-Chad A. Dokken
Location:Ambeyrac,France
4.27.2011
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
-Chad A. Dokken
4.22.2011
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
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
4.21.2011
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
-Chad A. Dokken
Location:Rue Franklin,Bordeaux,France
4.18.2011
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
-Chad A. Dokken
4.13.2011
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
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
4.08.2011
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
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
4.06.2011
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
-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
-Chad A. Dokken
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