I am now in Budapest (which is way more fun to say in its correct pronunciation: Budapeshht).
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First observation: Do the gods of weather just know when they're residing on top of a former Eastern Bloc country? Is there some sort of meteorological explanation for the fact that Communist countries have gray skies at all times? This is my second time to this place ... never seen the sun. Same with Prague two years ago.
We'll see how long this can keep up.
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Second observation: I believe the phrase is, "I lucked out."
From Breck to his cousin Leslie to her friend Mali to her friend Kata -- Texas to New Orleans to Wisconsin to Paris to Szeged -- here I am in this apartment overlooking a Budapest street, counting my lucky stars that I was able to land such a sweet set-up with a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.
Twenty-six years old -- as of midnight last night -- and fresh into the business world ("I suggest you never stop traveling," my host said in frustration with her new life over beers last night), Kata has all the makings of someone that will be a very good friend of mine once I leave Hungary.
Her nice-ometer is off the charts. Apologizing profusely over email that she couldn't take a day off of work to come pick up a total stranger at the airport (even after she told me to come on Friday ... and I promptly booked an EasyJet flight for Wednesday); coming to meet me at the train station and apologizing some more for being, gasp, ten minutes late; taking me out last night with her friends to two of the sweetest bars I have ever been to; leaving me a note this morning when she left for work that told me to "eat whatever I want....use the computer, no password necessary....and take these (generic Advils) if you have a headache.... :)"
I don't know if someone told her or not, but these are all ways to get on my good side.
Then there's her good friend Atilla (yes, there are Hungarian people who still name their children after the infamous Hun).
"Oh, you listen to reggae music?" Kata asked. "Well I will call my friend; he likes that kind of music a lot, as well."
By a lot, Kata meant a hell of a lot.
Enough to the point of him knowing all the reggae DJ's in this town, and him taking us to one of their parties last night.
I don't know how on Jah's earth I keep meeting these people, but please, Lord, don't let it stop. Sitting under the open night sky at this outdoor bar, a reggae selecta spinning nothing but the best riddims, surrounded by unbelievably gorgeous Hungarian girls on all sides and having the best of conversations with Kata and Atilla until 2:30 in the morning.
I'd say that was a good start to my Hungarian adventure.
And oh, by the way. The birthday party I'm going to in the southern Hungarian town of Szeged -- the one in celebration of Kata and her twin brother's 26th -- is on a boat. Oh, man. Oh. Man.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Even though the only people reading this are most likely already on "the list," by which I mean the dreaded "Read My Family's Columns Or Die" automated message system churned out by The Bob -- something that once you're on, there's no escape from -- I felt the need to direct everyone to my mother's most recent column.
Before you read it, be warned: She is disgusting. ("Primarily because I’ve learned to fake certain acts in the dark — like reading menus in restaurants with lighting so low it would freeze water. I usually just tell the waiter, “I’ll have that,” pointing to whatever"). Hey, Mom. You've got three kids. Therefore it is obvious you must have had sex at least three times (well, you were married once before, so four times). We don't need these vague references to coitus in a West University, family-oriented publication. If this was said on television, or the radio, Michael Powell would have been outraged.
"Long Tooth Birthday"
But despite that, this may be the funniest one I have read in a long time. Anthony Hopkins, post-stroke, hahhahahaah.... you'll see.
Before you read it, be warned: She is disgusting. ("Primarily because I’ve learned to fake certain acts in the dark — like reading menus in restaurants with lighting so low it would freeze water. I usually just tell the waiter, “I’ll have that,” pointing to whatever"). Hey, Mom. You've got three kids. Therefore it is obvious you must have had sex at least three times (well, you were married once before, so four times). We don't need these vague references to coitus in a West University, family-oriented publication. If this was said on television, or the radio, Michael Powell would have been outraged.
"Long Tooth Birthday"
But despite that, this may be the funniest one I have read in a long time. Anthony Hopkins, post-stroke, hahhahahaah.... you'll see.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
What are you doing this weekend?
Me? Oh, I'm doing pretty much the same, except for when I go to this birthday party in Szeged, Hungary -- a town I've never heard of near the Romanian and Serbian borders -- as the personal guest of the birthday girl, Kata.
Nah, I don't know Kata. Nor do I know her twin brother. But I did get to hang out with one of their friends in Voiron, France two weekends ago. That is about the extent of my connection to these siblings whose birthdays I am going to celebrate in grand fashion a few days from now.
I am finally leaving the home base in Switzerland, and though Bibi jokes, I know she will miss me.
Western Europe -- that portion of the trip is now officially over. Let the real stuff begin. I'm off to Budapest, where I will once again have a free place to stay, this time with someone I have never met.
Damn I am good.
Me? Oh, I'm doing pretty much the same, except for when I go to this birthday party in Szeged, Hungary -- a town I've never heard of near the Romanian and Serbian borders -- as the personal guest of the birthday girl, Kata.
Nah, I don't know Kata. Nor do I know her twin brother. But I did get to hang out with one of their friends in Voiron, France two weekends ago. That is about the extent of my connection to these siblings whose birthdays I am going to celebrate in grand fashion a few days from now.
I am finally leaving the home base in Switzerland, and though Bibi jokes, I know she will miss me.
Western Europe -- that portion of the trip is now officially over. Let the real stuff begin. I'm off to Budapest, where I will once again have a free place to stay, this time with someone I have never met.
Damn I am good.
Courmayeur.
See how it fades from white to gray in the middle there? That's where the glacier is, and where the glacier used to be.
But Al Gore is still just a liberal fear-mongerer -- a sore loser who just wants to make George Bush look bad, isn't he?
We need to follow nature's lead and take a serious look in the mirror, kind of like this mountain is doing. What kind planet are we going to leave for our children's children? Sure, economic growth is important, but I'd say other things count a little bit as well.
Never forget how small and insignificant we really are. We think we're all that; nature just laughs and keeps on keepin' on.
Even the economics major agrees, folks.
See how it fades from white to gray in the middle there? That's where the glacier is, and where the glacier used to be.
But Al Gore is still just a liberal fear-mongerer -- a sore loser who just wants to make George Bush look bad, isn't he?
We need to follow nature's lead and take a serious look in the mirror, kind of like this mountain is doing. What kind planet are we going to leave for our children's children? Sure, economic growth is important, but I'd say other things count a little bit as well.
Never forget how small and insignificant we really are. We think we're all that; nature just laughs and keeps on keepin' on.
Even the economics major agrees, folks.
Courmayeur, Italy.
The Italian Alps -- just like the Swiss Alps, or the French, or Austrian or Slovenian -- are pretty much amazing.
I took a little walk in them last Saturday, in the Aosta Valley. Today is Tuesday. My quads still hurt.
My new Barcelonan friend Javier, a distant cousin of Bibi's who has been staying at Chez Knapp all month while completing an internship Breck landed him at Heritage Bank's Geneva branch, is a great example of why it's important to surround yourself with the right kinds of people. Alone, I exercise as much as Howard Taft. When forced to get off my ass by active people, I am as mobile as a cell phone.
Sleeping in Javier's car, we awoke to quite a buena vista.
Through the sun roof, there was the Mont Blanc (or Monte Bianco, since we were viewing it from Italian territory), the highest peak in Europe at 4,808 m (15,774 ft.). On good days, you can get a more distant view of La Dame Blanche from Breck's back patio.
On good days.
But since the forecast throughout the country of Switzerland last weekend was rain, rain and more rain -- and Javier was itching like he had a colony of fire ants in his pants to get into "the mountains" -- he found the one spot in which sunshine was expected and bought a map to get ready: Western Italy was where we were headed as soon as the workweek was finished.
As soon as we got back from an afternoon chilling in Geneva, and despite the fact that I once again forgot to bring my passport when entering a foreign country (I swear, my mom must have dropped me on my head repeatedly as a child), we made it through without getting checked.
Which was a stroke of luck, indeed. Because this is what I'm talking about, baby. The Alps.
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Javier is a mountain man. There's no better description for him. The fact that he's doing a bank internship, and that he studies economics at his university in Barcelona, is more of a distraction to discovering the real Javier than it is a guide. ¿Economía? Try las montañas. That is Javier's real future -- if he wants to be happy with his life, at least.
Toots -- Breck and Bibi's 14-year-old daughter -- may make fun of him by constantly serenading him with a song she wrote especially for their Catalonian guest: "The mountains, the mountains, the mountains" (over and over and over). But I doubt the kid cares. Sometimes I think he secretly wishes he could find a wedding ring big enough to fit around one of those hunks of rock formed by the collision of the earth's plates. He is from the biggest party city in Spain, Barcelona, yet he flees to the Pyrenees every single weekend to seek refuge in the soft embrace of a hard rock -- Javier is the most avid rock climber I have ever met.
He even tried to take me to a little spot in Yverdon -- 25 minutes from Morges and Chez Knapp -- the day after we trekked all through the Aosta Valley. If my legs still hurt today (Tuesday), just take a guess at how they felt on Sunday. I had spent the day of rest resting. Javier had spent it beating Breck at his own game: His time in the Lausanne triatholon was four minutes faster than his boss at Heritage, who attends triatholons almost as often as Bibi attends Mass. Javier? Oh, it was his first time to try one.
So my surrogate hermano is smarter than me about money, better than me with languages, more athletic than I could ever dream of being ... AND he's a better photographer. I tried four times in a row to get a good shot of myself in front of this snow-capped mountain, and this was the best I could do.
But I totally know more about baseball.
The Italian Alps -- just like the Swiss Alps, or the French, or Austrian or Slovenian -- are pretty much amazing.
I took a little walk in them last Saturday, in the Aosta Valley. Today is Tuesday. My quads still hurt.
My new Barcelonan friend Javier, a distant cousin of Bibi's who has been staying at Chez Knapp all month while completing an internship Breck landed him at Heritage Bank's Geneva branch, is a great example of why it's important to surround yourself with the right kinds of people. Alone, I exercise as much as Howard Taft. When forced to get off my ass by active people, I am as mobile as a cell phone.
Sleeping in Javier's car, we awoke to quite a buena vista.
Through the sun roof, there was the Mont Blanc (or Monte Bianco, since we were viewing it from Italian territory), the highest peak in Europe at 4,808 m (15,774 ft.). On good days, you can get a more distant view of La Dame Blanche from Breck's back patio.
On good days.
But since the forecast throughout the country of Switzerland last weekend was rain, rain and more rain -- and Javier was itching like he had a colony of fire ants in his pants to get into "the mountains" -- he found the one spot in which sunshine was expected and bought a map to get ready: Western Italy was where we were headed as soon as the workweek was finished.
As soon as we got back from an afternoon chilling in Geneva, and despite the fact that I once again forgot to bring my passport when entering a foreign country (I swear, my mom must have dropped me on my head repeatedly as a child), we made it through without getting checked.
Which was a stroke of luck, indeed. Because this is what I'm talking about, baby. The Alps.
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Javier is a mountain man. There's no better description for him. The fact that he's doing a bank internship, and that he studies economics at his university in Barcelona, is more of a distraction to discovering the real Javier than it is a guide. ¿Economía? Try las montañas. That is Javier's real future -- if he wants to be happy with his life, at least.
Toots -- Breck and Bibi's 14-year-old daughter -- may make fun of him by constantly serenading him with a song she wrote especially for their Catalonian guest: "The mountains, the mountains, the mountains" (over and over and over). But I doubt the kid cares. Sometimes I think he secretly wishes he could find a wedding ring big enough to fit around one of those hunks of rock formed by the collision of the earth's plates. He is from the biggest party city in Spain, Barcelona, yet he flees to the Pyrenees every single weekend to seek refuge in the soft embrace of a hard rock -- Javier is the most avid rock climber I have ever met.
He even tried to take me to a little spot in Yverdon -- 25 minutes from Morges and Chez Knapp -- the day after we trekked all through the Aosta Valley. If my legs still hurt today (Tuesday), just take a guess at how they felt on Sunday. I had spent the day of rest resting. Javier had spent it beating Breck at his own game: His time in the Lausanne triatholon was four minutes faster than his boss at Heritage, who attends triatholons almost as often as Bibi attends Mass. Javier? Oh, it was his first time to try one.
So my surrogate hermano is smarter than me about money, better than me with languages, more athletic than I could ever dream of being ... AND he's a better photographer. I tried four times in a row to get a good shot of myself in front of this snow-capped mountain, and this was the best I could do.
But I totally know more about baseball.
No one had ever questioned it before last Friday. My dad is "The Bob." Mine. Not yours. Not anyone else's, either. Just the one and only. To have a definite article placed in front of your name, after all, requires a lot of intangibles -- the most important being a smartass wife to bestow it upon you -- and in terms of the Roberts I know, it's not even close.
Robert Strake Parsley is The Bob.
It's how he has been referred to in nearly 1,000 columns since my mother began to write, followed by her extremely good-looking son a few years later. The only reason we haven't patented the name yet is because we didn't think we needed to -- what were the odds that there was someone else out there who may lay claim to the same moniker?
The answer -- as I found out recently in Aosta, Italy -- is "better than you think."
Meet Javier.
Javier is from Barcelona. He is 22, just like me, but he is spending his summer waking up right when the alarm sounds, rather than hitting the snooze. Ever since I arrived back at the Knapps two weeks ago from Eindhoven, Javier has been my surrogate hermano in a family full of surrogate pères, mères, frères et sœurs.
Even though it may make as much sense as a kid named Bayless going by "Billy," Javier is also known as "The Bob."
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"Ooohh, where did you get that keychain?" The yellow piece of foam laying on the table had immediately caught my eye when Javier set it down.
"This? Oh, one time, when my friends and I were in Holland, I was driving, and all of the sudden, the police, he make me get out of the car and do a..." Javier began to blow into an imaginary object, asking for some help from the native English speaker.
"The breathalizer."
"Yes, the breatha-leye-zer," he continued. "But I had not been drinking, not at all, you see, and so I blew 0.00, nothing."
I waited in silence, fascinated to see how this story was going to lead into how Javier became The Bob.
"And because I blew nothing, the police officer, he said to come over to him, and he gave me this." He picked up the keychain before plopping it back down onto the table. "In Holland, apparently, 'The Bob' is the one who stays, and drink the most beer at the bar. 'The Bob' stays until the bar closes," Javier explained in his thick Cataluña accent. "And so the police officer, by giving me a keychain that said 'The Bob,' he was being ironic."
This was the first I had heard of all this. I took a few seconds to reflect, furrowing my brow as I continued to stare straight ahead at my friend on the opposite side of the booth.
"So..... what you're saying is, you are The Bob."
There was no hesitation; just time to form a smile.
"Yes. I am The Bob."
Of course, Javier didn't realize until I explained immediately thereafter the significance of what he had just said. He didn't know he was sitting across the table from the Son of The Bob. But once I filled him in, he refused to defer to his elders.
"We are both The Bob," he said, laughing.
Yeah, we shall see about that, Javier. If you leave your keys alone for just one second, that piece of foam is mine -- and it's getting shipped home to Texas, where it belongs.
Robert Strake Parsley is The Bob.
It's how he has been referred to in nearly 1,000 columns since my mother began to write, followed by her extremely good-looking son a few years later. The only reason we haven't patented the name yet is because we didn't think we needed to -- what were the odds that there was someone else out there who may lay claim to the same moniker?
The answer -- as I found out recently in Aosta, Italy -- is "better than you think."
Meet Javier.
Javier is from Barcelona. He is 22, just like me, but he is spending his summer waking up right when the alarm sounds, rather than hitting the snooze. Ever since I arrived back at the Knapps two weeks ago from Eindhoven, Javier has been my surrogate hermano in a family full of surrogate pères, mères, frères et sœurs.
Even though it may make as much sense as a kid named Bayless going by "Billy," Javier is also known as "The Bob."
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"Ooohh, where did you get that keychain?" The yellow piece of foam laying on the table had immediately caught my eye when Javier set it down.
"This? Oh, one time, when my friends and I were in Holland, I was driving, and all of the sudden, the police, he make me get out of the car and do a..." Javier began to blow into an imaginary object, asking for some help from the native English speaker.
"The breathalizer."
"Yes, the breatha-leye-zer," he continued. "But I had not been drinking, not at all, you see, and so I blew 0.00, nothing."
I waited in silence, fascinated to see how this story was going to lead into how Javier became The Bob.
"And because I blew nothing, the police officer, he said to come over to him, and he gave me this." He picked up the keychain before plopping it back down onto the table. "In Holland, apparently, 'The Bob' is the one who stays, and drink the most beer at the bar. 'The Bob' stays until the bar closes," Javier explained in his thick Cataluña accent. "And so the police officer, by giving me a keychain that said 'The Bob,' he was being ironic."
This was the first I had heard of all this. I took a few seconds to reflect, furrowing my brow as I continued to stare straight ahead at my friend on the opposite side of the booth.
"So..... what you're saying is, you are The Bob."
There was no hesitation; just time to form a smile.
"Yes. I am The Bob."
Of course, Javier didn't realize until I explained immediately thereafter the significance of what he had just said. He didn't know he was sitting across the table from the Son of The Bob. But once I filled him in, he refused to defer to his elders.
"We are both The Bob," he said, laughing.
Yeah, we shall see about that, Javier. If you leave your keys alone for just one second, that piece of foam is mine -- and it's getting shipped home to Texas, where it belongs.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Alpha Blondy & the Solar System.
And the End of Chapter 1.
Professor Finder's smile was incredulous; he had patiently absorbed my entire pitch, and was now leaning back in his office chair -- surrounded by books on Zionism and the fate of postwar European Jews -- as he pondered a response to such an unorthodox request. Reggae? Rastafari? Jerusalem? Behind the front of skepticism, I could see an inner core of intrigued amusement; that was all which was keeping him from rejecting my idea out of hand.
Old enough to have a thick beard full of gray streaks, yet still young and open-minded enough to even contemplate granting permission to an idea as far outside of the box as an uncoiled jack, I could tell my Jerusalem: From Antiquity to Present HIST 401 seminar instructor was teetering between "No way" and "Why the hell not?"
"So, Mr. Parsley, you think you can write a 30-page thesis on Jerusalem's role in reggae music and Rastafare-ee-uh-nism?" the consummate Jewish professor asked, pronouncing the last word almost solely through his nose. By his tone, I got the feeling that this true academic first wanted clarification that yes, he had heard me correctly.
"Pretty much, yeah," I said with faux assuredness -- in truth, I had no idea whether or not a few superficial links between "the music of the heart" and the City of David would materialize into anything worth reading.
And though he didn't admit it outright until months later, neither had Professor Finder.
He could tell how adamant I was about getting a chance to prove myself, and so after the obligatory warnings that I not take this lightly, that it was a serious academic paper we were supposed to be researching, and that if I discovered early on that it wasn't feasible, to make sure and find another topic ... he shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows and took a flier.
"I'll be very interested to see how this turns out."
And trust me, so was I.
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As I walked out of Randall Hall that morning in February 2005, into the cold Charlottesville air that pierced through a thick layer of unkempt hair covering my ears but was repelled by the black Bob Marley hoodie insulating my torso, I legitimately did not know if I would be able to pull this one off.
Mount Zion, "By the rivers of Babylon," Stars of David painted red, gold, black and green, the Conquering Lion of Judah that could supposedly break every chain, a band called Israel Vibration and some guy who loved to moan "Oooh, ohhhhhh, the Israelites" ... that was pretty much all the framework I had in mind for the massive undertaking which I had just talked my way into.
I gulped. Question marks swirled. The can-do spirit I took into Professor Finder's office suddenly began to devolve into one of Can-I-do? self-doubt.
"There better be something out there a little more concrete than what I've got so far," I thought to myself, so preoccupied with when's and where's and what's and how's that I had ceased to even hear the words coming forth from the little white headphones jammed into my ears.
Little did I know that my research would lead me to Alpha Blondy, and later, to the Reggae Sundance Festival in Eindhoven, NL.
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"Let's see..." The cursor was developing quite a rhythm as it waited in the Google search bar for a little push to the right. "How about 'jerusalem reggae singers?'" Enter.
0.07 seconds later, I had the answer to my prayers.
"Alpha Blondy? I've heard of that guy before."
I started to read.
"Hmmm, a reggae singer from Côte D'Ivoire who has an album -- and a song -- called 'Jerusalem,'" I said aloud, plopped down in the turquoise, disco-era couch providing a modicum of comfort in my drafty, unheated room.
"Jackpot."
I remember the day we met clearly, as I do with all my love affairs. Immediately after the (very) fruitful Google search, my web browser was routed to Amazon.com, where I purchased a package deal of Jerusalem and Apartheid is Nazism, Alpha Blondy's signature album.
Those two discs were used and abused over the next few weeks -- the most fun I ever had doing my homework. Even a short jaunt over to Shady Grady to get beer wasn't possible unless I first grabbed one of them by the doughnut hole, ready to be eaten by the CD player in Jamison's late-model Explorer before being ejected less than two songs later. Politiqui, Sebe Allah Y'e, Come Back Jesus, Apartheid is Nazism, and of course...
"Jeeeeehhhrusaleeeeemm, here I am." A place where "you can see Christians, Jews and Muslims, living together and praying, 'Amen. Let's give thanks and praises.'" A place holy "from the Bible to the Quran. Revelation in Jerusalem. Shalom, Salamalekum."
And this is a reggae song, sung by a black dude with dreads?
As they say in Côte D'Ivoire, "Oui. Pourquoi pas?"
I came to find out, during the course of the research which lasted an entire semester, that this guy also had albums called Masada, Yitzhak Rabin and Elohim, which sure weren't words being taught in the French 105 class I was taking in addition to my Jerusalem seminar.
What eventually became my favorite Alpha Blondy tune is the title track from Masada. In it, the artist formerly known as Seydou Koné sanctifies the plateau by that name situated on the Dead Sea. In 73 C.E., Masada served as the final outpost of the Great Jewish Revolt -- a mass uprising that reached a flashpoint in 70 C.E. with the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, but came to its tragic, bloody conclusion when a group of Hebrews known as the Zealots committed mass suicide on top of the elevated fortification, in lieu of submitting to the Roman forces below.
When the Solar System band kicked into the opening chords of Masada at the Sundance, all the fatigue I had been feeling -- all the aches and pains and thirst and hunger -- it just disappeared. Happy to be alive is what I was; like Izzy Vibe would want, I gave thanks to Jah I was still around. And so, inspired by the words I was hearing, I made a promise to myself that, should I still make it to Israel on this trip, I would do my best to imitate Alpha Blondy: "I'm gonna sleep by the Dead Sea, and rise up with the birds from the hills, and clean up my sins, while the birds sing. I'm gonna walk up to the top, of the rock of sacrifice, cause I know now, that life ain't no dice. Yes I know now, that life is a sacrifice. I'm gonna witness Jah rising sun from Masada."
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The entire day -- from the bus driver in Utrecht who decided that he just didn't "feel" like picking me up at the 41 stop, to getting on the wrong train en route to Arnhem, to the locker fiasco, to meeting Max, and then Chris, to the great performances put on by Izzy Vibe, Don Carlos, Steel Pulse and finally Alpha Blondy himself -- all I could think about was this sense of closure I felt within me.
Though I knew I would be returning to the home base in Switzerland the next day, no longer with a Eurail Pass and without an exact plan as to what would come next, I knew that the first chapter of my journey was coming to a close there in Eindhoven. What was to come in Switzerland would be like that transitional page between acts in a Shakespeare play: A respite, a time to earmark the corner, get up and stretch your legs. Chapter 2, whenever it was to begin, would only come once I made it out of Western Europe, and into a part of the world in which I felt a lot less ... comfortable.
Once the sun began to set on that park in Eindhoven, and the sweltering August heat gave way to a cool, night breeze, the energy around me exuded a culmination of sorts. The day was finished, as were the nine weeks spent backpacking across Western Europe. As was the summer. As was the third and final European reggae festival I had been to since that magical night in Abenberg, when, alongside Hunter, Chase and Jamison, I finally saw Gentleman.
As I scanned the crowd through the fog of ganja smoke hovering in the air like the guest that just won't leave, I felt the culmination of years spent researching this music, and the Rastafarian faith that serves as its very foundation. Funny that a white, non-Rasta kid from Texas probably knew more about the meaning behind the music than any other baldhead for miles -- no matter how natty their "designer dreads" were, or how ubiquitous the image of Haile Selassie I throughout their wardrobes of red, green and gold.
It was then, during Alpha Blondy's final song, that our love affair came full circle. Alone on stage, with nothing but the voice given to him by Jah, he began to sing: Barouh Atat Adonai, Barouh Abba Yeroushalaim...
Jeeeerusaleeemmmm, here I am. Jeeeerusalemmmm, je t'aime.
The song that introduced me to Alpha Blondy -- the one that helped me get an A on a UVa thesis paper that blew away all expectations Professor Finder, and myself, ever had -- was the song he used to bid me adieu. Culmination, indeed. I don't know if the story could have a better ending.
But a culmination doesn't necessarily mean the end. As the sun sets, the moon rises. And then the sun, it comes up once again. Life goes on. And so, as college has ended, my life goes on -- and that doesn't mean I have to put on a tie and start listening to talk radio all of the sudden. I may soon temper the lifestyle that I have been living for the past four years, but I will never change the way in which I live my life.
And I will never, ever stop listening to reggae music.
And the End of Chapter 1.
Professor Finder's smile was incredulous; he had patiently absorbed my entire pitch, and was now leaning back in his office chair -- surrounded by books on Zionism and the fate of postwar European Jews -- as he pondered a response to such an unorthodox request. Reggae? Rastafari? Jerusalem? Behind the front of skepticism, I could see an inner core of intrigued amusement; that was all which was keeping him from rejecting my idea out of hand.
Old enough to have a thick beard full of gray streaks, yet still young and open-minded enough to even contemplate granting permission to an idea as far outside of the box as an uncoiled jack, I could tell my Jerusalem: From Antiquity to Present HIST 401 seminar instructor was teetering between "No way" and "Why the hell not?"
"So, Mr. Parsley, you think you can write a 30-page thesis on Jerusalem's role in reggae music and Rastafare-ee-uh-nism?" the consummate Jewish professor asked, pronouncing the last word almost solely through his nose. By his tone, I got the feeling that this true academic first wanted clarification that yes, he had heard me correctly.
"Pretty much, yeah," I said with faux assuredness -- in truth, I had no idea whether or not a few superficial links between "the music of the heart" and the City of David would materialize into anything worth reading.
And though he didn't admit it outright until months later, neither had Professor Finder.
He could tell how adamant I was about getting a chance to prove myself, and so after the obligatory warnings that I not take this lightly, that it was a serious academic paper we were supposed to be researching, and that if I discovered early on that it wasn't feasible, to make sure and find another topic ... he shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows and took a flier.
"I'll be very interested to see how this turns out."
And trust me, so was I.
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As I walked out of Randall Hall that morning in February 2005, into the cold Charlottesville air that pierced through a thick layer of unkempt hair covering my ears but was repelled by the black Bob Marley hoodie insulating my torso, I legitimately did not know if I would be able to pull this one off.
Mount Zion, "By the rivers of Babylon," Stars of David painted red, gold, black and green, the Conquering Lion of Judah that could supposedly break every chain, a band called Israel Vibration and some guy who loved to moan "Oooh, ohhhhhh, the Israelites" ... that was pretty much all the framework I had in mind for the massive undertaking which I had just talked my way into.
I gulped. Question marks swirled. The can-do spirit I took into Professor Finder's office suddenly began to devolve into one of Can-I-do? self-doubt.
"There better be something out there a little more concrete than what I've got so far," I thought to myself, so preoccupied with when's and where's and what's and how's that I had ceased to even hear the words coming forth from the little white headphones jammed into my ears.
Little did I know that my research would lead me to Alpha Blondy, and later, to the Reggae Sundance Festival in Eindhoven, NL.
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"Let's see..." The cursor was developing quite a rhythm as it waited in the Google search bar for a little push to the right. "How about 'jerusalem reggae singers?'" Enter.
0.07 seconds later, I had the answer to my prayers.
"Alpha Blondy? I've heard of that guy before."
I started to read.
"Hmmm, a reggae singer from Côte D'Ivoire who has an album -- and a song -- called 'Jerusalem,'" I said aloud, plopped down in the turquoise, disco-era couch providing a modicum of comfort in my drafty, unheated room.
"Jackpot."
I remember the day we met clearly, as I do with all my love affairs. Immediately after the (very) fruitful Google search, my web browser was routed to Amazon.com, where I purchased a package deal of Jerusalem and Apartheid is Nazism, Alpha Blondy's signature album.
Those two discs were used and abused over the next few weeks -- the most fun I ever had doing my homework. Even a short jaunt over to Shady Grady to get beer wasn't possible unless I first grabbed one of them by the doughnut hole, ready to be eaten by the CD player in Jamison's late-model Explorer before being ejected less than two songs later. Politiqui, Sebe Allah Y'e, Come Back Jesus, Apartheid is Nazism, and of course...
"Jeeeeehhhrusaleeeeemm, here I am." A place where "you can see Christians, Jews and Muslims, living together and praying, 'Amen. Let's give thanks and praises.'" A place holy "from the Bible to the Quran. Revelation in Jerusalem. Shalom, Salamalekum."
And this is a reggae song, sung by a black dude with dreads?
As they say in Côte D'Ivoire, "Oui. Pourquoi pas?"
I came to find out, during the course of the research which lasted an entire semester, that this guy also had albums called Masada, Yitzhak Rabin and Elohim, which sure weren't words being taught in the French 105 class I was taking in addition to my Jerusalem seminar.
What eventually became my favorite Alpha Blondy tune is the title track from Masada. In it, the artist formerly known as Seydou Koné sanctifies the plateau by that name situated on the Dead Sea. In 73 C.E., Masada served as the final outpost of the Great Jewish Revolt -- a mass uprising that reached a flashpoint in 70 C.E. with the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, but came to its tragic, bloody conclusion when a group of Hebrews known as the Zealots committed mass suicide on top of the elevated fortification, in lieu of submitting to the Roman forces below.
When the Solar System band kicked into the opening chords of Masada at the Sundance, all the fatigue I had been feeling -- all the aches and pains and thirst and hunger -- it just disappeared. Happy to be alive is what I was; like Izzy Vibe would want, I gave thanks to Jah I was still around. And so, inspired by the words I was hearing, I made a promise to myself that, should I still make it to Israel on this trip, I would do my best to imitate Alpha Blondy: "I'm gonna sleep by the Dead Sea, and rise up with the birds from the hills, and clean up my sins, while the birds sing. I'm gonna walk up to the top, of the rock of sacrifice, cause I know now, that life ain't no dice. Yes I know now, that life is a sacrifice. I'm gonna witness Jah rising sun from Masada."
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The entire day -- from the bus driver in Utrecht who decided that he just didn't "feel" like picking me up at the 41 stop, to getting on the wrong train en route to Arnhem, to the locker fiasco, to meeting Max, and then Chris, to the great performances put on by Izzy Vibe, Don Carlos, Steel Pulse and finally Alpha Blondy himself -- all I could think about was this sense of closure I felt within me.
Though I knew I would be returning to the home base in Switzerland the next day, no longer with a Eurail Pass and without an exact plan as to what would come next, I knew that the first chapter of my journey was coming to a close there in Eindhoven. What was to come in Switzerland would be like that transitional page between acts in a Shakespeare play: A respite, a time to earmark the corner, get up and stretch your legs. Chapter 2, whenever it was to begin, would only come once I made it out of Western Europe, and into a part of the world in which I felt a lot less ... comfortable.
Once the sun began to set on that park in Eindhoven, and the sweltering August heat gave way to a cool, night breeze, the energy around me exuded a culmination of sorts. The day was finished, as were the nine weeks spent backpacking across Western Europe. As was the summer. As was the third and final European reggae festival I had been to since that magical night in Abenberg, when, alongside Hunter, Chase and Jamison, I finally saw Gentleman.
As I scanned the crowd through the fog of ganja smoke hovering in the air like the guest that just won't leave, I felt the culmination of years spent researching this music, and the Rastafarian faith that serves as its very foundation. Funny that a white, non-Rasta kid from Texas probably knew more about the meaning behind the music than any other baldhead for miles -- no matter how natty their "designer dreads" were, or how ubiquitous the image of Haile Selassie I throughout their wardrobes of red, green and gold.
It was then, during Alpha Blondy's final song, that our love affair came full circle. Alone on stage, with nothing but the voice given to him by Jah, he began to sing: Barouh Atat Adonai, Barouh Abba Yeroushalaim...
Jeeeerusaleeemmmm, here I am. Jeeeerusalemmmm, je t'aime.
The song that introduced me to Alpha Blondy -- the one that helped me get an A on a UVa thesis paper that blew away all expectations Professor Finder, and myself, ever had -- was the song he used to bid me adieu. Culmination, indeed. I don't know if the story could have a better ending.
But a culmination doesn't necessarily mean the end. As the sun sets, the moon rises. And then the sun, it comes up once again. Life goes on. And so, as college has ended, my life goes on -- and that doesn't mean I have to put on a tie and start listening to talk radio all of the sudden. I may soon temper the lifestyle that I have been living for the past four years, but I will never change the way in which I live my life.
And I will never, ever stop listening to reggae music.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Israel Vibration.
There isn't a more hypnotic voice than the lead singer in Izzy Vibe.
They've been around forever. Meaning, they're old -- how old, I have no idea. Just look at their Something About Mary "Tucker" crutches. Here is the question: Are those supposed to be a joke highlighting the fact that they know they're as ancient as petroleum, or do these guys really need Tucker crutches?
I don't really have anything else besides that to tell you, except to say, they were as good as billed. But it was nothing compared to what was the come after them -- the headliner of the festival, Alpha Blondy.
There isn't a more hypnotic voice than the lead singer in Izzy Vibe.
They've been around forever. Meaning, they're old -- how old, I have no idea. Just look at their Something About Mary "Tucker" crutches. Here is the question: Are those supposed to be a joke highlighting the fact that they know they're as ancient as petroleum, or do these guys really need Tucker crutches?
Judging by the fact that one of the guys -- twice, not once -- mistakenly thanked the lively crowd in Amsterdam for coming out, I'd guess they really might need them.
No matter. With that many years under their belts, it's just like my favorite Izzy Vibe song says: They've got to "give thanks to Jah they're still around."
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Don Carlos (formerly of Black Uhuru).
Black Uhuru is truly one of the most influential groups this genre of music has ever known. From the moment my NOLS Alaska instructor told me to check out their album Liberation Anthology in the summer of 2002, they have been one of my favorite bands.
But the first thing that comes to mind when I hear their name mentioned isn't dreads, or my NOLS course, or a bass guitar, or anything you might guess.
I think of Nick Pigneri, Miguel San Juan and Tony Kamel -- three friends from my days at Strake Jesuit.
It's because the first song I hear in my head is "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?" -- a Black Uhuru take off of the Sidney Poitier classic, and also the title of one of my Life columns for the Cav Daily (which my mom brazenly copied just a year later, in a shameless display of theft).
The Pig and the Cuban dictator just think it's a hilarious song, and love to serenade me with it every time I see them.
Guess who's coming to dinnuuuuuuuuuhhhh, NATTY DREADLOCK! Guess who's coming to dinnuuuuuuuuuhhhh, NATTY DREADLOCK! (And so on and so forth, until I tell them to shut the hell up).
Tony Kamel, on the other hand, actually likes the song. In fact, he's had it periodically stuck in his head ever since he was a little kid, when he heard it on some movie that he cannot remember. But for a kid born to a very Italian mother who cooks for the entire nation of Sicily on a daily basis, the song stuck in little Anthony's brain for a reason.
He remembered it as a song that was singing about food.
Guess what's cooking for dinnuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh, NATTY DREADLOCK!
Last summer, when we were living together in Austin, Tony finally heard the song again after going so many years without being able to get it out of his head. It was like letting a cat out of the bag after keeping the zipper shut for 15 years.
"I can't believe you have this song!!!!! WOW!"
Well, guys, you're never gonna guess which song Don Carlos played at the Sundance. Only, since he didn't have his original group with him, it was a little different this time around.
"Guess who's coming to dinnnuhhhhhhh, DON CARLOS!"
To say that it brought a smile to my face would be an understatement. I would have paid millions to have seen Nick Pigneri in the crowd, just to see him going NUTS among all the heads and Rastas in his midst. And then, we would've gone to pick up Tony so we could meet up at Miguel's. Along the way, we'd have Tony call "Mom" San Juan and say "What's cooking for dinnnuhhhhhh?"
"PA-ELLLLLL-AHHH," the Cuban would reply.
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Steel Pulse.
Steel Pulse is twice as famous as Black Uhuru and Izzy Vibe combined. Like Gentleman, they have proved to be extremely elusive from ever allowing me the joy of seeing them play live. I had a ticket in hand to see them in February 2005 in Falls Church, Va. -- a little run-in with the traffic cops prevented that from going down. Then, last spring at UVa I had another ticket to see them at StarrHill -- and they cancelled the show.
My Redemption Song came in Eindhoven.
I don't really have anything else besides that to tell you, except to say, they were as good as billed. But it was nothing compared to what was the come after them -- the headliner of the festival, Alpha Blondy.
Reggae Sundance: My Summer Reggae Festival Season's Curtain Call. The Trilogy Is Now Complete.
After finally seeing Gentleman -- my favorite artist in the world, and one that I had been trying in vain to witness in the flesh for over two years -- with three of my best friends at the very end of their European adventure, and then the three days spent on a man-made island at SummerJam in Cologne less than a month afterwards, I knew that the Reggae Sundance Festival in Eindhoven, NL would be up against some pretty stiff competition in attempting to take me to the I-est of Ites on the very day that my two-month Eurail Pass was set to expire.
It wasn't a lackluster line-up or a slew of disappointing performances that was to blame for the bronze medal that the Sundance received on the podium August 13, when the Trilogy that also included Burg Open Air and SummerJam was complete. In fact, pure music wise, if we're talking overall, I think Jah may have been saving the best for last. Every single group -- Israel Vibration, Don Carlos (formerly of Black Uhuru), Steel Pulse and Alpha Blondy -- is part of the Who's Who Guide to Reggae Music.
But I just didn't get that same feeling as I usually get. Sure, there were moments. Moments when tears literally began to well, when goosebumps could not be controlled, and when I received bursts of energy from a certain one drop bass beat, or a certain soul-touching lyric. But it wasn't consistent. For long periods, due to a reason I could not explain, the inspIration was in short supply.
And it was timing, simply timing, that was the reason why.
I wasn't even wearing shoes, yet they were full of rocks -- deadweights around my feet when I tried to pick them up and move. I didn't have the energy. I didn't feel the same magic. I had a great time, because after all, I was seeing some of the greatest reggae bands ever to grace Jah earth. But from Izzy Vibe, to Don Carlos, to Steel Pulse to Alpha Blondy, I actually found myself kind of hoping that the day would just end -- that I could just be left with the memory, which would be a good one, no doubt. I know this is no way to live life -- I hate travelers who hit hot spots with a checklist, so that they can mathematically quantify how "successful" their trip has been -- but I couldn't help it: The penultimate desire emanating from my corpus was to rest my weary body, mind and spirit.
For a good, long, while.
Chalk it up to the general, cumulative fatigue engendered by seven weeks of dashing about Europe, alone with my lumbering, mondo REI pack and my speedy, miniature Osprey Solo after my friends left me for good to return home: From Holland -- when Hunter and I gave each other one last bear hug, despite the big bags strapped to our backs -- to France to Switzerland to Italy to Switzerland to Spain to France to Germany to Holland to Germany to Denmark to Norway ... and back to Holland.
I get tired just typing something that long, let alone living it for nearly 60 days.
Fittingly, I also got tired simply trying to make it to Sundance. Seeing as Utrecht was only a stone's throw away from Eindhoven, it proved a much more difficult task than I had envisioned. It was as if Jah, or whoever He is, just didn't want to see it happen.
I got up late that morning in the hostel where I was staying -- no worries; none of the good bands would start until at least mid-afternoon, I told myself with crossed fingers.
Then, at the bus stop by my hostel, the dreaded 41 bus simply flew right past me, despite there being about 40 open seats waiting for my butt and my luggage. The blurred faces of the three or four lone passengers on board whizzed by me as the driver sped on, either oblivious to the two of us waiting to get on or just having a really bad day.
"WHAT THE F**K WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?!" I exclaimed, furious, and even more late at this point. I had wanted to have a stress-free day, get to Eindhoven early, figure out where I was going to camp (I needed to make friends; I had no tent), and just enjoy the music without having to deal with the hassle and the bullshit.
"Don't worry, it's a nice day," my temporary companion -- a very weird Italian Brit who thinks the Illuminati is responsible for everything from 9/11 to rising oil prices, just because he "read it on the Internet" -- said. He may have thought that the leather jacket/soul patch thing was hot, and he may have eaten one too many paint chips as a kid, but the man was right.
It was a beautiful day, and I soon calmed down, ready for 40 more minutes of enlightenment.com.
Nearly an hour passes. The next bus had been so kind as to actually pick us up. I am finally at the train station. Feverishly perusing the yellow posterboard of departure times and destinations, I find what I'm looking for: Eindhoven, one minute from now.
"I am making it onto that train." And I begin to sprint.
But in my haste, as I clambered down the already moving escalator (or the d'escalator, as the ones going down should be called), I forgot to do a very important thing: I forgot to make sure that the train I was hopping on -- the one with the doors open and clearly about to depart in about 20 seconds -- was my train. In my head, all that had existed at the time was "Train. Eindhoven. Leaving. Spoor 12. Soon."
I only found out later, when I had arrived in Arnhem -- not Eindhoven -- that I had mistakenly hopped on the train outbound from Spoor 11. The Eindhoven train had either just departed, or there had been a delay.
This could have been a disaster that sent my entire house of cards fluttering to the ground. Instead, it turned out to be a minor nuisance.
Luckily, Arnhem was to the east; Eindhoven was to the southeast. Everything's gonna be all right was right, just like Robert Nesta says. A small delay, nothing more. After my mistake was corrected, and I had hopped on the hour long commute down to Eindhoven, the only thing on my mind was finding a locker in the station, and then heading towards the campground with a change of clothes and a sleeping bag. I'd worry about finding somewhere to put my stuff once I arrived -- making friends at reggae festivals is about as difficult as finding sand on a beach.
But you'll never guess what happened -- the goddamn Eindhoven station lockers only accepted credit cards. Mastercard, to be exact. The kind I don't carry in my wallet.
Priceless.
Seemingly everyone I asked to swipe me in in exchange for the money in coins was mysteriously denied by the electronic reader, as if the machine knew they were trying to do a favor for the Yank standing behind them, peeking over their shoulder as they swiped their card a second, third and fourth time, before giving up.
It looked like I was going to have to bring my entire life with me, packed into that tattered REI backpack.
And then I met Max.
"The lockers don't work?" he asked, observing my attempts to coordinate a coins-for-credit swap that failed time and time again.
"Naw man."
"I really need a locker though, to put my stuff in for the festival," he preached to the choir, which had a membership of one. "Let me call my friends really quick; they are already at the campsite."
Two minutes later, this tall, pale and not too handsome Dutchman had a solution for us.
"My friends said we can just put our stuff in their tent. Let's go."
Was Max a guardian angel? I do not know -- I never saw him again once we got to the campground. He introduced me to his buddy Chris and his hot redhead friend Mirloos (sp?), and then he disappeared. But I had my storage tent, and I had it just in time. I glanced down at my watch: 3:57.
"Can you say PERFECT TIMING?" I rejoiced inside. Izzy Vibe was set to come on at four. I had made it, just in time.
The music was great; I really did enjoy myself, despite the fatigue of mind and body. But once it came time to sleep, I was out in the cold -- literally. While Chris was extremely generous in letting me keep my valuables "locked" away inside his tent, he was not as open about letting me keep my body in there.
"Well, I guess I've been carrying this tarp around with me for a reason." So I laid it across the already wet grass, at about midnight I'd say, and rolled out my sleeping bag. It took about five seconds after my eyelids closed for me to be carried away into Dream Land.
And about an hour for me to be brought back from it.
"Wake up, wake up" is all I remember hearing. It was still pitch black outside. Two figures that I had never seen before were hovering over me. They were wearing uniforms; naturally, I thought, "Cops."
"What the hell did I do this time?" I wondered from a deep haze, my mind fully confused at why I was being woken up in the middle of the night for a crime I (hoped) I had not committed.
"It's too cold outside, come with us to our tent." It took a few more sentences of explanation, but I eventually realized that these uniformed mystery men (and woman) weren't cops at all. Quite the opposite. These were Red Cross employees, summoned by a concerned tent neighbor who worried about the risk of some poor soul sleeping outside in such harsh cold. True, I had put on my hoodie and rain jacket -- in addition to my Carhartts and wool socks -- in an attempt to stay warm through the night. But even with the extra layers, it was still damn cold, and I knew it.
Even so, I was beat. It was late. I wanted to sleep. But the Red Cross people insisted, and well ... they didn't have to twist my arm. The more I thought about it, the more I realized the comparative differences between a cot and the gound. And after about ten seconds, I got up to make the move.
And a good decision it was. My only question is, why does anybody bring their own tent when they could get a cot for free? I'm doing it from here on out.
I missed my bus; I got to experience a beautiful day until the next one came. I got on the wrong train; so I just corrected the mistake and got on the next one. Couldn't get a locker to work; so I just met someone who had a friend with a tent available to store my stuff. And I had nowhere to sleep; so the Red Cross came and saved me. All problems -- and solutions -- provided by this traveling without a plan thing that drives my parents a bit nuts at times.
Not that it always works out that perfectly, but I do think there is a lesson to be learned from this day:
Sometimes, the best plans are the ones that don't exist.
After finally seeing Gentleman -- my favorite artist in the world, and one that I had been trying in vain to witness in the flesh for over two years -- with three of my best friends at the very end of their European adventure, and then the three days spent on a man-made island at SummerJam in Cologne less than a month afterwards, I knew that the Reggae Sundance Festival in Eindhoven, NL would be up against some pretty stiff competition in attempting to take me to the I-est of Ites on the very day that my two-month Eurail Pass was set to expire.
It wasn't a lackluster line-up or a slew of disappointing performances that was to blame for the bronze medal that the Sundance received on the podium August 13, when the Trilogy that also included Burg Open Air and SummerJam was complete. In fact, pure music wise, if we're talking overall, I think Jah may have been saving the best for last. Every single group -- Israel Vibration, Don Carlos (formerly of Black Uhuru), Steel Pulse and Alpha Blondy -- is part of the Who's Who Guide to Reggae Music.
But I just didn't get that same feeling as I usually get. Sure, there were moments. Moments when tears literally began to well, when goosebumps could not be controlled, and when I received bursts of energy from a certain one drop bass beat, or a certain soul-touching lyric. But it wasn't consistent. For long periods, due to a reason I could not explain, the inspIration was in short supply.
And it was timing, simply timing, that was the reason why.
I wasn't even wearing shoes, yet they were full of rocks -- deadweights around my feet when I tried to pick them up and move. I didn't have the energy. I didn't feel the same magic. I had a great time, because after all, I was seeing some of the greatest reggae bands ever to grace Jah earth. But from Izzy Vibe, to Don Carlos, to Steel Pulse to Alpha Blondy, I actually found myself kind of hoping that the day would just end -- that I could just be left with the memory, which would be a good one, no doubt. I know this is no way to live life -- I hate travelers who hit hot spots with a checklist, so that they can mathematically quantify how "successful" their trip has been -- but I couldn't help it: The penultimate desire emanating from my corpus was to rest my weary body, mind and spirit.
For a good, long, while.
Chalk it up to the general, cumulative fatigue engendered by seven weeks of dashing about Europe, alone with my lumbering, mondo REI pack and my speedy, miniature Osprey Solo after my friends left me for good to return home: From Holland -- when Hunter and I gave each other one last bear hug, despite the big bags strapped to our backs -- to France to Switzerland to Italy to Switzerland to Spain to France to Germany to Holland to Germany to Denmark to Norway ... and back to Holland.
I get tired just typing something that long, let alone living it for nearly 60 days.
Fittingly, I also got tired simply trying to make it to Sundance. Seeing as Utrecht was only a stone's throw away from Eindhoven, it proved a much more difficult task than I had envisioned. It was as if Jah, or whoever He is, just didn't want to see it happen.
I got up late that morning in the hostel where I was staying -- no worries; none of the good bands would start until at least mid-afternoon, I told myself with crossed fingers.
Then, at the bus stop by my hostel, the dreaded 41 bus simply flew right past me, despite there being about 40 open seats waiting for my butt and my luggage. The blurred faces of the three or four lone passengers on board whizzed by me as the driver sped on, either oblivious to the two of us waiting to get on or just having a really bad day.
"WHAT THE F**K WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?!" I exclaimed, furious, and even more late at this point. I had wanted to have a stress-free day, get to Eindhoven early, figure out where I was going to camp (I needed to make friends; I had no tent), and just enjoy the music without having to deal with the hassle and the bullshit.
"Don't worry, it's a nice day," my temporary companion -- a very weird Italian Brit who thinks the Illuminati is responsible for everything from 9/11 to rising oil prices, just because he "read it on the Internet" -- said. He may have thought that the leather jacket/soul patch thing was hot, and he may have eaten one too many paint chips as a kid, but the man was right.
It was a beautiful day, and I soon calmed down, ready for 40 more minutes of enlightenment.com.
Nearly an hour passes. The next bus had been so kind as to actually pick us up. I am finally at the train station. Feverishly perusing the yellow posterboard of departure times and destinations, I find what I'm looking for: Eindhoven, one minute from now.
"I am making it onto that train." And I begin to sprint.
But in my haste, as I clambered down the already moving escalator (or the d'escalator, as the ones going down should be called), I forgot to do a very important thing: I forgot to make sure that the train I was hopping on -- the one with the doors open and clearly about to depart in about 20 seconds -- was my train. In my head, all that had existed at the time was "Train. Eindhoven. Leaving. Spoor 12. Soon."
I only found out later, when I had arrived in Arnhem -- not Eindhoven -- that I had mistakenly hopped on the train outbound from Spoor 11. The Eindhoven train had either just departed, or there had been a delay.
This could have been a disaster that sent my entire house of cards fluttering to the ground. Instead, it turned out to be a minor nuisance.
Luckily, Arnhem was to the east; Eindhoven was to the southeast. Everything's gonna be all right was right, just like Robert Nesta says. A small delay, nothing more. After my mistake was corrected, and I had hopped on the hour long commute down to Eindhoven, the only thing on my mind was finding a locker in the station, and then heading towards the campground with a change of clothes and a sleeping bag. I'd worry about finding somewhere to put my stuff once I arrived -- making friends at reggae festivals is about as difficult as finding sand on a beach.
But you'll never guess what happened -- the goddamn Eindhoven station lockers only accepted credit cards. Mastercard, to be exact. The kind I don't carry in my wallet.
Priceless.
Seemingly everyone I asked to swipe me in in exchange for the money in coins was mysteriously denied by the electronic reader, as if the machine knew they were trying to do a favor for the Yank standing behind them, peeking over their shoulder as they swiped their card a second, third and fourth time, before giving up.
It looked like I was going to have to bring my entire life with me, packed into that tattered REI backpack.
And then I met Max.
"The lockers don't work?" he asked, observing my attempts to coordinate a coins-for-credit swap that failed time and time again.
"Naw man."
"I really need a locker though, to put my stuff in for the festival," he preached to the choir, which had a membership of one. "Let me call my friends really quick; they are already at the campsite."
Two minutes later, this tall, pale and not too handsome Dutchman had a solution for us.
"My friends said we can just put our stuff in their tent. Let's go."
Was Max a guardian angel? I do not know -- I never saw him again once we got to the campground. He introduced me to his buddy Chris and his hot redhead friend Mirloos (sp?), and then he disappeared. But I had my storage tent, and I had it just in time. I glanced down at my watch: 3:57.
"Can you say PERFECT TIMING?" I rejoiced inside. Izzy Vibe was set to come on at four. I had made it, just in time.
The music was great; I really did enjoy myself, despite the fatigue of mind and body. But once it came time to sleep, I was out in the cold -- literally. While Chris was extremely generous in letting me keep my valuables "locked" away inside his tent, he was not as open about letting me keep my body in there.
"Well, I guess I've been carrying this tarp around with me for a reason." So I laid it across the already wet grass, at about midnight I'd say, and rolled out my sleeping bag. It took about five seconds after my eyelids closed for me to be carried away into Dream Land.
And about an hour for me to be brought back from it.
"Wake up, wake up" is all I remember hearing. It was still pitch black outside. Two figures that I had never seen before were hovering over me. They were wearing uniforms; naturally, I thought, "Cops."
"What the hell did I do this time?" I wondered from a deep haze, my mind fully confused at why I was being woken up in the middle of the night for a crime I (hoped) I had not committed.
"It's too cold outside, come with us to our tent." It took a few more sentences of explanation, but I eventually realized that these uniformed mystery men (and woman) weren't cops at all. Quite the opposite. These were Red Cross employees, summoned by a concerned tent neighbor who worried about the risk of some poor soul sleeping outside in such harsh cold. True, I had put on my hoodie and rain jacket -- in addition to my Carhartts and wool socks -- in an attempt to stay warm through the night. But even with the extra layers, it was still damn cold, and I knew it.
Even so, I was beat. It was late. I wanted to sleep. But the Red Cross people insisted, and well ... they didn't have to twist my arm. The more I thought about it, the more I realized the comparative differences between a cot and the gound. And after about ten seconds, I got up to make the move.
And a good decision it was. My only question is, why does anybody bring their own tent when they could get a cot for free? I'm doing it from here on out.
I missed my bus; I got to experience a beautiful day until the next one came. I got on the wrong train; so I just corrected the mistake and got on the next one. Couldn't get a locker to work; so I just met someone who had a friend with a tent available to store my stuff. And I had nowhere to sleep; so the Red Cross came and saved me. All problems -- and solutions -- provided by this traveling without a plan thing that drives my parents a bit nuts at times.
Not that it always works out that perfectly, but I do think there is a lesson to be learned from this day:
Sometimes, the best plans are the ones that don't exist.
Hey Dad, do you guys have some international corporate rule at Colliers that says "All phone numbers must consist only of the digits '2' and '1' (and if you have to, a 'o')?"
I mean, I guess it's a good thing for the children of Colliers employees -- when I was a kid, the "two-two-two-twenty-one-eleven" number was easy peasy for whenever I had a question about where my baseball glove was, or if you were actually going to be on time for our game that day so that we could hit balls before, or what time you were "leaving in five minutes" from the office to pick me up to go to the Dome so that I could know I had a good hour to shower and get dressed.
I was just wondering, because the Eindhoven branch has the same set-up.
I mean, I guess it's a good thing for the children of Colliers employees -- when I was a kid, the "two-two-two-twenty-one-eleven" number was easy peasy for whenever I had a question about where my baseball glove was, or if you were actually going to be on time for our game that day so that we could hit balls before, or what time you were "leaving in five minutes" from the office to pick me up to go to the Dome so that I could know I had a good hour to shower and get dressed.
I was just wondering, because the Eindhoven branch has the same set-up.
Editor's note: Josefine is not as dumb as I mistakenly made her out to be. Here is an excerpt from a recent email of complaint I received from her:
"and just for the record - the 50 million was mentioned in connection to number of inhabitants in Sweden - not norway. Norway is huge but no one wants to live there... (standard scandi-joke)."
Ouch, if you're Norway. You gonna take that, Lorentzens? I'm sure Didrik would have a rebuttal for her.
And to think, as recently as a month ago I would have told you that I didn't really like Italians all that much.
Just let me know when I can remove the size 45½ (my "when in Rome" size) shoes from my mouth.
The turnaround began at Christiania, the hippie commune enclave in the heart of Copenhagen. An Italian couple -- Andreas and Luisa -- asked me to snap a photo of them on the bridge. Three hours plus a round of beers later, we were exchanging email addresses, hugs and promises that we would see each other again someday.
Then there was Mateo and Sara -- the first two people pictured from left to right below -- who happened to be the ones I asked for help in finding the No. 41 bus from Utrecht Central Station to the StayOkay Hostel, fifteen minutes away and in the middle of nowhere. We shared a room together the first night; they bought me a big Heineken in the hostel bar; and we were all breakfast buddies the next morning.
But it was Martin and Daniella (yes, Daniella was a guy, who ironically rocked a pony tail) who fully completed my conversion to the "Italians are okay in my book" camp.
If life always went as planned, we would miss out on all the exciting stuff. Things that seemingly suck at first glance don't always suck when you look back on them. Some of the best memories grow out of the worst of circumstances. And that is the story of my friendship with Martin and Daniella, two best friends InterRailing Europe before they had to go home to Genova.
I only had one bullet on the itinerary for my first night in Utrecht, once I had returned to town to get a taste of the city: Make it back in time to catch the last 41 bus at 12:55. It wasn't hard. Just one thing. 12:55. Last bus. Utrecht Central. Or else I'd have a lot of walking to do.
I almost made it. I was in the middle of a great conversation -- on a bench beside a beautiful canal, having a great time -- and cut it short for the explicit purpose of making my bus.
"It's the last one, I've got to go," I explained to Regonja and Rien, a Dutch couple who both work for different American multinational corporations.
And I left, even though I would have loved to have chatted with them for the rest of the night about Mars, PepsiCo., their views on the American "can do" spirit versus the Dutch acceptance of birth status, and the fact that Rien apparently meant "Nothing" to his parents -- who I hope and pray did not realize the French translation of their son's name.
But I just had to get those goddamn french fries and mayonnaise, didn't I? Couldn't wait until the morning to eat. Had to get those fries. Well, they sure tasted good as I was running -- no, make that sprinting -- back from the canal, trying to catch that precious, oh so precious 41 bus.
Not only were the fries keeping me from turning on the jets all the way until I tossed them before eating even half, but this was in the final days of my green Chacos [my mommy has since mailed me a new pair :)]. If you've ever had a pair of shoes where the sole is literally 95% ripped in half, and you fear with every step that it could be your last in a functioning pair of footwear, than you can envision what it might have been like to have had to sprint for nearly ten minutes in a desperate attempt to make that last bus.
I missed it by two minutes. And I sat down on the bench, head bowed in defeat, plotting my next move with the clock approaching 1 in the morning.
And that's when I met Martin.
Just a few seconds after that, up came Daniella, who joined his five-o'clock-shadowed friend in poring over the bus stop time table, their faint hope of a miracle shuttle flickering like a candle in an oxygen-deprived air raid shelter.
"We missed the last one, don't bother," I said from my perch, trying to put them out of their misery.
"I don't understand," Martin retorted -- referring to my English, not the fact that he had been at least seven minutes too late.
"Termino. Finit. Kaput." I hoped a stew of foreign languages would convey the gist of our situation.
"Are you going to the youth hostel?" the stranger looking like a California beach kid asked in a yet-to-be-identified Mediterranean accent.
"Sí."
And so the three of us went into the train station, hoping to find some other means of getting back. But we were clutching at straws. There were only two options: Split a cab three ways, or walk the six kilometers back in the dark.
"I think we should walk," Daniella said.
And you know you can't chicken out once the first guy mans up.
I'm no stranger to long walks back to my bed in an unknown city with only nondescript bus routes as a guide in the pitch black -- my first night going out while studying abroad in Geneva, the same thing happened to my eventual best friend Coop and I. But no matter how many times you've done it, a four-letter word is always the first thing to come out of your mouth when the realization that a death march awaits hits you.
And a death march it was.
In those same Chacos -- the ones in worse condition than Ariel Sharon -- I began a long, grueling journey back to the hostel that I hadn't even sought out in the first place. None of us really even knew where we were going. English was the only option (nada español, pas de français); and their English wasn't too great. Just thirty minutes into what turned out to be a two-hour journey (we got back at 3 a.m.), my right leg mysteriously began to fall asleep, until the sensation of pins and needles throughout the appendage was so intense that I had to walk on the other side of the slanted road in an attempt to counteract the pain.
But we did establish some common ground.
"What are you doing in Holland?" they asked me, our names still a mystery to one another.
"I am going to a reggae festival, a reggae concert, in Eindhoven. Do you listen to reggae music?" I said as slowly and as phonetically as possible.
"Why yes, of course," the short one -- Martin -- said with an unspoken "Duh."
They knew all of the the bands that I was to see just two days later, but that wasn't what really cemented our bond. About twenty minutes after we took a break to chill and take a breather together, I started the conversation back up with a question.
"Do you know Gentleman?"
Both of them stopped dead in their tracks, they were so excited.
"He is our favorite!" the big one -- Daniella -- said with a grin. "We saw him at a festival in Italy two years ago. We no know him, and then, we hear, and we say, 'This, this is good!'"
After that, it suddenly seemed ridiculous to me that we still did not know one another's names.
"What's your name?" I stretched out my hand.
"Martin," the five-o'clock-shadow said with a smile and a firm grip. "Daniella," the pony tail said in the same fashion.
"Bayless. Nice to meet you."
And on we went, until we came to the bus stop that we would have reached about 100 minutes earlier had we all just been a little more punctual.
"YES!" We all did a little jig and slapped palms, a bolt of energy injected into our legs for the last ten minutes of the walk.
I never thought I'd be so happy to see a bunch of cows in my life. Our hostel's next-door neighbors were still awake -- and I swear I heard one of them say, "Missed the bus, huh?"
Martin and Daniella didn't have the cash to accompany me to the Sundance, unfortunately -- they were on the last legs of their journey, and if they had handed over 30€ each for the show, they wouldn't have been able to do what it was they had come to Holland to do in the first place.
But after that night -- and after my experiences with Andreas, Luisa, Mateo and Sara as well -- Italians are most definitely okay in my book.
Just let me know when I can remove the size 45½ (my "when in Rome" size) shoes from my mouth.
The turnaround began at Christiania, the hippie commune enclave in the heart of Copenhagen. An Italian couple -- Andreas and Luisa -- asked me to snap a photo of them on the bridge. Three hours plus a round of beers later, we were exchanging email addresses, hugs and promises that we would see each other again someday.
Then there was Mateo and Sara -- the first two people pictured from left to right below -- who happened to be the ones I asked for help in finding the No. 41 bus from Utrecht Central Station to the StayOkay Hostel, fifteen minutes away and in the middle of nowhere. We shared a room together the first night; they bought me a big Heineken in the hostel bar; and we were all breakfast buddies the next morning.
But it was Martin and Daniella (yes, Daniella was a guy, who ironically rocked a pony tail) who fully completed my conversion to the "Italians are okay in my book" camp.
If life always went as planned, we would miss out on all the exciting stuff. Things that seemingly suck at first glance don't always suck when you look back on them. Some of the best memories grow out of the worst of circumstances. And that is the story of my friendship with Martin and Daniella, two best friends InterRailing Europe before they had to go home to Genova.
I only had one bullet on the itinerary for my first night in Utrecht, once I had returned to town to get a taste of the city: Make it back in time to catch the last 41 bus at 12:55. It wasn't hard. Just one thing. 12:55. Last bus. Utrecht Central. Or else I'd have a lot of walking to do.
I almost made it. I was in the middle of a great conversation -- on a bench beside a beautiful canal, having a great time -- and cut it short for the explicit purpose of making my bus.
"It's the last one, I've got to go," I explained to Regonja and Rien, a Dutch couple who both work for different American multinational corporations.
And I left, even though I would have loved to have chatted with them for the rest of the night about Mars, PepsiCo., their views on the American "can do" spirit versus the Dutch acceptance of birth status, and the fact that Rien apparently meant "Nothing" to his parents -- who I hope and pray did not realize the French translation of their son's name.
But I just had to get those goddamn french fries and mayonnaise, didn't I? Couldn't wait until the morning to eat. Had to get those fries. Well, they sure tasted good as I was running -- no, make that sprinting -- back from the canal, trying to catch that precious, oh so precious 41 bus.
Not only were the fries keeping me from turning on the jets all the way until I tossed them before eating even half, but this was in the final days of my green Chacos [my mommy has since mailed me a new pair :)]. If you've ever had a pair of shoes where the sole is literally 95% ripped in half, and you fear with every step that it could be your last in a functioning pair of footwear, than you can envision what it might have been like to have had to sprint for nearly ten minutes in a desperate attempt to make that last bus.
I missed it by two minutes. And I sat down on the bench, head bowed in defeat, plotting my next move with the clock approaching 1 in the morning.
And that's when I met Martin.
Just a few seconds after that, up came Daniella, who joined his five-o'clock-shadowed friend in poring over the bus stop time table, their faint hope of a miracle shuttle flickering like a candle in an oxygen-deprived air raid shelter.
"We missed the last one, don't bother," I said from my perch, trying to put them out of their misery.
"I don't understand," Martin retorted -- referring to my English, not the fact that he had been at least seven minutes too late.
"Termino. Finit. Kaput." I hoped a stew of foreign languages would convey the gist of our situation.
"Are you going to the youth hostel?" the stranger looking like a California beach kid asked in a yet-to-be-identified Mediterranean accent.
"Sí."
And so the three of us went into the train station, hoping to find some other means of getting back. But we were clutching at straws. There were only two options: Split a cab three ways, or walk the six kilometers back in the dark.
"I think we should walk," Daniella said.
And you know you can't chicken out once the first guy mans up.
I'm no stranger to long walks back to my bed in an unknown city with only nondescript bus routes as a guide in the pitch black -- my first night going out while studying abroad in Geneva, the same thing happened to my eventual best friend Coop and I. But no matter how many times you've done it, a four-letter word is always the first thing to come out of your mouth when the realization that a death march awaits hits you.
And a death march it was.
In those same Chacos -- the ones in worse condition than Ariel Sharon -- I began a long, grueling journey back to the hostel that I hadn't even sought out in the first place. None of us really even knew where we were going. English was the only option (nada español, pas de français); and their English wasn't too great. Just thirty minutes into what turned out to be a two-hour journey (we got back at 3 a.m.), my right leg mysteriously began to fall asleep, until the sensation of pins and needles throughout the appendage was so intense that I had to walk on the other side of the slanted road in an attempt to counteract the pain.
But we did establish some common ground.
"What are you doing in Holland?" they asked me, our names still a mystery to one another.
"I am going to a reggae festival, a reggae concert, in Eindhoven. Do you listen to reggae music?" I said as slowly and as phonetically as possible.
"Why yes, of course," the short one -- Martin -- said with an unspoken "Duh."
They knew all of the the bands that I was to see just two days later, but that wasn't what really cemented our bond. About twenty minutes after we took a break to chill and take a breather together, I started the conversation back up with a question.
"Do you know Gentleman?"
Both of them stopped dead in their tracks, they were so excited.
"He is our favorite!" the big one -- Daniella -- said with a grin. "We saw him at a festival in Italy two years ago. We no know him, and then, we hear, and we say, 'This, this is good!'"
After that, it suddenly seemed ridiculous to me that we still did not know one another's names.
"What's your name?" I stretched out my hand.
"Martin," the five-o'clock-shadow said with a smile and a firm grip. "Daniella," the pony tail said in the same fashion.
"Bayless. Nice to meet you."
And on we went, until we came to the bus stop that we would have reached about 100 minutes earlier had we all just been a little more punctual.
"YES!" We all did a little jig and slapped palms, a bolt of energy injected into our legs for the last ten minutes of the walk.
I never thought I'd be so happy to see a bunch of cows in my life. Our hostel's next-door neighbors were still awake -- and I swear I heard one of them say, "Missed the bus, huh?"
Martin and Daniella didn't have the cash to accompany me to the Sundance, unfortunately -- they were on the last legs of their journey, and if they had handed over 30€ each for the show, they wouldn't have been able to do what it was they had come to Holland to do in the first place.
But after that night -- and after my experiences with Andreas, Luisa, Mateo and Sara as well -- Italians are most definitely okay in my book.
I sat beside this canal in Utrecht for about three or four hours, completely content with myself. About ten or 15 of these party boats cruised by in that time.
And the whole time, I was doing nothing but kicking myself. If Chase, Hunter, Jamison, Robbie, Boo Boo and I had known you could rent party boats in Holland while we were just next door in Germany for three weeks during the World Cup, the definition of the word rowdy would have had to have been amended in Webster's to include a picture of the spectacle.
And the whole time, I was doing nothing but kicking myself. If Chase, Hunter, Jamison, Robbie, Boo Boo and I had known you could rent party boats in Holland while we were just next door in Germany for three weeks during the World Cup, the definition of the word rowdy would have had to have been amended in Webster's to include a picture of the spectacle.
"Damn that would have been fun."
"Dutch Dutch Dutch Dutch Dutch Dutch Dutch??" they hurriedly asked me as their boat floated away.
"English?" I yelled, our separation increasing at about a meter every two seconds.
"Can you send that picture to us on email??"
Before waiting for a response -- there was no time for that -- they desperately screamed out something unintelligible, as if I would a) know how to spell a Dutch first and last name and b) take time out of my day to send them this measly little picture, when Lord knows they all already had about a billion shots of the day's festivities in their digital cameras.
Girls are the same, I don't care where you go.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A bike resting against the backdrop of a calm, quiet canal. If only one more thing were present, this photo would sum up perfectly my memory of The Netherlands, without any words necessary.
My Eurail Pass expired August 13. But the Reggae Sundance Festival in Eindhoven, NL was also August 13.
I had to get back to Morges, my home base, by train. That train ride was either going to be free, or it was going to be très, très cher.
The only things I had to factor into my decision were Israel Vibration, Don Carlos (formerly of Black Uhuru), Steel Pulse and Alpha Blondy.
Everyone not named Emmanuel only gets to live life once. What good is 100€ saved on a train ride gonna do me when I'm doomed to be ashes to ashes, dust to dust? I had the opportunity of a lifetime laying out there for me to grab hold of: The chance to see four LEGENDARY BANDS on the same day, in the same place.
So even though every fiscally responsible bone in my body told me I should just go straight back to Switzerland, something else told me it was a mooooooooot point.
I was going to that festival, regardless of the financial repercussions involved.
The Sundance was a three-day affair. My body was only trying to do one of those days -- the memory of the agonizingly slow muscle-and-joint recuperation in Cologne following the 72 hours of punishment at SummerJam was visceral, to say the least. And besides, all I needed to see, I could see on Sunday.
Four legends, one spot, 30€ (and 10€ for a campsite). Sold.
But before I was to put the cap on my Summer Reggae Festival Trilogy, I had a couple of days to kill en Les Pays Bas.
And so off I went to Utrecht, where I had heard glorious tales from my friend John -- the kid on the train from Oslo to Bergen who would "Rather Go to Hell than Texas" -- of a 16€/night hostel with free Internet and free food.
I arrived, found a city map, meandered along the streets until I found the only hostel listed on the aforementioned map ... and was turned away for a lack of vacancy. The only place available was 15 minutes outside of the city by bus. It was 9€ more than my dream spot. Breakfast was free, but it was crap. And the Internet cost 5€/hr., which is kind of like charging people to go to the bathroom, as they do in every single European train station (we have a word for that in America: "Extortion").
But it was my only option. And so I got on that 41 bus and went.
But I did make a new friend: The Dutch cow who agreed that it was stupid to weigh Izzy Vibe, Don Carlos, Steel Pulse and Alpha Blondy against some short term financial consideration by saying "Mooooot" over and over. His existence across the street from my hostel was proof that yes, I was staying in the boonies.
But it didn't stop me from heading straight back into town on the 41 bus to walk around the canals at night. If you've never been to Holland, I promise you, you are missing out. I cannot believe that for all the times I have been there, I have never taken a boat ride along these things.
Some day, I suppose. Some day.
I had to get back to Morges, my home base, by train. That train ride was either going to be free, or it was going to be très, très cher.
The only things I had to factor into my decision were Israel Vibration, Don Carlos (formerly of Black Uhuru), Steel Pulse and Alpha Blondy.
Everyone not named Emmanuel only gets to live life once. What good is 100€ saved on a train ride gonna do me when I'm doomed to be ashes to ashes, dust to dust? I had the opportunity of a lifetime laying out there for me to grab hold of: The chance to see four LEGENDARY BANDS on the same day, in the same place.
So even though every fiscally responsible bone in my body told me I should just go straight back to Switzerland, something else told me it was a mooooooooot point.
I was going to that festival, regardless of the financial repercussions involved.
The Sundance was a three-day affair. My body was only trying to do one of those days -- the memory of the agonizingly slow muscle-and-joint recuperation in Cologne following the 72 hours of punishment at SummerJam was visceral, to say the least. And besides, all I needed to see, I could see on Sunday.
Four legends, one spot, 30€ (and 10€ for a campsite). Sold.
But before I was to put the cap on my Summer Reggae Festival Trilogy, I had a couple of days to kill en Les Pays Bas.
And so off I went to Utrecht, where I had heard glorious tales from my friend John -- the kid on the train from Oslo to Bergen who would "Rather Go to Hell than Texas" -- of a 16€/night hostel with free Internet and free food.
I arrived, found a city map, meandered along the streets until I found the only hostel listed on the aforementioned map ... and was turned away for a lack of vacancy. The only place available was 15 minutes outside of the city by bus. It was 9€ more than my dream spot. Breakfast was free, but it was crap. And the Internet cost 5€/hr., which is kind of like charging people to go to the bathroom, as they do in every single European train station (we have a word for that in America: "Extortion").
But it was my only option. And so I got on that 41 bus and went.
But I did make a new friend: The Dutch cow who agreed that it was stupid to weigh Izzy Vibe, Don Carlos, Steel Pulse and Alpha Blondy against some short term financial consideration by saying "Mooooot" over and over. His existence across the street from my hostel was proof that yes, I was staying in the boonies.
But it didn't stop me from heading straight back into town on the 41 bus to walk around the canals at night. If you've never been to Holland, I promise you, you are missing out. I cannot believe that for all the times I have been there, I have never taken a boat ride along these things.
Some day, I suppose. Some day.
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