Category: Words

Over the course of last weekend and early this week, I spent five days riding from Barcelona to Munich. My route crossed many beautiful places, from the coastal Pyrenees, through the wine regions of Languedoc-Rousillon and Provence, up and over the Alps from France to Italy, thence to the low agricultural plains of northwestern Italy, and once more across the Alps – this time through the long fjord-like lakes of Italy and over the solid rocky heart through Switzerland and Austria before finally dropping down again for the final stretch to Munich.

It was tough to leave Barcelona – I spent four days there after my dusty fabulous week at Nowhere, and really fell in love with the place. It’s beautiful and warm, filled with delicious food and a lovely, genial population. It helped, of course, that I had great new friends to stay with right in the center of the city. I liked it so much there that I’m planning to spend the month of November there, to take Spanish lessons (I know, it’s a Catalonian city – one friend likened this to going to Quebec to study English), spend more time with my new friends there and have a comfortable jumping-off spot for day and overnight trips around Spain.

Once I was on the road, however, it was pretty riding. Despite sticking to the motorway for the day’s travel, the trip across the Pyrenees – close to the Mediterranean coast – was very scenic. Once through the mountains and into France, I rode along the coast – and through numerous vineyard areas – for a while before heading north again to Montpellier, my destination for the night.

Once in Montpellier, I met up with Helene, my Couchsurfing host for the night. After I’d had a chance to clean up a bit, we went into the city center for an impromptu tour of historical and architectural locales, then to the central plaza for the weekly Friday night fest – food, wine and tchotchke vendors, live music and more. Helene is a tango dancer, and I was delighted to get a chance to watch her dance with several partners – I’d never watched tango in person before, and found it to be visually very sensual and appealing. Watching it also made me realize how much I’ve missed my days of swing dancing, one of the many activities that have fallen by the wayside as my ankle has gotten worse over the years (for those who don’t know, I have arthritis in my right ankle as a result of several bad sprains many years ago).

The next morning, we each headed on our way – Helene to visit her mother, and I to cross the Alps into France, with the goal of reaching Lugano, Switzerland. Well, that wasn’t to be until the next day – I was so taken by the beauty of the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence region that I lingered. I dawdled. I (figuratively) dragged my feet, soaking in the loveliness. And then, late in the day, I entered Les Gorges du Verdon, and was undone. The Verdon Gorge – sometimes referred to as the Grand Canyon of Europe – is a stunning, deep river canyon (up to 700m at its deepest) through sheer limestone walls. I was there just too late to see the evening sun coloring the walls, but couldn’t help but imagine them painted in the reds and pinks and oranges which danced across the stone faces just before the entrance to the gorge itself.

Once through the most spectacular portion of the gorge, I pulled into a campsite just outside of La Palud-sur-Verdon. It was there the next morning where I realized that, in addition to tourists with an interest in natural beauty, the Verdon Gorge was a magnet for rock climbers. The unmistakeable clink of carabiners and other climbing protection tinkled quietly from several campsites around me, as climbers from all over Europe prepared for the day’s adventures. For me, it was back into the saddle and up and over the Alps, from France into Italy. That day was probably the single most technical day of riding I’ve ever experienced. For the riders and road geeks out there, check out this map of my route: La Palud-sur-Verdon to Barcelonette to Cuneo. Zoom in on the section between Colmars and Barcelonnette, and again in Italy, on the stretch from just west of Argentera to about Pontebernardo. I didn’t manage to ride the Dragon’s Tail in the Smokies on my way across the US, but I think this day made up for it. Of course, it would’ve been nicer without the torrential rain on the climb out of Barcelonnette to around Meyronnes. Yes, that would’ve been much nicer.

As I mentioned before, my goal for the day was to reach Lugano, CH – but crossing two passes in the Alps, one in heavy rain, had wrung me out completely by the time I reached reasonably flat terrain again near Cuneo. I pushed on for a while until I realized the utter depth of my exhaustion, and stopped for the night in Fossano, where I dried out, got some food and a beer, and collapsed like a lump into my bed.

The next day, I struck out for Lugano. Another beautiful day’s riding, this time through rolling hills and down onto the flat plains of northwestern Italy. My route took me past vineyards, huge fields of corn and the deep emerald lushness of many rice paddies. I rode through and by towns with familiar names – Alba, Asti – gently cursing the fact that delicious wines and motorcycling don’t mix, and then entered the stunning Lakes District as I approached Lugano, and with it more rain.

Sadly, I failed to connect with a friend working the summer in Lugano, as his work schedule and my reticence to don my sodden riding gear conspired to keep us apart. So I found myself a bed in the local hostel, a decent meal and a few beers, and then delicious slumber.

My final day’s ride of this particular sprint took me deep into and across the heart of the Alps – along the coastline of Lago di Lugano and Lago di Como, then up and up into deep valleys lined with sharp serrated cliffs of stone. Through Switzerland into Italy, then back into Switzerland again for several beautiful passes before descending through the Tyrolean Alps of Austria – to my eyes the most beautiful region of the Alps I’ve seen to date.

Finally, after threading my way through the northern valleys, into Germany and hurtling on the A9 to Munich, where I was warmly greeted by my friends Mellington and Oliver. I spent several fun days in Munich visiting with them – and with Margherita and Andrea, new friends met at Nowhere – but that telling can wait for another day.

[If you’re not interested in Burning Man and its culture, you might want to skip this one.]

At the beginning of July, after spending a month in northern Europe, I pointed southward, destination: Nowhere.

The Nowhere Festival is an eight-year-old festival inspired by Burning Man, held in the Aragon desert of northern Spain. Many of you know that I’ve been attending Burning Man, Critical Massive (the WA state BM regional event) and similar BM-inspired events since 2000. I first heard about Nowhere around 2005, from a few of my friends in Europe who went early on, when there were around 200 attendees.

Due to my limited carrying capacity for the food, water and amenities necessary for a week-long festival, I put a few calls out to join a barrio (Nowhere-ese for theme camp) with a food plan. I was eagerly received into the Garden of Joy, a barrio organized by a lovely group of Italian Burners. I immediately felt at home on arrival, being warmly greeted by Maggie (who initially answered my call) and Marco, the camp’s organizer and “spiritual leader” for lack of a better term (most of the Italians affectionately refer to Marco as “Baba”, from Satya Sai Baba, the famous Hindu guru).

It could have just as easily been called the Garden of Decadence. There was a misting system installed in the common areas, keeping the temperature easily 5-10°C cooler than any other camp. An entire Jamon d’Iberico on the kitchen table, casually draped with a towel to keep flies off. Two refrigerators, electric and gas stoves, a thumping sound system, daily food deliveries from Sari?ena (the closest town), excellent meals, all the amenities a happy Burner might need.

Most of all, the Garden was home to an incredible group of people – Italian, French, Dutch, British, Spanish, American, Canadian, Kiwi and more – I was lucky to find such a welcoming home and wonderful company, many of whom I expect and hope to see again during my travels.

Official attendance this year was around 650 people, mostly folks who’d bought tickets in advance, but also a few locals who had heard about the event and came out to satisfy their curiosity.

Burners: if time and circumstance combine to present an opportunity to attend this event, I strongly recommend it. It was quite possibly my favorite burn yet – I think in large part because I knew basically nobody on arrival, so was immediately forced out of my comfort zone.

A few personal highlights and observations of the event (a few of these will only be meaningful to people who have camped with me on the playa for various years):

• The entrance road was my first real opportunity to put my RawHyde Adventure School training to use. It was about 20km off dirt road, including steep downhills, switchbacks, gravel and fine silty sand. I am pleased to report that I handled all with nothing more than minor trepidation.
• Upon my arrival at the gate, as I was waiting my turn to check in, I was astonished by one of the passengers of the next vehicle to arrive: none other than Miss Normal, former Mayor of Gigsville, former Seattle resident. I see her every 2-3 years on the playa. I suppose this is just another incarnation of playa, but wow were we both surprised (in the “WHAT! THE! FUCK!?! sort of way).
• During the opening ceremony, hearing a shocked voice say “STUART?!” and turning to see my friend Kyra, whom I hadn’t seen since a very spectacular wedding quite a few years ago. I knew she’d be there, she had no idea I would.
• 600 people doing the hokey pokey.
• Azzura, one of the Italians, had a howler monkey. Not a flying ninja howler monkey, but still. My brain still reels a bit thinking of it.
• As much as I love Repetitive Inside Joke Camp, I rather despise Other Peoples’ Repetitive Inside Joke Camp. Particularly at 7:30 in the morning when I’m just waking and as yet uncaffeinated, and the Other People in question are obnoxiously altered and loud “guests” of our camp. Which is to say: “time to go back to your own camp now, lovelies”.
• A key highlight: watching the documentary “Combust In Unity”, about the 2008 KiwiBurn. One of the filmmakers was a campmate. The film was a little rough, mostly due to being zero budget and very limited camera tech, but well worth the viewing.
• Logistics: pit toilets, shallow pits for vegetable food waste. Center Camp == “Middle of Nowhere”. The few big sound camps situated reasonably near each other, but with sound systems pointing in basically different directions.

Summary: If you dig Burning Man and have the opportunity, GO NOWHERE!

My friend Monika, with whom I am staying while in London, is a talented costumer in addition to being a living statue and mime performer. The other day, she generously asked me to do a rather impromptu photo shoot of her and her friend Marta in some of the costumes she’s made. Being a big fan of pretty women in fun outfits, I heartily agreed.

Here are a few shots from the day … needless to say, this was an incredibly fun time! :)

PausePlayPlayPrev|Next

_DSC2896

_DSC2936

_DSC2989

_DSC3093

_DSC3147

_DSC3194

_DSC3226

_DSC3417

_DSC3469

Everything here was shot using available light – luckily the sky was providing a big softbox, varying between overcast and drizzly for most of the shoot. Nikon D700 with 50/1.8, 16-35/4, 70-200/2.8.

After my first frustrating night in England, my travels here have been delightful, interspersed with wonder at the sheer beauty of the landscape. I spent a couple days visiting a friend in Nottingham, then northward to Glasgow where I stayed in a hostel for a night, ate haggis, drank Scottish ale and slept well.

The next day I pointed myself toward Oban, with a constant palette of cool and gray and drizzly . I took the A82 up past Loch Lomond and Trossachs Towers National Park. Despite the rain, this was a glorious drive. The loch road is very very twisty and narrow, making for a very fun morning. Once I passed the loch itself and started up into the Highlands, the terrain grew rougher, wilder, more spartan. Rivers and streams crashed and trilled down the hillsides, filling the air with the music of water.

On the recommendation of my friend Iain, rather than picking up the A85 route to Oban – which would have been more direct – I continued on A82 up to Glencoe and Ballachulish. Simply gorgeous countryside, rugged and green in a sparse fashion.

I spent the night just outside Oban, couchsurfing with a fellow named Leo who lives in a WWII era signal station on the hill above Ganavan.

The next day, I headed south back into England, this time to ride through the Lake District. When I mentioned this route to Leo, he said “It’s like Little Scotland”, and I would have to agree with the sentiment.

In fact, the route I took through the Lake District was so lovely that (after another lovely night couchsurfing in Ulverston in the South Lake Peninsulas, with a charming British woman named Katie) I decided to retrace it the next morning, despite the several hour backtrack. For the return trip, I set up my GoPro camera and created a little time-lapse of the trip. Warning, it might be a little dizzying!

[vimeo clip_id=25859142 width=590]

From the Lakes, I headed south and west into Wales. I stayed the night in Newtown, in a charmless but functional guesthouse – part of its functionality was having a pub downstairs serving a perfectly acceptable bitter. The following day I rode south to Brecon, through Brecon Beacons National Park, and then on into London where I am now.

A few times already I’ve found myself regretted the whirlwind nature of my first few months in Europe stemming from various plans and meetings and rendezvous at far-flung points across the continent. Now is definitely one of those times. I’ve already decided that I’m going to need to return to the UK in the future, with hopefully a month or two to ride around at a more lesiurely pace. I didn’t have time to make it to Jura, I’d love to explore the northwest of Scotland, and want to revisit the Lake District and see more of Wales.

When I arrived in the UK, my first stop was Dover, to see the famed White Cliffs. Which are lovely.

After that, it’s been a bit of a debacle. My first night here I spent nearly five hours looking for a hotel room, finally falling into an available bed at nearly 4am after riding until the sky began to grow light.

I’ve already reconciled myself to the fact that I probably don’t have time to get to Jura, where I hope to visit the Shaw homelands.

But now? Now my motorcycle is due for a 6000 mile service (mostly oil change), and can’t get an appointment until at least Tuesday (in Nottingham, where I am currently), and at some dealers not for 2-3 weeks. I’ve been advised by a service manager in Edinburgh not to do the oil change myself, since there are apparently other checks as part of the 6k. I’ve also been advised not to stick with my Scotland plans with hopes of getting an appointment in London next Fri or Sat, as said plans will probably put me another 1000 miles or more past the interval mark.

Argh!

At this point I’m tempted to call all the dealers in London and see if any of them can help me out tomorrow. If so, I may just head there, get the needed service, and spend a few days in the southern part of the UK, blowing off Scotland plans entirely. Which is a disappointing option for me, admittedly, but I do need to be good to my trusty steed if it’s going to carry me as far as I plan to go.

Or, I could just drink a delicious alcoholic ginger beer and figure it all out later.

I am in love, and it makes me hurt.

Brugge, Belgium is quite possibly the most beautiful city I have ever seen. I’m staying just three minutes’ walk to the center square, and I’ve walked there three times in the 24 hours I’ve been here so far. I have, for the first time since arriving in Europe, thought that I could possibly live here. I’ve wandered down alleys and stopped to eat mussels and visited bars with more than 100 Belgian beers in bottle.

So has everyone else in the Western world. In his achingly funny European travel book “Neither Here Nor There”, Bill Bryson wrote:

Everything about it is perfect – its cobbled streets, its placid bottle-green canals, its steep-roofed medieval houses, its market squares, its slumbering parks, everything.

This was in 1990. In 2000, Brugge was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site, and now the perfect market squares have Subway sandwich shops and Quick Burger shops and seemingly hundreds of shops selling chocolate and lace and wooden shoes (it is in the Flemish / Dutch region of Belgium, after all). Certainly less perfect, but still magical. Sadly, I have read that the citizens of Brugge hate the same tourists that many of them now count on for income, for destroying their sleepy, charming fairy village. This doesn’t surprise me – a similar sentiment was quite common on Orcas Island when I lived there, and is prevalent in many tourist areas.

This doesn’t change the magic here, but it does tarnish it for me, which is selfish and dumb and makes me a little ashamed of myself. It’s strange. I’m here, clearly, as a tourist (as I write this, I’m sitting in the cafe of a hostel catering very much to foreign tourists), but generally don’t feel like one. Since arriving, I have mostly wandered around neighborhoods and back alleys and parks in the various cities I’ve seen, tending to avoid the most obvious tourist areas, but Brugge is so small – and I’m so close – that it’s hard not to stumble onto these areas without even trying.

I feel like this is an experience I’m going to have often over the coming months. Navigating this internal dichotomy will, I suspect, prove an interesting growth opportunity.

I expect to be posting a few photos – and maybe videos – that try to capture the beauty of this little gem – in the coming days.

As always, thanks to everyone who reads and comments and sends me little notes of love and support during my travels. I am so grateful for the chance to live this dream and to have so many people virtually tagging along for the ride.

Consider for a moment a lush, pastoral coastal floodplain (those of you from Washington might consider the Skagit Valley or Nisqually Delta). Fill the countryside with farms, fields full of cattle, sheep and horses. Toss in the occasional small town, all the homes and buildings made of brick. Now stretch this out over six hundred miles of winding country roads and secondary highways, and put water everywhere – an ocean, inland lakes, big rivers, islands, working canals filled with locks and spanned by many small bridges. In order to make your way through the countryside, add ferries, bridges at least 10 miles long connecting Danish islands (and to Sweden), 16-mile (and longer) dikes splitting the North Sea into calm navigable basins north of Amsterdam.

This is the place I’ve ridden through over the last three days, and it has been heavenly. Everything is so lush and green in a way that is very reminiscent of the Pacific Northwest, yet uniquely European. From the cobblestone or brick paved streets of little Danish, German and Dutch towns to the ubiquitous bike paths – really everywhere: cities, small towns, 1.5 lane country roads, even the long dike – to thatched-roof country farmhouses that are directly connected at the rear of the house to the farm’s working barns, there is for me a most interesting sense of familiarity within otherness here. I find myself liking it a lot. Of course, this speaks to my love of western Washington and Oregon, with their similar green lush landscape, the islands and ferries and bridges, the smell of salt in the air.

This land truly is defined and shaped by water. The farmlands seem incredibly fertile, certainly in some part resulting from periodic floods of the Elbe and its tributaries. The Dutch have their enormous inland seas and canals with small personal boats and freight barges, northern Germany has the mighty Elbe River and the Nord-Ostsee-Kanal connecting the North and Baltic Seas, Denmark has 500 islands, many bridges and ferries and – like Amsterdam – working canals in the city. I found myself really enjoying Copenhagen, Groningen and now Amsterdam, my current location. To me there’s a magic to having waterways so integrated into the life of a city, boats next to cars and bicycles and scooters.

As has been previously noted in this space, I generally despise highway riding. This is due in part to a disinclination for high-speed riding, but more to the unpleasant experience of being overtaken by semis, trapped in the fast lane behind people going the speed limit +/- 5MPH, people careening wildly from lane to lane at speeds unsafe for the general traffic flow, and so forth.

After spending several days riding on the Autobahn, I feel that I must amend this to “I generally despise highway riding in the US”. Perhaps a testament to typical German efficiency, the Autobahn just works. As a result, it’s a far more pleasant riding experience, even at speeds higher than my normal high end. The fundamentals of Autobahn driving are as follows:

• Passing on the right is illegal.
• Lanes farther left go faster than those to the right.
• If someone comes up behind you going faster, move right to allow them to pass.

I’m sure there are a number of more complex rules and regulations to achieve efficient flow (this *is* Germany we’re talking about, after all), but the result of these basic rules is smoothly flowing traffic. One really nice bit is that trucks tend to drive slower than prevailing traffic, and thus stay in the right lane for the most part. Which is nice.

It’s a far more engaged riding / driving experience, mind you. Large portions of the Autobahn have effectively no speed limit, so people drive to the limits of their ability as drivers and the capability of their cars – I’ve had a number of times where I’m in the middle lane of three running at 120kph (~75mph) or more and someone flies past me (typically in a Mercedes, BMW, Audi or Porsche), clearly going at least 150-160kph (approaching 100mph), if not much more – I’m not so good at estimating speed of travel. This results in lots of lane changing for me – zipping over to the left lane to pass a group of vehicles plugging along at a mere 100-110kph, then back to the center or right lane once past. All the while checking mirrors to see if someone’s racing up behind me. And it’s actually fun!

The only time I’ve seen actual congestion on the Autobahn was in Hamburg on Friday, closing in on rush hour, and I’m pretty sure that was primarily due to a lengthy stretch of road construction that reduced lane count, constricted lane width and dropped speed limits to 100kph or less for several km at a stretch. Otherwise, it’s just smooth clean enjoyable riding, frequently at higher speed than I would consider on US highways, and it feels safe and controlled.

Something I have a hard time saying about my experiences riding a motorcycle on the US Interstate Highway system.

Copenhagen is a beautiful (smukke) city, particularly from the 15th-floor view of Annette’s (my couchsurfing host) apartment. I’ve been here two days, and have decided to stay two more, because a) one of my longest-held friends from WA is coming here tomorrow and b) I really quite like it here!

I arrived Friday evening, and fell in love with the city as I was riding through on the way to Annette’s place. This city has gorgeous old architecture, lots of sculpture all over, a billion bicycles, and really attractive people everywhere. What’s not to like?

Once I arrived, Annette handed me keys and a map, offered me a shower, and basically, she made me feel completely at home. After cleaning up, we headed out to a party being held at a coworking space where she used to work in the center of the city. The too-loud music and crowded dance floor led many to congregate in the kitchen, foosball room and courtyard outside. We talked for a while, enjoying Tuborg beer and people-watching, then decided it was time for sleep.

Yesterday was filled with tourist wandering. After a lazy morning, sleeping in and slow breakfast, we headed out to walk through the city. Along the water to visit the Little Mermaid, then to Nyhavn for delicious ice cream and people watching next to the canal in the sunshine. Thence on to the very modern-hippie village Christiania, where we saw people selling jewelry, clothing and other items of more questionable provenance. Sat and drank an sweet elderflower drink – like soda without the bubbles – which was delicious. Walked along the water – shoreline filled with people enjoying the perfect warm breezy weather – to a little foot and bike bridge where we sat and talked more. As the day lengthened, we headed to a grocery store and then back to her apartment where I cooked dinner (oh, how nice it has been to be able to cook for hosts a few times along the way!). Then we wandered into the city again, this time to a bar where her friend Lærke was making cocktails. We sat at the bar, chatted with Lærke, enjoyed some cocktails.

Being out late both nights has given me an opportunity to witness really long days. Copenhagen is far enough north that there is still the slightest bit of twilight all the way through the night, until predawn light starts filtering into the sky around 3am. Wild!

Annette is another long-distance solo motorcyclist – she rode solo from Buenos Aires => Ushuaia => NYC and has crossed the US three times, I think. Visiting and making friends with her has been fun and funny, enlightening, informational and inspiring. All because of couchsurfing!