Some things I've learned on this trip

- If your handcuffed and shoved into a Tanzanian taxi by a soldier you will lose money and apple products
-You can climb Kilimanjaro eating only cornstarch dumplings and tea
-If you are killed by a jaguar, your body will be dragged into a tree, out of sight, and eaten
-The "Which cup is the ball in?" game is a scheme to steal 50 Euros from you
- And the people surrounding the game are all in on it, and they will make that known when you walk away after figuring out its all a lie
- If your sleeping when an Asian massager starts working on your back, she will wake you up and expect pay
- If you befriend a female bartender, they will give you all the full beers drunken Irish forgot about
- Gypsies don't like half-eaten pastries, even if their sign says they need food
- Crazy British in Hyde Park like to wear cowboy hats and thongs while trying to act American
- As long as you speak a little Swahili, being homeless in Paris is not that bad
- Every country thinks they are the best drinkers until the next morning
-Florentine mothers treat you as their own when you leave their house after two weeks
- Don't skinny dip with girls from Indiana in Cique Terre or the next day you will be on the lam from the police
-And those same mothers love it when you come back to hide. They even make you pasta
- When going to a fine restaurant in the Czech Republic with two gorgeous sisters soak in the jealous looks
-Alot of Germans dont like Americans, and they will dislike you even more when you have a German girl under your arm
-When celebrating Norways Independance day in Hamburg expect to do more explaning that drinking
-When camping on a nudist beach you will undoubtably see everything. but dont be suprised if they want to come say hi
-And don't be suprised if your preconcieved notions about nudists are shattered when they turn out to be in the military
-Antwerpen is only good for running in parks, seeing art. and buying diamonds. There is literally nothing else
-Dancing on the shores of the Rhine River for 14 miles is a form of prayer rather than an excersize
-And 1 day until your home is still far to long

See some of you tomorrow, and hopefully the rest of you soon

The Sunrays

Today I contemplated the feeling of peace while the sun is present. Whether shining directly on you or not, the warmth is calming, settling, and reassuring. I've felt the rays, reflected off the glassy waters of the Rhine, touch my skin just as they did when they bounced off the skyscrapers of Rotterdam, Belgium. But I have also been engulfed in their light while climbing the mountains of my home. Its difficult to conclude what situation of the two is better. When fully relaxed with second-hand beams, the drive to find the originals hardly culminates within. But when one is present for summer in Montana, they would never be able to make the trade soberly. So as I soak in the last glimmers that bounce off the sudo-mirrors of Europe I'm not worried because I know the essence of light is coming shortly.

I prayed in the streets.

Today I set off on a walk that had no purpose. It had no destination, no route, nor set pace. I just wandered. And if I didn't live so sporadically I would have never have met Jose on the shores of Rhine River. He wasn't alone but he was the only one I spoke to, the language of the others was song and dance. The group of Roman Catholics hailed from Barcelona and had been traveling throughout Europe on a pilgrimage for God. I'm not sure where they were off to but from the conversation, which was all Spanish, I understood that on every Sunday they would dance and sing through the streets the city they found themselves in. I didn't know of any church, and if I did I wouldn't have know the times of mass, so I traveled with them for hours, stopping here and there to play a new song and dance the simple left, right, twirl in the circle we all formed. I've gone to church on this trip a few times but making the streets and the plazas a place of worship was a new medium of praising for me. The energy they had was unmatched by anyone in Dusseldorf, except maybe the cyclists that raced around the track laid out in the town for a major race. As we made a turn around the boardwalk I could hear the sounds of another group, and as if it had been all choreographed they joined us, as we did them, and the group, now exponentially larger, continued the dance. The love for life that they all had, the exuberance, was overpoweringly refreshing. I have to tell you, that was the closest to God I have ever felt bar none, and it was in the streets. I guess that's only proper though. We made churches to praise the Lord but God made the outdoors and the people to prove he was worth praising. Why not bask in his glory and creations when giving him your devotion?

He, the beggar.

HE sat there. Scrubbing his pants and shirt of dirt. Carefully applying the gray, worn, and dampened rag to each stain. To his left was a tan disposable coffee cup and to his right a blue reusable grocery bag. HE rocked back and forth like a metronome, digesting whatever once occupied the plastic food wrappers that lay on the gray cobblestone by HIS feet. I understand why he chose this park. Centered in what seemed to be the Champs Elysees of Dusseldorf. HE could continue begging while still having the most scenic view in the world. This was HIS garden and he didn't spend a penny on the fresh, intricately placed, bouquets. This was HIS home.

Gazing at the past and present

I walked through a orthodox Jewish neighborhood bobbing and weaving through the oncoming bike traffic. The train was leaving at 10:00 am and, now knowing that all European train stations are anal about departure time, I wanted to be sure I would be there early. Although I was sure not to miss my trip out, the promptness of me leaving was not indication of how Belgium was to me. Antwerpen treated me well. I was able to complete a number of art pieces I would have before thought preposterous, I ran through the park in the mornings, and I was able to do my laundry. What sound like trivial things really make a stay in a foreign land friction-free. I would wake up to Norah Jones and eat two fried eggs with coffee. I guess what all these minuscule somethings made, for me, was peace. I felt at home. Cleaned, with time to relax and prioritize. The hustle and bustle of shoestringing it in Europe vanished. But Belgium had to vanish as well. I've connected in Brussels at least five times and now that my trip is dwindling down I must face the realization that I wont see these cities again for a very long time. The Latin district of Paris, the beer gardens of Prague, the special breakfast spots in Lancaster, or the body weight workout gym on the Barcelona Beach. I wont gaze out into the sea on the shores of Cinque Terre nor will I walk the hills of rural France in the rain, for a very long time. I never took a minute of this trip for granted. Every second of every day I moved on because when you have this kind of opportunity you better never let your heart rest. The thrill of new languages, food, looks, and attitudes better make you sweat with inexperienced excitement or your not taking advantage. I will remember this trip forever. Hell it may even be on of my biggest highlights when I'm old and gray. The trip "That started in Arusha and ended in Dusseldorf." When I read those words I can't stop grinning. And when I read the last word I can't avoid frowning. Dusseldorf. Well that's where I am now, on the top of the Rhine river in Germany. I arrived a couple of hours ago and immediately went for a run in the city. I always want to cover the most ground the first day so I know exactly where to start on the second. I ran to the banks of the river and just sat. I take those moments to absorb everything for those who cant, for those who wont. I acknowledge that this is a once in a lifetime experience that many will never come close to getting. So I take extra time observing for family and friends. I plan to call it a early night which makes me feel boring when its a Friday, but after so many European Fridays they lose their magic. At this point in my trip I would rather sit at a bus stop in the heart of the city just gazing at the crowds stumble up and down the block. And I would take extra time watching it for you.

I left you in Prague

I left you in Prague. I left all of you and continued. Train 9567 on the ICE rail takes vacationers and businessmen alike to Hamburg in Northern Germany, stopping occasionally at major stations and then, seemingly without a second of delay, pulling out of its slot and back out onto the road. An old man, grayed and worn, slept peacefully, and snored softly, next to me as I drew and killed time. I only mention him because his serenity, contagiously, invaded my system and before I knew it I was fast asleep. I woke at one of the stops and without thinking I disembarked and looked for information. The station was pristine with three staggered levels all containing news vendors, Dunkin Donuts, and fast food. It was pure luck that the best station I had ever stepped foot in was the one I would have to spend two hours in. I failed to hop off at Hamburg but Berlin was just as interesting. After a look at the Departure Board I stepped into the streets of Berlin and walked. I wish to go back someday. The city is rumored to be the biggest and most complex for tourists and after sometime I ended up at the station and embarked on the line to Hamburg. Spring in northern Germany was unbeatable. The flowers blooming with their undetectable scents and shapes. The smell of the lake. The smell of life. Everything was growing and thriving and who was I to complain, I was caught up right in the middle of the beautiful cycle. I wandered Hamburg for three days. If it were not for the  immaculate weather I would have continued to Scandanavia and ended the trip as I had always planned. But because I knew that I would come back and tackle my familys lands in Norway with my brothers in the future I stayed. Each night new people, new art, new articles to read. I was at home. During the totality of my stay I was museum hopping and absorbing everything with Vivian, a 18 year old German girl. The energy we had when it came to constant travel was unmatched. I could have spent the rest of my trip in that city but when Dylan, Nick, and Doury walked into the hostel and conversation started I knew that the next day I would be traveling to the soft white beaches of the Haag. The sporadic decision solidified the themes of freedom and adventure into my trip. I thought I was getting soft and tired of the constant travel and train whistle but when I took off my shoes on the beach and walked a mile with my backpack pushing me down into the grains I knew I was still being the Wildcat one must be when traveling alone. Nick and I found a spot on a hill overlooking the Nudist beach and began to create camp. True, the others would be furious about our location selection but it was the only legal camping area. Within an hour we had two nudist visitors. The most interesting was Cesar. He casually strolled right into our camp and sat down. For thirty minutes he talked about his status in the army, but we figured it was all bullshit on account of his nudity and alcohol toxicity. I was able to sneak a quick video of his rant on how one should kill before killed an then like he never existed he hopped up and left. We all settled down at sunset and bullshitted around a bottle until we each fell asleep. Nicks yells awoke us. At four in the morning it was raining gallons of water onto the beach. I grabbed all my stuff and trudged through the wet sand to the patio of a bar. We huddled under the tables in the sand until it cleared up and then returned to our camp to make sure we hadnt forgot anything. Once again it rained and with all of us at breaking point we found a comfortable hotel room for cheap that we all split. After another day around the town the group broke up. Nick, Dylan, and Doury wanted to go see Amsterdam while I wanted to see Antwerpen. I have been here since. In the gorgeous parks of Belgium doing more art and reading than ever before. My days consist of runs, drawing, reading, walking, and just digging everything the city has to offer. Tomorrow I depart for Dusseldorf. The city, located at the top of the Rhine, should hold wonderful sights and people but really, for me, it is just a place to work out in and relax until I board that flight in a few days to see truly outstanding family and friends.

What is it about Prague?

It's not the beer, at least it's not a woman, and I'm pretty sure it's not the history, but when I wake up everyday, packed and ready to go, I can't muster up the will to walk down to the train staion on the cobble stone streets that have left, permanently, their mark on me and say goodbye. My hostel room is like an apartment. It's not an apartment exactly but because a lack of word creation, apartment is the closest term. Situated on the third floor, it includes a kitchen, a fridge, a shower, two sinks, two floors, and a full set of unused lockers. For dramatic effect, I forgot to mention the most jaw-dropping detail, I'm all alone. The hostels has a gorgeous garden with four well aged trees all in bloom. the trees are of two types, one with lush blue flowers and the other with white fragile blossoms of white and pink wrapped around three long stamen. I've pressed them all to remember the garden, and the pictures will act as a way to duplicate it for my future abode. I have used these two facilities everyday. Both act as art, reading and drawing, areas but, specifically, the room is a perfect place to work out. The stairs are elevated pushups, and the little loft floor is a handhold for pullups. The beds foot bars are for situps and the corner of the kitchen for dips. The Hostel, situated on a looming hill, is always atleast a mile walk from anywhere in old town and is the perfect run. It is ideal. The sheer fact that this place exists is inconceivable. I have to leave tomorrow. Its been decided that I must walk those cobble stone streets, the communist museum that turns into a debate club with drinks around actual artifacts at night, and the hill tops around the city that were cleverly made into beer parks to sit in silence, sip smoothly, and just watch. Copenhagen in the fog ahead. When the sun starts peaking out I'll be in Norway. But it rises when I step off that plane and smell that unmeddling, uncorrupted, air of Bozeman Montana.

Poetry of the day

I've been there
The creeks and the ravines
I've been there!
The streets and the cities
I swear I've seen
Foreign countries and capitals
And I promise theres always more to see









-Chad A. Dokken

Support your Fighting Storks CZECH REPUBLIC

I was exuasted from my run; the sweat still dripping down my face thirty minutes after I finished was evidence of that. And hoping the beers chill would overwhelm my still revving engine wasnt making it happen any faster. The dark hollows of the Shotgun are ineffable. The bar itself is small and, due to its innumerable staff, it is fairly awkward.  But it is real Prague though. The dragons come in here for the day to avoid the light and covet the beer and Hockey matches like treasure in that cave of a bar. Prague has all the tall tale signs of oppresion and poverty that Rilke would so often allude to in his poems and that writers like Kundera lived through but ignore the state of the buildings. The new Prague generation is facinating, with the younger being penetratingly different than the older. But the common denominator is the stubborn hard work and overall personallity. This shared element of the culture could be due to the unfaltering conflict. If your around in the Czech Republic you either lived through the Nazi between 1939-45, the Cold War, or the Velvet Revolution and its aftershocks. The people are all aware of what their country has been through and use it to catalyze patriotism or skeptisism. At the beer garden Chalsea, Shelby, and I witness a kid drinking with agun and his pals. Everyone has a hockey team, a bar, a football team, and a city that they are a fan of. So while I was finishing off that beer and I saw that sticker on the fridge, I decided to "Support my Fighting Storks. And although I still have no idea what that actually is I believe it means that no matter what predicaments you encounter you push through. Becuase in these old streets with broken buildings, the Czechs, old and young, thive forward.

Im back

Hey guys!

Sorry for the long delay. But the good news is that I'm back to blogging. My adventures since my last post have been inumerable. The culmination of all of them landed me in Prague for my birthday with Shelby and Chelsea Hecht. Prague, a city still rife in landmarks illustrating their opression in the past, is full of oustanding people. Yesterday I walked down through center city to get some clothes because mine havnt arrived. The look of an eastern european is harsh at face value. The weather is cold and their face isnt going to get any warmer talking to you outside but if you strike up conversation inside the story is different. They are a diverse people that come from all walks of life. Some Lebanese, some Romanians, the rest are true blue Czechs. Im about to rum out to go eat breakfast with my bozemanites but I'll be back with more. Love you guys.

I'll be back

Sorry to all my readers for the gap between blogs. I haven't been able to write longer than a paragraph due to my keyboard being stolen. But expect many blogs to be entered at once because I've been writing them down so when I get a new keyboard, within the week, I will type them all up and continue as usual. Thanks for the support again and I hope our Easter was unbelievable.


-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Ambeyrac,France

Operation Overlord

While melting lead fired to the left and right of them from the short-distance artillery, it was the shots aimed right in front that worried them. Because when that ironclad door dropped and the spikes anchored it to the shore there would be nothing in between them and the hill they had to take. Its nearly impossible to describe what D-Day was like for those who weren't there. But the graves that remain tell a story to each and every visitor. For the French who survived the war, they stand to solidify their distrust in the Germans. And for Americans, they could mean anything from a resting place of a relative to a argument against war. For me it was history.
I arrived in Bayeux, by train from Caen, early in the morning. The sun was just rising over the rolling pastures of luscious grass and the street sweeper had just retired from its pre-traffic shift. The dark gray rectangular van pulled up to collect me. It was the kind of van thats sole buying force was tour agencies, with its multiple rows maximizing on capacity room. I climbed in, greeted the three southerners, and hopped in the back seat. Matthew, my french tour guide, had one more pickup to make. I sat back against the tight plastic, meant to protect the seats from the sweat that would surely accumulate because the lack of air conditioning, and listened the the three jabber on about the book D-Day by Steven Ambrose. I hadn't conversed with Americans in quite some time but right then and there I didn't want to talk. I wanted it to be silent. I wanted to take in the scenery of Normandy with the fields that our men walked through, landed on, and parachuted in. We turned off to the left into a hotel parking lot and picked up the last clients. Two elderly French and their grandson. The Grandfather, who was terrible ill, wanted to see the beaches before he passed away. During the war he was a rebel fighter and to his regret was imprisoned in a POW camp during the invasion. They squeezed in next to me and nodded the familiar nod received when either party doesn't speak the others language. And now with a bilingual group we moved onto the highway and cruised to our first stop.
The German cemetery was once shared with the Americans as a place to bury the dead until they could be later identified. But now the black Germanic crosses and names clearly illustrate that that has since changed. The stone plates reach the far field, past the memorial mount with its statues, and past the bordering trees. The amount of dead is unimaginable. With each burial including two soldiers, one atop the other, the number is astronomical. The Americans continued on about their book, largely disregarding the tour guides insight, and used it as away to trump his knowledge disrespectfully. I walked on, passing row after row, name after name, unidentifiable soldier after unknown body for what seemed to be an eternity. The french couple both had their thoughts on the Germans. The man had never forgiven them and the woman, after her family had two homes destroyed in both world wars, would forever hold a grudge.
We moved on into the cities of Sainte-Mère-Église and Vierville where the 101st and 82nd Airborn Divisions were dropped. The stories ranged from soldiers chutes getting caught on steeples and having to play dead, to jumpers landing on gating guns, taking a bullet, and then killing the gunner before they died. The Airborn division was caught landing only by chance. What was to be blackout time according to the German curfew was interrupted because of a fire in the town. And with the large number of civilians in one area fighting the fire came Germans to insure it wasn't a ploy for rebellion. The silhouettes of the parachutes were easily seen and 50% of the 14,000 troops were killed. Some landing in the murky flooded fields drowned, caught in their gear, but did so quietly. They knew screaming for help or slashing about could ruin the entire surprise attack.
After a stop at the museum we moved onto Utah beach. The congested road is covered in memorials to different soldiers who died while continuing the charge in order to cut off the peninsula from German reinforcements. The beach itself was small and with only 75 Nazis's it was our easiest strip to take. But I could still picture the thousands of Americans coming in on those wave soaked, wooden, mass produced boats fearing the worst.
Omaha beach was different. It was undisputedly the most difficult to take. With the first exit secured by Americans at 10:00 am and the last, of the five, at sunset. The all day battle for Omaha took over 2,000 U.S soldiers and wounded roughly 6000, most permanently. The hole a Gattling Gun leaves can be 2 inches in diameter, sometimes taking a limb or a jaw with it. But whether you were shot or not the memory would surely be branded in your mind for life. In France over 100,000 troops were killed in six months, a forth of what the US lost in the entire war, and for a country with a far smaller population they need D-Day. On June 6th, 1944 we began the true continental push against the Nazi regime, eventually liberating France, and moving into the Fuhr's stronghold.
Now the beaches are covered in swimsuits, with children running, and frisbees being thrown, but we must remember that nearly 65 years ago our men were charging and grenades were being hurled on the very same soil. Movies have and will be made but until you go to the beaches yourself you will never fully appreciate what our men did. The wall of unfound soldiers curves around the monument of Freedom. Some bear the tag that dictates that they were discovered, the last one was found in 2009 in a field when a farmer was plowing. But surely others will be unearthed and the memory of what we did will continue to reiterate itself in those who remember, those who forgot, or those who weren't alive and didn't know.



-Chad A. Dokken

Bordeaux

The streets, bordered by century-old architecture, is riddled with gypsies. They come with their sacks, pots, and cardboard signs with streaks of ink falling from the words drying since the last rain fall. The dogs are ploys--marketing directed towards the animal caring folk who really don't care for the people. And the money is short lived--spent on alcohol, drugs, and the occasional frites. Money dictates Bordeaux. The people either have it or they don't. On either side of the ATM you will find a vagabond sitting on their newspaper seat with their cup in hand and when you see it from a distance, the businessman withdrawing an immense amount next to the homelessman looking up at the transaction between this lucky guy and the god-machine-of money, the dichotomy is clear. I don't feel for them. Albeit life on the streets is terrible they have a choice. The fields of grapes with their rows stretching to the farthest limits of sight into the sun are work. The constant tourism can be a market for street performers or vendors but the lack of determination, discipline, drive, and desire lead them to the easy choice of begging and drinking the winnings away. Some signs are blatant, some funny, and some sad. But at the end of the day the lady who played crippled and crazy, who was twitching and screaming, packs up her show and walks casually and normally down the beautiful streets of Bordeaux. Timmy, a surfer I met on the train here, was just as flabbergasted as the locals by the sudden wave of palms stuck in his face for money. You will sit down to eat you frozen yogurt and if you put any change on the table in front of you, your a magnet. These gorgeous cities have so much to offer. The gastronomy, the wine, the people, and yes the work but the latter is underutilized. France, known to many as the center for foodies in Europe, has fallen behind Germany in food exportation in the last decade. To normal folks French cuisine is perceived out of reach, high class, and consequently high priced. France Trade Secretary Pierre Lel'louche stated in a press conference "We suffer from a gastronomical image that is too elitist, too expensive, and too far away from people." And with their share in the world food market falling 4 percent in the last 10 years they have made substantial steps to reverse the problem. The farmers I spoke with in Normandy are destroying the century old hedges that used to divide large plots of land into family farms and now are ready to employ cheap work for spring picking. The combination of France increasing its exportation levels, demand for cheap labor, and unemployed plaguing the streets would ideally catalyze a substantial cleanup. But its the rife laziness that steers the migrants away from the opportunity, however, new immigrants coming North from Africa will take the untouched work like many Mexican immigrants did in the U.S. and all will go on. Its just a shame to see them drinking, peeing, and defiling the remnants of the Anni Marabilis I am so interested in.


-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Rue Franklin,Bordeaux,France

The Song of Solitude

The trains are calling, the clock is running, my mind is roaming, and the station is cloaked in silence. The song of solitude feels endless. Its an acquired taste that is seemingly never acquirable. And while the hours go by while I travel the unpredictable road each minute Im certain of one thing, that I will be traveling alone. With each conversation I instigate will come the same questions and answers. Because every time with every stranger, you seem to only scratch the surface. The depth isn't there and the most real laughs aren't possible. The price of independent travel is loneliness but what you receive in compensation is invaluable. I have seen, heard, and tasted. Touched, realized, and immersed myself in things people only dream of. Presently I am in Calais. A pristine oceanic town on the sun drenched shores of northeast France. My goal is Normandy. The all to familiar bar with my all to familiar Stella Artois glass with its all to familiar gold encrusted rim is dauntingly familiar. My worry is that being alone causes one to repeat the past. If I don't have a old friend along then I will go to a time-tested place where I can relax. But without that friend that place becomes sought out to often. On the other hand I wonder how I will feel when my freedom of listening to the song of solitude over a superb Stella is taken away back at home. For the next couple years it will be illegal for me to be a pub aficionado, or an adventurer of unseen lands. It is this very dilemma that brings me to my current state of mind. I need something new everyday just to forget that I'm working within the borders of the same pattern. Like a constant game of monopoly I keep moving different distances every time, hoping to land of something new, something that will help me keep rolling the dice until the end. I'm trying to learn to walk on my hands, paint in water color, and plan to join a wine course. These things, all obscure, are making me the kind of character that I seek out. The genre of person I buy a drink for, and I'm happy for that. I only hope that my travels and experiences make me a character in the eyes of the people at home. Because if I'm not a character, if you are not a character, then what is our role in the grand play of Life?


-Chad A. Dokken

Not Home but Still Home Part II

Not Home but Still Hope Part II
I awoke. The frigid air blanketing my face and filling my hollow lungs. Edgars, lost in the chaos, had finally found me in the upstairs of the train terminal and slept innocently huddled in the fetal position as if he was attempting to cuddle himself. His parents were unreachable. His father in the UK, an island thats borders to the vagabond are impossible to permeate. But now he was lying in a niche under a metal statue of a mother and her egg. But now it was time to go.
It was 1:30, the station guards were sure of that. I packed my things, an exaggerated phrase for just two packs and loaf of bread, and woke Edgars. Down two flights of stairs and out the double doors. We were back on the block. The mood had changed. No longer were there bands of tourists getting off trains and making small talk. You could no longer eves drop into a sophisticated conversation. Now it was me and the grime amongst me. Yusin was still wide awake howling at the night. His black skin, with its black dirt around his black lips that wrapped around his black teeth. Black. If great novelists ever described such a character's appearance, teachers worldwide would make the assumption that he was the authors allusion of the devil. But to me he was angelic. he was Gare de Nore's Christ. He had been stained by the underworlds water and it was evident. The poison coursed through his veins but never reached the depths of his heart. If he wanted he could have thrown us in with the slimy, rib-bearing, fang-sharpening vipers, or been a viper himself, but he didn't. He wouldn't. He protected Edgars and I. I stepped into the cold, dry air and was greeted with two tall Amsterdam beers with a side of drunken banter. This was our home. And without qualms I drank. While everything around us collapsed the three of us got high on 11.2% alcohol beer and stories. While we slept Yusin had almost been jumped. The four Romanians, who nested across the street, had come to take his belongings. But Yusin, a man proud of owning no valuable possessions, got off scott free. As long as he had his passport, a feeble, easily forgeable, paper mess, he felt secure. The story was worth twenty coffees in energy. But with no sleep for twenty hours twenty coffees wouldn't cut it. I bought a coffee across the street at The White House and watched a period of the Thrashers-Rangers hockey game over a glass of whiskey and ice. I had a little over two hours to kill. Every time the Romanians would cruise by scoping our spot out they would see the "Russian" stand up, cross armed and ready. I was guarding our corner, and I'd be damned if they laid a hand on the orphaned Edgars or the lost Yusin. 3:00 came fast and I hadn't seen anyone roaming the streets except the Romanians scouring for cigarette butts and unfinished beers, but then an unexpected figure bust through the shadows just outside the limited reach of the street lamps. The tall body swinging and swaying deliberately. Stopping and dropping in cadence. He was dancing. Muamabe was a French African who lived life. The Giant loved music and people and without a second glance came up to me. "Whatup my nig?" in a broken french accent. Last time I checked I was obviously white, but without hesitation he continued to call me his African brother. Yusin woke up with his usual "Como se va?" that he usually yells to the ladies strolling by. Muamabe ignored him, and when Yusin repeated it Muamabe told him to fuck off. "He's my friend man" I said "Trust me he means no harm." Then as if my word was gold all was well. We listened to music on the street. Crushed beers and talked of french women and the world. Muamabe had many friends, all whom he called family and before I knew it we were freestyle rapping on that stretch of hell that I had to occupy. We were now 10. And all 10 off us stood in a circle grooving to, and digging french rap, breaking in here and there to spit our lines. Yusin danced a drunken bop in the middle and provided the comedy. On the cold night on the streets of the cold hearted we brought the heat that could warm the harshest heart. Edgars with his fucked up hand sat wrapped in Yusins sleeping blanket and nodded his head to the melodic beat. Every time the Romanians came by we were all quick to talk shit and tell the crooks to bugger off. Yusin yelling swears in Somalian to redeem his pride after the close mugging. Muamabe stepping up in their face. And me with my Jiwe and USSR hat pulled down mean-facing them. In the darkest of times we lit the light. Before I knew it it was time. The station opened and I knew I had successfully lasted the night on one of the most crime ridden streets in Paris. The group applauded me out and before I knew it they were gone. Edgars slept and I knew I would never see him again but thats the way it is. You need to make friends, best friends, just for the night to survive. Yusin prayed again, but this time, with all the alcohol, I think he fell asleep under that lamp, with the light acting as the halo he deserved. Me, well I strolled onto my next destination with Muamabes music and alcohol in my mind. Back, back, back to my comfort zone.. Traveling by myself but never alone.


-Chad A. Dokken

No Home but Still Hope

April 7 2011
It was an important decision. take the morning train to Calais in northern France, take the ferry across the French Channel, and sleep in Dover or spend the whole day going between Mcdonalds and Gare de Nore, drinking, eating, and digging everything that the block had to offer until 4:30 am when the train station opened again. But without hesitation I chose the latter. Something about people watching sounded real. And thats exactly what my Odyssey had to be. The station doors lock at 1:30 when the last decrepit train slides into its predetermined slot, leaving me with 3 hours on the grimy streets of Paris at night. You see the most interesting homeless in Paris, a combination of Ruskis, Italians, and Africans. But for some reason unknown I wanted to be the american. The one who wasn't forced to the street but needed it just the same. I thought "God damnit, if I want to see Europe, I gotta see the dark dirt covered underside. The side of the beast that the owners don't even want to clean up. The dark side, the unknown side, of the gorgeous moon." So after a couple trips to Mc'D's to access the wireless and read about the colossal fuckup of a job my government was doing deciding our budget cuts, I had a couple pints and asked the waitress if I could access the bathroom to change. The weather was already getting cold and I wanted to be dressed in full so I didn't have to expose what I had in my back while in the presence of thieves, alcoholics, and nutters. The only thing I would leave accessible was my jiwe, a dual purpose club and knife from Tanzania. I took my bathroom token and walked up the spiral steps and washed myself in the sink. I felt like I was preparing for one my high school debates rather than sleeping on the streets. With my old USSR hat fastened securely on my head I took a deep breath and walked outside the station and into the vast ocean of crooks, prostitutes, and homeless. I sat down on my bag and opened my my book. Almost immediately I befriended a scrawny Somalian fresh off the boat. His teeth black, his english broken, and his wallet empty. But regardless of his state on the fiscal hierarchy, he had the street know-how that only mobsters could rival. He new who to avoid, how to talk to outsiders trying to make conversation, and when the bread truck arrived. I sat and read under the dim street lamp. My paper was a peachy skin color and when the lights of a taxi shone on my book it reminded me of what color the pages should have been. Regardless, I kept reading and people watching. The Somalian, convinced I was Russian on accords of my hat, pointed at a relatively well-dress figure ambling down the road towards us. "Russian, you Russian, he Russian. Ehhh!" He approached us curiously, seeking the source of commotion directed towards his presence. Edgars wasn't from Russia. He hailed from Latvia but didn't have a home. His trip to find his family in London went terribly wrong when he was stabbed in Germany and had to undergo operation. With no money and only one arm for defense, he was easy going and tried hard to make friends for the night ahead. We split a beer and rested while the Somalian ran off and got us soup and coffee from the homeless shelter van. His english was decent enough to explain how he stole his turquoise sweater and black jeans. But other than that we sat in silence, he later told me that he thought about how to get to Calais, which was a coincidence because that was my plan, while I thought about the open road ahead. The hundred pint to be poured, the dozens of trains to be boarded, and that last stair, the final plane ticket home. The Somalian returned with broccoli soup and stale coffee that tasted as if it was strained through the filters of cigarettes. But it was energy and I needed it if I wasn't going to get robbed. I couldn't let myself get robbed, it would only prove that I took something on that I couldn't handle. A pet I wasn't responsible enough to care for. I looked up from my coffee. Yusin was bowing under the street light inches from a piss stream and praying. Singing in the dead of night to Allah under that yellow, dirty, ancient thing. I went back inside the station. The doors wouldn't close for another 30 minutes leaving me time to rest my eyes and have a cat nap before the 3 hour stretch on the streets awkake. Leaning back I looked up at the glass ceiling of the terminal at the sky. I couldn't forget Yusin and his devotion, I mean that scrawny joker kissed the grotesque sidewalk in the name of his lord. What was up there? Just as I started getting into the thoughts that I often have while alone, and just as I was staring at that glass, the lights turned on and the transluncences of the ceiling decreased because the reflection of the night passengers getting off the train and leaving the terminal. For a second I thought that maybe it meant there was nothing beyond humans but then I realized it also could have meant that heaven is full of humans all going home after the long and sometimes uncomfortable trip of life.


-Chad A. Dokken

My Blogging Area

-Chad A. Dokken

News Stands if People Sit

America lacks news stands. Now, this doesn't say as much about our literacy or interests in literature but it says a lot about the way we life our life. It took a trip to Europe to notice an idea as abstract as this. The streets of Paris, Florence, Brussels, and many other cities that I have visited are covered in outdoor dining. People flock to the tables and marinate in the sun to people watch and drink. We don't do that in the states. We reserve a table for brunch, have one drink, and go on with our day. We wake up and read our news, or we watch it, or we don't inform ourselves at all. I don't care if people read Vogue or the Economist or Tactical Weapons because its more about the lifestyle of sitting back and enjoying what you love. That easy-going mentality of Europe catalyzes a astronomical amount of news stands. Once work is over people grab their magazine, drink, and smoke until they are sufficiently satisfied. In America we are to scheduled. Our children play with each other from this time to that and then their off to this lesson or the other. Each and every space in the day is filled, leaving no time for relaxation. The mentality not only effects our daily life but can also be seen in our own cities. The streets are narrower and have more stores. But yet again no room for outdoor dining or newsstands. As a nation we maximize instead of emotionalize. We don't have interest in watching people or buildings that we don't have to directly interact with. To me thats a problem. We need to watch our cities and our people. We need to relax in our nations sun and read about what we are truly interested in. We shouldn't be filling up our days and cities but rather finding those free spaces that we can really enjoy. Those restaurants that we can relax in for an hour with a couple drinks and just....watch.


-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Rue du Boccador,Paris,France

The Night Train

Falcone, my childhood friend from Florence, and his family must have thought that I would come back. They had been through this whole routine before; when I left for Cinque Terre we said our goodbyes but the next day I was at their door once more. But when I walked down the rock stairs of the apartment building and out the door I knew this time would be different. My taxi pulled into the square just as I left the building as if the driver wanted to make an entrance that said "tip me". The train station in Florence is just like all the rest in Europe. People are smoking where its forbidden, police nap against ATM's, and gypsies do their rounds through the swarms of tourists shaking their cups of 5 cent pieces. The Piazza I called home in Florence was gypsy center. I watched them create their "poor child" signs, toy with an iPod they most definitely stole, and wash clothes in the fountain. I knew them. In fact an old bearded Russian, Gustavo, and I got as close as you could get to a gypsy. That being the daily "Ciao Regazzo, Como sti?" But thats neither here or there. The train was delayed 20 minutes so I flipped over my bright orange backpack, sat, and read. Jack Kerouac's unabridged On the Road is symbolic to me. Because my trip like the book has no chapters or paragraphs. Its a constant, moment-to-moment adventure. Continuous and unstoppable. The train screeched to a stop and the great group of people waiting at the Departure board for our platform to be listed disappeared. I followed. Ambling along the dirt covered cement to the absolute farthest cabin 84. The room I was supposed to occupy had 6 french high school students in it. And they wanted nothing to do with me. I changed rooms and found myself in the bottom bunk. One roommate was from Rome the other from Egypt. The roman was typing silently on his computer with his headphones emitting some sort of Euro-Punk and the egyptian didn't speak a word of english. So, I read uninterrupted by anything except our cabin light turning off, and the constant smoke stops Shawan Alhakim needed. Even though my night light was feeble it still reflected off the many metal pins and buttons on Shawans jeans. It was some sort of style I just didn't comprehend. A style that was sweeping through Europe and the Middle East. I rested up against the blue and green argyle seats switching my entertainment between Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Kerouac. At first I put my feet on my big bag so I would sense if anyone touched it. But soon enough my elevated legs lost blood and fell asleep forcing me to adjust. I fixed it right under my bed and drooped one foot on it. I didn't trust the luggage rack. It was out of my sight and out of my reach. At 2am another Egyptian came in and claimed the empty bed. I didn't care. I was so captivated by my book that I wasn't even tired. The only time I felt like leaving was when a group of americans walked by my room. Sometimes when I get lonely from traveling all by myself I feel like opening the door. Going to the snack cart behind them. And picking up conversation in line. Even if its just conversation it better than nothing. Traveling alone has more benefits than going with a group. But its a big sacrifice. Its a big burden to carry. Maybe thats why I always said hi to that homeless guy Gustavo. Because I know what its like to be alone in a foreign country. Im in Paris now. I arrived two hours ago to a taxi driver waiting for me. And a hotel room to eat and watch TV in. I cant wait to have a glass of wine with my uncle. And Im overly ecstatic to see my family in London Friday.


-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Passerelle Simone-de-Beauvoir,Paris,France

From Firenze to Bagno Ripoli with Love

With Jack Keroac's On the Road gripped tightly in my hand, still wet from pouring out the flower vases water to avoid it spilling on the bus, I took my seat and prepared for the journey to Bango Ripoli. The seats were white with yellow stains from use and had Italian swear words and hearts carved in the plastic. I was prepared. The heat of the cabin was unbearable. And the beer I had bought from the unusual lady in the square was worth it. I only say unusual because of her appearance. A purple shirt was plastered against her skin with harder areas, caused by dried sweat and dirt, visible under her armpits and back. She was short, plump, and had a faded pink blotch of makeup on each cheek, which only accentuated my first impression of her being a clown. But she is the owner of a side store bar filled with odd paintings and articles of clothing and her insight on the midday heat couple with my trip to the Tuscan hills ended in me purchasing two cold Italian beers.
Bango Ripoli is southwest of Florence, and a 35 minute bus ride away. Because Florence wanted to change its buses out for newer ones its shut down its direct route in fear that the distance that one bus would have to travel would cause it to break down earlier. And they only buy in bulk for the discounted price.
I had no idea who I was going to meet. All I knew was her name, the address of her old-folks home, and that she was a friend of my mothers during our stay in Firenze. Florence Stoneman, Villa Santi Monica via di Rosano 44, Bango Ripoli. This was the kind of adventure I look for. Just Do It. I know thats the motto for Nike but it is just so damn applicable that I don't feel the need to be creative. And with flowers in hand, book under my arm, and beer in a grocery bag around my neck I began my journey.
The first bus 23b took me to Sorgane, a small town outside of Florence that I wouldn't have stayed in if you had offered to pay me. The people were true tuscans and didn't speak a word of english nor did they want to learn. I had a vague idea of where Di Rosano was. It was, from what I gathered, a long highway street that connected a town in the higher hills to Sorgane. And covered roughly 12km. The next bus was due to arrive within 30 minutes so I sat down on all to familiar curb and read. I guess if there was a name to describe someone doing what I have been for the past months it would be curb-sitter. The countless times I have posted-up on a block waiting for my next form of transportation have become not only part of my traveling stories but part of me. Thirty minutes passed and although the people and the bus seemed to aviod me the sun was not. I opened the bag and cracked the first beer. When you don't carry lighters or bottle openers you have to be clever when it comes to opening beers. My unique trick only works with two bottles, and maybe subconsciously thats the reason I buy two, A decision that I never regret. I picked up one and then with just enough force I rubbed the cap of the other on the glass neck of the first. The more rubbing and twisting you do the better. Finally, after you hear the carbonation release and the cap can twist around, you can easily pull it off with your hands. And as if it was my first beer in years, I slowly sipped it coveting each time the gold liquid touched my tongue. On the Road could not have been a better book to bring.
After the beer and a couple chapters of my book, now covered in ink with leaves of grass hanging out to mark significant pages, the bus came. I didn't know how far down I had to go on this bus but somehow, someway, I managed to hop off inquisitively to peek at the sign. It read "Villa Santa Maria", and enthusiastic because my stroke of luck I pranced up the hill almost forgetting my small bouquet of flowers.
Nursing homes are all the same to me. They are all white. All the help wear pastel colors, as if the old eyes cant handle vibrancy anymore. And they all smell like disinfectant and jello, a combination that even the most detailed writers would find troublesome to describe. Right away I exhausted my Italian phrases. "Como sti?. Ciao. Buon' giorno." And the helpers used all their english, "Hello. Who here for?. Sit outside." Florence must be a sensation because at the first mention of her name the workers all became very pleased and told me to wait while she finished her desert. The veranda at the home was ideal, and I guess if I had to be cooped up in an old folks home it would have to be in Tuscany. The flowers were opening up, the rows of olive trees made the most intricate designs on the hills, and the smell of fresh air was everywhere. So here I was, waiting for a women I had never met, with a bouquet of flowers. I continued to read as I waited and as if she told the nurse to wait until the exact moment I finished a chapter she was pushed in on her wheel chair precisely on my last word.
The smile on her face was bigger than I thought anatomically possible. Her shawl and fleece covered her body but her straight-gray hair bordered the most important part. The joy Florence emitted to someone she had never met was heart warming as well as heart breaking. She doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve a bad hip on day like these. But after 20 minutes of chit-chat about my family and stories about her parents, I concluded she did deserve a cappuccino.
I navigated my way through the all white, all identical halls to the machine and waited inline. Everyone looked at me like I was about to give them a hug and remind them that I was their grandson, but I guess thats just the nature of these places. The machine was automatic, and cost a euro for a coffee. The man in front of me counted his coins and proceeded to put them in the slot. Each movement was very intentional, very concentrated. The eyes at that age lose their energy and the focus he used foreshadowed my own aging process down the road. The cup filled, and the machine made a loud "Baabeep! Baabeep!" to signify it was time to take the cup. But because the cup slot was so low it took roughly twenty seconds for the elderly to bend over and get it. A twenty seconds filled with "Baabeep!" For one euro, the coffee was shit. But with the company of Florence Stoneman it was a hell-of-a-deal. After an hour and a half I transitioned the conversation to our goodbyes and rushed outside in hoping that the bus driver would prove to be stereotypical and arrive late. No bus. I was right not the dot and there was no bus. I did whatever any travel-confident teenager would do in my position and sat down to crack open my other bottle and read. Half-an-hour passed. No bus.
My mom always recommended that we not pick up hitchhikers but I don't remember her saying anything about hitchhiking. With my thumb in the air, the sun beating down, and condensation accumulating on my brow and beer, I continued to read. The cars driving by were for the most part locals leaving work and heading home, not wanting to be bothered by the likes of an American. But once in a while you would see the tourists whipping by in there rent-a-cars or their BMW's from their second home in tuscany. Their faces covered in sun cream and their kids in the back disregarding the beautiful Tuscan day. My tan will be my memory, and the marks on my pants from the curbs I called home will be proof. After each parade of cars passed, and the open road behind them signified that a red light somewhere down the road had flipped on, I made my move. Ambling along to road to the next turn off. Slowly but surely making ground on my trip to Firenze but consciously not looking too able to walk the entire stretch without the assistance of a car. Each curb meant a swig of beer and more reading. Finally after an hour I was picked up by a older lady who spoke no english but blasted american pop music. Her car was a small, egg shell white, Buggy from what looked to be the 60's. The seats had be recently reupholstered but the stench of cigarettes remained. In the 14 minutes to Sorgane she smoked roughly 8 cigarettes and, from what I think I saw, coughed two out. When we arrived she saw a friend she knew and like clockwork I changed cars and was off to Florence with another total stranger. I arrived mid-afternoon. No one was home and I had no key to open the door. So just like any travel-confident teenager I bought another beer and sat in the sun reading On the Road.

-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Piazza della Santissima Annunziata,Florence,Italy

Just Do It

It has been four days since I arrived in Florence. Each day presents me with a different goal, a drive, that keeps me moving. This internal force comes from traveling the amount I have. If you were bored and alone I hope you would be clever enough to create a form of entertainment. My "form" is adventuring. But it is no longer determined by being bored. I just need to adventure.
Using your time wisely is the art behind traveling alone. You find yourself living sporadically and making plans that would never come to fruition if you were accompanied by a friend. You find yourself constantly active and never lackadaisical. And the combination is the balance you want. Yesterday I walked all over Florence. This side of the river, and that side. Up the hills and then back down again. But the urban environment is taking it toll on me. I miss my ability to go camping in the Crazies. I miss the hop-skip-and-jump to Hyalite state park. But tomorrow I will be reunited. I'm going to rent a Vespa and take to the country for the day.
I never saw the Motorcycle Diaries but I am excited to create my own. I'm going to whip out the map today and see, if it is possible, where I could get to on a tank of gas and a day in Tuscany. The vineyards would be fun. Luca would bring back memories. But going somewhere different, somewhere I havnt been, would be fun. I remember back in Greece my Uncles Hugh and Tom had the same mindset towards traveling. We all got off our sailboat on some unimportant island and automatically looked for an adventure. After bartering with a Vespa Rental we all hopped on these rickety scooters and took towards the hills. The village, untouched by tourists, was white washed just like the pictures of Mediterranean cities are depicted. Old churches dedicated to Mythology reminded us that Poseidon isn't only mentioned in the Iliad and Odyssey.
Its those memories that inspire me just to hit the road. So while my home base is Florence, right in the Duomo Square, I may be making memories elsewhere during the day. Thats the art behind sporadic independent travel.


-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Via dei Pepi,Florence,Italy

Florence

Last night I was reunited with Florence. The smell of the city swooped up my nostrils as soon as my train stopped and as if traveling alone in europe was a song stuck in my head it started all over with me throwing my daypack on my chest and my pack on back. This reoccurring theme of me leaving the train station with my iPod playing and entering a different European city is growing on me. Each place is unique. The people look different, dress different, and speak differently. But this time I knew the city. For those who aren't aware I lived in Florence in fifth grade. The unconditional independence my parents gave me while living here allowed me to establish my bearings. And like a song you were were taught in elementary school, the layout of the city will never be forgotten. The young mind is so full of room and interest that when you put your mind to learning something it will stick with you for life. My friend Falcone is a prime example of this. His ability to learn English at a young age will forever be an advantage. But last night I noticed it was also beneficial for me. We went to a couple local bars. Watched some soccer and then just toured the city by the routes I know. I wanted to walk in my old footsteps. The Duomo, Santa Croce, Plaza Repulica, and the Arno all brought a rush of memories soaring into me. We crossed the Arno on Ponte Vecchio and stopped by the old calligraphy store that my father bought business cards from during our stay here. The cards are made from top quality Florentine Paper and have astonishingly intricate patterns that border the cards face. I remember more and more with every step. I held the knob to open our apartment building, and I sat on the bench I used to wait for the bus on. I went to the gelatoria that my brother and I used to get fat at. All of them in a way were my mnemonic devices, and before long I was having extreme deja vu. Everything was nostalgic, everything was perfect. Today we are going to go rent 2$ bikes and zip around the city. I plan on eating Il Latini tonight if I find a partner but if not then ill go during the week. My thought is that a saturday night spent alone is not a saturday night at all. If I do today right I will have my blog about Europe turning into a Disneyland almost done or finished, I will have another drawing to add to my book, and maybe go get my Pops a stack of those business cards he adores. But to do it perfectly I will have time for an old favorite art store that my mother and I used to go to religiously. Have a great day guys. Whether your in Miami, Arizona, Minnesota, Connecticut, Israel, St. Louis, Montana, or anywhere for that matter, make the most of the sunlight. Spring is here and we all know thats just the prelude to a great summer.


-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Piazza della Santissima Annunziata,Florence,Italy

Au Revoir Paris

This is what Paris has been for me. It has been fantastic food, outstanding company, and eye opening history. The first time I arrived I was confronted by the drunks that surround the Gare Du Nord train station but it wasn't until my second trip that I realized that side of town wasn't the Paris that people know and love. This time around I stayed in the center of it. I was lucky enough to have an amazing uncle who unconditionally took me into to his apartment on the Champs de Elysees. The boardwalk basically parallels the river and is home to three of the most useful landmarks for navigating Paris. There is the obelisk at its base that not only signifies that you are at the river but also announces the entrance to the Louvre. Second, in the center of the street, is the Arc de Triumph which can be seen from miles away. And third you have the "Central Park" of Paris. Im a mountain guy. So when it comes to cities, just as in the wild, I need my points of interest to keep my bearings and stay on course. In the last couple days I have walked the vast majority of terrain that Paris has to offer. Both sides of the river and both sides of the shoreline. The history seeps into you with every placard obscurely placed and although there may not be a crowd reading it, it doesn't mean it is not important. Today I walked down to the Louvre. And like the placards I found that the plantings that people tended to neglect turned out to be more interesting. The faces, the contorted bodies, and especially the hands. While people were huddled around the Mona Lisa because its notoriety I was snapping shots of hands. I'm no artist, at least not in the realm of those whose painting call the Louvre home, but I find hands to be the most difficult to get right. My art is something that Ken Kesey may enjoy but lacks the realism and tangibility of the greats. The way they make the art speak to the viewer is a gift I could only dream of understanding. But nonetheless I aspire to learn. I spent a little over three hours touring each and every piece of art and the patience made me respect two things. One, I got to see the artists who are less known and two, I got to respect the museum more. It flowed like a well organized album, each song seems to belong after the last and before the next, each art piece seemed to catalyze the next as if they were all intertwined. My stay in Paris has made me respect Europe more than it made me respect France. Of course I learned more about French culture and the people, whom I completely enjoy, but it was the fact that In the period of one day I went from Ireland to France and experienced a whole new world. I guess thats what I get for living in one of the biggest nations in the world. I can travel all day and only go from MN to MT. But in Europe's highly cultural and country packed land you can experience a lifetimes worth of different foods, musics, and traditions. My bag is packed and as I said it only takes one day. Tomorrow morning it's off to Florence for me. I arrive at 5pm and can't wait to see the city I once called home. I can picture the layout of the streets and the Ponte Vecchio. I don't know how long I plan to stay there but when your just traveling with no reservations why try to create them and in turn ruin the freedom. The only reservation I may have to make is at Il Latini (my favorite restaurant). This trips seems to be dwindling down but I keep forgetting that I still have two months left. I haven't heard from my readers in quite some time so if your out there send my a comment. If you have any suggestions I am all ears. I hope everyone is having a great week. And have a superb friday. Wish me luck on my travels. Au Revoir.
-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Champs Elysees Paris

Bread done right

Just like tap Guinness was better in Ireland than anywhere else French bread in better in France then the rest of the world. I don't quite know what it is. Maybe the yeast they use or the temperature its cooked at. But hey I'm not trying to be a baker but rather a bread aficionado. They process of determining whether the bread is good are as follows. 1. The smell. The smell of the bread is important. Not only do you pick up the sent of the oven and the flour but your nostrils also pick up the freshness, whether that be decided by the heat of the air inhaled or that signature fresh aroma. 2. The texture. A good bread should be soft and spongy on the inside but have the perfect crunch from the crusty shell around it. And finally 3. The air pockets. Its synonymous to the marbling on Kobe beef. The air pockets scream quality and instantly make my mouth water. In the US we smother our bread with butter, jam, or cheese. Maybe thats because we prefer it that way but maybe its because we subconsciously know that the bread is subpar. The bread in France is served in a basket with no additives because there is no need. In Europe there has always been a debate between chocolateers of different countries but when it comes to bread nobody challenges the French. They just kowtow.


-Chad A. Dokken

Location:France

Best night in Paris. What a difference from before

Jaime picked me up from Gare De Nore right when I arrived. After a hot shower in his centrally located apartment I organized my backpack and sorted what laundry I had to do. Seeing jaime was great. He is situated right in the center of the city. We relaxed and I took a shower before we departed for the city. After people watching. having a couple glasses of wine and a beer we left for what had to be the best steak house I have ever been to. They served you two plates of steak and fries. The fries were thin, crisp, and flavorful. While the steak was tender and cover in a curry, alfredo , pesto sauce that we called C.A.P. A couple more glasses of wine and a long walk around the 6th district and I was ready for bed. This Paris trip is much better. Im staying the day tomorrow to tour then Im off to Italy.






-Chad A. Dokken

London to Dover. Dover to Paris.

I left Dublin early in the morning to catch the ferry once again to Holyhead. This time I was accompanied by a group of canadians who were studying in Wales and decided to come for the party. I slept the entire three and a half hour trip. You see I work in a pattern of no sleep for multiple days and then, like a bear, I enter hibernation. I took advantage of a free breakfast. Ate massive american portions and then passed out. I arrived in Holyhead and hopped on the train for London immediately. The couple I sat with was kind enough to give me two perfectly made beef and roasted pepper rolls to hold my appetite until we arrived in Euston Station, London, and I promised them I would acknowledge their sincere gesture on my blog. At Euston I picked up a bag of carrots, a box of grapes, and a salad. I don't think anyone in my family exactly knows what it feels like to have over 8 pints of Guinness a day, but if they did then they would know that fresh vegetables after a "bender" of that caliber is amazing. I grabbed the Underground tube to Charington Cross and then bought my ticket for the first train to the coast of the UK to a town called Dover. I will never take the Chunnel again. The train is only 2 hour and costs over 80 Euros. So I instead chose to take another ferry across to Calais France from Dover. When I was almost to Dover I realized that the girl I had been sitting with had left her purse under the table. I would like to think that it was stunning good looks that distracted her, made her blush, and inevitably led to her rushing off the train all hot and bothered that I wasn't stopping in Ashton with her but I think it was the several gin and tonics she had consumed in order to deal with the hour train ride at night. Nonetheless I noticed and tried to help. I was the only one on the train except three rowdy brits from Folkstone. Which I guess was a tough area because they kept repeating "Don't you know? We are crooked crooks from Folkstown!!". I asked them what to do. They searched the bag. first to look for money, second to find out who she was because they didn't find any. The fact she had a Social Services license bothered them. They had all had kids or relatives kids taken away by the social services and cussed the organization out until their stop. Right before they hopped off the pudgy girl told the older bald man who was smoking in a monitored/non-smoking train to wipe his finger prints off. Well I gave it to the night guard at Dover when I arrived and stepped off the platform and into the cold and salty air that makes Dover recognizable. It smells like Hawaii but feels like Scotland. The hotel across the street is the only one I could find and when I stepped into the entrance/restaurant I found the owner and bartender drunk with several locals. They had been drinking to celebrate a guitarist who had come to play. But because he had one too many double whiskeys he only survived playing a couple songs. I went to the ferry port in the night and tried to check in but couldn't. On the way back I ran into two Chinese English who were trying to hitchhike across the channel on an 18 wheeler. They were trying to get to Prague and fast. They had to reach Prague for a charity and within the week because their parents were so strict that if they found out they were traveling Europe they would be furious (I love my parents for giving me independence and teaching me how to use it responsibly). I strolled through the cold. Remembering to take a right at the first roundabout and a left at the next. After 3 km I was there once again. Now they were piss drunk. I threw on my Lulu Lemon work out clothes and did my crossfit work out at 10pm in the dark on the stairwell to Dover Castle. Now when I cam back this time some of the bar soldiers were blacked out and screaming that working out will kill me. I explicitly told them I was leaving at 7am to catch the ferry and left for bed. There was no shower gel or shampoo only bubble bath but I made do. When I awoke in the morning I dressed and prepared to leave. When I pushed the restaurant door it was locked! I knocked.... No answer. They had gotten piss drunk and locked me in the hotel. No one was in the building. I was the only guest. I went to the second floor and tried the fire escape. Locked. So I am locked in and if there was a fire I would die.. GREAT!! I entered my room and pried off the nail that kept my window shut. So here I was at 6:20 in the morning with a 50+ pound bag shimmying my way down from the second story of a Dover hotel. I should have lit fire to the building and convinced them I was killed because their incompetence but I had a ferry to catch. I took the ferry to Calais with the two chinese students who failed to get a ride. We bought one day return tickets because they were cheaper just to find out that we wouldn't be able to come back through Dover because immigration gets furious when you find the loophole in ferry prices and fail to return that day. In Calais the bus was not operating until late. I walked 4km almost missed my train but fortunately didn't. I arrived in the same station as before in France but this time I had no problems because my Uncle Jaime was a superb guide and host.



-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Dover, UK

Trinity College and Old Dublin Tour

Trinity college, or College of the Holy and Undivided Trinity of Queen Elizabeth near Dublin, was founded in 1592. Located in the center of Dublin it's gigantic grey stones are a tell tale landmark for anyone navigating Dublin's streets. Founded by Queen Elizabeth I it is the oldest university in all of Ireland. Yesterday I joined a tour group to hear the story behind one of Dublin most interesting areas. The university was established by the Tudors to maintain a Protestant power in Irelands most populated areas. This strategy was only possible through restrictions on admittance. With criteria varying from religion, sex, and race. It was not until 1900 that women were actually allowed to apply. The college itself was very aristocratical, however, it's story is much deeper. The absurd 10 euro to enter is, well, absurd. But you can't put a price on history. The founders laid the plans for the campus next to Alls Hallow Monastery (but the location later changed) and got to work on publishing an educational library by hand. One of the famous books, the book of Kells, is famous for it's ornate calligraphy. The time it took to keep time and history remembered is astonishing. Now 16000 students call Trinity home and acknowledge that their school has more history than most can boast.


-Chad A. Dokken

Some photos for those who wish they were there

Last night I witnessed (and partook) in an event that men internationally dream of. The streets of Dublin we wet in beer. Boots were mandatory because of the massive amounts of broken bottles on the streets. Of course I had fun. But watching the spectacle was more enjoyable. The Irishmen in Gogartys were chanting and their women were dancing. Matt and I didn't know what to expect from Ireland. We thought the weather would be horrendous, but without a cloud in the sky and the warmth of the sun, we were happily surprised. When we met up we immediately roamed the city. The river down the middle makes it easily navigable. Each bridge is designed in a different way (stone, wood, modern style, or historic). We meandered through the northern side of Dublin and joined the Guinness Factory tour. But even though this city is great I'm ready to get back on the road. Cinque terre is going to be a great place to relax, hike, and save money. Plus seeing the the wind just picked up, the idea of the warm Mediterranean. Ive been trying to call you Mom and Dad but it either doesn't go through or you not picking up. So give me a call when you can.

Gogartys

Right now I'm in the famous Gogaryts pub in the Temple Bar district in Dublin. While Matt enjoys his corn beef and cabbage I nurture a pint of Ireland Guinness. We have realized it tastes astonishingly better on tap and in Dublin. I have my days money in my pocket and although Dublin for Pattys Day calls for an absurd amount of money, I'm not going to go over budget.
-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Dublin, Ireland. Temple Bar District

Happy to be out of Paris

I arrived in Paris last night lost and confused. Barcelona was the perfect size. But Paris presented me with a challenge that I had trouble facing. I don't speak French and it seems they don't either. The station entrance is packed tight with crooks and scam artists waiting to either get you a taxi or as one man claimed " I can get you good hashish, like this" he said pointing to his thumb. It's not that I'm not used to this from Barcelona and Africa but without any reasonably priced hostel, darkness creeping in, and identical streets I lost it. After some help from my most trustworthy friends (my parents) and their access of a computer, the night ended with me cooking curried turkey scrambled eggs at Le Village Hostel. Now I'm in Euston terminal taking advantage of free wifi and relaxing. I have three hours to kill before I board a train to Hollyhead in north-west Britain. Then a ferry to Dublin. With every train I board I feel it getting colder but as my brother says "sucks to suck."
-Chad A. Dokken

The Gift of Laughter

Laughter is one of the most essential medicines in the world. While diseases, poverty, and lack of a stable family tare us apart it is laughter that can pull it altogether when its most needed. The Living Water Orphanage is full of children who are lacking something. It is true that their life has exponentially improved since being taken in. But I would argue that the change wasnt because of the housing, food, or education but the happiness. The kids now have a family. Brothers and sisters that they can turn to when needed. The teachers unconditional affection is that of a mothers. And the volunteers are the aunts and uncles. This entire community is medicine for the soul. If you can brighten someones day up with a tickle, a joke, a face, or a hug then you are distributing the most important drug available. Steve Wilson, a psychologist and laugh therapist states "I believe that if people can get more laughter in their lives, they are a lot better off and heathier to." I am greatful that laughter is never scarce in my family. Our constant, ruthless jokes about eachother are always in good fun and always catalyze a good chuckle. I tried to mimic this as best as I could with the children. Throwing them in the air or running with them on my back. I miss it. The greatest thing about happiness is that it is contagious. When I was in Africa I thought my job was to make the kids laugh and play. But they made me play. They made me laugh. In the wake of the terrible tsunami and earthquake it must be hard to be happy with all the chaos in the world. But all you can do is spread you contagious happiness and pray. So if you havnt laughed today please do. And if you see someone down and deppressed extend you unconditional loving hand.

History of Barcelona

For being such a large city, Barcelona has a suprisingly uneventful history. While citys like Rome, and Istanbul can boast histories of conquest and battle, Barcelona only has a couple scars. The walking tour I joined yesterday left at 9am from Plaza Catalunya and ventured around for three hours. The first stop on the tour was the birth place of Barcelona. On the beaches of the sea in 3rd century BC the city was formed. The two stories of Barcelonas history are equally interesting. It is said that it was either created by Hannibals father who named it Barcino for his family. Or some say it was created in dedication to Hercules. When I saw the enourmous amounts of fishing boats on the horizon I understood why this would be such a habitable place to live. Our next stop was the Arc de Triumph. The arc was built after the romans took the city in 15 BC. Reaching a height of rougly 80-100 feet the arch is made from bright red bricks. The romans would build these in the cities they conquered so they could march there army through the city. The Romans renamed the city Faventia and built a military camp. Some of the roman architecture can still be seen in Placa del Rei on our third stop. Barcelona was such a power house for the Roman empire because the harbor that they recieved plenty of respect from the Romans and the Catalonian culture began forming. When ferdinand and Isabella married, the knots were tied and Spain was reaching for true autocracy. Catalan was abolished but with wide spread immigration Barcelona was about to become bigger than anyone would have imagined. Now with a population of 3 million people Barcelona is a holy grail for tourism.  The computer I am working from is built into the wall and some unfortunately i am unable to reach the USB plug in. But I will find one shortly and update you all with all my pictures from the tour, Castle Montjuic, Park Guell, and the various other places that Spain has shown me.

Barcelonas Architecture

Many citys have a feel. Whether it be the accent, the food, or the buildings, every city has defining characteristics. Barcelona's, for me, happens to be the architecture. In the USA we see scaffolding as a representation of creating new. But the cranes and cement trucks in Spain are overwhelmingly used for keeping the old alive. I have walked through the streets. In the day. At night. And everytime I do it I see the silhouettes of the enormous buildings. In the late 1800's and early 1900's Gaudi transformed the way we think about buildings. Rather than the structure being used for the purpose of living in, it could be art as well. His ability to turn rock into water and break the mold of conventional thinking changed Barcelona for the better. Now because his inspiration Barcelona is a Mecca for artists and abstract thinkers of the world.

My favorite restaurant in Barcarole

Barcelona's food scene, like much of Europe, is fantastic. But after much exploration of the city I think I have found the best. Bo de B is a oasis in touristy food centers. With a fresh foot long French bread sandwich filled with succulent beef or chicken and your choice of toppings you can be happy for the whole day. Run by one of the many expatriates that Europe harbors, this place says young Barcelona all over it.


-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Carrer d'Aroles,Barcelona,Spain

Some photos of Barcelona

-Chad A. Dokken

Europe as I know it

I have been in Barcelona for roughly one week but I just started to realize the ups and downs of the society. And frankly its not to much different from Africa. The Disney Land that Europe has become attracts tourists an criminals the same. In my Plaza there are at least 10 police during the day. 15 at night. And 0 past 2 am. They tend to the prostitutes that plague the La Rambla district and herd them into the alleys. The eastern Europeans run illegal gambling behind tourist buildings while the Pakistanis sell noise makers and other toys. And they all come for the tourists. This astronomic immigration has drastically changed the demographics of the city, leaving the locals angry at both the invading criminals and the tourists. The tapas are not real Spanish tapas unless you go to a local joint, and even then you are not wanted. But because those local places become popular when a university student tells his friends about it, the restaurant moves to buying premade paella to increase profit and the whole reason they were special is lost. I went to a local jazz club this week and plan to go again tonight. But when tourists come, you want to make yourself scarce or the locals will curse at you to when flash cameras go off. Its a dilemma that anyone in Barcelona experiences. With no solution to the hatred of tourists, the dependence on the tourists money, and the overwhelming illegal immigration all we can do is take it with a pinch of salt as my British friend Ez says. When you want to go local, tone it down. When you want to feel at home, go to the tourist bars like Dow Jones. A bar where the price of drinks fluctuate on the board and every thirty minutes the market crashes resulting in a mass of people rushing to the bar. Tonight is local food and local music but now its siesta.

Barcelona.

Barcelona is enlightening. The dark parts of Africa that I had grown so accustomed to are being washed away each and every night. Ive been walking all over town with the goal that when in come back in many years I will still be able to navigate around. I went to the beach, the Roman Arc de Triumph, and many local squares while tagging along with a tour guide for two hours. Im having trouble putting up new pictures but by now you are all used to getting the photos in waves. But please google image Plaza Real Barcelona and see where I live. I planning on going to Belgium on the 11th for a weekend then to Dublin or St. Pattys day. So I will have plenty of photos of me and Matt before I leave. The tapas are great, the city is great, and although the weather right now is shit the Picasso museum will be great. My room mate is a 67 year old flower child who talks about he LSD trips frequently. Well thats where I am right now, comment so I know what going on with all of you. I miss you guys and cant wait for summer.

Out of Afica

Africa oh Africa. Where do I begin and how did it ever end. Im sitting here in the Juggle Juice Bar in Amsterdam having a cold beer and reminiscing. But as my new adventure begins I cant help thinking about the one I have just finished. I will begin with the end. In the last week I have been with the Masai just at the base of Mount Meru and in Arusha celebrating. The Masai were fantastic. i went walking in the bush with them. Shot arrows with them. And threw spears. While most Masai are polygamist, only half this family was. They were revolutionaries on the front of Masai education. Preaching against the commonly practices female circumcision, spreading Christianity, and educating farmers about caring for the land. After plenty of Ogoro (the Masai snorting tobacco that is used constantly) they took me into one of their dung/mud huts for a ceremony. I was going through the procedure of becoming a warrior. The great grandma of 98 set a fire in-between three rocks and then placed a piece of metal in the coals. After more Ogoro it was time. When the Masai are anywhere from 8-18 they become warriors. A process that is finalized when you are branded. They usually do it on the cheeks but I chose my fore arms. After about 30 minutes of heating up in the red coals grandma took the piece of metal and held out my arms. Before I knew it I could smell burning flesh. I could hear the skin boiling. Then the other arm. The entire time I could not blink or show pain or I would be useless. Now I am the MZungu Cache Unguelelo Rasta Masai qua Arusha. Crazy, relaxed, white Masai. The rings will stay with me forever. They are healing now but will soon be black circles. And although im not really a Masai all the Masai that have seen my marks are impressed and curious to know what I did to receive such an honor. Well it may be a honor, but so was this trip all together. And although the ring hurt now. Leaving Africa does as well. And like the rings, the memories will last forever. Out of Africa and in Europe. Loving it.

Keep it real Readers. Love you.


- Chad

Masai pictures

The video is on facebook





-Chad A. Dokken

When the going gets tough

Alright guys Im back. Kenya is superb and for the first time I feel at home on the trip. I took a shower for the first time in a week and the stunning tan i thought I had was in fact dirt. I shaved, but kept the mustache (and it looks quite fashionable). Clean clothes feel great and although my body is torn from the week of sitting in a hot car driving on roads that are rivers in rainy season Im getting used to not bumping around constantly. The safari was amazing. It started off at an the all time high of getting to see Hippos grazing in the fields and not in the water. An hour later we watched as four lions slept high in the branches of a tree. The Antelope and Gazelle are everywhere but they are only bait. Their magnificence lays within the fight they put up to avoid being eaten. The drive is not the most satisfying. The bumpy roads destroy your stomach and without any leg room you easily get cramped up. I put up photos of many of the animals we saw but because they come out of nowhere and sometimes disappear just as quickly I only have memories of some scenes. At each and every camp a Masai warrior with poison arrows guarded our tents, which was nice but at 2am when you hop out to take a piss you don't notice he's watching you until its too late. It astonishes me that Tanzania and Kenya use the Serengeti animals to bring in their tourism but yet outside the park they abuse them. Today I saw two dead dogs and a Masai whipping a donkey in the face and laughing but when your in the park any gesture towards the animals other than a photo results in a horrific fine. Tomorrow I head back to Arusha and after a couple days in in Europe. I am ecstatic to see my cousin Matt, eat with him, drink, and begin my new adventure. Im almost out of Africa. There was no wifi in the last hotel either and Im sorry it took this long to upload my Summit Photo.


- Chad

Location:Nairobi, Kenya

Other photos

4 lions sleeping in a tree





-Chad A. Dokken

A photo of my little brother

-Chad A. Dokken

Panorama of the famous river crossing for herds

-Chad A. Dokken

Wildebeest in Tanzania

-Chad A. Dokken

Cheetah in Kenya

-Chad A. Dokken

Photo of me on Kilimanjaro

-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Tanzania

The Worst Day Known to Man

This is how the events unfolded.

Today I woke up. Took my clothes to the hotels laundry mat and had breakfast. The hotel had changed, new people from new countries. I went for a walk down town. Now everyone in Tanzania tells me that Arusha is more dangerous than Moshi but today changed that idea. After passing a bus station two locals followed me. As usual they attempted to sell me bracelets. And as usual I kindly asked them off. They did not leave, instead they continued to walk smoking weed and occasionally talking on the phone. This is usual. But a military cop whipping out of a taxi and handcuffing you is not. I was cuffed and stuffed in the back of a taxi that the soldier had hijacked. While the other two sellers were calm, my hard was beating rapidly. They had called him and were expecting a chip of the amount paid.He yelled, cursed, and hit the gray leather on the seat. "10 years" he kept yelling. I watched the movie about the American who spent time in the Turkish prison and had to escape and with the Congo to the west of me and the Indian ocean to the east I noticed I didnt have a lot of choices. I bribed him. What started as 2000 US turned into an iPod shuffle, Dr. Dre beats, and 400$. He took me to every ATM that accepted Visa. And although I tried to get 2000$ it wouldn't let me. My daily limit was 500. After an hour of going ATM to ATM and being watched so I couldnt run we came to a conclusion. I gave him my fake ID for drinking that a colleague gave me and I think that saved my life. I told him I needed it to get a new passport and that I will call him to pay the rest for the ID. He thinks my name is Dan and that Im traveling to Arusha. Dan you saved my life, and Im serious. But I have to be careful. The police will arrest a white man for anything here just to get money. Today Im happy to be alive in a hotel instead of prison in Tanzania. Right now Im drinking a couple cold ones, packing, and getting ready to hop the country to Kenya. Although rebels are moving into Kenya I have a feeling I will have less problems. I miss the USA.