This Is Me Leaving

Testing. One. Two. Sibilance. Ssssibilance. 

Three more days.

David sent me a comment about a month back which, at the time, I dismissed as funny - but dismissed nonetheless.

He was writing in response to my complaint that I was going to have to choose between Prague or Pamplopna. He said, and I quote: (family members with delicate sensibilities, sheild your eyes!) "Prague or Spain. What a fucking cocksucker you are...my choices are Shell or Citgo."

Looking back, I should have taken more from this remark the first time I read it. It's something that I already knew and had already learned - how very lucky I am to be in the situation I'm in. But when I first read it, facing the realization (for the first time) that I was nearing the end of my trip, I had forgotten that lesson; I had allowed it to be overshadowed by childish wants. I didn't want to have to choose between those cities. I didn't want to stop traveling. Nevermind the happy impossibility that my life has been over the last six months. How ungrateful and petty and asleep to the reality of my situation.

I don't know why David's comment came to me when I awoke this morning at 11:30 in the hostel; pale, overcast sunlight diffusing itself evenly over the soviet-style room and its inhabitants - but it did. And I'm grateful for it.

Once again, I get to re-learn that everything is transitory and I own nothing. Not even entirely the master of my own circumstance. Maybe not even close. I can now get back to the very serious business of appreciation.

I can think of no better way to spend my last few days here other than the way I am now - reading my first book by Milan Kundera and enjoying the first good bloody mary I've had in six months here at the Globe Cafe (the best coffeehouse/bar/bookstore/restaurant I've found in Prague.)

I don't know what going home is going to feel like. I have nothing with which to compare it. I do know that it is only another transitory experience; this gives me strength. It also allows me to enjoy the last of my time here - either in quiet repose in the coffee shop, or in some sort of drunken Bacchanalia - I haven't yet decided. I've got a friend from Alabama coming over to see me (the first and only - thanks, assholes...) either tomorrow or Tuesday who can probably assist in the decision.

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Three bloody marys in...

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Literature is powerful not in the least because it is a constant source of rekindling. Of relearning. Or remembering. Words. Esse Quam Videri. Magic spells. Characters which, when arranged, force thoughts and ideas to action. What is magic but this? The more language I acquire, the more alive I become - the more words I truly understand, the more attuned to and in communication I am with the world around me. Again, I am filled with the want to know every language, every uvular permutation of sound. Incantations in other tongues, kneeling before a printing press, moveable type, arranging and re-arranging the metal, ink-covered letters and punctuation, adjusting the kerning as the machine hums louder and faster until...

The alchemist's skill in distillation is akin to the wordsmith's. The former's duty is to break down and rebuild inferior substances into something more pure. The latter must have an understanding of his materials just the same; their etymologies, their roots, their meanings - in order to arrange them into truths. And just as his medieval brother cannot effectively work without tedious experimentation, he cannot effectively work until these sounds and characters have been practiced, repeated, said aloud until he owns them sufficiently enough to reassemble them into something greater than their component selves.

Kutna hora

This city is, as the Lonely Planet guidebook to the Czech and Slovak Republics puts it: achingly beautiful. Situated in a little bend in the Vltava river (the same river which runs through its big sister, Prague,) you can walk from one side of it to the other in about seven minutes.

They've got a river tour company that rents canoes and kayaks to go around the city via the Vltava, but I think I'm going to save that until I get home. NB: River-friends get ready; I've got a canoe at my disposal and a powerful thirst coming on.

I'm going to spend one more night here so that I can visit the Chateau (it's a castle to my eyes...) which isn't open on Mondays. Then off to Kutna Hora, where I'm going to check out the Sedlec Ossuary - a church decorated entirely with human bones from plague victims. Should be good.

The beer in the Czech Republic is every inch as good as the hype. And incredibly cheap. Last night, Chris and I ate at this medieval restaurant in a basement off an alley - after the sausage appetizer, we split the "chef's reccomendation for two" - two giant portions each of chicken, pork, and beef with baked potatoes, potato pancakes, and salad. Oh, and wine. Lots of wine served in earthenware goblets. Total cost per person? Two hundred and fifty Czech Koruna. That's twelve dollars.

You guys are missing out.

I'll try and post some pictures tomorrow.

Just a homing beacon to let the fam know I'm alive and well in Prague.

I'll upload some pictures a bit later. I found a great little shop in the city with some funky postcards. Leave me a comment with your address if you'd like some mail from Prague...

So, Derry. The longer I stay, the less I want to leave. I tried to post some shots from around the hostel yesterday, but they don't communicate the overall feel of the place.

Steve and Kylie (the owners) have built themselves quite a tidy little practice here in Northern Ireland. Kylie is from New Zealand and is one of the most easy-going, helpful, kind people I've ever met. Steve is from Scotland and I know less about him, but I did visit him briefly in Edinburgh where he's currently working on expanding their hostel-empire.

The place in Derry is a four-story building on the Bogside, situated on a quiet street called Great James. There are two 10-bed dormitories, two 5-bed dorms, a kitchen, two sitting rooms, and my little room in the attic with my fantastic roof-window and electric fireplace. However, that's just the original building. They've since expanded into a neighboring house, adding more dorms and some private rooms.

The atmosphere, despite the size, is remarkably cozy. Home-y, even. I've stayed in lots of hostels that seem needlessly sterile; this hostel is the polar opposite. The rooms are all decorated with things that Steve and Kylie (who are semi-retired backpackers themselves) have brought back from their travels. Some of the rooms have themes from particular places. Reception is done up in Indian and Thai, down to the small, round stools that serve as the chairs for checking people in. The whole place just says much like Frankie: Relax.

The town is centered around the old city, which is one of, if not the oldest walled city in Ireland. However, most of the interesting stuff lies just to the north, in what's called the Bogside; 98% Catholic. This is where, historically, the British had moved the native Irish, keeping them outside of the protection and affluence of the city walls. On this side, you can see the famous murals down Rossville street, where the British, in a vulgar show of heavy-handed Imperialism, murdered fourteen Irish in broad daylight for demonstrating, largely peacefully. That was Bloody Sunday, as I may have mentioned in an earlier update. It's still very easy to meet "retired" IRA members in the pubs here, and they're less than shy about telling you how they threw petrol bombs at British tanks. And I don't blame them. Across the river Foyle is a place called the Waterside, and it's still largely Unionist and Protestant. They have their own set of counter-murals.

It's a paradox of a place: to be the locus of such a historically violent conflict in Irish history, the mood today is largely conciliatory. I am constantly reminded by those who were on the front lines here that the war is over, and that while they intend to keep looking forward, they also intend to keep those who were involved in their civil rights struggle in the front of their consciousness - something that Birmingham could do better. Americans tend to act like racism is a thing of the past, a taboo that shouldn't be mentioned in polite company. I think that this mentality makes it easier to keep enforcing the type of institutionalized racism we have in the South. By not talking about it, we deny that it exists, which allows it to flourish in things like our tax system and our school zonings. Here, the people are determined not to repeat the mistakes of their past. Interesting aside: the struggle for human rights here was modeled after Dr. King, Abernathy, et al - so that gives me something to talk about with the older guys at the local across the street.

Most of my days are spent inside the hostel itself: a typical shift runs from 9:30 to 10:00 with a couple hours off during the day. I've met an incredible amount of new and fascinating people in the last three weeks, and I wish I had the time to detail some of them now. Maybe later.

I'm out of here on the 16th to Prague. I'm not sure how much I'll update between now and then; we'll see.

Hope everyone is well!

Just some photos for now. I'm sorry it's been almost a month since posting anything. I'll put something up about life in the hostel for the last month later tonight.

Derry

I loved Edinburgh before I got off the bus.

The city looks unreal - like it has been created in miniature, in painstaking detail, of some delicate paper material - and then a photo of this miniature was taken and blown up as a backdrop. My pictures here certainly don't do it any justice.

It's like the whole place was built from magic. This was what I had been looking for in "old Europe." It's what I had expected Dublin to look like. There have been a few places I've visited and thought: "yeah, I could live here." D.C. New York. Savannah. None of these places struck me the way Edinburgh did. The park in the middle of the city, the Gothic architecture, the electric energy of the night life - they all said "where the hell have you been? Now find an apartment and let's get cracking." My only regret about the place is that I only got to spend two days there. I felt like I could have spent weeks looking around the corners of those narrow streets, discovering new, little restaurants and bars, each better than the last. (Hats off to that vegan baked-potato place and the jazz bar.)

Since the last writing, I've finished another week of teaching at Gredos; undoubtedly my last for quite some time. My waistline thinks this is a good thing. My wallet - not so much.

I've been getting weird little materialistic flashes these last few days. It's strange - the want to buy things just for the sake of buying them. To stack them with other bought things in neat piles solely for the sake of knowing they're there. A new car. A new apartment. Records. New shoes oh man, do I need new shoes. Ordinary things. I find it amazing how much I miss my old job.

Then there's the opposite side of that coin: doing extraordinary things (hey, it's all relative, OK?) with my life. Traveling to new places. Taking a teaching position in either Japan or South Korea. Reserving a place on the Peace Boat. Signing on to the teacher training program with Vaughantown. Pursuing a masters and then a PhD.

I guess homesickness is inevitable. As boring as I know it is, I wonder what's going on at the Plaza back in Five Points. I miss playing foosball. Or going to the park. Or late talks with John on the front porch after a few beers. Or pipe-night with David. Or punk rock shows, as foreign as they had started to seem to me before I left.

Being back in Derry is easy. I have a place to stay, people who speak English as their first language, and plenty of free time. I don't like the mood this creates in me, though. When I'm in Spain or Holland or France it's hard for the complacency to setin. Those are places where I feel like anything is possible and I'm willing to go to further and further extremes to make those things happen. Here, it's easy to get stuck in a rut. Easy to live without remembering the things I have learned on this trip.To slip back into familiar, bad habits. In short, to negate the whole reason that I came.

Perhaps I should treat this as an opportunity to put these lessons into practice. To be wide-eyed. To live every hour while keeping the things that I know are truly important in the active part of my consciousness. To practice not being complacent, even in a place where it's easy to. To feel awake and alive and connected.

How long until I write that "last" entry?

Edinburgh

Sky Blue

I'll just post these photos for now. I've got some more coming from my two-day trip to Edinburgh shortly.

I'm back in Derry, and beginning to have to look seriously at my end-of-trip options. Thanks to my flawless planning, I'm probably going to have to choose between San Fermines in Pamplona or going to Prague which is depressing me.

Anyhow, enough of the sad-Rob-routine; here you go:

Gredos III

I'm back in Vaughantown doing the usual lack-of-updating of my blog.

It's been a good program this week. Not as good as my first program - but after asking the other veterans, that seems to be the trend.

Since I'm repeating the program next week, I've decided to stay here in the Gredos mountains, camping. It beats taking a pair of three hour bus rides to Madrid and back. The only thing I'm worried about is the weather. It's supposed to rain a little on Friday night. And because I am certifiable-fucking-genius, I mailed all my rain-proof gear back to Alabama last week.

I've been having strange dreams, the strangest of which I had today during siesta. I dreamt that I was back home, and my father had gotten three tattoos: one on his upper arm commemorating some event which I can't remember, a giant chest-piece done in really nice color, and my personal favorite: his monogram "JGS" on his elbow. Like the spiderweb-prison-tattoo. Oh unconscious brain, you can be so clever.

Needless to say, I'll be incommunicado via email this weekend. If you need to get in touch with me, my phone might still work.