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.