Austrian Alps & Bavarian Beer

Leaving Stockholm Airport, I had the splendid gift from the Nordic gods to get food poisoning - from an Irish-Red-Sox themed bar no less (the gods are never short of irony). So, I entered Budapest after a grueling day of flights, layovers, and airplane bathrooms, and I left Budapest with the same problem - the flu. Take congestion and exhaustion, add in a little season change, and there you have a Hungarian flu. Probably another message from the Universe telling me woaaaah slow down, buddy.

Bratislava, Slovakia
Unfortunately, because of whatever sickness I had, I endured another grueling day of travel from Budapest to Bratislava. Bratislava was the perfect place to be sick and recuperate.

After a few days of nothing but my bed, I felt well enough to sneak in a three hour excursion that ended up being a hike, complete with views of castles and a "historical trail" full of information to absorb. I would have made it longer, but after the fresh air and the physical effort, my bed was calling once again.

Vienna, Austria

Whether I was still recovering from being sick or not, I had to make it to Switzerland from the eastern border of Austria, and I had to do it by Sept 25th in order to meet my mom. For that reason, I kept chuggin' along. I had one full day in Vienna, and it ended up being only 3 or 4 hours of exploring the city.

When I entered Vienna, I had hoped for memorials, and history, similar to the way that Budapest represents its past. Rather than that, the history seemed somewhat suppressed  and the city is just as metropolitan as any other. In fact, it was like walking around Fifth avenue - teenagers looking only at their phones, and people bumping into me left and right without even a glance to see if they shoved a wall or a human being. It also smelled like horse maneur.

If I had the time I might have fallen in love with the city. But I started to feel ill from the congestion, and had to cut my visit short.

Salzburg, Austria

Salzburg was a whole-nother story. After being bummed-out from Vienna, and being sick, I arrived in Salzburg ready for anything thrown my way, and healthy once again.

LIFE IS BACK

I had an idea of the hikes I wanted to do around the city, but not knowing if I would be capable, I decided to ditch the idea of a day-long hike in the Austrian Alps and instead do a biking tour. And not just any biking tour - a Sound of Music biking tour. Not only was the Sound of Music filmed in Salzburg, but it was filmed in the town and original locations of the real Von Trapp Family Singers. 

On the tour, we road through the Marienplatz gardens where the family sings "Do Re Mi." We went outside of Salzburg to a park where "16 Going on 17" is sung in the gazebo that is now kept there. The gazebo was locked and closed to the public - too many Americans jumping around on benches, imitating the movie, and twisting ankles. Even the actress in the movie twisted her ankle during the filming of the scene, what do you expect?

We went to the fountain where Frauline Maria begins singing "Confidence in Me" and we road our bicycles up the dirt road where she skips and runs with her guitar as she approaches the fence of the Captain's house. We went to the convent where all of the convent scenes were filmed. The same place as the original events, where Frauline Maria had pledged as a novice nun, and the same convent that she and the Captain later were married in. (Not that big gaudy church in the movie.) When I entered into the convent to look around, it was quaint with wooden panels, and a beautiful large organ. It was even dark, as if nuns might be lurking in the shadows. Suddenly, right as I was heading to the door, the sunlight shined through the window above the entrance, and at the same moment behind the organ where they could not be seen, a choir of nuns began to sing. Really. It was as if beautiful angels were just out of sight, watching over us, singing praise with us. Their voices started like a whisper and grew louder, but still so soft and gentle. Like a mother knocking lightly on her child's door after tucking her in for sleep, and then whispering into the dark "I love you, goodnight." I listened for a moment and then just as suddenly as it came, the music stopped, and my tour moved on.

Outside of the convent my tour of 10 sat overlooking the city with the Alps in the near distant background. We gathered round our guitar-playing guide and sang a few songs from the movie together. It was like being around a campfire with old friends. The picture below was our backdrop.

Afterward, we road to the lake that the children fell into (in the movie) - learning that it was one of two buildings used to make the movie magic of the Von Trapp Family home.

During the days of the real Von Trapp family, the home was owned by a well-known director, Max Reinhardt. This is significant, because on the same night that the Von Trapp Family escaped Austria and Nazi occupation, so did Reinhardt. Coincidentally, it was the last night before all transportation out of Austria was cancelled in order to keep people from trying to evade Nazi rule. Unlike the movie, however, the Von Trapp family did not walk over mountains to get to Switzerland. Firstly, because the mountains they would have walked over would have lead directly to Germany, since they are already on the Austrian/German border and the Alps are all that divides them. Secondly, the family actually took a train to Italy, and then flew to the United States. Max Reinhardt also sought refuge in the United States. I don't know about Max, but the Von Trapps have all (or mostly) died and been buried in Vermont.

I think the story itself is interesting. Compared to other stories I've heard about the Holocaust, and Nazi occupation, it doesn't appear as though - in the beginning - anyone knew that the Nazi's were bad news bears. But if there are stories of people escaping before the rule began then I suppose the proof is in the pudding.

Dachau, Germany

Interestingly enough, despite all of the negative press about U.S. involvement in foreign affairs, the United States is heavily praised for being a key player in ending the Nazi regime and freeing any survivors of the Holocaust. We really were the liberators. I always thought it was some sort of propaganda taught to me in school, but no, this time we were the heroes. Now, I suppose that role has sort of gone to our heads since FDR was president... Things are different now.

Dachua is a city where the first concentration camp of the Nazi party was built in 1933, almost immediately after Nazi rule was imminent. Propaganda literally made Hitler. Without it he would have been an eccentric and invasively annoying Austrian with radical views about worthiness and being German.

I couldn't stay at the camp more than an hour. It was the sort of place where, you would walk into an empty room and think what was this? A closet? Then you look around and all there is is this lonely torn up plaque on the far wall that says "This was where they kept the bodies" and a little picture next to it of piles of corpses. 

A lot of the information in the camp was the same stuff I've read a thousand times in history books, and learned in the several Holocaust/Genocide courses that I had taken throughout my education. I liked the amount of information there was about all of the dozens of different sorts of people who went through the camp - the emigrants, political prisoners, catholics, priests, Jehovah Witnesses, Jews, homosexuals, Roma & Sinti (known as gypsies), and a few others I can't recall off the top of my head. There was information on every ethnic group that had stories of people traveling through Dachau or dying during the war - Greeks, Italians, Polish, etc. They all had their own symbol that the Nazis used to identify them, the black triangle, the pink triangle, the purple one, the triangle with a dot, the one with a line, the two triangles interlocking, the blue triangle, or a yellow star. Not necessarily a star that was meant to be the "Star of David," but a mockery star. Under every group description of their experience at the camp it said, "they were particularly harassed and tortured" for the reason that they were there. Every group. It's possible, that the only group treated semi-less inhumanly were the Catholic priests that were prisoners. They were allowed privileges to lead prayers and services, even have sacramental wine, until one day in the early 1940s the privileges stopped.

It seemed that Dachau was the organizing place before people were shipped out by trains to other camps. It housed over 6,000 people in bunk beds made of wood that were three beds high, a twin bed length of space, 20 beds back-to-back, and only one ladder on the end for everyone to climb over each other to use. Tuberculosis had a terrible outbreak for a few years during the rough winters in the 1940s before liberation. That was one of the reasons so many people died during the Death Marches when Nazi's tried to escape. Well, it was a brutal winter so if they weren't already sick with TB then they got sick, and as soon as they stopped moving or running with the group they were shot.

One thing I saw at the camps, that I thought was cool because of my Orthodox Christian upbringing, was the Russian Orthodox Memorial Chapel. If you want to lose the sentiment and get real, it was more like a log-cabinish-church-shack. I couldn't get in, and it would probably fit 3 average sized people. But from the locked gate I could see in the dark room the icon over the altar (traditionally it would be an icon of the Virgin Mary with Jesus, or Jesus triumphing over evil through the Resurrection). In this chapel, it was Jesus - in the same position as if he were triumphing over evil in the image of the Resurrection - next to him are two watch towers with gates held open by angels, and behind him is a sea of sick prisoners' faces. It was a sea of the saints and martyrs and sufferers and innocents who were killed in the Holocaust - in their striped pajamas - standing behind Jesus the Triumphant. Now, I'm not sure if there is a juxtaposition here, knowing that the majority of deaths during the Holocaust were Jews who don't believe that Jesus is the Triumphant. And I know that nowadays Holocausts are happening around the world because some people believe radically in the message of the Bible and misinterpretations of Jesus' teachings. Thankfully the current Pope is working really hard to end those radical stigmas.

The icon brought me to thoughts of unification through prayer and suffering, but it also brought me to sadness of the current division and murder of people around the world because of religion, stigma, and judgments. Anyone with a brain knows that all of the main religions of the world are supposed to be centered on love - but I suppose that love for your beliefs while facing enough trauma and stigma for it, can lead to radicalism. I feel such compassion for those people. I want so badly to show them love. 

So, take it as you will, but the icon was something I had never seen before in all of the churches I had been in. At first I felt confused by it, and then realizing that it is a prayer for all of the sufferers of the Holocaust, and for all of the people who made them suffer, I felt it to be truly touching and an attempt at unification and light through the darkness of tragedy. 

Of course after my hour at Dachau, I had to get the hell outta there. It's nice to have the choice to leave and to say "No I don't feel like something making me sad today." I'm grateful for that choice. Back then there was no choice for the prisoners except for within their souls - and the Nazis broke it however they could. Imagine that? The only hope you have left is the love that you keep deep in your soul. The only happiness you have left is kept snug inside you for no one else to see because if you showed it you would die by your enemy, or be criticized by your friends - there is no reason to be happy, give up. But we can't give up on life, no matter our blessings or our sufferings, once we give up we deteriorate and all is lost. And if they lost hope, when they were already sick or dying, then they may as well have made the decision to die. Imagine if that were the better alternative, rather than torture, starvation and sickness. Man, I really admire anyone who can keep hope through any struggle. Resilience is only a beautiful thing because it means maintaining hope in the face of tragedy.

Munchen, Oktoberfest

After a quick day trip to the DokumentationCenter in Nuremberg to see the home and stomping grounds for major events in the Nazi party and to walk around the city, I headed back to Munich and to the Oktoberfest.

Now, I had never planned on going to Oktoberfest. It wasn't until I was looking for a hostel to book in Munich that i realized, because of the prices, that it was Oktoberfest. So I stayed in Dachau and commuted an hour to Munich for a few days. I didn't see much of the city, and I wasn't interested either. What more culture was I going to get than to learn the ins and outs of Oktoberfest? One of the oldest and hardiest traditions of Germany.

Some thing I learned: Leider hossen (which are leather suspenders attached to leather pants/shorts) for men, and dirndls (which are traditional styled dresses) for girls, are a must. And if you don't want to be recognized at all as a tourist, then enter with some real leather leiderhossen and a checkered shirt, or a real dirndl, a wool hat with a feather sticking out, and a pre-bought beer. Golden. I only managed the wool hat with the feather. Real leiderhossen and dirndls can be hundreds of Euros, although the fake ones can be around 40Euro they look more like Halloween costumes.

The "tents" that everyone talks about, I imagined would be hundreds of small canvases with bar stools and lines out around the corner waiting to get in for a pint. What I got, were 6 tents, each the size of a cathedral, made of wood bolts and screws like Noahs arc, with thousands of wooden benches inside, bench to bench (backs touching), a central bandstand, no lines at all, and serving only liters of beer. Beers as big and as heavy as my 8lb head!

 The sort of beer was according to the tent I chose, and I even sat at a table both days that I was there. The tents take three months to build in preparation for Oktoberfest - all designed differently and made to be fairly attractive.

Huge, right?

Now, keep in mind, I hadn't planned on going to Oktoberfest, and I don't really fancy myself a drink too often. Particularly since I've been traveling alone, I have been a sober-sally for the past several months. But who is going to go to Oktoberfest and not have a beer? or two? or three?

Two years ago, when I went to Berlin, I drank the most amazing beer I ever had. A bottle of Augustiner Brau. I had never seen that beer since then. I learned that it simply doesn't exist outside of Germany, and for the past two years I have dubbed it a favorite. Low and behold, what is the national Munchen beer only two tents in from the Oktoberfest entrance? Yeah, well Augustiner Brau tent was my home for 4 hours that night.

Real dirndl, check. Wool hat with feather, check. Augustiner the size of my head, check. Willkommen!

I made friends from Morocco, California, Germany, and Australia. People started feeding me drinks one after the other, and I learned a lot of interesting unwritten information about Oktoberfest.

1. The Prost song. I don't know what it's called, I don't know the German words in it - but what I do know is "prost" means cheers and when it is played by the band in the tent (every 20 minutes) everyone clinks their glasses and sings along.

2. By the evening everyone is standing on benches, and seating is not necessary or available. 

3. During the day people sit, eat, and socialize, and aren't drunk quite yet because its before 6pm. During that time a person can take a chugging/skulling/drinking-your-whole-beer challenge. To do so, they stand on their bench and drink their beer. About a quarter of the way through, people start to notice - the band stops, and everyone in the tent is watching, cheering, and taking videos. It can be sort of like in old movies when, the outlaw enters the saloon, and everyone stops to stare and all you hear is a distant glass shattering in the background. If the person taking the challenge is unable to finish the beer, then they must dump whatever is left  in their glass on top of their head - or at least appear to aim for their head as they dump it over their shoulder (most likely getting everyone around beer-covered). If they fail to do the dumping, then the audience will boo - not only that but they will throw things. And these people are drunk so they will throw whatever they got - a shoe, food, a menu. Some tents don't allow this on account of regurgitation, and foolish young people.

4. There is a record for how many beers a waitress can carry. I hear its 26. These are liters of beer in thick heavy glasses. My wrist hurt after holding one for twenty minutes. The most I saw a waitress carrying was 16. I can't imagine how buff her arms and sore her wrists are by the end of Oktoberfest. Some of the waitresses wear special handguards for support - the dead serious beer carriers.

5. Food on a spit is whats up. They have Ox, Quail, Chicken, Lamb, Duck, Goat. Noah's entire arc.

6. Being drunk is okay. Even welcomed. Making friends is natural, and laughing at yourself is necessary. Going alone to Oktoberfest is not totally taboo either. People asked me why I was there alone, surprised and sometimes even taking pity on me. But, they were asking me weren't they? So naturally I put on my creep smile and thought, well gee, thanks for asking... friend. No, just kidding. But it was so easy to make friends! Just like any bar where peoples' inhibitions are lost, left, or leaving. All you gotta do is say "hey," maybe throw in a "where are you from?" laugh at something together, and then keep drinking. I am surprised that I didn't meet more lone-travelers. I'm also surprised at the amount of times "where are you from?" was asked before "whats your name?"

7. It's literally a parking lot turned into a theme park. There are rollercoastera, and other crazy fun rides. It was bigger and better than Canobie Lake Park in New Hampshire.

8. There are families and children there. Its not just alcohol lovers, or curious travelers, or party hardying 20-somethings. Theres fun houses, magicians, comedians, log flumes, and all kinds of other kid-friendly stuff.

9. Germans come from all over. It's not some tourist taboo. This is a cultural thing that we tourists get to have the privilege of joining in on. As far as I could tell, Germans don't really mind us joining in either, and they definitely outnumbered us foreigners. Drink! Be merry! Willkommen zum Deutschland!

10. Oktoberfest is totally worth more than the stigmatizing beer-fest party. What other party do you know that closes at 11pm? It truly is a cultural experience, a bringing together of people using a substance that gives most people the illusion of happiness and openness. Authentic food, authentic traditions, authentic people. Its warm and fuzzy and yummy, and drunk as hell. Yeah... its a party. But then... life should be every now and again.

Prost!

My House in Budapest, My Hidden Treasure Chest

George Ezra's song called "Budapest" begins with the truest words about the city, "My house in Budapest, my, my hidden treasure chest."

That's really what this city is. Its a combination of poor and rich, flowing with history of occupation since the 1600s by Romans, and Ottomans, Nazis and Soviets, its a combination of everything and it is a hidden treasure chest as far as the rest of the world is concerned. It sits on the Danube River which has run with blood in the past, has also filled with nudist swimmers, and now sits poluted and serves as a marker between the wealthy Buda side of the city and the up-and-coming Pest side. Its the home and capital of the Hungarian world.

Although I heard of Buda and its wealth, I noticed the division within it as well, when I walked through the residential area getting lost after spontaneously hiking up the Citadella mountain - with no idea how to get down the hill, other than perhaps to make a sled out of whatever I could find and surf down on mud - I followed the road swirving through streets of complexes and upper class apartments or torn down buildings and closed shops with graffiti on them. 

Although both sides of the Danube are popular for sites and tourists, the Pest side was far more crowded, more touristic, easier to get around with public transportation, and far richer in history. Yes, Buda has the Buda Castle where I enjoyed a wine festival throughout the scenic terrace, and the labrynth beneathe where Dracula was once kept prisoner, and the Citadella with countless ruins and statues all along the mountain. But Pest was of the people. It had the Jewish Quarter where first it was a section with synogogues, then divided into a tightknit Ghetto during WWII of over 70,000 Jews, and now it is a jive place for locals to drink their soda mixed with rosé or the vodka made with gas bubbles in it, and of course to enjoy goulash, matza balls, or some true Israeli Shankleesh. 

I stayed on the Pest side of the city in a cheap 20€ a night loft all to myself. Budapest, the unknown gem that it is, is also very cheap, still using the Hungarian Florin, and not quite abiding by European influences. Its confusing for some major cities, like Athens, or Brussels - trying so very hard to remain Greek or Belgian but also trying so very hard to be European. There isnt as much of that in Hungary, its mostly just Hungarian. Or maybe now I am so used to "European" that even the slightest bit of non-European is resounding.

Most of my time was spent on the Pest side of the city. It was full of markets with fresh Hungarian meats, sausages, and cheeses. Full of interesting people, buses, trams, and a new underground system. There are random statues commemorating random people, keeping alive memories of communism and now freedom. The city is so unorganized. I think that the river, the castle, the parliament, and the Jewish Quarter are the only distinguishably separate parts of the city. It wasn't until the last day, when I returned to my hostel after dark, that I realized I was staying in the "sex shop" and "peep show" part of town. I guess I'm not much of a night owl anymore. But I'm usually fairly perceptive.

The synogogues still sit on the Pest side in the Jewish Quarter. Saved by the height of their entrances, the Nazis used them for satellite communications, and now they remind us of the power of Jewish heritage and the somberness of those days. Naturally I learned a lot of this from the friends I made on the Jewish Walking Tour of Budapest. One of my new friends Elinor, especially. Coincidentally, a fun-sized ball of life, she was an NYU alumn, New Hampshirite born and raised, and now a fellow world traveler - we were quick to befriend and learn from one another. 

First stop, the synogogues. The main synogogue, the largest in Europe and second in the world - the first being in New York City. It was beautiful and complex. Another confusing thing about this city - although Hungarian is unlike any other language in the world, and the culture similarly unique - the city of Budapest is such a vast melting pot of influence and history that it really is hard to tell where some traditions come from. The synogogues in Budapest are all made with Moorish influence, much like La Alhambra in Granada, Spain. The synogogues resembled Moroccan Mosques more than they did synogogues - even fashioning the Moroccan star rather than the star of David.

I stood at the gate of the backyard of the temple where one of the Jewish memorials of the city was kept. I had been to this place, this city, with my high school group during a mission trip to Romania in 2007. I rembered everything from that one day in Budapest, and revisited it all - from the secondhand shop we stopped in, to the memorial, to the Elezbert statue where we had an evening picnic. It warmed my heart to think of that time. The statue is much smaller now than it was when I was 16.

And there I stood again at the synogogue. I looked at the metal strings of the "Tree of Life," every thread of branches represented a Jewish Hungarian killed during the war. I looked behind it and saw thousands of diamond shaped cubby holes along the wall, with notes and rocks, each with a name, each commemorating a person. A real person. A real tragedy. Its sad to remember what people can or will do to each other. I like that Jewish tradition is to leave rocks rather than flowers. Why leave a flower to mock the unlived life? Or to let it die with the already dead? Who is going to smell it? I like that a rock isnt alive. Its a symbol - strength, resilience, death, stillness. It will always be there. I like that - that it will always be there.

Just around the corner of the synogogue is one of my favorite memorials in the city. Its not so noticeable unless someone points it out, but theres a statue coming from a wall (that used to be a window) down to the ground outside. Its of two people, one at the top where the window was, and one on the ground, connected by a long fabric. Well, a statue of a fabric. The story behind it goes, that the old building used to be a fabric factory in the old Jewish quarter. And when the Nazis came to take them away to God knows where, or to lock them away doing God knows what, or to just kill them then and there - some of the workers used the fabric to slide out the window and get away. The statue was to remember  them. Their instinct, their struggle, their humanity. All thats there is a quote about resilience. No names, no dates, and no written story.

My other favorite memorial... I should clarify that I say 'favorite' because I am so grateful for the way that it reminds me of the real struggle of people, the humanity, oppression, murder, and love. So I have favorites for what touches me most. I realize it may have sounded a little insensitive to say I have a favorite memorial. In a way these memorials remind me of my humanity, my cowardice, my heroism, my ambition, my desires, my ungratefulness, my trueness as it were - how to be a better human.

Anyway, my other favorite memorial is on the Danube to the lefthand side of the Parliament building facing the water. Its a small memorial, statues of shoes along the banks edge. There is no plaque that i saw. Like many memorials throughout the city, people just know the story, its not necessarily written there. The Shoes memorial was quite dirty. Different copper shoes filled with dirty water, old candles that flooded, some trash, and rocks. The story goes, that one night during the mass killings, a group of Nazis took an unspecified amount of Jews - certainly more than 30, but I dont think more than 60 - to the edge of the Danube River. They forced all of the men, women, and children to strip naked and take off their shoes. This was only for one last humiliation, since all of them were shot one by one into the river. So many shoes - different kinds, different sizes, some thrown to the side, some placed neatly together. I stood on the edge of the bank and looked into the river. I imagined what it would have felt like if I knew that view would be the last thing i saw. I wouldn't even have a moment to reflect, or to cry as I listened to my brothers and sisters die next to me - bang bang - and i watched the river fill with red. Bodies of my neighbor and husband and child's school teacher. The water was filthy. Its hard to imagine that at all, let alone imagine it with the additional humiliation of being naked. Or maybe humiliation is a feeling that gets set aside when you know you are about to die. It was a beautiful memorial.

Whether I liked the topic or not, it was the best put together museum I had ever been in, better than the Anne Frank Hus or the Berlin Jewish Memorial. It brings you into the life and the experience. It was full of videos, and paper handouts in every room. I took all 30 of them home. A fantastic history and humanity lesson. At the end of the tour I entered the basement where the old prisons and executions were held. 60 Andrassy Utca. It didn't all sink in, the relevance of this building, until I noticed no one was going into the room in the corner. So i was curious. I walked in and within an oddly shaped closet sized room, between the concrete slabbed walls, was a single 1950s wooden cross with a noose on it. It took my breath away, so that I had to compose myself. People were hung here. People died here. If that didnt remind me of the real history and death, and life, that took place where I stood, then nothing would. The only memorial where I have felt that connection in the States, was the twin tower memorial - even then there are waterfalls, not giant replicas of airplanes or people trapped under rubble. Most likely because it is less than 20 years ago. They couldnt make an elaborate memorial of something so fresh and painful, and if they didn't make a memorial at all then people might have lost faith in their government for not caring enough. Then again, communism only just ended 23 years ago for the Hungarian people, and much of Eastern Europe. No wonder Russia is trying so hard to get their bounce back now.

I went to the House of Terror museum too. A perfectly curated and captivating museum about Soviet and Nazi occupation. Literally, I walked through parts of the museums and said, Jesus... Who curated this? It was an extremely captivating, well written and distinctly organized museum. In the center was an open space with walls covered in faces of people in memorendum, with a soviet tank at the bottom.

 There were some people from the twin towers that had brave self sacrificing stories, and we don't know them or we don't hear them - at the memorial we just see water flowing. Granted I haven't been to the new museum yet. They have lots of stories of firefighters and priests and police officers, I'm sure. In the House of Terror I watched videos of survivors of torture telling their stories about how they were put into camps or prisons, for decades of torture, just because someone told a lie about them once. Just for opening a door for the wrong person, or getting on the wrong train, or changing homes at the wrong time. One man told his story on a black and white screen, saying that he was captured and put into a torture prison for 12 years. And when he found out what he had done, it turned out that someone said that he was - at the age of 17 - a spy. The man wept and asked what he did to that man to deserve such a lie, a betrayal that took his life from him. I watched at least 20 videos like this.

 I made sure to do all of these terribly sad things in no more than 2 days. I love Budapest, and even though I'm not Jewish, I feel so connected to the history here, so touched by it. I wonder, if I were alive then, who I would have killed to save my family or myself? Who would I have saved? I wonder what person I really am in a moment of crisis and fear. We all like to think we're the heroes, but we never know until opportunity presents itself in the face of tragedy. I hope I would be a hero, even if all that means is silently surviving without causing more casualties. I don't think I would ever point at someone and say he did it when I know in fact that I did it or someone else did - at least not since I was a child and not for matters other than flatulation.

I am always really touched by these stories. We dont choose the times we live in but how we live in those times can change history, and if it doesn't then maybe our stories can make one heart feel what we felt. And if we feel what they felt, we can be stronger, braver, even happier with what we have. 

The history of Budapest is truly so beautiful and touching that the sad stuff couldn't go unsaid. From 1600 to 1990 they were occupied by some empire or other, and they survived and managed to keep their language and their culture. I think that makes the Hungarians pretty damn resilient. And now that we look back on it, the history is equally sad as it is triumphant.

Unfortunately, the day after the walking tour, my dancing in the rain, a ballet at the Budapest Opera House (for 1€ might I add), and an evening walk in wet clothes, I came down with a terrible flu. Now recovering.

Cheers

The Baltic Sea

In one week I have changed timezones 4 times.

Stockholm

I arrived with only one full day around the city, and although I would have liked more time, one day was enough.

The hostel I stayed in was the coolest part of being in Stockholm. On the tiny island of Langholmen, in the middle of the city of islands, is an old prison. Surrounded by a small beach, bike paths, small boat ports, and parks, Langholmen prison was turned from a maritime holding place to a hostel/hotel and conference center. Resurrected inside are preserves of the prison-life and museum casings. I would have spent a day or so on the island if I had more time in Stockholm. But I didn't, and instead I walked along the water for an hour before turning onto the main drag. The Royal Palace was much to be desired, since the original one had burnt down and the replacement had no bells and whistles. It serves its purpose. Sitting along the main streets, I was harassed, several times, by one particular gypsy girl. She would ask me for money, and of course I acknowledged her and said no in Swedish - since thats all I could say. However, the three separate occasions throughout the day when she asked me for money, she put her hands on my arm and on my head, and when I forcefully said "no" - since I don't know how to say "don't touch me" in Swedish - it felt like she would almost smack me. I have no judgments of gypsies - in fact I feel a lot of compassion for them and anger towards the governments that shun them and oppress them. But you shouldn't touch a stranger. That's crossing a boundary. Of course she was touching me to buy time to look into my pockets, try and see whats there, and perhaps steal from me. Her touch was not of compassion, so of course I knew there were no good intentions behind it. My pockets were all zippered up like a smart little traveler. 

It's a terrible conundrum. I feel bad for her, I have little to no money to spare for myself, I want to give to her, and I would have, but then she treats me with contempt and I see that she is seeking an opportunity to steal from me. Even so, I know that stealing and begging are yet another outcome of her oppressed life and culture. I'm torn. After the several times of touching and harassing, I was no longer torn, and instead I felt that if I had given to her then it would only condone her behavior. I would have karate chopped her in the throat by that point. Which I thought about as she passed me a fourth time. When did I become so violent?  No, I wouldn't do it. But thinking about doing it made me wonder if I was capable of beating someone up in a situation where I was acting in defense rather than pride. Mom says karate chop them in the throat. My brother says cup and hit their ears to destabilize them. Dad says kick em where the sun don't shine. Sandra Bullock says to S.I.N.G. - solar plex, instep, nose, groin.

From Stockholm I left on a cruise to Tallin - St. Petersburg - Helsinik and back to Stockholm. The cruise itself was less expensive than a hostel would have been for 4 nights in most places, and here I had an opportunity to see 4 different countries. Briefly, but beautifully, and restfully.

The cruise was much like a hostel. Everything cost extra money, so I did not pay for anything. I have become  a savings bank in my own right, and the proof is in my financial anxiety and a suitcase full of fruits and homemade sandwiches. From the Langholmen hostel where I had a free breakfast, I sneakily packed away 4 sandwiches from the buffet. Free dinner for the week, on the cheapest cruise of a lifetime. 

Upon checking in for the cruise, I was given my boarding card. I asked the woman behind the desk if I was sharing a room with someone else. (I had assumed that for only 120 Euro, there had to be some sort of catch, maybe I was paying for a bed in a room with strangers?) The girl told me that I had the room to myself. It was like Sinterklaas came early. I jumped up and down, and let out all of my excitement like a child. I was so happy I could have kissed the girl behind the counter. Thank you! I have been spoiled my whole life with a room to myself, and for the last 6 weeks I haven't minded sleeping in a room with strangers. However, the added anxiety of not having my privacy, of being walked in on by a man or woman who is a stranger at any moment, of locking my things in the morning and the night - it all was beginning to make me tiresome. It kept giving me more to think about, and because of hyperawareness, I hadn't slept a full night since I began traveling. Earplugs don't seem to make a difference. So I jumped up and down and sang the praises of every officer I passed on my way through customs to the ship where I get to snore, fart, burp, and sit around naked for the next 5 days in a room that is mine. Not that I do any of those things, but the option is so freeing!

Tallinn

Next was a time-zone change to Tallinn Estonia. One day here is all you need, and I had 4 hours. That was more than enough time to walk around the cobbled streets (the kind that twist your ankle if you're not careful) hear street performers, see the ancient parts of the city and the monuments, and enjoy some local food - all before returning back to my cruise.

Trying to learn Estonian for the short time I was there was absolutely pointless. Estonian is close to Finnish, and both Finnish and Estonian (like Hungarian) are completely different from any Slavonic, Germaic, or Russian langauge. The language itself, like Finnish, was sing-songy. Both of them, with the linguistics, intonations, soft and sweetness - they made me picture a pond at a lake with a quiet lone frog jumping from one lily pad to another. It was as if the languages created a sweet tone, an outdoorsy thoughtful tone - like when, in my imagination, the frog comes across the mermaid Ariel while she is to the side of the shore crying - the frog doesn't saying anything, it just sits there ribbiting while she talks to it. Thats what Finnish and Estonian were like to me, if that makes any sense at all.

St. Petersburg

After Tallinn, the next day I entered into the Russian Federation's timezone, and mobile network. Everyone working on the ship was Russian, and so I had been warming up as best I could by asking people phrases and writing it down. I lost the paper an hour into my tour of the city, but I remembered enough.

At the help-desk on the cruise they made me say the words back to them. Mikael, the guy who was helping me, kept saying, "its okay but say it angrier."

Heres what I learned.

gdyet toalet? Where is the toilet

paka - Goodbye

das vi danya - goodbye formally

privet - hello

niet - no

dah - yes

minye - I want for me

Harasho - good

kak tohebia zo voot - What is your name?

diechte - Give me

pivou - beer

schot - bill or check

spasiba - thank you

That was enough to get me through a day in Russia.

I had always imagined that the buildings in Russia would look like they were made of candy. With balls of gumdrops, different colors of twisting candy canes, and dollops of cream on top. When I entered the city all of my childish fantasies were put to rest. The city's architecture was like Paris, or London, or Budapest. No candied houses.

In the one day I had, the first thing that I did was go the Holy Resurrection Orthodox Cathedral. And the church, like a couple of other churches I had driven by on my entrance from the seaport, they did look like they were made of candy. They had twists of colors like candy canes, gumdrops on the sides, and dollops of different colored creams on top. Without even thinking, I went and bought a ticket and entered into the church. I was drawn to it. I had to go in and see what these Russian churches are about. I had to be in an Orthodox church. And it was so shiny and pretty.

I walked in, no no... I took two steps in... and I began to cry. I looked to the ceiling and the wooden throne in front of me - like the one carved and kept in St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican and seen in the movie Angels and Demons. I saw that every inch of the walls were covered with beautiful Russian art, and Byzantine icons. I looked around in awe. The people holding the door behind me laughed at me just standing there. They saw my back and that my head was fixed towards the ceiling. No doubt they could hear me say "wow... wooow...wow" over and over. From my perspective I had only just entered and therefore I had only seen a corner of this place. I turned to them laughing at me, and still with tears, my shaky voice said "It's... so... beautiful." And then I began to cry some more.

The only other time I had been so taken-away during my trip so far, was when I arrived at the River Seine in Paris, and looked around - at nothing particularly, but I was there and it was beautiful and nothing could contain my excitement and gratitude for its beauty.

Looking at the ceiling of the cathedral, I began to walk around. I stopped crying after hearing in my head my brother's reaction to my tears in Paris, "aw are you crying?" Not with sarcasm, but with surprise, sincerity, and perhaps a little bit of concern. I'm okay, I'm okay. It's just so beautiful. I pulled myself together and toured the church. It was breathtaking all of the hand-painted icons on every inch of the walls, coming down to meet a midnight marble that touched the floor where panels of marble intersected and created more designs.

If nothing else, I was happy that I saw this in Russia. The rest could wait.

After I left the Cathedral I went to eat some true Russian Borscht, and beef Stroganoff. I had never eaten either of these foods and I like to make it a point to try the local food, the local beer, and hear the local music. That is usually one of my goals in a city or a new country. The Russian beer was heavy, and similar to Heineken. The food was so meaty and flavorful that I'm not articulate enough to describe it. I added it to my list of foods I've loved around the world. It's a long list. 

Helsinki

Due to the time change between Tallinn - St. Petersburg - Helsinki - I was pretty worn out, and my body was utterly confused. I woke up at 7am, but it turns out it was 5am, another day I woke up at 8am and it turns out it was 9am. By the time I entered the center of Helsinki I thought about going right back to the ship to sleep. But no, there was much to be seen, and after playing around on instruments in a music store I came across, I had the energy and excitement to explore.

Helsinki was expensive. Much like Norway, but they didn't fool you by using Kroner, they used Euro and straight-up shamed you with their pricing. 8Euro beer? And its an amber beer? No I think I'll stick with Carlsburg in this place. I walked along the fish market, ate reindeer meatballs, and salmon soup. I hadn't known it was reindeer meatballs. I tried it as the woman held it out, ate it, and then asked what it was. It had a pork flavor and was well seasoned. When the lady told me it was reindeer meatballs, I cried a little... then I asked for more. Walking through the market I touched all of the furs, the rabbit, lamb, reindeer, deer, duck. I laid my hands on everything. I even bought a reindeer leather coin purse. This is definitely not an animal lovers dream.

Just down the hill that the Finnish Orthodox church sat on top of, there was a giant statue in the center of the fish market. The statue looked like Benjamin Button when he was first "old" enough or mobile enough to pee standing up. And thats what the statue was, a deformed (or really old) looking baby who was standing up, holding his peewee, and draining a fountain of water into the sea. It was quite a site to watch tourists take pictures between his legs, and try to reach out to touch the fountain of water that represented urine. The statue was two stories and the eyes on the character were giant eyes looking in one direction as if to say "uh oh, I got caught" since he had a gaped mouth to go along with the expression. That was probably the funniest thing that I have seen.

That, and in Stockholm on one of the main streets, a vagabond wearing a halloween rubber mask of a horse was dancing in order to make money for travel. He danced to be funny, and it was, and next to him was a sign that said "for travel." In his hat were hundreds of Kroner too. I contemplated taking up a shenanigan of my own to start a "for travel" fund. I'll leave it to the experts with horse faces for now.

After a fantastic rest all afternoon and evening on the cruise-ship I am now in Stockholm airport, waiting for my flight to Budapest.

Cheers

Norway in a Nutshell

Talk about beauty in the world.

On my 9 day journey throughout Norway I witnessed some of the most breathtaking scenery. Fjords, mountains surrounded by lakes and rivers, covered with sporadic snow patches from the previous winter, and houses all along them - scattered or in rows zigzagging all along the cliffs and hills. The mountains were like Croatia's rock cliffs, with less cliffs and more fully formed mountains. Or like Greece's mountains, but covered in beautiful forestry with no dessert-like surroundings. Or like the Atlas Mountains in Morocco, but again, the forestry winter-mountainous look rather than the desert-mountainous look. Even, at a distance, appearing in the backdrop as the Appalachian Trail through New Hampshire and Maine, or the White Mountains. Real breathtaking, untouched, natural beauty.

My first stop after leaving the paradise of Greece was Oslo, Norway. Furthermore, my first stop in Oslo, Norway was to the Huk (pronounced "hewk") nude beach on the Bygdøy ("big day") peninsula of the city. My first day was spent in the 60-70 degree weather, in the 50-60 degree water. It felt like swimming in the middle of Boston harbor on the last day of the summer swimming season. And it was. The days to follow would be brisk. A layer or two of jackets would only reduce the breeze to a cool shutter.

Despite my having rested thoroughly for the last 10 days in Greece (a time and place my mind is still fixated on), each day in Norway has been quite physical and quite tiring in its own way. In order to pace myself and self-care the way that my body is screaming I should, "Sleep you idiot! Do less! Do less, please!" - I tried my restless best to do less and less. So this week I did one, maybe two activities a day.

 When I arrived at Huk on the shore of the North Sea, i took one look around to see the few men and women there, in their 50s or 60s most likely, and stark naked. I thought, with all of these sagging butts around me, what do I have to lose? Without a second more, I dropped my things, dropped my trousers, and went straight to where I belonged - the sea. It wasn't so bad, the coldness of it I mean. I immediately had goosebumps all over my naked brown and white body. Mind you, I was the only person on the beach with extreme tan lines. I had never thought of appearing - so obviously - as a foreigner, simply because below my waist is currently the whitest full-moon any Norwegian has ever seen, particularly in contrast with my Grecian brown legs. 

When i got out of the water, it wasn't so terribly cold that i would have to dress right away. So I sat on the beach drawing the landscape in my sketchbook. I am no artist, but creativity is a coping mechanism - music, dance, art, writing, cooking - i crave it because it makes me feel at home. Its good to know how to be comfortable and make every place feel like home. Even better to do it. So i began to draw a childish interpretation of far off mountains - me in my bareness pretending to be Rembrandt or Da Vinci. Suddenly, the ugliest seagull I had ever seen made a wretched crow, and shit all over my drawing and on me and my things.

I couldn't tell if it was vomit or poo.

I trudged slowly and gently to the sea, as I noticed locals did - probably in order to not make too much jelly shake, if you know what I mean. I laughed while I washed off in the water among the seaweeds. Either I am really lucky - and this is a sign, as everyone says about bird shit landing on you - or, and this is most likely, Norwegian birds are harsh art critics and my Da Vinci attempt was just as shit as the actual shit that landed on it. Either way, I laughed at circumstance. Luckily I wasn't wearing clothes, or it would have been a bird shitty day all over the back of my shirt.

All in all, my broad daylight public nudity debut was quite the event. No regrets. No embarrassment. It may have been the most carefree I would ever feel while naked in public. Not that this is a regular occurrence. I wish it was. I may have found my calling as a nudist.

On the bus ride back from Huk I met a retired Norwegian professor. He interjected himself into my studies as I was reading and practicing Norwegian phrases silently under my breath. He sat next to me and heard me studying, and laughed at my pronunciation. He was quite helpful and taught me key phrases while we rode along.

On day one, I hadn't learned yet that speaking Norwegian was not necessary in Norway. Everyone not only spoke English, but spoke it well and with a clear accent - even though most people said "I speak a little bit." I learned that those responses were because they don't want to speak English. I earned respect from people simply by acknowledging that. I said, I have no choice but to speak English, please help me, I don't mean to disrespect the Norwegian language or culture - I said this indirectly by saying in Norwegian, rather than outright in English, "I don't speak Norwegian, do you speak English?" I feel it does make a difference, even if only a slight difference. It doesn't work because its some brilliant idea of mine either, it works because it evokes different responses in people, the warmth and welcomes, rather than the rush to get away. I have tried it both ways, and using the local language, - even a little bit - always gets the better response.

The following days I walked about a bit - along a river leading to the city center with waterfalls and thick brush, zigzagging through boroughs and universities on paths and back roads covered with runners, and bicyclists. Along Sogsvann, a lake at the  last stop of one of the city train lines, I lost myself on a hiking path in the woods, sat by a freshwater stream for a picnic and fell asleep on a dock in the middle of the vann (lake). It took me a while to find a dock that was not loud with playing children or the trudging of hundreds of feet on a dirt path. It was Sunday, and because nothing other than expensive restaurants is open on Sunday, everyone was out walking, biking, or running, at this lovely lake.

Everything I have done here has been slowly paced, and truly peaceful. I think I have felt drained because Norway puts a lot of stress on the wallet. Although the exchange is 7 Norwegian Kroner for every 1USD, everything is priced in the 100s. What would normally cost $20, costs 300-400 Kroner - the equivalent to $50-65. When I am paying 59 Kroner ($10) for a street vendor hot dog, that's when you know - this country ain't cheap. 

The universe must know and feel my concerns, because the people I have come across here have been hospitable and free-giving. In Greece, I was cared for by family or friends of family and they were always giving. Here in Norway, it has been tens of people, complete strangers who sometimes don't even know my name, giving me free food, more free food, free advice, free transport, free this, cheap that. It has been a real gift and - like every time so much fortune and hospitality comes my way - I find myself wondering what did I do to deserve this? But then, reasons don't matter do they? I just try to be grateful... maybe the bird shit really worked.

On one occasion, I made friends at a bar. I don't normally go out at night when I am traveling alone, nevertheless to a bar, but I wanted to make a point to try Norwegian beer and I did so when the sun was still out. After all, it was the last night of the weekend. During weekdays Norwegian law does not allow the selling of alcohol after 3pm. I went to an Irish pub, of course, and I ended up meeting some people, of course. After chatting a thrilling conversation with a jolly couple who laughed and smiled about everything (how fantastic! I found myself laughing and not knowing what I was laughing at) they left and I continued the conversation with the man next to me who had joined in. I found myself complaining to the man at the bar about the cost of food. I try hard not to complain when I am traveling, but this one thing irked me. I found myself thinking how rude! The nerve of the Norwegian government to really think they can charge this much for bare necessities is really just a cruel joke. Petroleum independent UNESCO World Heritage Site Assholes. The government, of course, not the people. One thing I've learned is that most people don't like their government. Maybe they like the school system, or they like the way taxes are, or they like a few things here and there - but disagreeing with some aspects of the way the government does things is not considered a direct insult to the culture. So I freely say, it irks me that the Norwegian government has the nerve to charge so much money for things.

One of the things I was so excited to come to Norway for, was to eat lots of seafood. Low and behold this self-sufficient seafood exporting country has some of the most expensive local fish I have ever seen. Too bad - I've been making cheese sandwiches for days. After complaining about cost of food to the man at the bar, he told me poignantly, "well, I'm actually quite wealthy working in the Petroleum business here, and there's this posh restaurant around the corner I would like to take you to, no pressure though." I thought for a moment. I was direct in return to his poignancy, telling him that I don't want to accept his offer and imply anything further. He was understanding, generous, and kind. "No pressure." He kept saying. Anyway, the restaurant was right next door on a busy street and not less than 4 hrs earlier someone I had met gave me the wise advice to never turn down an invitation for food. 

When we sat down to order, I took one look at the menu and my jaw dropped. He asked me what I wanted, and feeling slightly uncomfortable at choosing between such expensive things (and truthfully wanting all of it), I told him to choose for me. Well, he didn't really. Instead he said, "we'll have two of the 5 course meal you have here." Jaw dropped again. But cheerfully, of course. Even though he and the waitress spoke Norwegian, he insisted on speaking only English while I was around, and I felt grateful for his consideration.

Thanks to Arne, that was his name, I delighted my way through long and meaningful conversation - complete with impressions of Sean Connery, Clint Eastwood and even some singing, while we both childishly played at being "posh" for the night. And oh the seafood! Some of the most tantalizing seafood I have eaten. Octopus! Eal! Cod! Delicious stuff that was completely new to me just because of the unique Norwegian methods of preparation and the fresh flavor. At the end of dinner, and practically closing down the place, Arne was a perfect gentlemen by walking me to a taxi and paying the cost to send me on my way.

Such generosity, and friendship truly is touching. Even on bad days, or days when I don't give a damn. Countless people have been kind to me and generous. I try to pay homage to them in this blog by recognizing the beauty in their souls that is expressed through their generosity, but I really am only touching on the amount of people. Sometimes they pass quickly in and out of my life so that I can't learn their names, but I try. The generosity has been so touching that a few days after dinner with Arne, when  I befriended a cafe clerk who, upon parting, sent me on my way with all of the leftover pastries of the day - I cried as I walked out the door. A happy, grateful cry. In Norway I have hardly been able to afford food, which I had not anticipated. And this 20-something man just gave me enough pastries for 3 meals.

The luck of bird shit does not come short of the delivery of friends and food. Alas, disgusting seagulls - my deliverers it turns out!

The rest of my time in Norway was somewhat of a rush. While leaving the hostel in Oslo, I twisted my ankle with all of my backpack weight pulling me down harder than a normal fall. It would have just been a stagger for walking crooked. Now, my ankle is wrapped and due to that, and not being able to afford a tour, I have been quite limited to what my day has been full of.

Luckily, the pain didn't kick in until after my long day in Lillehammer, Norway. There I stayed with a sweet Norwegian girl named Helle. She was kind enough to take me in for two nights, and help me to get where I needed to be. Staying with Helle was like staying on an old friends couch, or a buddy that I see often and feel right at home with. 
The morning of my one and only full day in Lillehammer, Helle took me in her car to the bus station as a meeting point. Once I was left on my own, I learned quickly that to access any of the hikes I was interested in doing, I would need a car. "Buses don't go there" the information desk lady told me. It was unfortunate, but I was also relieved, because I started feeling like my body was tired again. My head was heavy. 

Instead of my original plan, I hiked from the bottom of Norway's largest lake, to the top of Lillehammer's 1994 Olympic ski jump. From far away the ski jump looked like a green slide made for a giant, or aliens, or God, and it was sitting with fields of hay at the foot of it that made it look like the slide went into a sandbox. On my walk up the road twisting and turning I started to hear the sound of water off in the woods behind the guardrail. Curious of course, I jumped the rail and started off into the woods. After only a few minutes of searching I came across waterfalls on waterfalls on waterfalls. Untouched! Although there was the occasional old tent stuck in the trees - of course locals must know about this - there was still the river and it was left as is, despite all of the surrounding development beyond the woods. There was no bike or walking path - no path at all. I climbed up the side of the waterfall. Testing my feet on the rocks so as not to slip. I slipped at a freshwater stream only two days earlier and was stuck in cold damp pants the rest of the day. We will not be fooled again Mother Nature!! When I reached the top of the waterfall I felt triumphant! I looked around, sat, and listened to the water. How soothing it is to listen to water rushing, falling, landing, and doing it all over again thousands of drops per second. I sat with my feet hanging over the edge and enjoyed the scenery until I couldn't sit anymore. Little did I know, my little nature hike would be followed by a 936 step hike to the top of the 1994 Olympic ski lift (its important in Lillehammer to always mention that it is the 1994 Olympic ski lift, not just a ski lift.) From there, after sitting and reading a book at the top while professional skiers practiced their jumps, I enjoyed a brisk run down the mountain and back to Norway's largest lake (also important to mention that it is Norway's largest lake, not just a lake.) I didn't learn until the pain kicked in later that I was running and hiking on a damaged ankle. 

At the end of the day, Helle picked me up and we had pizza and watched a movie. It really was like hanging out with my old buddy - and so relaxing because of it!

The next day I left early to journey from Lillehammer - Oslo - Bergen.

On the 5am train I slept.

On the 8am train, I slept some more. In fact I sprawled out on two seats and pretended like I was a sleeping giant.

I was awakened suddenly, when something in my mind said "get up! get up!" I sat up instantly, took a look around, and when I looked out the window there it was. Fjords upon fjords, and a glacier in the distance. I could see the snow caps on top of these colossal perfectly formed stone piles. Some of the patches of snow reflected the sun so brightly that I couldn't tell if they were lakes on the sides of mountains or leftover snow.

It was breathtaking. I tried to soak it all in, as I definitely wouldn't be able to afford a tour once I arrived in Bergen on the west coast of the country.

[My internal alarm must know when I want to be awake for something.
I learned later that immediately after my train had passed, there was a dynamite explosion on the tracks and all other trains for the day were detoured 2.5 hours on bus. It was at exactly the time I had awakened that the explosion occurred 2 hours away. Three rail construction workers died. No passengers or civilians were harmed, as trains were not passing through at the time. A terrible tragedy from a faulty dynamite. Thank God that it was an isolated incident, the deaths could have been far greater if a train were passing through. The death could have been mine, if my train were passing through. When I heard the news my heart pounded and my next breath was deep - I felt immense gratitude for it, followed by sadness for these men and their families.]

At 4pm I arrived in Bergen. I learned from the information center that, I was right, I definitely wouldn't be affording any tours. What would have been 50pounds in England, or 30Euros in Greece, was 1400 Kroners in Norway. It was unfortunate. I had gone to Bergen to do hikes, tours, see glaciers and fjords - with a bum ankle and an empty wallet I was limited to walking around the cobblestone fish market town. I was grateful that I took the 6 hour train to the town because that was the best tour I would have afforded, and free with my rail pass.
It was not so unfortunate to be forced to stay in Bergen. It is a beautiful town stacked in layers on the hills, and pouring into the sea where countless boats dock for fjord tours, and boat travel. The buildings are close together, different colors, and the year-round "fiskmarket" is held in tents in the city center for all to see... and smell.

After gaining hindsight, I realized that the universe was giving me a real gift. Sitting around and doing nothing in a beautiful seaside town in Norway! I had been exhausted, I had been worried, I had been in pain - and now all of that is gone because I have nothing more to do than to care for myself, sleep, do what I like on a slow-paced day. And also be reminded of the gift of life that I have, while some people lose theirs in tragic accidents. My diet has been restored by eating very little (due to affordability) and now, in the next week, when I am back to paying semi-regular prices in Sweden, Finland, Estonia, and Russia, I will not feel so stressed. I am finishing writing this entry from Stockholm Sweden, and already I have no stress, feel completely rested, and thanks to an ankle brace and taking it easy, I almost have no pain!

Norway really was a place to remind me of generosity, and humility. There had been times before when concern for money left me hungry, but never to the degree that I experienced these last 9 days. Even so, I had only a glimpse into that world. The world where people are always worried, always begging, starving. I noticed in many countries like Norway, Greece, Turkey (and a few other places) that beggars and gypsies are given money more frequently, rather than treated indifferently or looked down upon. People see them and know in their hearts I have a coin, and this woman will surely starve herself before her children. She could live with my coin and die without it. Maybe it's not that grandiose... but then again, maybe it is - and I have seen a great amount of generosity in the last month. In New York, it is common to see a mentally ill person in the street, or an addict begging for money - for that reason the approach to the homeless there is drastically different. People are often cautious or indifferent. I'd be more likely to call 911 for someone than give them money. I'd be more likely to give them food or talk to them than give them money. My mom - with her big heart that she inherited from her smiling loving parents - she goes by the rule of keeping Dunkin Donuts gift cards in the car for giving out. They are chains that only serve food and non-alcoholic beverages. The same with Subway. In Norway and Greece those aren't as big concerns. The concern is getting fed. Surviving. Even surviving to the point of being able to live a little.

Norway, in nutshell, is grandiose in its natural design, but humble, and generous in its people.

Add this to the "Revisit" list, underneath Morocco.