off the sides, tires looking about to fall apart, things  not bolted down. At one point a sheet of tin metal flew off a car roof and missed me by about 15 feet. That could've hurt sever-ly!

Bulgaria had not been so friendly. Folks were not smiling, were non-inquisitive, shifty-eyed, hardly a beep or honk. It was fine, I needed the break. And don't let the EU status fool you; once you leave Bulgarias spiffy principle roads with their nice signs and shiney guardrails you're back to being in the non-EU Macedonia. I thought Bulgaria would be different but when I saw the dead horse next to the wooden cart having just been electrocuted from an open wire,  I started to get suspect. And then it was all too apparent. Bulgaria is as run down and 3W as where I'd come from. The EU disguise. I have gone from Petrich to Goce Delchiv, Dospat, Shiroka Laka (pronounced Sure-Rocka-Locka), Smoljan, Kardzjalia, Momchildgrad, Krumovgrad and last night, Ivaylovgrad. It has all been mountains up and down. And I have done 30 miles or more each day. Yes, I have overextended myself but it is what I need to do now. There are many reasons but one reason is I did not feel very safe sleeping out at night because there are people everywhere in the woods and nooks and crannies. One night I thought I was perfectly hidden but a big boot walked by my tent just before dark. There have been gypsy hagglers and gypsy squat camps in the hills and they are not friendly people, only wanting money, cigarettes, etc, At one point I was being surrounded by children asking, asking, asking for things so I pulled out my whistle and blew it, startling them. They then left me. I saw these babooshka clad, long coat phantom hags with their backs turned to me in the middle of nowhere mountains. I kept imagining that if I turned them around I'd find a face with glowing red eyes and a blood-soaked dagger under their garments. OK, maybe too many horror movies. Regardless, I pushed myself to the next village or town with a hotel for a good night sleep. And with prices around 6-15 bux a night, they were treats well deserved.

I have taken three rides in Bulgaria. Let me explain. One was on a very bad day, my worst maybe of the whole trip. I was getting sick and strung out. I was climbing a mountain that went on and on forever. I got up high and it got cold. Then some rain. I simply could not be cold and wet. A person offered a ride and I took it (about 5 KM) til I was out of the rainshadow/cloud. It was what I had to do at that moment. To save myself.
At another time a suspicious car with two young guys kept driving by me slowly, looking at me, pulling off ahead, waiting for me to pass and then doing it again. I had a bad feeling. Then another car pulled up. It was a woman I had said 'hello' to earlier while taking a photo. Her english was so-so. She offered a ride 3 KM to the next village. I said NO. Then, she looked ahead to the car pulled off, then looked at me and said, "you should come". I understood. I've wanted no trouble and afterwards I never saw that car again.
The last ride came yesterday. I told myself if I was offered a ride by one of these I would not pass it up. It was a horse drawn wooden cart in the mountains by a barefoot handsome young farmer and his 3 year old son. We probably went a mile...I could have gone all day. So peaceful and slow. Life slowly unfolding without the hustle bustle and chaos of life in a city, in the modern world.
Yesterday was a 35 mile day in the mountains with no food, nothing, and little water. I just walked. The gnats were unbearable. Do you know how much fun it is to walk 35 miles waving a leafy twig in front of your face to swish the swarm of bugs away? Not!

I am in Greece and on my way to cross the border at Edirne, Turkey. I think I am supposed to be out today (part of my border deal). Then I go north onto yellow roads to slide into Istanbul! My body has asked a favor of me (usually I ask my body for favors like, can we go an extra 10KM?). It wanted to know if we could continue full steam ahead and even finish this walk BEFORE July 31st? What can I say, my body has been so good to me. But the truth is I am oversaturated at this point. My cup is full of experience and I cannot take any more. My whole essence of being craves nothing more right now than silence and stillness. I know Istanbul is not the place for that but a nice hotel room will be and I can spend as much time there as I need.

Again, a huge thank you to everyone who have sent emails or posted comments on this blog. They have meant so much to me, esp during the rougher times.

Well, I am in the final stretch now. I am super motivated. Here I come Constantinople!!!!

A Bulgarian Quickie

I have no time to blog since I have been given 5 minutes on this computer in the middle of nowhere mountainville. I am ok. I am surviving. But I have had some rough days. Feet are holding up but are in bad shape. I am eating. But I am in mountains with a lot of up and down walking, some of it steep.
Spent last night in Dospat which is one of my favorite villages this whole trip. A village poised high with small windy lanes and crumbling houses from the 1500s. These mountains have scarecrows, abandonded gypsy carts, lots of dark forests, and animals. A fox this morning. I am still hoping for a July 31 finish. I have sorta promised my body this (YES, we are separate entities now). I control the mind, the stomach, the feet the legs, etc. I have to talk with each at different times in different ways.

I have also read all recent emails but once again cannot respond becuz of this computer. THANK YOU to all!!!! Very sorry for you CW. My thoughts are with you and the family.
A big shout to my friend Taylor who I think is still on his big protest walk against the Keystone Pipeline. He said my walk partly inspired him to leave Japan (and his pregnant wife, who supports him:YES!) to join the movement. I am thrilled. Good luck.

Must go now, arghhhhhhh. I need all good thoughts now. Thank you!!!!!

Cinderella And The Storm

Last I posted I was about to enter mountain yellow roads in Albania. They proved to be beautiful and quiet. But the best part was that every time I went through a village the Albanians welcomed me with the widest open arms and hospitality. I had more more honks, hand-waves, ride offers, invites for beer, a coffee, food, a rest, water, conversation from the Albanians than from any other country thus far. They love Americans and they love to share their lives with others.

From Milot I went towards Burrell and that whole morning was hard to get anywhere because everyone wanted me to "come here". At one place in the mountains, a farmer and his son were bringing in an unbelievably overstuffed tractor of hay from the field. I went to make a picture and they invited me to the house for water. The son got me a glass then left me in the hands of the women while he and his dad went back to work. The mother and younger daughter spoke no english. But the older daughter did speak some and her name was Cinderella. I swear, that was her real name. CINDERELLA. They had me sit on the porch; it was very hot out. They got me cold juice. Then the mother brought out food: a bowl of fresh watermelon, grilled peppers, fresh yogurt, fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, homemade bread, and even a meat stew (of course I did not eat that). So sweet. And when I went to leave they packed up food for me to go.

At another point I passed a small roadside restaurant (the mountains are a summer refuge for folks living in the capital of Tirane) and had a plate of fresh caught river fish by a ten year old boy who served it to me. Small fish but delicious (with rice).

Water gushed everywhere so having fresh aqua was no problem in all that heat and climbing. The Albanians have made fountains along the road all throughout the mountains. And sleeping was peaceful.

Bulqize was not a very exciting place. It is nestled in a pretty valley but made ugly by strip mining and gravel pits. However, when I got to Shupenz things got really strange. Albania really is, in many ways (for lack of a better term. Not sure what the pc word is these days) a 3rd world country. In Shupenz I walked into town and everyone, and I mean everyone stopped what they were doing to watch me walk by. In the store the commotion stopped and all eyes were on me. The kids came out with  "how are you", "what is your name" (those that have been to 3rd world countries know how those questions are asked incessantly by the children). Then I was even asked for money.
Animals butchered and skinned roadside, dust and garbage all over the place (no trash pick up). In an eatery the owners' elderly mother came up to me. The older women have usually avoided contact with me but not this one. She reminded me of my Polish great grandmother, Bopche. It was relayed to me that she thought walking to Turkey was no good, I should take a "macina" (machine....it's what the mountain people call cars). And when I left she gave me a kiss on each cheek.

I crossed into Macedonia late on Monday. Another weird border. Then I slept at a gas station in Debar (they had beds above it for 6 Euros a night) and took off for Izvor in the AM. Izvor, I was told, was not possible to get to by car along my proposed route. Both my maps showed it as a small but viable road. I actually skirted Manrovo National Park part of the way up; it was so beautiful. Then the pavement stopped and I could not find my way so I walked to Gari, a small village way up in the nook of a mountain. No one came out when I called several times so I blew my whistle. No one. So I went to houses and then some folks came out but still no one spoke english so it was difficult for them to explain things to me. Eventually, a grandfather and his two small grandkids grabbed walking sticks and walked me up a mountain trail until it connected with a larger one. This would be my "road" to Izvor. OMG.

And so it was, like being on a Ntl. Park trail way up in the mountains. It was quiet and lonely. I got to a junction and did not know which way to go so I chose the one that looked more like a road. I chose wrong. But I did not go very far when an ancient, rumbling truck plodding thru the forest came by with a load of logs. The driver told me to take the other road. It did not look like a road at all. But I listened and climbed further up. moments later, after a morning of evil, wicked, thunder ruptures bellowing through the mountains, a big storm came by. All I could do was cover myself in plastic under some trees and wait it out. I got cold. I was wet. And my trail became a river of mud and bogs.

I was on that trail the rest of the day, it never ended. I thought I was lost for sure. I did panic. My descent took forever until I eventually hit a small road....but no village. I sat on the road deflated and confused. About 15 minutes later a truck came so I waved him down to get clarity on where I was and where I needed to go. When he realized how hungry I was he opened up the back of his truck to reveal its contents: food and drinks that he was delivering to a tiny village in the mountains. He let me purchase what I wanted and then pointed to the direction I needed to walk. I'm not sure what happened but about 3 km down this overgrown, rock-filled paved road was the very tiny, hicksville village of Izvor. I  do not know if I had been on the right "road" or not because in Izvor was a sign for Debar (40KM). But no one else knew of a paved road the whole way through the mountains and that sign looked ancient (as does most things in Macedonia so far. Talk about 3rd W! This place is falling apart. Crumbling. )

I have walked a yellow road through small places like Brod on my way to Prilep, where I am now. The walk through a valley of tobacco and wheat this morning was wild. It was 1910 all over again. Peasant workers in peasant-like clothing (women in babooshkas, aprons, skirts) hunched over picking tobacco leaves by hand and putting them in giant wicker baskets. I have learned these leaves are for Marlboro cigarettes. Yes, your Virginia tobacoo is grown in Macedonia....largest producer of tobacco for Marlboro.

Old homes are mud brick. Newer ones are red brick and all look half finished. Giant haystacks. Stray dogs in packs. Garbage, garbage everywhere. But lovely mountains. I have to say, Macedonia is not stacking up but Albania is a very tough act to follow. The folks here seem a bit colder and smile less. True, many do not speak english either which can make a difference.

From here I go to Kavadarci and then on another small road which connects to a red road down to Strumica and then the Bulgarian border. I have also been warned of the Bulgarian gypsies.

Three weeks left to walk. My body is holding up but I have to have conversations with it and promise it things to keep carrying on. I am growing tired but also maintaining myself even though I will admit feeling going in and out of THE ZONE. Now I really have my heart set on finishing and not too much else. Food is less appealing. But I am trying my hardest to not go over the edge or overdue things. I know the body is strong but also fragile. I am just recovering from blisters on both heals. A baby toenail has fallen off.

And I have passed the 100 day mark.

Not sure if Bulgaria will have email. Once I enter the rest of my roads (about 90 percent) to Istanbul will be white or yellow roads.

OK, I am ready to move on. Keep me in your thoughts. Until next time.

Greetings From Another World

Albania.

What a trip. It just keeps getting weirder and wilder. When I hit the town Tuvi, still in Montenegro but close to the border I thought, man, what am I walking into? It was so not like the rest of Europe. It was grittier, rougher, earthier, definitely more Middle Eastern-like. I have been to many poor parts of the world and this was but another page ripped from it.

On the way to the border the road got very quiet again. I had feared the red road, major border-crossing, to be busy but it was not. In fact, I skirted a National Park that reminded me of the Everglades with mountains. The frogs were a croaking. Then once I crossed the border it felt like another world, more litter, open sewers, burning smells of refuse....but a gorgeous new paved red road to the city of Shkroder. Light on traffic and a wide shoulder. My red road fear thwarted again.

The mountains were very pretty but the road had no shade. Walking on pavement in 90 degrees all day in open sun is tough. My surroundings changed again with nice, new modern homes all painted very whimsical colors. I was trying to figure out just what Albania was. Most of the day I could see Lake Albania to my right and the mountains (the Albanian Alps?) to my left. Not much to eat but I found enough to get by.

It was a long day to reach Shkroder, a much bigger town than I imagined from looking at the map. Maps can be so deceiving. This place was big, dirty, chaotic animals in the road, giant gashes in sidewalks, cafes filled with men only, vegetable squatters selling their produce laid out on the street, beggar women with their uncleaned children on alley corners, beat up transport vans running to and fro looking for another customer to fill a seat. I was now somewhere very new and different from the places I'd walked prior.

But I have to tell you it's only been two days now and the Albanians have proven to be the most friendly people this whole journey. They are real, genuine, down to earth. Folks have treated me with open arms of kindness as a welcome visitor to their country. Many speak english and I have seen an American flag flying next to an Albanian flag at several establishments. People have gone out of their way to help. A man today invited me to sit under the shade of his roadside shack to eat watermelon he was selling. Another man yesterday insisted I come to his shop and drink any cold beverages I wanted on the house. Even tonight, in Lezhe, (where I am) a cook was absent from the restaurant I went to. I was going to find another place to eat but a customer told me to sit. He went in the kitchen to help prepare me a good meal. People have honked their horns more, flashed their car lights and given me a thumbs up more than in any other place. Men in cement mixer trucks and families in their sedans. It's all such a weird amalgam of stuff going on and I still haven't wrapped my head around it all.

Today was tough though. The red road was much busier. I expected trials along my way to Macedonia and knew to endure some pain. It was inevitable. Everyone, and I mean everyone from Slovenia to Montenegro had insisted I do not go through Kosovo so my only other choice was Albania. Both routes had big cities to tackle and red roads to deal with. I was mentally prepared. Going through Albania has proven to be not as bad as I thought. But the heat, traffic, shadeless walking, the dirt and lack of amenities has worn me down. Tomorrow, a yellow road leading to the mountains will hopefully offer a respite from some of these challenges. I am excited.

A couple funny signs:
Today, a town here called PUKE
And a petrol station called Kastrati (all I can picture is a severed hose pumping fuel)
In Bosnia there was GLOBTOURS.
And BOSSGAS

Yesterday I had to see a dentist too. I bit into a banana in the AM hours and a filling got wedged in the fruit. So at nearly 8 PM I found a dentist still open. He agreed to help. What a sweet man. He was only to have one patient that day because the next day (today) he was going on a little outing. I was his fourth patient. Again, the Albanians go out of their way to help. Today my dentist passed me on the road as he headed to meet his friends at some lake. He stopped to say hello and take some pictures. And he laughed but offered me a ride knowing I'd refuse. The offer, however, was serious.

After the morning tomorrow I will leave the west side of this part of Europe and head EAST and keep going in that relative direction until I come to Turkey when I descend down to Istanbul.

But I MUST sleep now so it's off to beddy bye bye.

The Dark Mountain

I am gonna keep this on the shorter side becuz I am on an ipad and am finding it doing weird things. Such is life in the third world. Or so it seems here in Montenegro, translated means, Dark Mountain.  It's not really dark here and it is not really third world but there sure are a lot of mountains.

My time in Bosnia has ended. Oh the great divides in this broken up place. If it is confusing here in the Balkans for the locals imagine an outsider trying to get it. For example, in Bosnia I found myself in the mountains on my way from Mostar ( trying to reclaim it's former glory) to Nevesinje and in the middle of nowhere I came to a sign that read, " Welcome to the Republic of Srpska". Even Bosnia is a divided country. I thought I had entered the more Muslim part, especially after a man spat at me and called me satan after I had told him i was from the US ( I am now a Canadian living in Vancouver). But it turned out to be an isolated case....kind of. In Glacko a very nice man told me the locals in the area blamed the US for their problems. Somehow I had left the more Muslim part of Bosnia and was in a more Xtian and Orthodox part. I couldn't tell.  Here in Montenegro there is no problem. They are super laid back and great people. But you can really feel the tension in Bosnia.

The mountains during my last days in Bosnia were excellent beauties. What a treat, so 'out there', so remote. Again, no food or water available and even a few more landmine signs. On one ridge flank an impossibly perched Moorish castle ruin sat on a thin fin away from mostly everything. It was one of my favorite castle ruins this trip. No doubt there were more but were destroyed in the civil war.

My goal was to leave Bosnia via a smaller border crossing down a white road. I was told I could find the road by going to this village, finding the bridge, crossing it, turning right, then left and going through the field. Those were my instructions and you know, they worked. But I was out there. And once I got to the border it was in nowheresville. I was super nervous. And then my worst fears became true: they would not let out. Border patrol told me it was a small crossing for locals only, not foreigners. I begged, I pleaded. I got teary eyed. Fortunately both guys were into my whole story. They looked at my map. One even picked up my bag to check the weight and went 'whoa'. They hemmed and talked with each other. Neither could speak english. Eventually, they held their hands over their faces ( I see nothing) and told me to go. But they would not stamp me out and they were not sure Montenegro would let me in. I held my breath and went forward.

The border patrol in MN was so cool. He was watching some Discovery channel show about the brain. He took my passport, scanned it, asked which way I was going ( coming or going) and stamped me in. YES! And for the next 40 miles I walked this super remote one lane road with nearly nothing but mountains and the occasional home. It was absolutely wonderful, so silent and still, a car maybe once an hour. And the people living back there were living it like folks had for eons. This one old man was walking down the road all in black with a huge sickle and he looked like death coming for me. His sickle was handmade and worn smooth from use. It felt like Appalacia meets sherpers from Nepal meets Eastern Europe. That road was a gem. There was one rock I sat on near a 3,000 foot pass overlooking a valley with panoramas of the mountains; I was in heaven. Just a few red roof homes nestled in this huge expanse, living the life of one with nature. All I heard was a lone bird in the forest, an ocassional distant cowbell and the wind blowing through the ripe flowering trees around me perfuming the air . I told myself I would sit there until a car came by. Seventy-five minutes later I left, no car had passed.

On my way to the capital, Podgorica, taking back roads, I stopped in Danilovgrad for food and met some wonderful guys. I will be in their newspaper tomorrow. The capital, as well as their second largest city, Niksic, were very small. It has been hard to find the city center. Niksic had three restaurants. Fortunately, a very sweet, young couple helped me navigate getting around. And to avoid a main thoroughfare route the husband took time from his day to walk several miles with me in order to get me on a small backroad that would parallel the busier road heading south. Here in the capital I saw a man riding a wooden cart with his horse down a main street. You get it, right? The people are proud to be Montenegrons but are embarrassed by what they lack. They are, however, trying hard to be a part of the EU.  They have a little way to go. And so do I.

I am now down to 29 days. Tomorrow I cross into Albania, head south and then cross W to E from Milot to the border of Macedonia near Debar. I should be there in about 5 days. There is so much more to say but this will have to do for now. I am holding up. Got new shoes in Mostar. The heat has returned after a cool to coldish time in Bosnia. But the humidity is not as bad as Croatia nor are the bugs which were in swarms a few weeks ago.

Time to hit the rod again. I am super excited and motivated to DO IT.

War and Pieces

There is a song by the band, Depeche Mode, called People Are People. Some of the lyrics go pretty much like this: " what makes a man hate another man, help me understand. People are people so why should it be that you and I should get along so awfully".
I am not going to pretend to understand the ethnic differences or racial strife that caused this former large nation, Yugoslavia, to get busted up into little pieces. But I can tell you what I have seen and felt by walking through parts of it.

When I last blogged I was on my way to the national park. I had no idea I was going to be walking through the former frontline of the war in Croatia in a place called Saborsko. It was a village filled with crucifixes and bullet holes. There were hardened faces and amputees. It was quiet and not particularly very big. But it still carried a feeling. Later when I made it to the park, there in the woods was a sign for Plitvicka Jezera, and above it, another sign, oddly, that simply said BREATHE. And I could. All the trees and mountains and then those gorgeous lakes and cascades. It was the follow up to Saborsko I needed.

From the beauty of the park I continued past Homoljac and then a side road through Frkasic (say that fast 5 times, I dare you. Actually, I dare you to say it once!). It was there I had my first invite into someone's home, a very basic place where I was given water, cookies and a chair to sit by a very nice man who spoke not one stitch of English. But kindness speaks volumes and it is often the poor who give the most of what little they have. I continued on. This road ended up going high into the mountains and for the next several days I was on the most remote roads since my journey began.
Croatia is a beautiful country. I mean, drop dead gorgeous. It has much to offer the nature lover and I suspect within 5 years it will be a major vacation destination. There were many times through the country where I just stared in disbelief at the beauty and stunning scenery. A crown jewel. Some of my best camping has been in Croatia too. Desolate, silent spots with only the forest animals making noises in the night.
But there was nothing in those mountains. Nothing. No food, no water. So I was very happy when I knew I would be coming to the big (on a map) Donji Lapac. OMG. Imagine my shock when I felt liked I'd stepped into the late 19th century. Shepherds with their flocks, a family skinning a slaughtered sheep hanging from a tree in the backyard, men in straw hats with pitchforks making haystacks. There was a store there to be sure, but it had so little of anything. I had so wanted to sit in a cafe and eat a meal. Instead, I bought what I could and figured I would find better in Srb. Not a chance. The whole area was empty. It was wonderful walking, amazing views that kept me dazzled the whole time. But no food and very little water. And that is hard when the temps are in the 90s (they had been for a solid week) and humidity is high. It meant carrying a lot of water. And I gotta tell you, water is a walker's best friend and worst enemy. It keeps one hydrated, joints lubricated, head clear. But it is also the heaviest thing to carry and so it becomes a catch 22; one has to carry more water to quench the thirst but the extra weight makes the sweat pour harder and faster.

I climbed another mountain, slept under a full moon on a lovely high plain and figured I would get amenities at the crossroads to the red road (I was on a yellow road that felt very much like a white road), in Sucevici. HA! as it turned out that place had but one house! That was it. But my walk to Knin was jaw dropping spectacular following this ridge alongside a narrow valley. I put up with the thirst until it got so bad I had to beg when an infrequent car drove by. Nobody stopped, I'm sure they thought I was crazy. Finally I came to a habited place with water (prior to I walked through some ghost villages, war remnants).

Monday morning I crossed the border into Bosnia Herzegovina. Getting there through Knin meant going 40km out of my way because the police had told me the day before that I could not take the small mountain road which straddled the border to the border town itself. A whole extra day of walking. But the landscapes made up for it. On the way out there were a lot of destroyed homes, and left over destruction from the war. The mountain red road I was on was deserted. No one was crossing the border here. Imagine me walking into this forested area with very little action at the border patrol. They looked at me, then my passport and were quite surprised I was an American (the police in Croatia had stopped me several times also to "routinely see your documents" and were equally surprised).

It was a long climb up a mountain for many miles with incredible views, a really wonderful walk and well worth the effort. Storm clouds were brewing too. A sign? I made it to within 1 KM to the town of B. Grahovo, about 20 km from the border, when the rains started. Man, it came down. Hard! I ducked into a place I was told was a restaurant but looked from the outside like the second floor to a home. It was, however, a small place with only 4 tables and no one else inside but the waitress/cook.  For the next 3 hours I ate while it poured outside.

The woman who was running the joint had a sad, sunken face. She watched the tv which aired some Bosnian movie while the jukebox played Bosnian music. None of it was too loud. But the jukebox flashed these lit pictures every few seconds of nature scenes, automobiles, and naked women. A family restaurant?

When the rain abated I had a look around the town. Oh my. Everyone had long, sad faces and I could see why. Poor Grahovo was in ruins and squalor. What looked like the former village center was in horrible shape. The municipal building was gutted. Homes collapsed, bombed. I was taking a picture of one building and a man on a bike came up and said it used to be a nice hotel. It was devastating. And very sad. And so went my introduction to Bosnia.

Now I was really scared where to pitch my tent; I had been careful for days and days. But I was lucky to find a spot in an off-road cinderblock cell covered with cow manure on the dirt floor. If the cows hadn't blown up then neither would I (although the walk out to the structure terrified me) . It rained and thundered more in the night. By morning there was just a dark gray, ominous sky with a COLD chill. I wore a coat and I walked all day. There was nothing again. No ameneities I should say. Each town on my map really didn't exist anymore. There were so many ghost villages, so many destroyed homes and buildings, so many bullet holes. For every new home I could see way back at the hill base, I saw a dozen places in ruin. It broke my heart. What these people have endured. The scars that can never heal. It was depressing. Oh, and the "mine" signs. The skull and crossbones markers all over the place. To think you cannot leave the asphalt and enjoy the countryside or your former home's land for fear of being blown up or losing your legs. This morning left a branded impression on me. Again, the things I am grateful for that others cannot enjoy.

In Crni Lug there was one tiny spot where an old man had beer and juice. A kind of cafe but not really. More like one little concrete block, dingy room with beer and juice. A trucker was in there drinking beer at 9AM. I asked for food, the old man said he had none. But within 2 minutes he came back with bread, green onions, tomatoes and homemade cheese (totally gross stuff). I was ordered to eat and eat a lot. It was hard getting the cheese down. But they were kind. They offered me a beer....no thanks. I offered to pay for the food. They refused. So I decided to buy a juice. I drank it and they would not let me pay for that either. I had been warned in Croatia to "be careful" in Bosnia because the people lost much in the war and I might be a target. But I was finding the Bosnians to be some of the best folks on this trip.

All day I walked through this sort of expansive valley with hills and mountains on both sides. The cooler temps and clouds made the lack of water available much more tolerable. Thank you. There was space to breathe too which was necessary amongst the ruins. One man pointed to me his destroyed father's home and his brother's too. The "Serbs" shot them up. Then I came to this long area that looked like a National Park. Just beautiful. But eeerily quiet and I knew. Nothing is here, no one, nothing, because the place is still full of mines. My suspicians were confirmed. I came to Celebic and things seemed a little different here. A home was being built and I went up the long drive to get water. A man who had "run away" was back with his family rebuilding. And so it was. He pointed out his window to a place where he said, "beyond there there are no more mines". The sun came out full on. And within a few miles there were fields being plowed, kids on bikes, new homes, flowers, color. And I could feel the heaviness lift. And it felt wonderful.

I walked through Livno this morning, a town with lots of life and very sweet people. There was a large grocery store so I could buy much needed food. And I bought a lot. Now I am on the shores of a lovely lake, which I believe is called Bisko.

I have caught myself a few days back starting to dream of the things I will enjoy when this walk is over. But I did not want to keep going there so I reminded myself that in (now) 35 days (I am projecting July 31st as my end date....a clean 4 months) it will be over and that sad notion reminds me to keep enjoying all aspects of this epic adventure, even the parts I am not digging too much anymore. My pants are tattered and faded with holes and a broken zipper ( not my fly), my shirt is fraying, my undies are ripped (all clothing lightweight and non replaceable on this trip so I must wear it). A tent pole has broke, my new pack has a few small tears and I am even feeling myself getting a little whacky which I am trying to keep at bay. I remember this point on my trip across the US. I am trying for better this time. (But I could not help dancing and singing in the grocery store to Billy Idol's "Dancing With Myself" this morning). I am feeling like a homeless man, very much. And I don't care too much really. It has become my norm. But I know this all comes with limits. I am not living in a destroyed village. I have not been through war directly. I can quit anytime if I want (fat chance...I'm going for broke baby).

I am off to Mostar. Time for new shoes. I still have a lot of miles to go. But by the middle of next week, my days left will be in the 20s. And before I know it this will all come to an end.
Time to enjoy what's left.

Landmines and Mountains and Bears, Oh My

I have crossed the border into Croatia ( Sunday) and should be in Plitvicka National Park tomorrow. It will be a good place to ring in the summer solstice.

 Slovenia was great, short and sweet. I found myself on some quiet, forested backroads and one that went through a Ntl Park. I camped next to a stream that cut through a rockface creating a natural bridge. It was very peaceful until about 3 AM when the frogs started croaking. One sounded as if it were saying, "Felix, don't do it!". It felt like I was in some B horror movie. My last meal was in a small village with nearly all consonants in the spelling of the name. The style of the food was local and my server had been to Cleveland before for a big Slovenian reunion. I got a bowl of fresh forest foraged mushroom soup, fresh picked greens from the garden out back, smoked then cooked salmon plus potatoes with leeks. The costs are half then they were in Italy so I could indulge. It sure beat the tunafish in a toothpaste tube I tried the day before. Hours later at the border, Babno Polje, the woman running the bar was making someone an ice cream sundae. I ordered a juice. She gave me a juice then poured me a shot of some clear spirits and insisted I drink it. I gave in and merrily walked to the border.

Croatia joins the EU on July 1 so I am one of the last to get passport stamps at this very unused border. The mountains on the Croatia side are much bigger and my first two days have seen some hefty climbing up and down. The slopes are steeper and the forests choked with tall pine and deciduous trees sometimes so impenetrable I could not even put two feet inside. They are home to wolf, lynx and bear and locals shudder when I tell them I sleep in the forest at night.

Croatia is so full of mountains and dense forests, it's a veritible lumberjack's wet dream. And those saws are going all day long. Homes have dropped timber in their front yards that they then splinter into jumbo wood piles; the winters must be long and brutal here. This place seems rougher around the edges. Some villages look Bavarian while others are recovering from the war. I am starting to see abandonded homes with bullet holes all over the walls. Some villages have dramatic statues, the one with the young man hurling a hand grenade sticks out. But there a flowers everywhere and people seem reasonably happy. I have been offered alcohol each morning as I pass someone's house too. Maybe this is how they learned to cope.

I now spend money called kuna. It is not cheap here. A couple place names I've walked through: Gorica, Crni Lug, Ravna Gora, plus a super forest road from Vrbovsko to Ogulin. I have to be careful now because there are leftover mines from the war. I knew to expect this but I was not entirely sure where to worry. Well, that day is here. Know that I will take all precautions to be safe, esp when camping at night. My maps aren't the best either but I'm making do with what I have. And with that I am going to go becuz i may lose this again....bad computer. ps: i have gotten recent emails but cannot reply from this computer for some reason. thank you.
 this is not proofread.

Trans Slovenian Express

This country is smaller than it looks and I feel like I am breezing through it. Too bad too; it's so lovely. But with Slovenia comes my "downhill", third leg. If you look at a map, from Gibraltar to Andorra was upwards, Andorra to Slovenia was across and now from Slovenia to Istanbul is down. Of course it's not really down, there's still lots of mountains to climb, but there is an illusion looking at a map that allows my mind to think that I am just sliding down.  I have, in fact, climbed my first mountain yesterday, the first in nearly two weeks. It was wonderful!

I've had time to absorb Venice more. Arriving by ferry from the islet into the San Carlos Square stop was like cruising right into an old master's oil painting. Up until this week I have only seen Venice that way, in fine art museums; the bulbous clouds, the baby blue, powder sky, the row of opulent old buildings in various states of life and decay and color lined along the lapping lip of the Grand Canal with all the boats in the water. Marvelous, simply marvelous. The only thing NOT in those paintings are the hordes of people. I knew to expect them in June. Everyone wants to see Venice. And who can blame them? But for me, Venice came most alive when it was deadly quiet....early morning.

My first morning in Venice I just strolled for hours before the shops opened. I walked the Rialto Bridge with no one on it. I went to the Jewish "ghetto" and got lost in the maze of lanes and streets and small bridges that makes Venice exciting. It is a city with no cars so it was perfect for me and my day "off" from walking. I still got to exercise but on a lighter scale.

The morning I left Venice was even better. Since I arrived in Venice with no reservation for a place to stay I just picked an area to scout for a bed since I was clueless about the city. The only direct ferry to Cavallina islet, my reentry walking point after leaving Venice, was from San Marcos Square so I decided to find a place there. The info center was no help so I asked around. And in a little-lane restaurant a waiter went to the building across and rang a buzzer to a friend. There, in an unmarked building, was a room in a kind of hostel/hotel/b&b that was nice, clean and quiet and priced just right. I stayed two nights. When I left on Tuesday morning it was early AM and I found myself in San Marcos plaza alone. It was incredible. Venice came to life in that still square. Slowly the dawn colors tinted the Doge Palace and the Basilica and the buildings all around. At the water's edge the pastels of morning light turned the place into magic. I shall never forget it.

However, I was glad to leave Venice. That whole "body shutting down" thing I last blogged about was wrong. My body was ecstatic to leave & start walking again. What it had trouble with was all the busy-ness. There is a trait I have. When I absorb too much info without the time to process it I go into automatic shut down mode. Which is why I was so tired in Venice. My body and mind couldn't take it all in. I have not been in such a big and frenzied place on this whole trip. To give you an idea: a few days earlier walking through a small place called Rolo, a young Pakistani man helped me with directions. That whole flat area between Parma & Venice is an economically troubled region so consequently land is cheap and there are communities of Punjabi Indians, Pakistani, some Chinese and even migrant African workers plus the older school Italian farmers that have been there for eons. This man was so excited to help me. He said, "I think you are the first American to come through Rolo". Most of where I am walking is like that. The people don't see tourists and neither do I. So the bombast of Venice threw me and my body into a tizzy.

I left Venice, walked through Cavallina, on the lagoon side of the island, and afterwards, hopped onto the smallest roads I could find because I could not deal with heavy traffic which exists all around Venice. I went through Cortellazzo, Torre Di Fine, walked atop levees that ran along rivers, hit a super cool back road where a guy had to open a gate 2 miles down the road in order for me to continue (he also left me a bag of fresh walnuts from his trees....very agricultural area:corn, wheat, veggies, fruit & nut trees). I went through S. Giorgio Di Livenza, Precenicco, San Giorgio di Nogaro, etc.

What I've been amazed with is how many older people are out & about on bikes and with no helmets. I am talking men and women in their 70s and 80s on roads with trucks and cars, some just doing shopping. The women are all dressed up in dresses or skirts and ride simple older bikes. I loved them all.

My last day in Italy was a bit tough. It was hot, at times the road was very heavy with traffic. When it is that way I feel very violated by each vehicle passing. It is like each one plows through me with a total disregard that I am a human being. I am pleased there has not been not too much of that kind of walking that I've had to do so far. I met a bicyclist who stopped to talk. He was an Iraqui man who lives in France. He had just bought the bike two days earlier after walking around (true wandering, no intended "goal"), for two years in the Middle East and eastern Europe. He was rail thin and said he got by on 30euros A MONTH which I found hard to believe. He ate discarded foods from stores and also camped. He seemed happy. He had a lot of enthusiasm for my walk too, to meet a fellow, like-minded road warrior. And I found it comforting to talk with someone who could understand where I was inside because this walking does change you.

Off the red roads I went to Turnaco on my way to Doberdo Del Lago when locals told me it would be way easier to go all the way north and then over to get into Slovenia. On the map that looked super long so I decided to go the map route. Well, guess who had to walk a whole lot of extra miles and up a steep hill onto a road that turned into a trail that splintered into several other trails to where I thought I was suerly lost? Yours truly. I was so mad at myself but the fact is- and I realized this later in the day- not every moment in life is a pleasant one, not every decision is the "right" one. As it turns out though, this one was a "right" decision. Sometimes, you just don't realize it until later, when it reveals it's charming secret.

At Doberdo I had to end up going north anyway to Marcottini and then from there I was told I had to still go further north because the border crossing from there was not open. I was hungry, hot, and disgruntled. Then, in the middle of nowhere, a restaurant appeared and I told myself, whatever it costs, I would buy myself a nice last meal in Italy. So I went inside. It was early so no one was eating inside. But the owner greeted me and asked me what I needed. I said FOOD! He told me the cook wasn't in yet but he would prepare me something "great".

The owner's name was Robert. He was so cheerful, so friendly, so wanted to help me. When he found out about my journey I was ordered to sign his guestbook. He told me to relax. He got me orange juice and then a frittata appetizer with pesto and then a huge, delicious plate of gnocchi. He told me it was on the house. He allowed me to shower in the basement, gave me water and a sandwich to go, gave me several hugs and congratulations for my journey. He kept asking, "what else do you need?"

What can I do to make this person feel good?

I was so touched, I cried. "You should be happy", he said. Oh, I was. I was very happy. But walking and being vulnerable as I am , also brings out emotions that don't always surface as easily. And they were out then and there. Robert was Slovenian but this restaurant was just inside Italy. It had been his parents' place and after his brother died (who I think was running it), Robert came back to give it a try. He deserves much success and I wish him all the best.

This day turned out to be a pivotal one for me. I will never forget Robert or that moment.
What can I do for you?
Weeks ago, during a torrential downpour with crashing lightening and thunder I sought refuge in a church. Some prayer circle finished and the nun came up to me and told me I had to leave the church. We opened the church doors and the weather was horrible. I asked her, "where can I go?" and she shrugged her shoulders. And with the biggest smile on her face she said, " I don't know. Out you go".
I will never forget her either.
Both of these people are teachers in my life.
To be or not to be.....that is the question.

I walked a few kilometers more from the restaurant & crossed the border very quietly into Slovenia late on Thursday. It has felt wonderful to be here. It is quieter, simpler, prettier. Yesterday I got to know the place a bit more. It's woods, then a small village, them more woods again. There are hills, the land is not flat. The mountains are all around. I went from Opatje Selo, where a man found it hilarious that I wanted to walk to Komen when he offered a ride. In Komen I sat with a young man under a cherry tree and he talked about the area. He was on break from restoring the gothic frescoes in the old church. Apparently a lot of treasures in Slovenia were decimated in the wars. Stanjel was very charming but Stjak was dreamy, perched high up in the mountains. The views of the Slovenian Alps were stunning. I could not take my eyes off them and spent a lot of the day just admiring the beauty. My camp last night was phenomenal with this vista of these majestic mountains and a superior valley below. The sunlight wrapped up all that nature into unbelievable beholdings.

I have a special affection for Slovenia because one of my favorite bands, Laibach, is from here. I've heard their music playing in my head all day today. Their heyday was years ago. They have always been controversial and the government, years ago, pushed them out of country because they poke fun of nationalism. But most of their work is parody. They have redone the whole Beatles, Let it Be record (except the title track), have covered Macbeth, a whole record of their own versions of National anthems for various countries, a disc called Jesus Christ Superstars and a disco, NATO record.

Today I have been though Vrabce, Senozece and now am in Postojna. The food is different, the language is very different, the prices cheaper, the feeling is a world away from Italy.

By Monday morning I should be in Croatia. I am heading towards the National Park that begins with a "P" and is famous for their lakes (map not handy). I saw pictures of it years ago and told myself, SOMEDAY. Well, that someday is soon. It is in the interior of the country near the north. I am not going to the coast.

Tomorrow begins week 12 (or as i now say counting in reverse, week 7). The countries are all smaller. I will go through them faster. In fact, it will be 9 countries during the rest of this leg. I have some trepidations about a few places further on but it's all just one day a time right now.

The Iraqui bicyclist I met told me Italy was so busy, the roads turmoil. That was the reason he got a bike, to get through it. He told me, once you get out of Italy and into Slovenia then "you are free". It has felt just like that.

Venice the Menace

Yes, I have arrived. Venice is another milestone for me on my walk. I arrived yesterday morning after a night on a BEACH! And from there took a ferry in. It's wonderful here. But it's also full of menacing tourists. GOBS! I haven't had so much activity around me since I was in Fez (before the trip started). It's actually terribly overwhelming. But I also knew to expect it. Everyone loves Venice. Well, except for a number of Italians I met. I am grateful it is dry. One Italian I met a week ago had been here recently with three full days of rain. He hated it. I think I would have too. But the hustle and bustle is very strange and is jarring to my space. It is a menace.

After I left Parma it's all been FLAT! My feet are doing ok with it and it has been a nice change from the mountains. But this week has brought something else new=heat.  I have gone from April to August in the span of a few days and my body has not been happy. My feet have swelled inside my shoes which now feel too small. My baby toes are crushed, blistered and the nails red with dry blood. It has been painful at times to walk but with Venice on the horizon I persisted.
Fortunately, I found mostly white and yellow roads the whole way here. Leaving Parma was terrible because of traffic so I ditched the red road I was on and followed a maze of yellow backroads which were quieter. I often found myself on raised levees or dikes with a river to one side and farms on the opposite. Even a few mountains showed up in the distance (they were not the Dolomites). But I sweated and languished as I tried to adjust to the new temps. At night I sleep in my undies and wake up without needing a coat. HUGE change.

For those following my route I have written down a few places since I left Ovada in the Little Alps..Lerma (very nice castle and some sweet people), Mazzarelli, Voltaggio (really liked this place on a hill with olden twisty lanes and stone streets), Montoggi, Torriglia, Cabanne, Pontolo, Forno di Taro, Poviglio, Meletole, Santa Vittoria, Fabbrico, Concordia Sulla Secchia, Fossa, Stopparia, DRAGONCELLO! (I saw that name and had to go thru there. I wanna learn to play the cello just so I can perform as DRAGONCELLO!)(not an intersting place....the only thing I will remember there is the one bar with squat toilets...aka, hole in the ground, and no running water), Calto, Trecenta, Boara Pisani, Anguillara Veneta, Cavazere, and then to Chioggia where it got hectic for about 2 hours with  the frenzied return of civilization at large. From there I hopped on a free ferry across to the Litorale of Pellistrina and walked the spit of land up. It was there I camped on a beach, IN SAND, with water all around me (Gulf of Venice) before I ferried to the next spit on up. It was quiet and lovely and the PERFECT way to enter Venice.

I will leave tomorrow morning, early. I expect I will be in Slovenia by the weekend, prob Friday. My escape route outta Venice doesn't look like it will be as quiet as it was coming in so for two days I expect some traffic.

One thing I know I will miss when I leave country will be the Italians themselves.  There hasn't been a day that hasn't gone by where a car doesn't stop and wait for me to catch up so they can ask, "where are you going". They walk right up to me, get in my face, and ask that question. It's like they know me. And once they find out the answer they look for my bike. And when they realize I am walking they end up with a flood of other questions from where do I sleep to how long did it take me to get this far, etc etc. And they are gift givers here. I have been given chocolate, pizza, raisin bread, cold beverages, etc. My last blog was free because I walked into a small office and asked the guy if he knew of an internet point. He asked his co worker who did not know of one so he kicked the co worker from his desk and allowed me to use it. I become an instant friend here, that is how it has felt. And their support for me has been enthusiastic and heartfelt at a time I've been needing it. So thank you ITALY! Heck, I was allowed in free to a Munch exhibit yesterday which was AWESOME (first time these works have left Oslo).

I know not what to expect from the Balkans. I have some reservations but it's one day at a time right now. Not sure when or where I will find internet service too.

On a sidenote...some friends have asked about sharing this blog. I do not care if you share it with someone I only ask it not be posted to group lists or Facebook. Thanx.

Well, it is back to Venice. I have been to the Basilica, taken a ride through the Grand Canal and have walked and seen so much more. But tomorrow the walking will be back again with my backpack. My body thinks we are done and that news will become very untrue come morning. It's back to the solitary road.

Ciao!

Parma-town

I'm in Parma. Parma, Italy. I wasn't sure I was gonna come through here. In fact, I was planning to go south of here, but as I got closer, an Italian told me it was a wondereful town so I gave it more thought. Still, I wasn't sure. Then the ghost of my best friend, David, told me I HAD to go to Parma or he would haunt my dreams with the happiest Care Bears and Smurf dolls and I knew I did NOT want that. So I made my way to Parma.

For those of you not from the Cleveland area, Parma is a SW suburb of the city. Parma, Ohio is where I went to high school. And I grew up in the neighboring community of Seven Hills. Parma used to be the brunt of local jokes because, even though a lot of Italians did live there it was known for it's Polish population and the joke was that they all wore white socks with "flood" pants. And it was kinda true; you could see a lot of white ankles back then.

Parmatown was the mall and it was thee spot to hang out. It is where, as a teen, I got busted for trying to steal an LP record (Angel's, On Earth As It Is In Heaven) with another friend, Kevin. I was henceforth banned for life from the mall but a month later I was back BUYING records.

David had lived in another neighboring community, Parma Heights, and we would hang out at the mall too and make fun of the girls with outdated perm hairstyles or ridiculous "new Wave" cuts or  pre-torn "punk" clothes they'd buy at Merry-Go Round. David was more of a college friend having met him at Cleveland State University which is where we principally hung out. But we still always laughed about and made fun of Parmatown and Parma, in general.

So in a way, I HAD to come here. Inevitable? I don't know. It almost did'nt happen.

The past week was full of real highs and real lows. After I last blogged the weather got super wicked with thunder and lightening, periods of heavy downpours and hail. I had to duck and hide between places to avoid getting wet but in the end I arrived in Ovada soaking and cold. I got a room in a hotel and vowed that if it was raining the next morning I was gonna quit, the rain was simply bringing me down too much. Well, the next morning it was not raining. In fact, there was a splendid rainbow which has often meant good luck for me so I put my belief in the power of the rainbow ( I know what you're thinking, really Stevyn, the power of the rainbow? What's next, dancing unicorns? And all I can say to that is, I HOPE I see dancing unicorns and you're gonna be sad you were'nt with me to see them too!)

So I went forward and marched into what the Italians call, the Little Alps. They are magnificent mountains and I think I liked them much more than the Italian side of the real Alps. Such beautiful behemoths. I did a lot of walking up and down very steep white & yellow roads, curving every which way and often feeling like I wasn't getting anywhere. I do not have my map in front of me but I do remember the small village of Montebruno as I place I went through. A lot of places were only a few homes and much was natural. In fact, I even went through a National Park area. This area was my favorite hiking in Italy and some of the best scenery on the trip. Plus, no more rain in the mountains.

But I was still dragging a bit, mentally, and also stressing about going to Parma and I was not sure why. Then, I had a sort of epiphany. As I left S. Stefano de Aveto nestled high in the peaks of the mountains (some of the Little Alps are 6,000 feet high) I was ready to climb a pass nearly 5,000 feet. It hit me that this point might be the last highest point I would walk on the whole rest of the trip. Certainly in Italy. And since that was on Saturday, the end of my 9th week, I decided the pass would make a great place to declare my halfway point of this journey and that Parma, which I thought might be a halfway point, would just be another stop AFTER having already passed that middle marker. It meant I was half over! Somehow, that mentally propelled me forward again and I instantly felt better.

I camped at the top of the 5,000 foot summit Saturday night and Sunday morning I walked over Tomarlo Pass and began week 10 (which I am going in reverse now, so I am calling it week 9 again and next week will be 8 then 7 etc). It was a gorgeous morning, one of my prettiest and so very quiet. Nobody out on the roads. All morning I descended down down down  until I came out to Bedonia where some June 2nd religious ceremony was taking place in the streets with sacramental garb and droves of people walking this trail of flower petals in designs on the ground.

I have mostly stuck to white & yellow roads but when I have been on red roads I have lucked out with most stretches being pretty nice. For that I am grateful. And the rains have subsided for now. In fact, on June 1st it felt like summer had finally arrived. Things have been heating up. I feel humidity now. I do not need to wear a coat in the morning. Plus, the roads have gotten flat. I left the mountains yesterday and it has been easier walking which my ankles are happy about.

Parma is a marvelous town founded in 183bc. The Romans were here and there are many magnificent structures. Safe to say it makes Parma Ohio look, well, like a suburb of Cleveland and not much else.

So, now it's off to Venice. I hope to be there by Sunday or Monday. It will be a very big city, my biggest this walk yet. But I am ready & look forward to it. For now, the happy wanderer continues his journey.

Ciao.

I Like To Poo Outside

It's true. It' s my "dirty" little secret. Just dig a little hole, drop my drawers and let it go just like a blissful cow, pure and simple, the way nature intended. Public toilets are nasty. But I'm afraid I will soon need to resort to a real commode soon once I hit the flatlands of eastern Italy. It is more crowded and built up there and more open. Not like the mountains with trees and twists and turns and many a hiding place. And so, a new challenge shall await me. I've had a little taste of what's to come (sorry, maybe not the best phrase to use) once I hit the base of the Alps. There was one longish stretch of flat and it threw me off. It was like hitting Nebraska coming out of the Rockies. A great expanse of flat earth is not something I have encountered yet. Behind me the mountains stretched into a jagged, panoramic spine of white pinnacles as far as the eye could see. I'd walk for miles and turn around and those mountains did not seem to recede. Sometimes they seemed to be getting closer and then I figured it out: they were following me! They wanted to go to Istanbul too, been sitting in one place too long.

Which reminds me, when I stop walking and sit to do anything, like write a blog, I get all stopped up and find it hard to think straight. Confusion sets in. When I'm walking I write these beautiful blogpost paragraphs in my head and then forget them when I sit down. I'm surprised I make any sense at all. It reminds me of the writer, Bruce Chatwin, who, during the time of his untimely death, was working on a book about nomadism and how genetically we still have ties locked in our cells to the days before we were sedentary and agrarian, when we were still hunters and gatherers and followed the seasons and the animals by foot. How we are carried in motion inside our mothers moving around for 9 months before we are born. Sure, I love my nest. My tent is my nest and I know where everything goes at night inside it. But I think I am clearer when I am motion. So if my blog ever sounds weird you will know why.

Since I know a number of folks are mapping out my trajectory I'm gonna go way back to a time back in France which seems like very old news to me now. My last quaint, white roads in France went through the adorable villages of Villedieu and Mirabel before I got on primarily red roads to the border. I was bracing for a lot more traffic but it turned out not to be the case. Near Nyons, a very charming place,  was some traffic but that was because that Monday was a holiday in France ( I was in France for less than 3 weeks and they had three holidays and no one knew what they were for. I think if I lived in Europe I could actually get a 9 to 5 job because you never work it!) But all the way to Gap the road was fairly peaceful. There was a bit more vehicular movement around Gap but things really simmered after Barcennolette. In fact, it got so quiet on my last day up into the Alps and over the pass that I questioned the road I was on and wondered if anyone was coming or going through Italy. Believe me, I loved it.

A French national was returning from an extended bike trip and had 200 km left to get home. He stopped and asked me questions about my trip. He asked where I slept at night and I said most nights my tent. He thought it was a shame because I missed out on getting to know the locals more. He apparently asks to sleep in their fields or yards when he bicycles. But ya know, it's not my thing. My favorite book is WANDERING by Herman Hesse, and it's like one long extended poem. The original version has simple watercolors that Hesse painted himself. But like the main character, I am content to peer into the lives of strangers for brief moments, see them at their place of work, see them in their yards or the window of their homes. Snippets of their cozy, secure, lives and then go on my way. I really get a lot out of these shorter slices.

There were a few small and simple last day impressions in France aside from the grandeur of the mountains. I found another 50 cent piece and then used it towards a glass of fresh oj that a woman made for me in a tiny cafe that was open in Larch, way up in the Alps. The other was of a couple that stopped their car to ask me what I was doing. The woman was animated, but could only speak french so her husband translated for her. She was very excited about my journey & it brought back for her memories of walking that famous trail in Spain, the El Camino Santiago (I swear, LOTS of people have done that walk, a lot of women, and all with very fond memories).

At the top of the Alps, ahhhh--- those glorious mountains. What a sight. What an incredibly beautiful sight. Sublime. When I reached the pass I twirled around and did my Julie Andrews impersonation and then went for the border. But there was nothing there! A welcome sign but not much more. No fanfare. No passport control, no shop, nothing. Only some marmots and the snow. So I took in the moment and then dropped into Italy. It was strange how eerily quiet everything was. Very mellow, very still. The drop on the Italy side was much steeper than my climb up. I watched spring in many stages as I decended from no buds on the trees to just little buds, etc etc. It was like walking a time lapse camera through spring over the course of two days.

My first night was spent in a ghost resort village. The place appeared to be in stages of being built, and not even on my map. And deserted. I knew it was gonna be a cold night because the winds had picked up and there was still snow on the ground so I ducked inside an unfinished resort and slept in a room that will be charming when completed but was very cold and hard while I was there.

The next morning I awoke to a few fluttering flakes in the air and could see that the peaks I had crossed were getting a bit of snow. I had had terrific weather for all my days leading up and over the Alps. But my time ran out. It snowed harder as I continued down, then turned to slush stuff and then cold rain. I went into my first Italian restaurant, a very cute little place in La Planche, and had my first in-country meal. The only non meat item on the menu was a ravioli so I ordered it to warm me up and then a hot chocolate too. The food came out great but my drink was a mug of thick goo requiring the spoon it came with to eat\drink it. I sat by the fireplace and escaped the rain for an hour until it stopped. Locals have told me it's been the coldest, rainiest spring in more than 30 years. I haven't minded the cold temps  so much because they are easier to walk in. But the rain just sucks and I hope those days are gone soon.

Italy is different. Immediately. The foods, the towns, the customs. So far I have not been impressed with the towns, they are more spread out and not as compact and historic as in Spain and France. But I really love two things so far. The people. So much more gregarious, inquisitive, friendly, and apologetic for their "poor" English which I personally think is quite fine. I'm grateful that so many CAN speak english. I find myself speaking four languages in one sentence these days: english, spanish, french and now italian (thank you Bob for your help with some of the words). It's a wonder anyone understands me but they seem to. Either that or they PRETEND to understand cause when they talk back I pretend to understand them. I have been offered many rides already (one by a little, old, white- haired lady in the mountains), have had people stop to shake my hand after asking me what I am doing, have heard "bravo" and "complimento" much (and my first "you are crazy" from a woman in a grocery store). One lady in Borgo San  Dalmazzo who I asked directions for insisted on giving me a ride to my exchange and when I said no she opened up the trunk of her car refusing to take NO (to place my backpack). But I firmly reiterated 'no' so she took it upon herself to drive a mile to the roundabout I needed to reach and waited for me to make sure I found it. When I finally arrived she yelled out from her window, "bravo!" and then drove off with a huge smile. So much kindness here.

The other thing I love in Italy so far, is YOMO yogurt. It's local and incredibly delicious. Just three ingrediants. I have to have my YOMO fix everyday now.

A month ago I bought my first pair of shoes on the road in Tereul, Spain. I was to ease in the new pair and "use up" the rest of the original pair. Well, a month later and I have just thrown out that original pair a couple days ago. It seems that by alternating it's use, I got more mileage out of it because it had a chance to relax a little. That means I carried THREE pairs of shoes for a month with me. My original pair, the other pair I carry for days of rain (or snow) and then the new pair. Now I'm back down to two.

I skipped going to Cuneo ( I wanted something less busy) and headed towards Boves cause I heard it was cute. Somehow I walked right through Boves and missed the quaint part. At least the roads were quieter . (And sorry Diego I missed you in Torino....next time). Then I went for some white roads through Santa Margheria and San Biagio, Carleverri and then to Carru. From Dogliani I was in the Langa which are hills and low mountains, partly wooded, partly cultivated with smatterings of nice homes and some cute little villages with castle ruins or lovely churches. It's a bit more subtle than some things I've seen but still quite nice, softer, like a visual lullaby. I went to Cissone and Cerretto Langhe, Cravanzana and Cortemilia where I briefly blogged yesterday. And now I am in Acqui Terme and heading towards Ovada, Castagnola and on and on. Still not flat. Still good poo places. But I know those days are numbered.

You Call That A Croissant?

I do not know how you can go from France, which makes the most flakey, light, buttery, not-so-much-chocolate, melts-in-your-mouth, croissants, to Italy, just across the border, and find a chocolate croissant which looks like a kindergarten, playdough, art piece and is as inedible.
So yes, I am in Italy but have virtually no time to blog and lots to say. It is hard to find a terminal to write but for this brief moment I have been gifted a gracious person's office computer. So I will save what I have to say until I can find a place to write it at length.
At the moment, I am in Cortemilla, in what is referred to as the Langa or Alba, a bunch of hills and low mountains and traversing quiet roads. I will be in such terrain for several days and then hit the big flat expanse of the east.

One thing I will say: sometime towards the end of this week will be my unofficial halfway point. I brought that up last blog and then forgot to add that, for those of you who asked if this walk would be more or less miles than my walk across the US, it may be that my miles are the same as the US walk or even more. Originally I had said it would be less but once again, if I could read a map I might be able to judge these things better but such is the way of the happy wanderer who blissfully goes....an goes and goes. (My US walk was roughly 3,150 miles).

Anyway, time is up so I gotta go and hope to bring more news soon.

It Would Really Help If I Could Read A Map

Seriously. Or should I say, Serre-ly, since that is where I am.

I am in the foothills of the Alps and was all day yesterday too. I should have realized that had I looked at the map correctly. But the real trouble came a few days ago. I had left the very charming St. Victor La Cross with it's castle atop the village and meandered towards a little 12th century hermitage called St. Mayran. From there my map was sketchy with only a series of little unnumbered roads or paths. So I decided to freelance it with backroads, then trails, then train tracks, and thought I was doing great and going to La Doise. And I did kind of make it there only into some obscure industrial area of the town. It was Sunday so NO ONE was around and it became very frustrating. Then I found a sole soul who told me I had passed the town. The city is where I thought I would be taking a bridge over to Caderousse only my map didn't really show that; I think I wanted it to be so. Instead, the local told me I needed to walk further north away from town to a place called Codolet and cross the bridge there and then go back south and over A DAM [which is what I guess I saw connect to La Doise even though it wasn't clear on my map....or in real life]. I got so super-heated and was not a happy camper. Fortunately, I found two locals roadside who could speak English who were dumping a giant carp down a hillside into the river because it had become too big for their home pond. They explained the route I needed to take and drew me a map which was very helpful because it was otherwise all super-confusing. But it meant an extra 5 or 6 miles out of my way when my initial poor map reading led me to believe it were to be just an easy jaunt over a river. I did not cool off  for miles until I got onto a quiet bike path that took me straight into Caderousse.

After Caderousse  I went to Orange, which is renowned, not for their castle or cathedral but an ancient, 2,000 year old Roman theater. I was curious but not willing to pay 10 euro to see the inside. The woman at the museum said it included the museum plus a movie and some 3D show. Sounded like fluff. So I asked a couple who had been inside if it was worth it and both agreed it was although the guy said it was too pricey. Bingo. Then the woman said she had seen some folks on the hilltop behind the theater where I might be able to see inside from there. So I dumped my bag at a little cafe where I'd  bought some food [the guy working there called me Indiana Jones, because of my hat. I only hope he meant the '80s Indiana Jones] then climbed the hill to see the ruins. Very impressive, indeed, but not worth ten euro.

What WAS worth a lot of money was a hotel room in Pouzilhac. I had left my camp spot the morning after I had gone  thru Uzes which was atop a hill above St. Hippolyte de Montage [ if i had a kid I would so name him Hippolyte. Hey Hippo, time for dinner! ] and no sooner had I packed and left when it started raining. Then harder. Then torrential. It was all so absurd all I could do was laugh. I put "on" my blue plastic ground  tarp [for my tent at night] and walked in the monsoon all the way to Pouzilhac. It was Saturday morning and nothing was open. Even the church was closed. Then I found one little place that was open and walked in wrapped in this plastic veil. I asked the woman if there were a restaurant or cafe in town. She told me I was in her cafe. So I asked for food but all she served was coffee plus she was selling three cans of beans on a shelf. She said there was no food in the village except at the restaurant in the only hotel on the edge of the hamlet along the main route. So I ventured back into the downpour, up the road, and into this rather nice hotel lobby with water squishing out of my shoes and this blue plastic shawl draped around me. I asked for breakfast. The young woman working there said breakfast was finished but took pity on me and gave me coffee and croisants. The weather outside was frightful. I was drenched. I inquired about a room and they had only one available and it was ready right away. So I took it. And was so glad for it monsooned for about 7 more hours turning the parking lot into a lake and the road a river. It took all day, and three heaters to dry out my shoes and clothes but I was grateful to be inside watching the BBC on the telly and watching the rains drop outside.

The next morning I continued into the foothills, the scenery became more stunning, and the wineries, very picturesque. Wineries are to southern France as to what olive trees are to southern Spain. They are everywhere. But less in these mountains. There are actually more fruit trees if anything. Last night I camped in the gorgeous gorges of St. May. So beautiful. And next I am off to Gap and then....Italy.

This past Sunday, at the end of the day, would have marked the mid point on my USA trek....day 50 [ I walked it in 100 days]. But I have about 2 more weeks [a little less] to go before I hit that halfway mark this time. All is good. A few rough moments but I'm trying to always remember GRATITUDE. What, I ask myself, despite the troubles I've encountered, can I still be grateful for? And when I start thinking about it, there is always much to be grateful for.