Czeching in from the West

 Before I move on in my narrative, at risk that a certain anecdote be forever lost in the chronological cascade of travel experiences that flood my brain, I have to make a brief aside, going all the way back to the night  that started my last post: The night of trampled tent.

(Before setting up camp, Bohemia.)

(Deer, outside Prague.)

It was dusk. I was tired after a long day of biking in the immensely hilly countryside of bohemia as I prepared for a massive descent into the town of Albers (I remember this simply because the Business School is called Albers and riding through the town at dusk seemed to evoke the very image of the college: Everyone was drunk and there was pizza.). While I was excited to arrive in Prague I was in a so-so mood. The Czech Republic is not a particularly uplifting land and I was feeling a little tired, a little hungry, and maybe even a little homesick.

Then I saw the crosswalk game.

I don't mean that it's actually called that of course-I don't know if it has a name or if it was indeed not some strange form of youth protest (crazy kids). Even so, if it's not named yet, I hereby form the Crosswalk Game League of America, to be founded in January in Seattle.

The crosswalk game is played like this: First, one must go to a rural country road around sunset. It is absolutely imperative that this road have absolutely nothing but forest on either side, indeed completely impassable on one side preferred. Second, one ought to draw a compelling recreation of a normal innercity crosswalk bisecting said road. Third, one should get 20 or 30 of their closest friends, enemies, and classmates, dress up in strange outfits (american baseball stars and doctors were popular) take them to said crosswalk, and have them wait on either side of the road, preferably just out of view but in such a way they can still see if a car is coming. Last (and the fun part), the moment a car begins approaching have everyone simultaneously begin crossing the road, acting as though it is absolutely necessary while engaging in Three Stooges-like shenanigans to make the process as drawn out as possible. If this individual is on a bicycle and looking a little too serious, it is likewise crucial that one person dressed as a schoolteacher stand right in front of them and proceed to drop ALL their papers all over the road, pick them up, and repeat this process indefinitely.

It is a great game.

(A Great Jazz Club in Prague.)

(Prague city-center at night.)

(Czech Bike Path.)

(Czech-German Border Region.)

\As it is getting late here (I will reveal my location as I arrive there in my narrative), I will try to speed things up, but I simply couldn't in good conscience pass that one up. Anyway, Prague lived up to the hype: a strange, depressed, depraved, thriving, beautiful city. It is the sort of place where Kafka would have to be from, where the primary entertianment is found in 5 story night clubs and where I chose to abstain from attending the biggest skateboard festival in Europe in favor of seeing the altogether more "Czech" form of entertianment: Black Light Theatre (A nonverbal theatre form that focuses on being as trippy as is possible, using an actor wearing white being aided by countless individuals who, by merit of their all black outfits and the blacklit stage, are rendered entirely invisible. It's pretty neat, and is a form exemplified by the American performance group Fighting Gravity, which is worth looking up if you get a chance).

Upon leaving Prague I was quite ready to get on with my travels and back to Germany, and so began fairly early on the bike path to Dresden, which I estimated to be a 2 day bike journey away along the famous River Elbe cyclepath. It should be noted that in the Czech Republic this river is called the Labe, which apparently distinguishes it from the one with the famous bike path. The Prague-Border segment was terrible, and everyone I saw along the way agreed. Often no more than a muddy outcropping on the edge of a cliff overlooking the river, I spent approximately 10 of my first day's 130 kilometers hiking ankle deep in sludge, trying to avoid the 3 meter cliff to my left. Very fun. Still, it was quite an adventure, and the people I met on that leg (an Austrailian couple in their 50's, a Dutch Cylcotourist Group, and some Polish Cyclists I gave my Greenways map to come to mind) were some of the most vibrant individuals I've had the pleasure of cycling/trundling/trudging with, and they really made it a nice part of my trip. (Also, I happened to pass the Jewish Eastern-European Youth Concentration Camp from WWII times on this leg, Terezin. While I didn't go in, I did happen to see some drawings made by children from the camp in a Synagogue-memorial in Prague. Apparently during the height of the war a Jewish woman was put in charge of entertianment for the camp and decided to give the children an outlet to normalcy in the form of art, providing the children with drawings supplies and paper. Because the local Nazis were so busy fighting the British and whatnot, no one seemed to notice this break from protocol for quite some time as the pictures accumulated, the woman saving every one of them. When she was finally found out, this intrepid woman decided she would go down fighting, and so took every picture, threw them into a suitcase, buried them in secret on the grounds, and told a friend who had a connection on the outside. Needless to say, the war soon ended and all the pictures were found safe and sound.).

As I crossed the border into Germany it seemed quite apparent the Germans are very proud of their superior-pathmaking-abilities: I think they deliberately went out of their way to make the path contrast as much as possible right on top of the border, immediately flooding cyclists with signage, maps, nice asphalt, guard railings, and all the amenities befitting the Glorious German Bicycle Path System. Riding to Dresden was a lot easier that way, and that very night I sat outside the city eating Currywurst and drinking a nice draft beer that was some of the cheapest I've found in Europe ( yeah, yeah, not vegetarian, but the only restaurant open at the time was a Biergarten...Very, very good way to reenter Germany to say the least). After almost a week of on and off rain, I finally saw some clear skies and good weather as I ate by the river (also, I rode 100 miles this day through the hills: definitely a good challenge!)

Dresden (Florence-of-the-North (tm)) is a great city to visit, and had the finest street performers I've ever encountered. An entire band of Opera singers were performing in the central square as some well practiced men and women spun Poi (Hilariously ironic because the only thing I could think of while riding in was "FIRE BOMBED. FIRE BOMBED. KURT VONNEGUT. SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE. HIGH SCHOOL ENGLISH CLASS. FIRE BOMBBBBBBBBBBBB woah that looks really well restored..."

For those of you unaware of the story, Dresden was brutally firebombed in WWII.

(Dresden, Leipzig University, and Ed, everyone's favorite atmospheric chemist.)

I slept in a bush in a park downtown that night, because no where in the city had a bed available. This was not nearly as sketchy as it sounds, and I have gotten quite good at hiding myself  "in plain sight", as its something I find myself doing more and more as good hidden camping spots become more sparse. While the park was relaxing and it was nice when I woke up, the rain began pouring down right as I finished putting away my tent. Rain coat on, I trudged to the station and did the only think I could think to do: I bought a train ticket west. I was tired of the storms. I was tired of rain. It was time to find summer, I thought, and so I did.

While my train ticket was for Koln (Cologne, for Americans, although it's pronounced KUULN), I successfully orchestrated a stopover in Leipzig for that night in order to visit my friend Ed, who is interning on a project studying Atmospheric Chemistry there at the local university (which is beautiful and looks like the crystal fortress of justice mixed with a cathedral of knowledge). I won't bore you all with details here, but it was really, really reassuring to see a familiar face even in such unfamiliar climes. We made pasta and talked over friends old and new. We traded books and stories. I stole most of his iTunes library. We sat in a giant, industrial brick apartment complex that looked like every other giant industrial brick apartment complex in the entire country as the rain came down outside. We both agreed Germany is somewhat depressing at times, and I was glad to be leaving.

Someone jumped in front of my train to Koln and everyone who worked for Deutchbahn went ahead and took a long and well deserved smoking break somewhere in the middle of the countryside as the local authorities presumably cleaned things up. We arrived over an hour late at 1 a.m., I saw the cathedral, bought bread for dinner (late, late, glorious late dinner), and found my hostel. Pooped.

The next morning I awoke to perhaps the last thing I expected to see after so much rain: Sun in my eyes. It was going to be a good day.

Cathedral (Big, inspiring), Modern Art Museum (Huge, beautiful, thought-provoking, Picasso, Monet, Renoir, Warhol, etc.). It was time to hit the road up the Rhine.

The Rhineland was absurdly nice, but I will offer you only one brief vignette from my ride northwest: My first night out of Koln, and perhaps the most magical afternoon I can remember having.

After a beautiful day on the road I was ready to camp although I had no spot. I was worried. It had been rainy for a bit around 2, and it was all shipping yards as far as the eye could see near Duisburg (the biggest industrial shipping center in Europe). While I was distracted by the sweat on my brow and the chilly air, luck struck.

A small forested patch opened off to the right, going down to the river, complete with a hidden deer trail that, while stealthy, fit a bicycle easily. I followed it and was lead to a clearing surrounded on 3 sides by a blackberry bush that was fully ripe, yet unpicked and loaded with delicious berries.

After picking an entire grocery bag of berries for the night's consumption I decided to follow the path onward, leaving my bike locked up against a tree in a perfect camping site with a little view of the northern night sky showing the vestiges of a golden sunset off to the west.

Glorious, golden sunset over a bridge, old fishermen, cruising boats...it was one of the lovliest sunsets I can remember seeing. I watched it like a blockbuster movie, eating fresh picked berries by the handful, listening to Jack Johnson, and reading occasionally from Moby Dick.

When I got to my tent I was ready for a wonderful night's rest, when I heard an explosion from the river.

Then another one.

Fireworks.

Someone was setting off a full firework show right next to my tent and I had the perfect seat cuddled up in my warm sleeping bag and hidden away from the chilly air.

The next morning it became apparent that the weather was finally in compliance with my summery dreams, and I put on a tank top and my shorts for the first time in weeks. Then I rode to the Netherlands.

There is not much in particular to share from then on. I spent last night in a campground less than 2 miles from where my mom was a foreign exchange student in the 70's. Me and some fellow campers sat in a field on airmattresses listening to Henk, a much beloved stereo made of an old set of car speakers and some plywood. We watched the stars come out, drank belgian beer and chocolate milk, and listened to 2 Pink Floyd albums all the way through. While I figure this isn't what my mom did when she lived here I thought it was ironic to be doing the most quintessentially 1970's things I could imagine right there. The only thing missing was the hippy van, although if it is any consolation we were almost in Westfalia, afterall.

That was last night.

(The best idea ever: Bicyclist designed trashcans in Holland.)

(The Kroller Muller Museum, Netherlands)

(Van Gogh.)

*just walkin mah Shetland Pony...

(More Kroller Muller.)

Today I awoke to the sound of an early morning offer of breakfast, which I gladly accepted from my newfound friends. They gave me coffee, bread, nutella, and we sat around and talked as the sun rose and warmed our freezing bodies. After eating a second, much, much bigger breakfast (family size yogurt container with a box of cereal, a loaf of sugar-bread, and a 2 person pasta dish: A five euro masterpiece breakfast!)  I rode to Amsterdam and found a nice campground. I went to a science museum, ate breakfast for dinner, and watched the sun set over the canals.

Anyway, if you are still reading, I will conclude by giving you a brief expected-future itinerary for my trip:

Amsterdam-Hoek of Holland (Ferry to Harwich, England), Harwich-Cambridge-London-Canterbury-Dover-Bath-Newport-Normandy-Paris-French Alps/Chamonix maybe-Briancon-Torino-Genoa-Monaco-Marseilles-Barcelona, Train to Granada, school, and further adventures.

It is subject to change at a moments notice but I am almost done riding north, riding east, and riding west.

It is time to chase the sunny weather.

It's time to find summer.

(Author's Note: I just checked my cyclocomputer, which tells me I've biked about 3500 kilometers this summer, which figures with my approximate "A little more than 100, a little less than 150" pace that I've been keeping through most rural areas)