Nightlife in Prague

Nightlife In Prague

Had a Prague night at a punk rock bar in a 500 year old wine cellar. Woke up beer soaked.

This is the Prague morning: streets are littered with stumbling drunks greeting the morning with cross eyed grimaces. Maybe they are thinking about the night, the booze, or the women/men that they just gobbled down? Maybe they are not thinking anything? I walked among them worshipping the blue sky coming through the ages old menagerie of ornate Prague architecture. I am a drunk too. Something must have happened for hundreds of cross-eyed zombies to be stumbling about at 5 AM in the morning aimlessly through the streets of an ancient city.

Yes, something did: Nightlife in Prague.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Prague, Czech Republic- early June, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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I watched as a sunken eyed and stumbling Czech girl flopped her rag-doll beaten body and drink bruised face into a well worn taxi cab seat. I watched as a booze soaked blond girl laughed loudly as she fell flip-flop upon the stone hard sidewalk with no regard for the fact that her well-worn crotch was peaking out from the shallow depths of her far too short mini-skirt. I watched as a flock of pigeons made a feast of a large puddle of chucky pink vomit. And I watched as a big bald Mexican tried to pick a fight with my short bald Czech friend who was at my side. But the homeward train came none too soon, and I waved ‘farewell’ to my Czech friend and his Mexican aggressor as they cut short their impending conflict as they jump into their respective trains. Everyone was ending their night as the morning was beginning its day.

Old Town Square in Prague, Czech Republic.

I walked among all of this with a pipe in my mouth and a smile on my face, as I, like everyone else, was trying to make some sense of the previous night. So this is Prague, I thought, as I watched a dark skinned man accost a pair of drunken Englishmen on the opposite site of the street. The drunk Englishmen were having none of it, and told their pursuer to properly “piss off.” I would have to say that these English men were the kind that make their home at soccer games. I think they may have been meatheads. But the dark skinned man did not want to “piss off,” and he began running after - and yelling at - the Englishmen. They now stood face to face. The Englishmen held out their arms in a “bring it on” sort of fashion. The Czech man reached behind his back and got ready to draw his blade.

Old Prague.

I stood on the other side of the street with a vantage point that allowed me to watch the knife being drawn without being noticed. The drunk Englishmen did not know that the dark skinned man was armed. I was debating as to whether or not I should give a warning call to the Englishmen, when I noticed a group of dark skinned locals rushing to the scene to lend assistance to the knife holder. I decided that this was a good time to draw a curtain on this scene, take my Prague night for what it was, and quickly beat it away from there.

I did not hear any screams in my wake.

Nightlife in Prague.

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Bars in Prague Czech Republic

Bars in Prague, Czech Republic

As I boarded my first bus in the Czech Republic, it struck me that I did not know a single word of the local language - Czech, Ceska, or whatever they call it, I realized that I did not know any of it. This could only mean that I would have to spend my first night in Prague drinking at a bar. Because the bar room, and not the classroom, is the best place in the world to learn a language.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Prague, Czech Republic- June 10, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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Kafka likes foosball too.

J. Chip Howell and Kafka having a discussion in Prague.

So after I found a place to lay my head at the Golden Sickle Hostel, I inquired as to where the nearest - cheapest - pub was. I was directed to go next door. This sounded easy. So I nodded my head and waited for nightfall, knowing that I was going to live out Prague like a tourist, and drink beer that is cheaper than bread.

In the meantime I took a much needed nap and awoke to find a fellow by the name of J. Chip Howell - a Chicago black man science fiction writer - sleeping in the dorm bed next to mine. Well, ol’ Chip has a passion for books, so we became good chums right off. He writes science fiction, I write road dog fiction. We peeled ourselves out of bed and started our night, which, at 7PM, could reasonably have been considered a Prague morning, and walked over to the bar next to the hostel.

Chip called this place the Cave Bar, and the nomenclature proved appropriate. The place was a massive underground tunnel complex in what once was a wine cellar. Prague is an ancient place, and has at least three urban occupations buried beneath the current city. I was told that this cellar was over 500 years old, and as I entered down haphazard stairwell into its belly I realized that it could have been twice this much. I squinted through the cigarette smoke and was serenaded towards a room at the end of a dark tunnel by the loud music of my youth: old time 70’s punk. I walked into the room and lit my pipe, ordered a beer, and dug all the Czechs in punk rock leathers and well groomed haircuts. This seemed to be the place to learn how to talk.

Chip and I downed a beer and watched as a bleach blond girl in a Prague micro-skirt go on a date with nobody but her cell phone. And the attention that she paid to those blinky little buttons on the key pad and the shiny screen left every lonely boy in the room wrought with envy. “You should write a sci-fi story about a lonely boy who transmigrated his soul into a cell phone so that he could go on dates with pretty girls,” I jested.

The cell phone date is now a world wide phenomenon.

And then a Macedonian girl who seemed pretty fond of Chip stepped into the room. She then began talking - an action which she did not cease nor halt for my entire tenure in her presence. She talked of this, she talked of that, I tried to shut her up by telling her that I could play the piano with my toes. It did not work. She kept right on talking. So I just smiled and drank beer to sooth my tender ears, and thought about how much Erik the Pilot would love Prague. Then the gentle waves of benign Macedonian chatter was intensified by an affront of passion: the girl got all shaken up by her stance on global warming. She tried to convince me that I should be shaken up too. I did not feel like being shaken up. So I just politely endured the monologue on climate change and downed two tumblers of good Czech beer.

I then figured that if I kept on like this I was going to spend my entire bundle of cash trying to drink away the "call to arms" that I was affronted by. I had to run away. I liked this Macedonian girl - she was a one of a kind misanthrope - but I simply could not endure an all night PBS lecture on how I have to do something “right now” about climatic change.

But I was in a 500 year old wine cellar. I was drinking good Czech beer.

And I needed to learn how to rise myself above the level of an English speaking mute in the Czech Republic.

So, with scarcely a word, I jumped up and made for the nearest foosball table. Foosball is the international key to making friends in Europe. All you have to do is find a foosball table in a bar, cheer for a second, and then you automatically make friendships.

So I walked over to the table and cheered when the next goal was scored. The Czech foosball players looked at me. I made some friends. Can’t tell you why this works.

Tomas, Andre, and a tattooed chubby boy who was convinced that I understood Czech invited me to jump in and play the next game. I am the worse foosball player that Europe has ever known, and I proved this fact once again.

But I learned some basic terms in Czech:

Hello
Goodbye
How much is this?
I want beer
Big
Small
Thank you
Shut up and show me your boobs

I was now linguistically prepared for traveling in the Czech Republic.

The night dragged on long.

Soon only myself and Tomas remained at the bar with a bar tender with a pink mohawk, two waitresses, and two teenage make believe whores.

The two make believe whores were hanging all over the mohawked bartender. They were working an interesting act.

They were tall and had long curly hair. I do not think they could have been a day over 18.

They were trying to look sexy by drunkenly kissing each other. Tomas told them to touch each other’s boobs. They did, and thought themselves all the more sexy for it.

“What are they doing, Tomas?”

“I don’t really know,” he told me.

“Are they for real?”

He asked them.

They kissed each other and grabbed some more boobs as an answer.

No, they were making believe. They wanted attention.

The night was drawing to a close. I had no more attention to give. They soon gave up - probaby taking Tomas and I for a couple of homos - and went away.

Tomas then tells me that he is a gangster and that I need to be careful in Prague.

I shrugged my shoulders and Tomas disappeared.

It was a good night.

I learned enough Czech to look stupid.

Bars in Prague Czech Republic
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Earning My Keep in Prague

Earning My Keep in Prague

“This is a good inn. I seem to have gotten very good at developing a traveler’s sixth sense in such matters. A wandering beggar’s sixth sense.”
-Taneda Santoka, Japanese wandering haiku poet.

As I stepped off the 119 airport bus at the Dejvicka metro stop in the northwest of Prague in the early glimmers of morning, I knew that I needed to land a free bed. I knew that I could not afford to pay the $25 a night for a dorm bed in this city. I had to find a hostel that would allow me to make a website for them as a trade for a free bed or a job where I could make up the bean money to have a place to lay my head.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Prague, Czech Republic- June 10, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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So I walked towards the metro entrance, and breathed fresh breathes of new country air. I had not before been in the Czech Republic, and as I looked at the metro stop bums and the hurrying morning people, I became very happy.

I took the green line metro in to the Mustek stop and sat next to a Czech girl reading Hesse’s Siddhartha. I made a motion that it was a good book, as I made my way off of the quickly crowed morning metro train. I at least need to learn how to say “that is a good book” in any country that I travel in. I needed to go to a Czech bar.

But first I needed a place to lay my head.

I could not land a couch surfing bed prior to getting in Prague, so I knew that I had to Hobohideout it or live in the airport with the group of bums that I spent the previous night with.

I had to Hobohideout it. I had to find a hostel who would take me up on my offer of making a website for them on Hobohideout.com in exchange for a free bed for a week. After meeting Andy - the mastermind of the Hobohideout hotel encyclopedia site - in Guatemala in the spring, I have been making these pages for hotels just to keep riding on my vagabond coattails.

But it was a little to early in the morning to go sauntering into unsuspecting hostels with my jive and graft. So I found a space on a park bench next to some bums and lit up a pipe. Prague was just rising for a day of work, and not even the bums were up to spanging yet. So I watched the smoke rise out of my pipe, as I got my first glimmers of Prague women.

It is said that the most beautiful women in the world live in Prague.

I was not convinced at that time. They just looked at me like I was a bum.

I think they are right.

But soon enough the Prague street bums recognized that I was not one of them, and got to work on me. Soon cheap watches were shoved into my face, and I had to cut my pipe short and make a hasty exit from my park bench. I had to find a place to lay my head.

I wanted to go out to a bar in Prague that night, and I did not want to carry all of my “swag” along with me. So I recited to myself my Hobohideout wrap as I made my way to a hostel. I mounted the steps and found a petit, young blonde smiling at me from her post at the entrance to the hostel. I asked if she had any beds open. She had to work hard to find one. They were packed. This was not good. I then inquired about the price:

$28 for a dorm bed.

This was really not good.

I gave her the Hobohideout wrap. She stared at me blank faced and said that she would ask the hostel owner’s “right hand man.”

I went and sat in the common room, and fiddled for a while with my Molskine.

Soon enough I was called back to the reception desk.

“We have a bed for you,” the blonde said with a smile, “please pay $28.”

“What?” I stammered, “I have no money.”

The blonde and the “right hand man,” who appeared to be a woman, looked at me with deer-headlight eyes.

I repeated slowly:

“I make websites for hotels as a trade for a free bed for one week. These websites are very good and are a free promotion for your hostel. Would you like to trade?”

“What can we do,” the “right hand man” woman spoke with an attitude, “we are only receptionist?”

“You can give me a map of Prague.”

They did, and I made my way for the door armed with a map that denoted the hotels and hostels of Prague.

This first attempt was clearly not successful, so I walked on through the city hopeful that the next hostel was not as stingy with their dorm room accommodation. I found another hostel nearby, and I rang the door bell.

Then rang it again, and then rang it again.

Nobody was going to even let me into this hostel it seemed.

Discouragement slowly began to slip over me. “Oh well,” I thought begrudgingly, “I will just sleep at the airport. It is cheap to get to and from the Prague airport on the 119 public bus, and I also noticed fields of pine trees that would be perfect to sleep under.

I began walking towards the river. I walked past a hostel, stopped short, and figured that it would not hurt to try to earn my keep here. It was called the Golden Sickle Hostel, and I was greeted with smiles by the receptionist, who was laughing and joking about something.

I told her that I travel by making websites as a trade for a free bed for one week. She said quickly said OK, and I got a bed.

I went to sleep happy. I found a bed.

Earning My Keep in Prague
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Travel to Prague

Travel to Prague, or Floating On Praha

Today is my first morning in Prague, and I am watching the sun rise up from the big windows of the airport. A new day is rising, I am listening to music, I feel good.

My flight from Ireland arrived in Prague around 11 pm so, rather than wasting a night of travel expenses on a bed that I would just be sleeping in, I slept out the night on a bench at the “airport hotel.” But no sleep came to me, as I could not wait until the first rays of morning and get ever more excited about tramping in a new country. I am glad that I decided to keep going “north,” and rode out my first intention of coming to the east of Europe. I like traveling in new lands. I hit a momentary speed bump right before leaving the USA, as I got the intuitive urge to go to Japan. Now I love Japan, but I have not been to the Czech Republic before.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Prague,Czech Republic- June 6, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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Erik the Pilot said, "Go to Prague and drink beer," and this is what I did.

I think that I may make the airport my residence in this city, which is seeming like the most expensive place that I have ever been before.

But costs, fooey!

Expensive prices mean nothing if you don’t buy anything.

Who cares what the price tags say, if they are connected to something that you neither want nor need. In this way it is all just numbers written into the abyss, and it ain’t mean nothing to me. Traveling means that I can eat the wind and drink the seas. I have no worries.

The sun still rises.

And so do I.

Rising upon a new day of travel, and I feel alright.

Just traveling on to a new country, just floating on to Prague.

But I must wonder about all those gutter dying poets of old who wrote the words that gave me a notion of freewill and an idea of a life worth living?

The sun is still rising.

It is 4 AM and I am happy.

A sleepless night topped off with a smile.

Today is a day for tramping. This world is a world to love.

Floating on Praha. Traveling on to Eastern Europe.

Travel to Prague
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Travel to Eastern Europe

Travel to Eastern Europe

I am now pondering my path of travel for the summer of 2008. It looks as if this summer is for Eastern Europe. I fly through Dublin and into Prague in the Czech Republic on Wednesday June 4, 2008, and then I should take off by foot and thumb from there and travel deep into the smörgåsbord of countries that is the current arrangement of Eastern Europe.

"God looks with grace upon acts that begin on Wednesday." I do not know where I picked this quote up from, I do not know if it is true, but I always begin journeys on Wednesdays. And it just works out that Wednesday is usually the cheapest day of the week for flights. I paid $421 to get from Rochester, New York to Dublin, Ireland via JFK on the Jetblue/ Ryanair partnership and then another $65 to go from Dublin to Prague in the Czech Republic.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Upstate New York, USA- May 29, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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I split this journey to Prague up into two separate flights to avoid any complications with not having an onward ticket when I board my flight to Dublin from JFK. Sometimes on flights out of the USA, you will meet an overzealous check-in drone who will demand that you have proof of onward travel before they will allow you on the plane. It is my impression that this is just a colossal scam to sucker you into buying another ticket with their airline. To avert this I bought one ticket to Dublin and then a completely separate one to Prague. So if I am asked in JFK if I have proof of onward travel I can say "Yes, I am going on to Prague, would you like to see my itinerary?" Well, I am going on to Prague a few hours after I land in Ireland but I think I will keep this fact to myself. It will be a quick visit to Ireland, I suppose. Hey, I am a fast man.

Map of my air flight from Rochester, New York to Dublin, Ireland to Prague in the Czech Republic. Click on the map to make it bigger.

But this little flip-flopping of the onward ticket restriction should do the trick, and the two flights cost me just the same as a single flight that goes straight to Prague. For more about subverting onward ticket restrictions go to, Onward Tickets for Oneway Travelers.

Travel plan for Eastern Europe: fly into Prague then walk, hitch-hike, and maybe ride a bike through Hungary, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, Albania, Serbia, Romania, Bulgaria, and then on to Turkey. Click on the above map to make it bigger.

From Prague I have no real idea of where I am going. Initially, I thought that I will take the fast road straight away to Turkey and the Middle East, but now I am thinking that I may want to travel around Eastern Europe and the Balkans for a while. I am thinking of deep blue skies, clouds, lush green fields, and good walking. The taste for Eastern Europe is sinking into my mouth. I may stay for a while and travel the wavy path that is in the map above.

Map of the Czech Republic

I have always dreamed of traveling in Eastern Europe, and I think that it would be frivolous to just run through it on the quick Road to elsewhere. I can remember being an 18 year old punk kid working a short stint at a Blimpies sub shop in Connecticut and thinking about the day that I would be tramping in Eastern Europe. I made crappy sandwiches and could never remember if I was to put the cheese on before the meat or the meat before the cheese, but I did dream my way through the Eastern European hills. Menial jobs make for a free mind, and during my few weeks of making subs in Connecticut I was mentally hitch-hiking across the Balkans.

Now, nearly a decade later, I shall do it.

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Photos from France

Photos from France

In the winter of 2007 I found myself traveling in France for the second time. The first time I rode a ferry boat over from Ireland and landed in Cherbourg. After around an hour of walking around I decided that it was high time to head out to Spain, and I immediately hoped a train to Paris and then boarded another one bound west. I did not even know that I was in Spain when I woke up the next morning, and I stumbled out of the train station and into the street. I spoke some nonsense in Spanish to an old woman in the street and confirmed that I really did board the correct train in Paris and really ended up in Spain.

The second time that I traveled in France was last winter when I went to visit some good friends from Chile in the south. The following photos are from this second visit:



The above two photographs are of French Muslims selling fruits and vegetables at a market and the Roman forum in Nimes, France
Photos from France-

Rural France

Roman Ruins in Nimes France

Costa Rica and France

South of France

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
In Antigua, Guatemala
May 5, 2008

Cafe Abroad Article on Graffiti

Cafe Abroad Article on Graffiti

The Spring 2008 issue of Cafe Abroad magazine is out, and it contains the article that I wrote about Portuguese Graffiti. To read it, please go to: http://www.cafeabroadinprint.com/pages/page_12.html
and http://www.cafeabroadinprint.com/pages/page_13.html

$50 in a travelers pocket can never be refused. Thanks Dan, for allowing me write for my food!

On Song of the Open Road:

Graffiti in Portugal: The other side of the wall





Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Heredia, Costa Rica
February 5, 2008

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New Year's Eve in France

News Year’s Eve in France

I once heard a story about how everybody in France throws all of their old furniture out of the window and into the streets below at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. I waited up for it this year in France, and I did not even hear a squirrel chirp, let alone the crash of old couches, chairs, and tv sets.

“Lets throw something out the window ” Mira yelled at midnight. “Wade Grab something and throw it out the window ”

Our friends, whose house we were staying at, just clutch apprehensively to their furniture.

I suppose this was a French tradition that we would not be celebrating this year. But I think that it is a good tradition. The streets of France is so full of dog shit anyway that a few broken couches would probably just serve to clean it up a little. . . or at least mush it around.

But this New Year’s Eve would be celebrated Chilean style. With a good meal followed up with tequila, lemons, and salt. . . and my friend JessieAnne Salsa dancing and singing until six in the morning. Mira received her first tattoo from Sergio as we danced around them- frolicking and making jokes. It was a fun night, and celebrated just as a New Year’s Eve should be.

Friends. Fun. Singing. Dancing.

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Marrkech, Morocco
January 6, 2008

On Leaving France

On Leaving France

My exit from France last Wednesday began with a big rush to the train station in Ales. I thought I forgot my camera at my friend’s home when we were half way there. I did the math and determined that it would be cheaper and less of a hassle to ditch the flight to Morocco and return to pick up my camera- a one of a kind Sanyo that I scooped up in Shanghai a year ago. But luckily, my travel instincts kicked in, and, unbeknown to me, I packed my camera in my bag. Good, Mira would have been pissed if I made her stay in France for the sake of a silly camera.

I usually keep all of my traveling gear in its proper place. If something is not where I keep it, I give it up for lost. I do not lose many things. If fact, the last thing that I lost was a red plaid shirt in the Hong Kong airport as I was being frisked by the police for carrying a big machete through their realm of control. They told me that big knifes are forbidden in Hong Kong. I told them that I was an archaeologist and needed big knifes. They let me keep it, but shot me through the spin of “due process” none the less. I lost my shirt somewhere in the shuffle. I am still upset about this haha.

So Mira and I said farewell to our dear Chilean friends in France on Wednesday morning and boarded the train to Marseille. It was a good stay with really good people. I hope they found the gift that we left for them inside of their scanner (hint, hint ). Seldom does a traveler find such genuine people on the Open Road. We will miss them.

Without hassle we traveled on to Marrakech, Morocco.

Photograph from Marrakech

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Marrakech, Morocco
January 5, 2008

Driving in France

Driving in France

I have been driving a car in France for the past month. This was the first country outside of the USA that I ever had to drive in, and, I must say, it has been a learning experience. The car that I am driving here is a broken down Euro-edition Ford jaloppy that is falling apart on all fronts. The alignment is perilously off-kilter, some of the gears don't work, it has a sensitive clutch, and squeaks from all corners. My friends purchased this vehicle from an Arab who they took to be honest, as he was friends with their cousin. He told them that it ran great and had no problems. I will let you make the judgment call here.

The traffic police in France are resplendent of the Third Reich, and my friend lost her license after a number of shadily recorded traffic violations. You see, the police in France do not stop and pull over violators of traffic rules; rather, they take a photo of a license plate and mail a bill to the registered address. So you could be driving for a week or two and have no idea that you wrapped up a collection of speeding tickets. The costs of these fines are also astronomical and the police do not give much of a speed buffer either- my friend received a $100 ticket for going 4 km over the speed limit 10 minutes after she got a speeding ticket for going 10 over. Two speeding tickets in less than 10 minutes. Over a $200 fine.

I wonder how many traffic tickets I racked up? Is it even legal for me to drive here?

Now I learned to drive on the organized, straight highways of the USA. The roadways of France are anything but straight forward. France is an old culture and the cities and villages were not made for automobile traffic. The streets here wind, dip, dive, and turn without apparent rhyme or reason. I have been driving here for the past month, and I am just now beginning to get the hang of it.

But I still always go the wrong way. It is just what I do.

If I am presented with a choice between the right way and wrong way, I will always go the wrong way. I kind of like my directional sense. To go the right way insinuates that you know where you are going. I have no idea where this path will lead me. I find excitement in getting lost, in going the wrong way. I want to go in the exact opposite direction than what I set out in. It is simply more interesting this way. Who wants to know where they are going anyway?

There are many intersection circles here where the traffic has to drive around the circle to make turns. At first, I thought that these were very stupid and I began to feel a little pride about the straightness and right angles inherent to driving in the USA. I hated those darn traffic circles and could not figure them out. I would often try to go straight through one but somehow end up in a parking lot, on another road, or lost in the French countryside in the middle of the night. But after a month of driving in France, I realize that these circles are a really good idea. I have gotten use to them. They make it unnecessary to come to a complete stop before making a turn, which not only makes it slightly easier to turn, but greatly reduces the risk of being railed from behind while sitting at stop signs in the countryside.

I like traffic circles. They annoyed me at first, but I have now discovered their merit.

This was kind of like coming to terms with another culture. Often times the first taste of a new culture is not too sweet . . .they sometimes seem to not make any sense. But after a month of confusion they begin to make a little sense. You can start seeing through the door to the other side. The point where different cultural practices no longer seem stupid is a sure sign that you are learning.

To learn and accept other cultures is one of the most interesting aspects of traveling. This process is sometimes a lot of work. makes no sense, and can even be a long, hard road. The moment you wake up and realize that it is you who are stupid- and not the traffic circles- is the moment that you can really begin to accept the world as it is.

For more photos from France please go to Photographs from the Open Road's France Photos

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 30, 2007

Tattoos in Chile and Friends

Tattoos in Chile and Friends

"No hay mal que por bien no venga."

There is no bad from which good does not come.
-Old Latin American adage

I have not been with my Chilean friends since those fateful days I was tramping around South America. In Santiago, goods and amenities are divided into their own towering buildings by their particular attributes. Therefore, if you want underwear you just go to the building that only sells underwear and you will find hundreds of stores vending the same pairs of panties. These buildings are kind of like small shopping malls where all the shops only sell the same type of good.

A very simple way of shopping, I say, for people who are just out to buy underwear.

Well, the tattoo studios, underground record stores, and heavy metal t-shirt shops in Santiago are divided along these same lines and, likewise, have their own little mall. It is in the district of Providencia, and entering it is like coming into some kind of heavy metal roost of the underworld. Tattoo parlors upon tattoo parlors are only interrupted by the occasional record store.

I entered into this dark pit of Santiago’s sub-culture a young, long-haired, sapling of a traveler. I was in the market for a tattoo and was told that this was the place to find an artist. As I walked through the doors, I realized that I had been directed to the correct location.

So I began walking past the tattoo studios trying to get a feel for the quality of tattoo art in Santiago, Chile. The shops were arranged around a square around a central corridor and a ramp winded the way up past the storefronts like a screw. As I walked by these tattoo studios I looked at all the photos of the artist’s work that hung on display in the windows. The first five tattoo studios did not seem to do very good work, so I walked on up the ramp to the second and then the third floor of the building. At this point, I did not find a tattoo studio that stood out as being particularly good or inviting.

I soon found myself at the doorstep of Pablo Barrios tattoo shop. The photos displaying his work passed my inspection criteria, so I walked in to talk to him. I found a bald guy inside tattooing some stupid design on the lower back of a blond with big tits, tiny waist, and a big ass. She could have stepped out of a bikini magazine and I would not have been the wiser.

It was more than apparent that Pablo Barrios was far too interested in his rather sexy client to bother with some chump 21 year old gringo. I stood there for around ten minutes staring at him before he looked up from the blond’s rather plump rear section to notice me.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“A tattoo.”

He then flung me one of his portfolios and promptly went back to the ass.

I realized then that I was not beautiful enough to be tattooed by this dick.

So I slipped unnoticed out of his studio and was just about to give up my tattoo hunt, when I noticed that there was one last tattoo parlor a little further up the ramp. I stood in indecision for a moment, but then figured that it would not hurt to check out this last shop.

It was called Cuerpo Orgulloso Tattoo, and it seem to have something about it that was a little different than the rest of the tattoo studios in the building. I looked at the tattoo photos in the window for a moment and, please at what I found, entered upon a scene that was far different than the other shops. People were all sitting around joking and laughing with each other, smiles greeted my entry, and the happy hum of tattoo machines resounded over this jovial setting. I was immediately meet warmly by the receptionist as she quickly engaged me in some in-depth conversation about politics or something. I was made a friend in an instant and the artist agreed to tattoo me after he was finished with his other clients. This was how I met Sergio Villagran and his wife JessieAnne.

Small plastic cups of chicha soon began falling first into my hands, and then into my belly. Friends were made and a new tattoo was stamped upon my hide. We celebrated.

I then left the studio and returned to Cuerpo Orgulloso Tattoo a month later with Erik the Pilot for another bout of tattooing and friends . . . Chilean style.

Over the five intervening years since I said farewell to these friends on a daybreak Santiago city bus after a long night, I have not forgotten them for an instant.

I have been visiting them at their home in the South of France for the past month.

And now, good readers, you know how I met these friends from Chile, so I can carry on with my yarn.

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 29, 2007

Epidemic in France

Epidemic in France

According to the Chinese calendar, this is the year of the Fire Pig: a year for epidemics, famine, and plague. Right now in the South of France over a million people are in the hospital with a virus that has been spread around to almost every person in this region. The hospitals have now closed their doors- there are no more beds, no free doctors, they are packed to standing room only capacity- and the people are left to fend off this epidemic on their own.

I awoke a couple of days ago to a very ill household here in Anduze. Mira, the three children, and their father were all horridly ill. It was like an infirmary. I discovered that I was not really affected by this illness and just found a quiet spot away from the sick people to abscond. I uneasily let the day pass in front of the computer screen, trying to ignore the rapturous groans from the other room.

Luckily, this epidemic is not very serious. It is just a gastro-intestinal virus that hits hard for a day or two and then passes. There is also a strand of bronchitis going around that seems to be slightly more serious.

The amazing thing here is that this virus spread to nearly everyone in the South of France within a couple of days. It was an enthralling experience to comprehend how thoroughly and quickly and illness can strike down an entire population. For a day, it was as if the plague had struck. Nobody was in the streets, the town was empty, and only the moans of the ill could be heard. It is truly possible for a virus to cut down millions of people in this modern age.

I now have a defacto impression of the potential impact of epidemics.

From the Wellspring Astrolog:
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The Chinese Fire Pig symbol (Fire over Water) contains a special character that forms an accelerant. The year has potential for situations to gather speed; to burn out of control.

In Chinese astrology, clashes of Fire & Water have powerful, uncontrollable effects, while transformation takes place. Situations flare up quickly and propel out of control.

The Water element denotes clandestine affairs, 'behind the scenes', danger. It can indicate physical floods & large scale water problems - potential for extensive damage and destruction.

Fire Pig has harmonious elements, but harmony is lost when situations are out of control. Fire Pig years have been fraught with incidents: wars, political takeovers, enormous unrest.
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The year of the Fire Pig does not end until the 8th of February. There is still time for this year to spiral out of control. The Chinese learned of their environment through centuries of close observation. They believe in such signs.

From what I witnessed here in the South of France, I can see the pertinence behind such warnings. I remember when I was studying Traditional Chinese Medicine in Hangzhou, China earlier this year how afraid my professor was of the Fire Pig. He prophesied world-wide famine, epidemic, and strife. I looked into his eyes, and realized that he really was afraid. His belief was enough to even set me a little off-kilter.

So far, I do not think the expectations of year of the Fire Pig has fully panned out. But from what I witness of this epidemic of a slightly minor virus in France, I know that these next two months could actualize these warnings.

Epidemics move quickly. It was amazing to watch one in action.

Frightening, I must say.

Wade from VagabondJourney.com
Anduze, France
December 28, 2007

Christmas in France

Christmas in France

Passed Christmas in France with friends from Chile. It was a real warm time as I watched their three children open their presents. They yelled and screamed with excitement and kissed and hugged the newly minted pink plastic toys that they freshly unwrapped. Christmas in France was really nice. Mira and I gave the children plastic fish and dinosaurs. The little boy now walks around the house all day trying to hang on to all of them at the same time. He asked his mother this morning if she could buy him a pair of pants with pockets big enough to accommodate all of his fish and dinosaur toys, so that wherever he goes, he will have his toys. The kid is a traveler! I exclaim. This may be my next travel tip- “How to make pockets big enough to carry all of your toys.” Haha.

My friends are from Chile and they celebrate the “Santa Clause” aspect of Christmas a little differently than we do in the USA. In Chile, all of a child’s presents come from Santa, while, in the USA, some of the gifts come from Santa and the rest from parents, friends, etc . . . I suppose us Norte Americanos have some objection to giving all of the gift-giving credit to an old, fat man. But the Chilean way is pretty interesting, and is probably more in line with the origins of the Christmas tradition. It is just really funny that the children believe that their parents had absolutely nothing to do with their gifts. “Mom, why can’t you be more like Santa Claus?,” they ask. The parents get tongue-tied, as their own tradition and graciousness comes back to bite them. We laugh.

Oh, another Christmas passes. I have been on the Road for a long time, but I think that this is actually only the third Christmas that I have not been with my family. The first I was in Peru in '01, the second was last year in China, and now this year in France. I often try to time my visits back to the USA so that they correspond with Christmas. My mother loves for me to be there. Being away from my family for so long is the biggest drawback to being a traveler. As traveling and family life are slightly mutually exclusive. But now there are many new devices to enable us travelers to remain a little closer to our families. Skype, Truphone on Facebook (has a few mild catches), and other services now allow us the ability to call home whenever we want for a surprisingly marginal amount of money, email has enabled us to get letters delivered quickly, and these blogs and websites allow us to tell the world what we are doing, thinking, and feeling. Now is probably one of the best times in world history to be a traveler. But I must take Loren Everly’s position when I say that I do not think that it can last much longer. Something has to give. Us travelers will soon find ourselves walking down the hard road before we know it. Enjoy the world and the ease of travel now I say, as tomorrow we may be trodding down a different path, while humming a far more perilous tune.
So it was Christmas. Sent Merry Christmas emails and made phone calls to family and Erik the Pilot. Just remembered that I did not send Stubbs my regard.

Stubbs is one of my best friends. He understands. This is one of the great things about real friends: if you do not call them on the holidays, they do not get upset. This is because they know that we are truly friends, and we do not have to prove it. You do not even have to talk to your friends to regard them as such. But I miss Stubbs. I think I want to talk to the guy soon. Maybe I will go into the woods and track him soon. Or perhaps I can coerce him into a mad three months in Brooklyn with me?

Christmas in France. Quiet. Empty. Drunken. Ideal. Christmas is for children. They know the world because they can still believe.

Chateau de Tornac XIIE outside of Anduze, France

I still believe in fairy tales.

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 26, 2007

The Dancing Hitchhiker Video

The Dancing Hitchhiker Video

After standing on the side of a highway in France for a touch longer than she fancied, Mira from WanderjahrJill came up with a new way to get a ride:

Dancing

That is right, not even a little leg show or burly old me hiding in the bushes was going to get these French drivers to stop, but Mira dancing, and the both of us laughing and having a good time, was just the ticket to warming a Frenchman's heart in winter.

So Mira took off her hobo hat and stoic glare and cut a rug right on the side of the highway. And it worked. Withing minutes we had four different offers to take us in the opposite direction than we were traveling. A few minutes later we landed a ride in a sleek sports car going straight to the city that we after.

This may seem odd, but who would want to pick up a couple of grumpy old hitchhikers? My travel advice: if you want a ride, make the drivers laugh. People pick up hitchhikers not just out of the kindness of their hearts, but also because they want a story, some one to talk to, an adventure, to laugh, or because they are just bored. To make yourself seem like a humorous chap while thumbing it is a sure way to hitchhike across the planet with assurance . . . and laughs.

The Dancing Hitchhiker Video is below:



Notice how she stopped dancing for the truck drivers . . . Wanderjahr Jill did not want to advertise anything other than her dancing ability. haha.

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 23, 2007

In Montpellier France

In Montpellier France

Montpellier seemed to be a decent place to walk around for a day. . . Or ride the tram. I think buying an all-day pass on a city train system and just riding around at random all day is now one of my favorite things to do. You never know where you are going to end up. I like this feeling. We ended up in the outskirts of the city in an area that was largely Muslim.

It is interesting to me how large the Muslim populations are that surround every major city in Southern France. Mira and I went into a KFC in the outskirts of Nimes to use the bathroom and it was completely full of Muslims. I thought that I was back in Morocco for a moment.

In Montpellier, Mira and I just road the tram and loafed about the city eating loafs of cheap bread. Old, Old and made of stone is Montpellier. I could just imagine the stories that must breathe out of the cracks in these cobblestone streets. Montpellier was a nice terminus to our short hitch-hiking journey.
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From the Wikipedia

Montpellier came to prominence in the 10th century as a trading centre, with trading links across the Mediterranean world and a rich Jewish cultural life and traditions of tolerance of its Muslims, Jews and Cathars— and later of its Protestants. William VII of Montpellier established a faculty of medicine in 1180, recognised by Pope Nicholas IV; the city's university was established in 1220 and was one of the chief centers for the teaching of medicine. This marked the high point of Montpellier's prominence. The city became a possession of the kings of Aragon in 1213 by the marriage of Peter II of Aragon with Marie of Montpellier, who brought the city as her dowry. Montpellier gained a charter in 1204 when Peter and Marie confirmed the city's traditional freedoms and granted the city the right to choose twelve governing consuls annually. Montpellier remained a possession of the crown of Aragon until it passed to James III of Majorca, who sold the city to the French king Philip VI in 1349, to raise funds for his ongoing struggle with Peter IV of Aragon.
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Hmm . . .I suppose people could just sell cities then. Imagine that. I know of a few cities that should be sold.

Photograph of downtown Montpellier

For more Photos of Montpellier, France please go to Montpellier Photographs

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 22, 2007

Hitch-Hiking in France Part 2

Hitch-Hiking in France Part 2

To read the first part of this European hitch-hiking story please go to Hitch-Hiking to Andorra in Winter

Mira and I walked on from the highway junction that lead to Ales towards Nimes. We just tramped in the glorious French countryside and figured that if we would not get far hitch-hiking, we would at least hike. We had everything that we needed- three sleeping bags and enough clothing- to sleep the night outside, so we cared not where we ventured to. We just about gave up the idea of hitching to Andorra, when a car came to a quick halt next to us and offered a ride to Nimes.

We were back in the saddle again.

So we jumped into the car and introduced ourselves to the driver. His name was Yannick and could speak a little English.

“English was my favorite subject in school,” he said, “everything else, I did not learn.”

So Mira and I gave him a good ol’ English lesson as we rode on to Nimes. Yannick proved to be as hospitable guy as he seemed and he offered his place up for us to stay at for as long as we wanted. If Mira knew the cold night that was in store for her, she may have jumped at this offer.

Photograph of Mira with Yannick

Our Camp in a culvert next to the highway

But we were again set on making it to Andorra, and quickly set out to get a little food and find the highway once in Nimes. This task proved arduous as we had to walk across the entire city in order to find the on-ramp to the highway. A couple of hours slipped by, and it was near evening before we found it.

Once there, we walked up to the toll booths and began hitch-hiking.

Zoom, zoom, the cars flew by without scarcely noticing us.

I tried to hide in the bushes, so that the drivers would think that Mira was a poor little girl wandering alone, but she only received the interests of sleazy looking truck drivers, and we decided to give up this pursuit.

Then Mira started dancing.

“Stop dancing!” I yelled between bouts of laughter. “Nobody wants to pick up a dancing hitch-hiker!”

She refused to stop dancing.

We begin wrestling a little. I was trying anything that I could think of to just make her stop dancing, but she persevered and kept dancing on. We are laughing and having a really good time at this point and pretty much forgot all about the task of hitching a lift.

Then something odd happened:

The cars began to stop.

Four different vehicles full of laughing French people stopped to offer us rides to Marseille, which was the opposite direction from which we were traveling. We turned these rides down as we still wanted to make Andorra, but the dancing hitch-hiker graft was really working.

Mira kept dancing, and a passing sports car almost immediately ground to a halt to pick us up. We decided to just get inside and go wherever the driver was going. If we go to Marseille, then we will continue on to Italy . . . if we go to Montpellier, then we keep on to Andorra. Surprisingly, the driver was going to Montpellier, and we got a ride all the way there.

Mira sat in the front seat and did not say a word to our host for the entire time. I think she may have creeped him out a little. Especially since she kept peaking behind and whispering to me in the back seat. I began feeling like a real weirdo, sitting in someone else’s car in stone cold silence, but I could not restrain a little laugh at our discomfort. I tried to get Mira to introduce herself to the driver, but she just giggled shyly and refused. Finally, I muttered something in French from the back seat, and was surprisingly understood. We now knew each others names, and that was all we needed as we rode forth to Montpellier.

We had the driver let us out by the highway on-ramp, and waved a big good bye. We were now in the dusk of this day and light was quickly fading. We walked up the other side of the highway ramp and stuck out our thumbs for one last chance at making Andorra before day’s end.

We were not in the best place for hitch-hiking, as there was way too much traffic going a little to quickly. But we stood with our thumbs out and hoped for the best.

And we got the worst.

The ugliest woman in Europe soon swaggered up to the highway with a mass of luggage. It became apparent that she was also hitch-hiking, so I offered a friendly wave. The ugliest woman in Europe then flew into a rage and began screaming at us to go away. Hitch-hiking is sometimes very competitive in Europe, and we had to make it clear to the ugliest woman in Europe that we were going to stand our ground, and she began yelling at us with a new found intensity. She wave her arms, contorted her already ugly face, and shot us every rude gesture that she could think of while screeching about how hitch-hiking is prohibited. We soon grew weary of this ugly lady yelling at us, so I attempted to look tough and told her to go fuck herself.

She went away.

The ugliest woman in Europe soon got picked up by a truck driver, and I can only imagine what she ate for dinner that night.

Photograph of Montpellier

After waving goodbye to the ugliest woman in Europe, Mira and I got the feeling that we were not going to get out of Montpellier that night. So we then began looking for a place to camp out on the sly. It would be cold that night, so we walked into the shopping district on the outskirts of the city to try to get some tentative warmth by hanging out in a department store. We found and Ikea and got really lost inside of it. But we came out with a bottle of Christmas Glog (a Swedish spiced cinnamon wine) and drank it heartily as we trod on through the night.

We went looking for suitable place to sleep by the highway, but only found brush, briars, and burrs. We debated just laying out the sleeping bags and ignoring it all, but the brush proved to be a little too much. So Mira and I went across to the other side of the highway to find out how we would fare there. We soon found a good little sleeping place on the lee side of a culvert, and bedding down.

The next morning, after a sleepless night of freezing, Mira was not in the mood for hitch-hiking any more. Even though I slept soundly that night, I understood. I did not want to bring my cold little woman into the even colder Pyrenees Mountains. So we called off this hitch-hiking voyage for the time being and set off for a day of lazily walking about Montpellier.

More photos f