München to Venezia...almost

Seeing as how the mega-intense Germany-Italy semifinal is going on right now and I'm dead tired from what I'm about to tell you, I'll just give a very quick overview of the last few days and leave it to Keegan or my future self to fill in the details. After leaving München on the 23rd (I think) we rode all day and almost made it to Innsbruck, but wound up camping in the rain and thick vegetation just off of the (very busy) road. We got a late start the next day (hoping for the rain to stop) and spent so much time exploring Innsbruck that we spent that night there. It was a good thing we did, because the very helpful receptionist (is that what you call someone who works in reception?) at the campsite tipped us off that Brenner Pass Road, which we were planning on taking the next morning, has no bike path until the Italian border and is very busy. So we ended up taking a train and then a bus to the top of the pass for the bargain of about 8 euros each. Now in Italy (!!!!) we had a nice ride down the pass and spent the night in a small town called Ora. Next day we made it to Lake Garda and stayed at a campground on the shore. The short swim that we had in the lake when we stopped riding was the undisputed highlight of the trip so far. Oh, and that day I accomplished 3 of my life goals (all of which involve food and Italy): eat pizza, spaghetti, and gelato in Italy. The next day (today), we rode the 40 or so remaining kilometers to Verona, where we had some amazing gelato and then parted ways  right in front of Juliette's balcony. Official parting picture:

After leaving Keegan, I took it upon myself to ride all the way to Venice. I guessed from the map that it was around 100 more kilometers, so I knew it would by a long ride. But I had no idea how bad it would be. It's at least 140 km of hot, shade-less, shoulder-less road with the most hope-killing signage ever. Let me give you an example: on the way to Padova (one of the main cities along the way), there were signs telling the remaining distance placed about every 2-3 km. They read, in order: 40, 41, 35, 38, 45, 30, 20, 25, 18, 24...
Anyway, I didn't quite make it to Venice; I'm now 15 km away (according to the signs, so who knows...) at a great campground. Now it is most definitely time for sleep. Oh, Italy just won. That's nice.

Munchin' in München

We got into Munich (or München as we should call it) at about 7 pm day before yesterday, which has given us enough time to formulate the firm opinion that this place is awesome. The cathedrals and miscellaneous old buildings are majestic and truly in-spire-ing, the city's bike path system is excellent (as it apparently is in the whole of Germany, making me mildly regretful of taking a train across the whole country), and there are plenty of great activities to do around the city. Like surfing. For those of you who are geography-challenged, go look up Munich on Google Maps, and then let me repeat that: surfing is big here. This is made possible by some concrete baffles on the bottom of a fast section of the Isar River, resulting in a never-ending perfect wave that brings lines of wetsuit-clad Bavarians to the sides of the river. The rest of the park around the river is a great hang-out spot as well, as it is replete with volleyball courts, slackliners, djembe drummers, and nude sunbathers. Another fantastic thing about this city is that it is the main urban center of Bavaria, which is home to Germany's traditionalists. Read: people walk around in Lederhosen.
Our base camp for exploring all this amazing is simply called "The Tent," which is, unsurprisingly, a giant tent that offers cheap accommodation inside and cheaper camping around it (guess which one we chose). If you ever go to Munich, I highly recommend staying here, as it costs one-third the price and has twice the character of a hostel. I know, because we spent our first night here in Munich City Hostel. This was the best hostel I've ever been in, but it still doesn't hold a candle to the hammocks, ping-pong tables, good music, tasty food, and fun of The Tent.
Okay, I'm having trouble writing this on account of the boisterous Spaniards surrounding me and yelling at the TV. Which brings me to another reason it's awesome to be here now: the UEFA Europe Football Championship. The quarterfinal rounds are in full swing, with the France-Spain match going on right now and  the politically-charged Germany-Greece match last night (politically-charged because Greece wanted revenge on Germany for their refusal to bail Greece out of their economic slump). We had every intention of going into a bar last night to fully experience Germany's passion for football, but we were foiled by Ben's need to get the money his mom wired him and Keegan getting another flat tire. So we experienced the game sitting on the sidewalk changing Keegan's tire with a chain tool, eating pita wraps, and listening to the yells of jubilation and/or indignation coming from the bar across the street. But we still got a little dose of the party spirit on our way back to The Tent, when college students and old ladies alike proclaimed Germany's dominance from their cars and scooters. But no worries, the energy from the Spanish faction of the tent's residents over tonight's game more than makes up for last night's mishaps.
So that brings us up to date. But tonight marks a turning point, for it is the last night that the three of us will spend together. In the morning Keegan and I are commencing our ride through the Austrian Alps to Venice, and Ben is remaining in Munich in hopes of working through the American consulate's inefficiency and getting his passport replaced. Now I want to concentrate on the second half of the game, so no pictures for you. Go Spain!

End of the Haervejen-German Trains

NOTE: This was written a few days ago, but it has been hectic lately and I haven't gotten around to posting it. We are happily in Munich now, and hopefully the next update will discuss how excellent this city is.

Cheers, Everyone.

Germany is very different, I think. As I sit here on a train from Flensburg to Munich, my trusty bike getting some much needed rest to my right, I try to think about the whirlwind of days that has swept me off to this unexpected place, disoriented and feeling a bit like Dorothy must have when she first arrived in Oz: Lost, amazed, and ultimately in awe of the strange landscape I find myself in. Oh, and a bit surprised by the strange dress of the locals.

The last days of the Haervejen  (which goes to the Danish-German border) were a blur of farmlands and idyllic pastoral landscapes that made me feel as though I were somehow trapped within the context of a ranch dressing label, only awaiting the words to be written in the sky: Hidden Valley (or some such nonsense). Either way, I will try to give you a picture of the specific events of the last two days to the best of my memory. On Wednesday we awoke in a soggy tent, pitched outside an overpriced “sports” themed “youth-hostel”. While last night’s rain had forced us to stop, we were surprised to find ourselves sun-drenched, and made up for the expensive cost of staying on their rocky lawn by laying waste to the breakfast buffet. We certainly got our money’s worth of soft-boiled eggs, yogurt, cereal, fine cheeses, vegetables, and the fantastic bread common throughout Denmark.

“Finally, things are looking up”, I thought.

“Yeah! And it finally looks like summer!” exclaimed the convenient second voice I invented upon writing this in order to convey the idea that, while preceedingly it had been quite rainy, the bad weather seemed to be gone for good.

After departing Jelling we headed south to Jels, where we went into a wonderful bike shop full of the sorts of sports-car like carbon fiber toys (with price tags that likewise look sports-car like) that provided a nice distraction from our stated task: finding a new bolt to hold on the pink bottle cage Wade bought me. Upon leaving Wade was one rain-jacket richer (good purchase), both Meade brothers had acquired a selection of energy bars, and I finally had my bolt. I screwed on the silly pink bottle cage, set my multi-tool down on the ground, and we rode onward.

               As we departed town the paved suburban streets quickly gave way to one of the pastoral dirt paths we were accustomed to, and we began the gradual slog that would carry our touring bikes over this inopportune terrain. Less than a mile out of town, Keegan got a(nother) flat tire, and amid groans of frustration and demands that Wade read a story we got into flat tire positions, which are as thus: First, it would seem all flats happen to Keegan, as even when doing absolutely nothing he gets more of them than the zero Wade and I have gotten this trip (knock on the fake wood paneling of a german train). He is therefore off to the side, panniers in the grass along with the sleeping bag he keeps on his rear rack. He is working diligently, asking Wade questions, and generally being useful and hardworking. Wade is probably sitting next to Keegan, reading Grimm’s fairy tales to keep us entertained while helping Keegan to find the hole in the tube or yelling at me to stop playing ukulele while he’s listening for punctures. All the while, I am off to the other side of Keegan, steadily playing ukulele as Wade listens for punctures or being yelled at.

Now, this particular time I wanted to be productive, so after playing a few songs on Uke I went to adjust my derailleurs so that my bike would run properly for the next stretch of hilly terrain. As I pulled out the sock in which I keep my metal tools, I was disappointed to find it was empty. “Not Again!” I mentally noted. “How many things must you leave behind!” I added to my own mental note.

The mental notes have been accumulating. Travelling is not conducive to a simple life.

I raced into town and back to the bike shop, panting breathlessly as I asked the old man who was presently behind the counter if he had seen one (it was a nice tool!). He was confused…”Like, a computer?” he said through a thick accent. It’s quite phlemy talk, from this one, and so after some extensive pantomiming the woman who sold us the jacket walked in from the back, quickly returning to me the tool I had left outside and granting me the much appreciated gift of an Energy Bar (!), as she had been taking in a shipment of them when I returned.

              Upon having returned to find the Meades steadily patching tubes but ready to ride, we pushed onward, riding under the brilliant sun that gave life to the fields and which filtered through the trees that grew on the margin of our path and these endless seedlings which promised a fine harvest come fall.

              The rest of the day was spent riding, tending to Keegan’s flats, and at last reaching the end of the Haervejen, just south of Geija Bro (one of the ancient bridges that marks the traditional route…Bro=Bridge, Kro=Inn. The two always go together in Denmark, although in this case the Inn has burned down).  As we passed through a Danish P.O.W. camp whose red buildings were as a scar on the forested landscape, An innocent looking reminder of this area’s bloody history and nazi occupation, we reflected on how ironic it was to enter Germany through such a camp. A simple dinner on the other side, and we returned for some free camping in the woods, which turned out to have been planted around 1870 using war reparations from a previous conflict. They too, it seems, presented a sort of scar, or maybe just memory, of conflict. It was a scar that had healed; whose bloody memory was forgotten and whose story became a historical anecdote rather than some morbid reminder…Perhaps one day the same will become of those buildings at the camp, but perhaps not. Not all scars fade quickly.

We had a campfire and listened to Wade reading fairy tales until the sun had long gone down.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of some german dog walkers reading the words on my top tube, cheerfully chortling “Byke Haus?”, and so I got up and set about preparing to leave. From the past few days’ worth of conversations it had been decided that we would head to the south, and from the helpful words of an old man we met in a small town we had further decided to take the train from Flensburg to Munich, where I would pursue a passport, Wade would pursue a Eurorail pass, and where Keegan, it seems, will pursue an education.

              We rode south toward Padborg, the Danish border town,  and headed to a bakery (delicious strawberry tarts!) and a library, where we researched train tickets and youth hostels until we decided to just go to the station and find out for ourselves. After some necessary getting lost we finally found our way to the correct bike path and reached our final trampoline count for Denmark: 110 just before crossing the border.

            While only a few miles from Padborg, a typically small and subtle Danish town, Flensburg is a bustling German city that seems to belong to a vastly different cultural context  than its neighbor. Germany is loud and made of red bricks, cute storefronts, and built with an old world charm that reminds one of a carnival. It is full of interesting characters who lack the conservatism and sensibility of the Danish but who often look good in clashing Kelly green polo shirts and neon orange shorts. Like any circus, Germany is a very fun place to visit, and while you know everyone who bustles around you lives and works there, it is interesting to wonder if they have forgotten to be thankful for the subtle magic of their environment.

As we arrived at the train station, I waited outside with the bikes to watch them while my fellow travellers went in to ask about tickets. As I stood outside I appreciated that there is also a certain agedness here that is absent in much of the world: Paint chips are left on the windowsills of the weathered looking train station, its stately windows reflecting dust in the morning light. It seems like the desire for perfect, modern cleanliness and perfection sought by city-dwelling Americans is absent in this beautiful postmodern landscape. Perhaps Germans see the beauty in this decay. Maybe the window cleaners are on strike. It could also be that they just have better things to worry about. I don’t know.

We found out, anyway, that it is necessary to book a train in advance, and so went to a youth hostel for the night after buying tickets for 6 a.m. the next morning. We bought some Schnitzel, Salads, and Burritos for dinner and took luxuriant showers that night. Relaxing is certainly a pleasure after a long bike ride, and it felt good to have finally crossed the length of a country, to finally have crossed the line that separated late spring and early summer.  

              Anyway, that brings us to today, and unfortunately there is not much to tell. The land stretches far on both sides; more red brick and grafittied walls, farmland and bridges. I think I will head to the alps when we split up in Munich…to cycle storied roads and pursue some sort of solitude in the great mountains whose jagged pinnacles look like so many rows of great teeth.  Finally all up to date with my writing, I will go back to staring out the window.

A History Lesson, and some rambling

Ben mentioned in his last post that we are traveling along the Hærvejen, but I think that deserves elaboration. The Hærvejen, which literally means "Army Road" in Danish, is the traditional route running north-south more or less down the middle of the Danish peninsula (known as "Jutland"). It was made up of a hodgepodge of different local roads in such a way as to avoid as many river crossings and other obstacles as possible. This made it the easiest way to travel, and the obvious choice for the military's use whenever they needed to move troops, hence the name. Over the years, it has been improved from sunken cart tracks into its current state of about 70% pavedness and 30% packed dirt-ness (by my estimation).
It is also significant because it was the road by which pilgrims to the tomb of Saint James in Santiago, Spain would walk (yes, walk) from Scandinavia. Interestingly and unrelatedly, a friend that I met this last semester at Santa Barbara City College is doing a walking pilgrimage to Santiago as we speak, but along a much shorter route that starts somewhere on the France-Spain border. Because of its long and rich history, the Hærvejen has achieved a culturally important status, and it is well-known among the Danes even though its traffic has been largely displaced to the modern highways (somewhat similar to Route 66 back in 'Merica).
The Hærvejen would probably be much harder to follow if it were not used as a large part of Euro-Velo route #3. For those of you who don't know, the Euro-Velo system is an awesome, Europe-wide network of bike routes going to all sorts of interesting places on dedicated bike routes or low-traffic roads. When these routes were being developed, they made use wherever possible of existing routes, as in the case of the Hærvejen and Euro-Velo 3. This is great for us, since there is (generally) great signage leading us along the way. These little blue signs have become our guide, our steadfast companion, and, I daresay, our friend along this great voyage.

Of course, the signs are sometimes faded, or overgrown, or knocked askew by a stray lawnmower, and we have had several instances where several kilometers of backtracking was necessary in order to find our little blue friend again. Being the exemplary citizens that we are, we do some minor sign maintenance to keep others from making our same mistakes. I think Ben has a picture of this on his last post. 
So we have made it to the city of Vejen along this route, and are now holed up in the library looking glumly out at the pouring rain. The weather was gorgeous this morning, and we started off at a great pace with high hopes of making it to Germany by tonight. Yet the rain and hunger made us take shelter in the local Kebab Hus, and thence to the library in hopes of waiting out the storm while we computerize a bit. However, the forecast only calls for more rain this afternoon, so we will probably resume our sodden way in a little while and camp sadly short of our goal of the German border. 
But my spirits, at least, are raised a bit since I just went to the local bike shop and bought a new tire. You would think that would be for a simple reason, but you'd be wrong! The story actually starts before we left, when I bought a sort of expensive, Kevlar-lined tire for my rear wheel in hopes of getting some serious miles out of it. However, only a few days after we flew into Oslo, I saw with dismay that I had already worn through the outer layer of rubber. I resolved to buy a new tire and carry it so that I could tire out (heh, heh, get it?) my current one to shreds without worrying about being stranded somewhere. It was not until 3 days ago that our encountering a roadside cycle shop and me remembering my resolution to buy a tire coincided, but then I had one. No problems. Just kidding! Almost immediately after that, Keegan broke a spoke, forcing us to cut our day short and spend the night in what turned out to be an awesome town. The next morning he bought a new wheel for his bike, which came with a free tire. Three flats in quick succession later, we decided this free tire was vastly inadequate, so we put my new spare on Keegan's bike. This solved his problems, but left me constantly fretting that my tire would reach the end of its days with nothing but Keegan's discarded free one to replace it (which would work in a pinch (haha, more tire humor), but since I weigh more than Keegan, I would probably get flats left and right until a replacement could be found). Anyway, to end this substantial narrative of trivial content, now I have a nice, new, burly tire and am no longer worried. About anything. Ever.

Saeby-Arden: Denmark part 1

It’s been a chaotic few days since I met with the Meade brothers in Sweden, so let me catch you up on the story. After we left the campground in Askim Strand, we rode into the main city of Goteburg. Because we were too late to make the 9 a.m. ferry as we had planned, we had til 4 to spend time in the city of Goteburg. After riding down the waterfront, amid tall ships and antique buildings built into the rocky cliffs to our right (north), we found a nice grassy area where we dried some clothes, played hackeysack, and where I finally got to break out my ukulele and play some songs in the crisp Scandinavian air.

When finally we got on the ferry, we spent time exploring all the decks, watching the beautiful city dissipate first into industrial shipping areas, then rolling hills, and finally strands of rocky islands until finally we were on the wide open seas.

Denmark is a beautiful country, full of quaint houses and overwhelmingly nice people. This was a fact that became immediately apparent as we checked into a campground in Saeby, just south of Fredrickshaven (where we landed on the ferry), and one we tested quite extensively the next day, as you will soon discover. Then next morning broke with sunlight and the sound of wind smacking our tent fly against the inner wall, creating a rhythm rather like rain as we awoke. For breakfast, we ate some leftover beans and decided to push south along the coast in order to find a nice bakery, which we did in the town of Asaa. A tiny village, Asaa smelled entirely of jam on toaster pastries, freshly toasted as we biked in through the north on Eurovelo 5. The source of this smell was sought out and ultimately discovered, as three starving cyclists alighted upon a bakery counter, eyes feasting on the delicious pastries. It is no mistake we have a breakfast snack in the U.S. called the Danish: These people know how to make a mean breakfast, and before we knew it we had bought a loaf of bread, a giant cinnamon and brown sugar based confection, and three pies, all of which were devoured like the tasty zebra carcasses thrown into a sea made entirely of Piranhas. As we headed out to the south west, aiming for Dronninglund, we battled both massive headwinds and occasional sideaches (or at least I did), and only Keegan still felt in need of further food. Dronninglund was nice, but did not connect with the bike route we were shooting to connect with, and so we decided to press on to Hjallerup. After a brief bathroom/slackline/hackeysack break at what we later discovered was a Boarding School (Efterskole) after a talk with a climbing and math teacher (very interesting fellow), we headed onward. Still battling into those accursed headwinds, which seemed to change direction at all times just to blow directly in our faces as we rode, we finally made it into Hjallerup.

In Hjallerup we went first to a grocery store in search of lunch (cycling makes you very, very hungry), where we picked up some oatmeal, trailmix, and some spices, among other rations. When I finally got to the counter, however, I immediately discovered something entirely unexpected: My moneybelt was empty. Passport, credit cards, and half of my cash, completely gone. My face sunk in a way the passengers of the titanic would know well, and immediately we went into emergency mode: Wade was to stay in Hjallerup with Keegan’s  and my bags as we rode north, unencumbered, to retrace our route and look for the documents, which we concluded had likely fallen out while riding. Hours of searching later, police departments called, mom emailed, and with absolutely no luck we were at last together again in Hjallerup. It was now late, and we headed south to look for a place to camp. While concerned, the Schengen region allows for transit without a passport, and the credit card is, while difficult to replace, replaceable. As we finally left town along EuroVelo 3, we passed through miles of idyllic countryside till this landscape gave way to forest; the paved roads devolving into simple one-lane dirt roads. we found ourselves in troll-filled woods, one passport down, but rich in sunlight and good spirits below the leafy boughs that bathed our tent in emerald light.

This brings us, finally, to this morning. We rode on from our nice campsite into Aalborg, taking time to acquire hot water from a McDonalds for our oatmeal before crossing the bridge into the main continent (there is a narrow straight that bisects Denmark, such that our previous travels had actually taken place on a massive island). We have ridden many miles (kilometers, I would be corrected) since then, and are writing from a Pizza shop in Arden, south of a thick wood where we finally met up with the main Haervejen (which begins in Viborg). It’s been a rough first two days on a bike for me, but I have pizza to eat, and so this lengthy update will come to a brief end.

Foreign Trampolines

Alright, since this is Le Tour de Tramps, we've been keeping count of all the trampolines we've seen.  Stats:

Norway:  73 (with 44 just between the airport and Oslo)
Sweden:  11
Denmark:  17 and counting

Juicy stuff.  Sweden may seem to be lacking but, as I've said on many a previous occasion, statistics are fairly pointless.  In this instance the grandeur of the circumstances responsible for our first Swedish trampoline sighting make up for the event's inability to repeat itself even into the teens along the rest of our course through the country.  In fact if what we did is what it takes to spot these beautiful contraptions in the region, we're happy to have left them unseen.

After leaving our McDonald's interweb rendezvous location with sunny optimism (and a noteworthy glass jar of nutella from the nearby supermarket), we pressed boldly on in the complete wrong direction.  Passing a sign at the far end of the parking lot that simply said, "Gods"* with an arrow indicating where they should park, we headed carelessly down a carless road.  It went down and down and up and up and finally to a beautiful cove surrounded by camping trailers and containing at least one SCUBA diver.  Receiving no confirmation from an encamped German woman as to whether the road went through and on, we decided to look for ourselves.  "Might as well after coming this far."  At that point the pavement thinned and led sharply uphill.  But no hindrance.

Stubbornly peddling onward toward what we felt would certainly turn out to be a dead end, we soon found ourselves entering a Naturpreservat.  The greenery reminded us both of the Pacific Northwest.  Near the entrance sat a house.  One look at the front yard and we knew how to justify the lengthy deviation from our way south.  There was our first Swedish trampoline!

The Meeting of Ways

Ben arrived by taxi at the campsite where we designed to meet just minutes before we rolled up on our bikes!

Yalla Bina!

Straight roads are nice. They're easy to follow, and you have very low chances of making a wrong turn and ending up on a dead-end Swedish peninsula with a half-page long name when you're on one. But just like our lives are in the choices we make, the trip is in the intersections, and there is no way to avoid them just because they're confusing. Keegan and I were reminded of this yesterday when we came to yet another necessary but befuddling crossroads and stopped to once again consult our woefully inadequate map. But this time, an angel came to us. A diesel-eating, van-shaped angel with 'Global Biking Initiative' plastered on its side and its interior filled with Germans. They had pulled off the highway to get coffee at the same time as we were sitting perplexedly on the side of the road. We went to question them about a bike map, but were very surprised when instead they invited us to join their group of 350 cyclists riding from Oslo to Dusseldorf if we could make it another 80 km to Uddevalla by that night. We weren't sure that we could. But to make a long story short: some torrential rain, some delicious potatoes, a glorious long-awaited glimpse of the sun, and well over 80 km later, we did. So last night we ate and drank amazing German sausages and beer, respectively, and spent the night on dry, comfortable mattresses in a ridiculously well-equipped gymnasium. Then today we happily loaded our backpacks and panniers into the vangel and rode 90 km with some very boisterous Egyptians to Goteborg. And here we are. As soon as I'm done with this post, we're going to ride over to the campsite where, if all goes well, we will meet Ben tonight! No pictures this time because my camera's outside with Keegan and I'm lazy.

The Koppl Chronicles Part 2: Icelandic Escape

I really had no idea what to expect when my plane hit the tarmac in Iceland, but the weather was gloomy, and the airline was playing Sigur Ros; I was certainly a bit afraid that my worst fears would be true, and that Iceland would prove to be an amalgam of its collective cultural stereotypes: Pessimistic Vikings, Bjӧrk, geologists, bad weather, and smelly fish.

As I rode in an empty bus across the barren plains between Keflavik and Reykjavic (All names here look vaguely like the result of a scrabble game played during an earthquake) I was impressed by the overwhelming gloominess of the scenery: The slate gray sea bordered by black, dead looking rocks covered in lichen green moss that looked like it might actually be troll droppings in disguise. Already I was beginning to confirm my stereotypes of this island nation. When I arrived to my campground in the outskirts of Reykjavic it was about 8 a.m., so I checked in, set up my tent, and made some oatmeal with ingredients left in the free bin in te communal kitchen. When I left the building, hot food in hand, I was suddenly bathed in the light of the sun. I don’t know which took longer to adjust, my eyes or my brain, but whatever I had expected it was not this.

                The city center of Reykjavic was built in 1939 and is beautifully metropolitan. Constructed before the influence of American civic design that followed the second world war, Reykjavic feels like a much bigger city than its 100,000 inhabitants would indicate: the bulk of its population is located immediately surrounding the downtown, devoid of suburbs and therefore structured to favor pedestrians rather than cars. On my first day in the city I meandered its beautiful streets, taking in the combination of old world charm and modern culture while learning about the nation’s history and arts at museums and galleries around the town. Given its location in the middle of the north pacific, Iceland has always been an intersection of cultures, something decisively reflected by the culture of Reykjavic. While there were certainly remnants of Norse culture and an accompanying sense of pride in Icelandic heritage, tthese tell only half the story. As I perused downtown I was surprised to hear modern electronic music and American rap (Waka Flocka is really popular here, apparently) coming from traditional looking Scandinavian buildings; entire blocks full of street art and intricate pieces of graffiti indicative of a thriving youth culture largely influenced by America; a fact I later learned was due to a large U.S. military presence on the island that only ended in 2006 (presumably due to the cold war). To say the least my stereotypes were being proven false, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

After eating a late lunch of Skyr (which is like yogurt but worse) I continued my walk, this time visiting a few gigantic churches, climbing a hill for a view of the city, and at last returning in the most roundabout way conceivable to my campsite. After a quick dinner of free pasta (again, from my youth hostel kitchen) I headed to the geothermal pool down the street for a quick soak, when I got distracted by the last thing I had anticipated seeing in Iceland: A skatepark. While clearly the product of a contractor who had never built anything like a ramp before, I was impressed by the kindness and ability of the skateboarders, who leant me their boards so I could ride with them until about 20 minutes before the swimming complex I had intended to visit closed at 10 p.m.. I ran across the street, hellbent on using my free pass I had gotten as a part of my welcome card, and putting on my board shorts and dashing through a changing room I at last made it to the hot tubs, full of bearded Icelandic men and sulfur-scented steam. Finally I felt like I was in Iceland, and fell asleep easily in the brilliant light of the sun, stubbornly blazing on at midnight.

When I awoke the next morning I made a nice breakfast before beginning my guided bus tour of the island. I don’t know why, but free food always tastes a little better than it should, and a simple bowl of oatmeal and tea were the perfect way to warm up and start my day. My voyage to the aptly named golden circle was a fantastic opportunity to see the mind-bending diversity of landscapes and various geological phenomena that evoked scenes of glacier national park, Yellowstone, the Midwest, and of course Lord of the Rings (interestingly, one of the brochures I read referenced the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, either directly or indirectly, at least 4 times.), but instead of describing this one, I think I’ll let my pictures do the talking (at least partially because it is impossible to type the names of most of the locations I visited using this keyboard). Anyway, before I stop writing and get back to staring out at the north pacific through my airplane window and listening to Sigur Ros, I would like to try my hand at providing you a new set of stereotypes for Iceland and Icelanders, far more accurate than the vision of pessimistic Vikings, geysirs, and glaciers most of us start with: Just imagine a bunch of friendly, diverse, and generally metropolitan Disco-Vikings skateboarding happily in their quirky, coastal version of either a post-apocalyptic Midwest or Middle-earth, and you’ll have a pretty good idea what it’s like. Ϸakka Ϸér fyrir, Iceland.

One hour till Stockholm, bikes, and the Meade brothers: It’s about to get fun

The sun comes out and the Meade brothers grab the opportunity to ditch McDonalds

Title says it all.  Lengthy writings expectation to be fulfilled at a later time!  It's another Beatles song for another country.  We COULD see the entire world this way.  Pictures on my Facebook!

The Beatles

Hello all. It's been more than 100 kilometers and less than 2 days since we last talked. We've been rained on a lot, looked with minimal comprehension and maximum hope at the sparse Norwegian bike route signage a middling amount, slept a little, and crossed the border into Sweden once.
Picking up where I left off, we spent the night just outside Oslo at the Ekeberg campground. It was expensive (like just about everything in Norway), but there was nowhere close to the city to set up our tent for free. It was nice to have a shower though. When setting up our tent with the mostly clear blue sky overhead (at 10 pm!), we confidently decided against putting on the rainfly, opting instead for the glorious freedom of having the stars overhead. And it was glorious; we fell asleep looking up at the stars and listening to the wind gently sighing through the Norwegian wood. And then it rained.
So that night was wet and interrupted by getting up to put the fly on in the middle of it, but still welcome after the sleepless flights and short airport-floor-sleep. We woke up refreshed, which leads me off on a short tangent theory: there is no such thing as jet lag. Just don't sleep much on the flight, stay awake until nighttime at your destination, sleep the whole night through, and you're good to go. Anyway, back to more important things; namely, us. We rode through the rain from Oslo to just outside a town called Moss (most of the time on dedicated bike trails, as we have on the rest of the trip so far), where we set up our tent next to a lake in some kind of state park. Had a nice, rainless night there (but we had the fly on just to be sure), woke up and rode through the rain to where we are now; in a McDonald's (not for eats, only for WiFi) just across the border of Sweden. We're both quite tired, but will probably ride a bit more before we find a place to camp.
We have around 200 km left to Gothenburg, and 2 or 3 days in which to cover it. I'd like to stay there a day to give my bum a rest, but the wanderlust will probably override chafing. Now for some more pictures. The last bunch was from Keegan's camera, and this one's from mine, so there is time overlap. Get over it. Oh, but first: points to whoever can figure out the title to this post. Ok, now pictures.

Picture 1: Street performers in Berlin
Picture 2: The most useful napkin ever
4: A church on the way to Oslo
6: Meeting a guy from Chicago in Oslo
7: Right next to our campsite in Moss

The Koppl Chronicles: Cardboard Excalibur

There's nothing quite as satisfying as throwing out everything you own...To take a flying leap into the unknown and to trust the collective goodwill of the universe to catch your fall...To go from a cramped and cluttered room to the radical simplicity of a bicycle is to become light and unencumbered.

...Or at least that's what I thought before I had to get my boxed-up bike to the airport this morning.

Seatac Airport is about 40 minutes from the city of Seattle as the taxi drives, and that's exactly how much time I gave myself this morning to get there. As I awoke, bleary-eyed and disoriented on the carpeted floor of my friend Joseph's dorm room, I called my local yellow cab and requested a large vehicle to give me a ride to the airport. No problems. The operator told me to wait ten minutes and they'd send someone over. I dragged my bike-box around a bit, just to be ready. It started to rain. A bird chirped.

When the tiny yellow sedan that was to be my taxi pulled up, I immediately realized there'd been a massive error in scale, confirmed by the look of terror in the eyes of the elderly man who sat behind the wheel. For the lonesome early-morning cabbie this bike box seemed to represent the ultimate challenge: The Sword-in-the-Stone™ of professional drivers; the grand stage on which this budding master had been born to perform. He grunted and bellowed magestically as he made valiant efforts. Feats of strength drew forth sweat beads on his wrinkled forehead. It was a massive effort, but ultimately one that proved fruitless. The box was dragged some more, and at last came to rest, right where it began.

Apologies were exchanged, and my noble cabbie drove onward into the morning, leaving me again to contemplate my situation. A different bird chirped as I called the cab company, sweat now appearing on my brow as I began to worry that I would miss my flight. The same woman who had referred me the first time picked up again, this time livid that I had failed to take the first cab.There may have been some angry words exchanged. At the end of the call, it was becoming apparent that I stood a decent risk of missing my flight, and survival mode kicked in. I called in some favors. Some fell through. Arrangements were made. The massively heavy box was dragged back and forth along the dampening sidewalk as I paced. Even one box seems pretty restrictive when you need to take a cab.

At last, my friend Kyle agreed to drive me to the airport in his beat-up 2-wheel drive 4-runner, and we piled into the front seat. I ate a sandwich from a vietnamese deli down the street from my school, and finally felt what I'd anticipated in the morning: Delicious, delicious freedom. When at last I made it to the airport, my box finally scraped out its last desperate sounds on the soggy ground, and I walked through security unencumbered.
. Anyway, greetings from Seatac, and now I have to get on the plane to Iceland.

Content to be in the continent, we're not cons and don't have a tin tent

Greetangs from Scandinavia!  Trip highlight central over here:  We watched the sun set over Hudson Bay and rise again before we reached the Atlantic.  First order of business in Berlin was to fervently procure and subsequently devour kebab and döner, followed by bubble tea, which is quite popular in that city judging by the proliferation of vendors I approvingly observed as we went bummeln (German verb for strolling the streets) around town. My quest for a smartphone fell flat at the Vodafone store, where the salesman informed me that he could only sell them to persons living in Germany.

Foremost of my appreciations while in Berlin was that of the classic German look exhibited by so many passers by.  It couples an appearance of boldly comfortable tidiness exhibited by the hardy brawn or rotundity of the young and the dress and bearing of the older with an ever present hint of some sort of insanity in the face, perhaps the product of generations of beer guzzlers.  But this as a brief and unstudied, so perhaps flawed, speculation of the phenomenon by me.  Maybe it's best forgotten and replaced by, "German people look awesome."

And so do the people here in Norway.  Plus the drivers were extremely polite this morning.  We rode through some beautiful countryside.  And once we got to Oslo I ate another kebab, even better than the one in Germany.  What further improvements will the future's cuisine hold??  

And so begins the Europexcursion...

Ok, I'm not sure if I'm typing in the right place. This page is in Norwegian, which I've recently learned looks and sounds a bit like someone hacking up ink onto the paper. Oh there, now it's in English, thanks to Google translate.
Here I sit in a coffee shop in Norway, listening to the aforementioned phlegmy conversation around me momentarily being drowned as a huge cruise ship belches out a humongous departure fart, telling the countless sailboats swarming around it like ants to get out of its way as it powers its way out of Oslofjord. My legs are sore, my butt is raw, and my skin is covered with a scaly layer of salt left from my evaporated sweat from today's bike ride. I'm in heaven. If this is par for the course, the next few months are going to be truly incredible.
Let me back up a bit, and tell you what the plans we've made for the immediate future in the not-so-distant past are. In a nutshell, the story is that Keegan, Wade (your current narrator), and Ben (who is not yet with us, but will be in a few days) are going to bicycle from Scandinavia to Spain this summer. Wade and Keegan, who came over first, started their trip in Norway, and the trio will be complete when Ben joins them in a few days in Gothenburg, Sweden. Okay, there's no way I'm going to write this in the third person. We have left the schedule largely open other than that to account for the rampant spontaneity in all of us.
The trip only started a little more than 2 days ago, but it seems much longer. It began with a 10 hour flight to Berlin, and a ten-hour layover there. That gave us enough time to explore the city a little bit, buy European SIM cards, play hacky-sack, and sleep. Then it was a short flight over to Oslo that arrived at 11 pm, which was late enough, but then we unpacked our bikes and prepared them for some serious riding, which took until 2:30 am. We slept on the floor in the airport, but since the sun rises at 4 am this time of year, there was very little sleep to be had. However, it was enough to take us through the 60 km ride into Oslo (you read that right; the city we were supposed to be flying into is actually like 40 miles away from the airport), complete with several getting-lost episodes. We explored the city a bit before hitting the wall. Keegan took a nap while I found an internet connection and wrote this. So now you're all up to date. You deserve a cookie.
Tonight we will probably camp just outside the city and continue on tomorrow. Pictures!