Travelversary Part III: Let Go
I’ve been living out of a backpack for three years. Sleeping on couches, having adventures, being unfortunately poor, and man-handling jet lag.
The following is the final part a three part series on hitting the road! Read Part I here.
When I first started writing this part I spent weeks dreaming up all the tips and tricks on how to travel successfully. Here are the highlights:
+Have a bit of a plan and be prepared to drop it at a moments notice.
+Pack as close to nothing as possible. Save yourself the hassle of checking a bag.
+Talk to strangers, as many as will listen. Tell them what you need, they’ll help you get it. Be mysterious, they dig it.
+Be the last one on the airplane and sit in whatever seat is available. No one will bother you. Be the first one off the plane to avoid the line at customs.
+Bring something to comfort you. My staple is a 1 lb bar of belgian chocolate. It also makes a good present for the people who will comfort you even more.
+Do not judge, accept everything and everyone for who and what they are.
+Live in the moment. The past is long gone, the future is a mystery.
However, that’s only the distillation of thousands of words from the definitive “how to guide” that was supposed to give you some insight on how to get around effectively. I scrapped the whole thing after the third draft. Why? I realized that the document was essentially me bragging about my ability to find myself in incredibly unique situations. In order for that to happen it takes something entirely different…
Story time? I think yes!
There is no way to prepare for the moment a panamanian drug dealer stops you and in perfect english explains how “you will be killed if you go any further” because of the gang infestation down the road. I cannot further describe what kind of either stupidity or intuition it took to then ask, “Can I have a tour?” of said neighborhood. After years of dealing with strangers I felt he was okay simply by the way he looked me in my eyes. “You want to go down there?” he asked. “Yup.” He looked me up and down, laughed, then called me crazy.
Most every drainage grate and manhole cover was missing as we criss crossed through alley way after street corner “They sell em for scrap. It’s good money.” The gangbangers stood on street corners like vultures, my guide yelled in spanish to each of them as they stared me down. I couldn’t exactly tell if he was saying “he’s cool” or “don’t worry I’m going to bash his head and steal his wallet”.
“In that house the biggest drug lord was killed a few weeks ago” he pointed down a street with row after row of collapsed apartments. “Down that street a Canadian girl was raped. Stupid tourist.” He spit. “I’ve killed some people too. You got to. It’s how you survive.” I nodded my head, almost approvingly, as if I hear that kind of thing every day.
We stopped at the Central American equivalent of Kentucky Fried Chicken, I bought him some deep fried liver. He squeezed hot sauce into the bag, squished it around, and then dug in with his grime covered fingers. He took me to a bar where the girl commanding the front door didn’t make eye contact. “She’s cheap. She’ll suck your dick for ten bucks.” We wandered around, the whole place was lit in blue. He yelled at some of his friends in spanish. We passed the girl again as we walked out. “Ten bucks man…”
When he took me back to my original destination I gave him 5 dollars and he as he folded the bill to put it into his tattered jeans he looked at me, “You’re fearless kid.” I responded, “nah, I’m just an idiot- thanks for not selling me into slavery.”
After a bit of wandering, I found myself on the roof of a hotel drinking amongst a throng of well dressed men who jeered on the competitors of the future “Ass Queen of Central America.”
Let go. See where life takes you. You’ll always be surprised.
This is the final part of a three part series. Read Part I here: Why Haven’t You Left Yet?.
October 2009
“YOU REMEMBERED TO BRING YOUR PASSPORT?” they asked as they stuffed us into the idling bus. To where we were headed, no one knew.
Most thought we were going to Poland, after all it was the closest country to Berlin. I hoped we were going to the Czech Republic, and was taking bets. I curled up in my chair and tried to sleep, only to be awoken an hour later as the bus pulled off onto a dirt road. A man ducked into the bus and announced in a thick German accent: “You will now need to put on life vests. We will go down the river.” I asked, “We’re kayaking to Prague?” But my voice was lost in the zipping noise of heavy jackets being put on. It was 50 degrees out.
Some of us were more skilled at navigating our yellow canoes than others.
…And then it appeared: The Schloss Tornow castle. Through chattering teeth I thought to myself: “It better have internet access.”
It didn’t. It had a sauna in the basement, tens of bedrooms, a magnificent fireplace that crackled day and night, a piano room, ball rooms, living rooms, room rooms, staircases, and secrets– like the freshly killed and skinned boar we found in the kitchen..
Lunch was being served, and while our guides laughed about how they managed to trick everyone into packing their passports, I went exploring, and picked a room on the top floor.
It was Halloween and although most of the group had been tasked with a big project, a few of us dressed up as Americans (scary), and went out trick or treating. We soon learned, as we knocked on the doors of the seven houses in the square mile surrounding the castle, that Germans adhere to the idea that Halloween is only for the kinder. Arguing that I am 12 years old at heart didn’t get me very far. A man with a junk heap in his backyard gave us four shots of jägermeister, a kind woman gave us each a bottle of beer. We needed it. It was cold.
The others were hard at work creating a face made out of wood. It was destined to be burned to the ground in a ceremony. They had commandeered a tractor and were busy hauling wood cleared from the forest. They brought in load after load, tools were distributed, and they got down to business creating a two-story tall wooden face
Ernst the project leader approached me as the others built, “Kosta, you must make the fire! The eyes, they must glow like a beast. It is very important!” I asked for clarification, and instead of explaining further he pulled out a bag of red powder “Dragon’s Breath” (essentially ground up road flares). The pyro in me twitched with excitement. I asked if he had any gun powder, or explosives, for added effect. “I will make a call,” he said.
Soon I found myself in the backseat of a beat up Volvo driving to the home of a hunter named Paul. He looked me up and down and unceremoniously handed five vials of black powder to me. “You must be careful.” He warned. I could barely blow up a mailbox with the miniscule amount, I don’t know what he was worried about.
The team was frantically trying to put the face onto its support structure. Hans, a severely ADHD wonder, was teetering on a ladder trying to hacksaw through a branch that was in the way. Everyone shouted their opinion on how he should be doing things.
After a few hours of experimentation we decided to fill aluminum pouches with dragons breath, gunpowder for sparkle, and use bomb fuse. They pyrotechnics were wrapped up in bailing wire and tied to the face in the exact location where the mouth and eyes were to be. We dipped them in kerosene to make sure they would catch fire. My contribution was done, and the others were busy writing a note and affixing it to the face. We were to burn our fears, our insecurities, and our egos. The face was not a stranger– it was our own.
I was uncertain whether our pyrotechnics would light. We hadn’t made done any tests—we simply assumed they would work. I affixed a torch to the end of a long stick and leaned it towards our creation. The lips crackled to life, and the eyes soon followed. Everyone cheered.
We huddled together in the bitter cold and watched as our hard work, our fears, and our egos turned to smoke and drifted into the night sky. The moon hung full, watching over us. All was perfect, as it always is, and always will be.
–fin–
Palomar 5 was a “social-experiment” designed to understand how groups can innovate in unique environments. 30 participants from around the world came to Berlin Germany for six weeks in the fall of 2009. The event described was part of the Palomar 5 experience.
Incredible Women Eating Asparagus
Simi Valley, 2010
This is my Mom.
Toronto, 2010
This is Zeesy Powers.
Gaining perspective
Germany, 2009
Get lost,
so you can take some time,
and find yourself.
Germany, 2009
Dumpster Doven
Scotland, 2009
We were sick of the pasta mornings, middays, and evenings—
as we passed by it called to us,
it’s mouth beckoning “climb in”,
so we could taste each other.
Pigeons and doves who had been standing guard scatter walked away,
as it pursed its lips, and smiled wide,
revealing its treasures.
We dove inside,
and stuffed our pockets with new flavors,
our faces gaunt and smiling.
We threw some to the birds,
inviting them back to their post.
And while they neck-walked to us,
the giving mouth closed.
Police Brutality Protest 2010: Montreal
On the fifteenth of March they gathered,
to remember their fallen friends, who were executed quietly.
As they zig-zagged through the streets of Montreal,
they cried out for their comrades, “Lapointe bourreau de Fredy!”
They marched without fear, knowing fully well that this was only a test.
They broke every rule, only to see what could happen,
if they decided to write their own rules for a change.
They wanted only to believe,
that they still had the power, if they decided…
To change our world.
Ideas
There’s the sizzle of a bacon hitting a hot frying pan, a single thought. And as it’s edges curl inward, while the fat runs, she decides– that it wasn’t such a good thought. And the frying pan is emptied, and a new thought is cracked open, to be pondered and scrambled. As it bubbles and pops, turns from opaque to clear, and steams into finality, the mission is understood: Cereal would be better.
…And as the spoon clinks against her teeth she wonders if pancakes would have been the superior choice.
Catching fall
My camera broke, and incredibly, life goes on.
A Close Shave
Ed & Julia: Montreal, Canada
Whosoever shall not fall by the sword or by famine, shall fall by pestilence, so why bother shaving?
-Woody Allen
We got so high
We came to conquer,
The towers built by cranes.
We asked directions from the locals,
Who wearily pointed us underground.
And there we waited.
From 70 stories we surveyed the night sky.
We thought about spitting, we thought about throwing pennies,
we jumped instead.
To sleep
I crawled under the piano, the disassembled cushions from various couches supporting my thin body. Around me, like cut down soldiers, the sleeping men littered the room. An hour earlier we were howling—the floor our drum, a guitar, the piano: our voices filling the space with our inner torments, our love, and our mysteries.
We sang for the women who never loved us, we sang for our mothers, we sang for our futures. Our voices were loud, strong, and bold; while our hearts leaked torment into the choruses. What we believed was buried deep in our cores—it showed itself. It changed our voices. It made us men.
They stunk of wine, whiskey, and beer and settled quickly. The piano loomed above me—a black hole. I thought of home, my bed, my dog. It’s been a year. Home used to be hours away, now its days. For weeks I’ve wiped the sleep from my eyes only to wonder where they will close again.
In Aberdeen it was the roof of a man whose hair would fall out, grow back, and then fall again—for no good reason.
London, the Goldman Sachs banker; In Amsterdam, the two who had infinite freedom.
Stockholm, the couple who made their own jackets, the beautiful German girl who found me a last minute place in a college dorm party room, the hostel on a boat that rocked me to sleep, and now….
And now my body settled into the cushions beneath the piano of an opera singer and his friends after a night of joy and sorrow.
A friendly reminder…
I wanted to remind you
that you are cherished.
That all of the loving care directed to you,
was for your benefit.
It was to enable whatever contribution
you would choose to make
with the gift of life given you.
I don’t know what your future holds.
I do know that you will be the sole proprietor
of whatever choices you decide to make,
and equally, for the choices you decide not to make.
However, know this,
understand it completely…
It is never too late,
to be whoever you want to be.
There is no time limit.
Start whenever you want.
You can change or stay the same.
There are no rules to this thing.
We can make the best
or the worst of it.
I hope you make the best of it.
I hope you see things that startle you.
I hope you feel things you’ve never felt before.
I hope you meet people who
have a different point of view.
I hope you live a life you’re proud of,
and if you’re not,
I hope you have the courage
to start all over again.
-Anonymous
Playing with fire: A simple guide to happiness.
1. Roughly outline what you think will make you happy. Be fearless.
2. DO the things required to make those dreams come true. Emphasis on DO.
3. Take a moment to reflect, and be grateful for the journey you just took.
4. Repeat.
Moving
When I was a child,
Lost, alone, and scared in the grocery store.
I wandered and cried for a familiar face.
Someone to take me into their arms,
To ask what’s wrong,
To help me find what I had lost.
And she would appear,
Calm,
as always,
she took me into her arms,
And asked
“where did you wander off too?”
And now,
As the years have passed,
and I’ve discovered myself
I am free,
To get as lost as I feel comfortable.
To find my own way.
I search,
for whatever will give me that same feeling.
The warmth,
of home.
I leave for Europe on August 11 courtesy of the amazing people who run the HAR2009 conference in Amsterdam. Topic of discussion? The Eyeborg Project. At the moment I don’t have a return ticket, which opens the doors to all sorts of possibilities. I’m celebrating 5 months in Canada and almost a year away from home. It’s been a magnificient adventure. I’ll keep you updated.
From Montreal to I <3 NEW YORK
In quick succession it went like this: Woke up (early), made a single phone call (to a friend), and was dutifully informed “You have ten minutes to show up on St. Laurent and Mont Royal Street. We’ll pick you up; we’ll take you to Boston.”
And so the race was on. The bus schedule had already been memorized—from Boston to NY departure at 11 PM—Chinatown, arrival at 2 AM—Chinatown. Socks, shirts, two bananas, a grapefruit, a passport, and some electronics—haphazardly packed in 3 minutes.
I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet, they felt fuzzy. “We’re running late, we lost the car” my ride said. Into the corner restaurant with toothbrush in hand I rushed, and brushed. Then another call: “we’re lost.” I scampered through a bike race, traffic lights, over green grass, under hanging festival banners, and into the back seat of a 2001 Kia Sophia.
Racing across borders: “STOP STOP STOP! I HAVE TO GET MY PASSPORT STAMPED!” The fear of being denied entry to Canada, a place that I had called home for the last 4 months, was a big one. But an even greater fear: Where was I going to sleep?
The interesting thing about having irreverence for the “sensible thing to do” (said sternly, as dad would say) is that it allows the spirit of adventure run uninhibited– like a drunk girl on spring break. I had no hotel plans, no hostels, and no friends: Just a few couchsurfing requests that had gone unanswered. (couchsurfing.com being the finest method of finding unreliable yet free housing) I secretly hoped that my phone might ring somewhere along the 8 hour journey.
To say that I was stressed is a bit of an understatement. Because the phone did in fact ring and it was a man with an offer: “You can stay in my apartment.” He said meekly. As if he wasn’t quite sure what he was getting himself into. You can’t exactly blame him. I was a complete stranger—who knows what kind of torturous/murderous/raperous behavior I was capable of. But I could say the same for him couldn’t I?
The 47 year old man on the phone named Ferenz was not at the apartment, nor would he be until Wednesday. “Pick up the key from the organic food store down the street.” He instructed. …and I pondered aloud “are they open at 2 am?” A moment of silence… “Call them. Good luck.”
Katie picked up the phone on the second ring. “Organic Avenue how can I help you?”
“Hi Katie, have you heard of a man named Ferenz? I’m his friend visiting from Montreal. He says you have a certain key of his.”
“Yes.” She replied.
And I thought to myself about how neat it would be to get a job at the CIA. Surely spies get to make calls like this to complete strangers. So with the eloquence of James Bond I instructed:
“Katie, could you please put the key outside. I will be arriving well after you close.”
“Sure! It will be buried in the flower pot on the right hand side of our store. I’ll put a stick there.”
“Thank you Katie.”
We hung up. The mission was underway.
I waved off the dudes who had just ended a weekend of partying in Montreal, boarded the Boston subway to downtown, and took a deep breath. I hadn’t felt like I’d been at home in months—after all I’ve been away from Los Angeles for over 4 months. But something about the smell of the green line subway car—it smelled very familiar, and it made me smile wide. It had been almost six months since I’d been in Boston last.
The stations slipped by till Chinatown, the lumbering bus appeared, and I disappeared into the night on my way to New York City.
121 Norfolk Street is a place where you will find a warm bed, a shower, and faux Jackson Pollock paintings that hang from floor to ceiling. Two beds—one big and uncomfortable, and one small and comfortable line the sides of two distinct rooms separated by a tan curtain. There’s a kitchen with friendly cockroaches, and a bathroom with 4 colored light bulbs above the sink.
Note: You need to twist the light you intend to use. There is no light switch.
All of that good-home-feel can be yours for the small price of finding your way through the densly packed streets that make up New York City. The beauty of this urban metropolis is that you can get off a bus in the middle of the night—with the only geographical understanding of “I’m in new York city” and still manage to find a guide to take you to your destination
A mother Teresa of a woman escorted me to the organic food store where the keys were recovered. I was dropped off with a wave, “goodluck”, and a goodbye at my new front porch.
Part II
I checked all of my appendages first—just to see if they were still attached and hadn’t been hacked off in my sleep. Then I felt around the bed to ensure I was still alone and hadn’t been joined by some sex crazed maniac. All was well… In fact it was downright peaceful. The gentle hum of traffic reverberated outside the window, a sunray glistened through the window. The faux Jackson Pollock splattered-spaghetti-art sat idly as if waiting for someone with a fork to come by and munch on the jumbled paint strands.
Showered, shaved, and dressed to the nines—I walked outside, into the rush.
Walking in New York City is more of an elaborate dance—the dodging of cabs, the shoulder to shoulder tango, the slow shuffle. We all sheepishly move into and out of traffic, around construction sites, and into the underground to make our way to wherever we’re going. We don’t interact because there are too many of us. Our eyes don’t meet because, really, who has the time. We just walk—as quickly as possible.
I did have a purpose for being in NYC. I wasn’t doing this scramble for nothing! The looming UN building was calling. A conference put on by the UN and the XPrize was underway and I was to volunteer there; with the CEO’s, fat cats, and innovative elite.
Normally I would bore you with the gooey details of the opening ceremonies of such a lavish event. The patrons had each paid $1,800 just to be there—to be bemused by numerous speakers from numerous industries. There was so much to absorb!
But to be perfectly honest I was pleasantly distracted by blue eyed, blonde haired, UN Intern from Germany. She wore the most pleasantly distracting power dress that made her look like she was either ready to serve coffee or address the president—I couldn’t decide.
I sat next to her, pulled out my notebook and composed a little something: “The second guy on the left—the old one (well I guess they are all old), do you think he’s sleeping? He looks like he’s sleeping.”
She responded with a resounding “YES!!” and instantly we became short distance pen pals.
Un-inhibited romance that involved casual sex on the 60’s era furnishings of the UN conference halls, spitting off the roof into the East River, and copious amounts of both inappropriate and appropriate touching in public spaces would all have been lovely things to do. But I’m not that lucky . I think once the words “I’m sleeping on some guys couch in The Village” graced the page of our notebook, and we broached the conversation of “no, I have never met him, but he seemed nice on the internet.” she had officially lost interest. My heart will go on…
After the first day of conferencing I found myself sipping cocktails on the UN’s observation deck, chatting up Dean Kamen (the guy who invented the segway), X Prize Officials, and other startling individuals. The East River slowly bubbled by, tuxedo clad hors devours distributors kept interrupting my conversations, and I thought to myself “Whenever I get around to writing this part of the adventure, it won’t have a plot in the least.”
And so it was.
Part III
I’m a very off-putting individual. I blatantly, with unabashed candor, inquire to almost complete strangers “Would you happen to know where the subway is?” or “What’s an interesting thing that the locals do in this city? What’s going on this evening?” The look of “are you seriously talking to me? How DARE you talk to me.” is understandably well deserved. So after three straight days of social failure I had concluded: I must smell bad. I met the people, they heard me out, but they were not having any of this “let’s be friends stranger!” cheery gleefulness that I have this tendency to exude. Save for the drunk people, the drunk New Yorkers can’t smell.
And they received me with open arms.
A man with quite possibly the greatest laugh in the world was cracking up in the middle of the street. His girlfriend was looking at him quizzically, and because my curiosity is never ending I asked “What’s so funny?”
I never found out why, but all of a sudden I was being dragged across the city, cordially offered drinks, and as I mentally pondered the eternal question of “does this free drink taste roofied?” I was rudely interrupted:
She walked up to me with intention. A bit frazzled, a drunken eye droop, high heels that by now had turned from sexy to painful—she blinked once. Pause. Blink. Pause.
“Hi!” She said.
“Before we go any further. Where can we dance?” I answered.
Into the night we went. From club, to club, to club, to club. Drinking, smiling, laughing. Dancing close, dancing far, dancing in between. When it started pouring we got soaked, and when we found a new place to dance we steamed. We didn’t even know each other’s name. We didn’t care! Social acumen is only necessary in places where you can actually hear each other.
“So you’re running a youth hostel now?” her friends inquired the next day as we arrived on the 6th story of Picassos apartment. I say Picasso’s apartment because the place was quite literally covered from wall to ceiling with Picasso inspired art. Cubism in the living room, blue period above the bathroom sink, bits of surrealism on the rooftop patio. And everywhere else was failed attempts and paint splatter.
“He’s sleeping on a strangers couch!” she replied. The irony that we didn’t know each others name until the next morning escaping her completely. I still don’t understand why everyone thinks couchsurfing is the worst thing ever…
“Watch where you sit, I’ve sacrificed many skirts in the name of his art.” Him being Steve, a self absorbed parent funded artist who swore that he was “going to take the art world by storm!” We were going to see him on the news. He was going to be in galleries all over the world. He was the future!
We cooked a dinner of soft shell crab, ceviche, and I donated my usual dietary staple of bread and cheese as an appetizer . The landlord dropped in for a visit to chew out her tenants. Apparently the first time she saw that her beautiful apartment had been turned from a domicile to a studio she broke down in tears. Now she was simply resolved to evict Steve. He had informed her a week prior “your apartment will be worth millions now that I’ve lived in it. I just sold a painting for $50,000.” He’s sold one piece of art to a friend for $50. He was known for dropping off art pieces in front of galleries with desperate notes taped to the front. “This is the future of art. –Steven” …A landlords worst nightmare.
I laid out on the fire escape with my cheeks to the sky. The traffic below me screeched and honked, the people busily went about their business—avoiding eye contact at all costs. The clouds couldn’t decide if they wanted to rain or part for the sun, the pigeons soared between skyscrapers. I pondered about what my next adventure might look like, fully knowing that the unpredictable nature of these sorts of things is what I embrace the most.
Oh… the thrills of travelling.
Photo essay.
WE’RE NOT SAYING GOODBYE,
BECAUSE WE RAN AWAY MONTHS AGO.
TO EAT COOKIES WHERE WE PLEASE.
TO BATHE WHERE WE SEE FIT.
TO PUSH EVERY BUTTON.
TO GET FAMOUS.
TO MEET EVERBODY WE RUN INTO.
TO LAUGH,
TO ENJOY,
TO RELISH,
TO SING ALONG.
WE GOT LOST, AND THEN WE GOT FOUND.
The things we find
I know only one thing about golf: the harder you try at it, the worse your game is.
