The Eurail Dairies: That Bottle in That Bar

"The originality of a working woman’s movements as she walks her London streets..."

The Eurail Dairies
That Bottle in That Bar

England is like a clean and quick shot from that bottle in that bar that stands just under the rest where there’s question of its contents. Now that your order is in you begin to query ones trip to this particular bar. The ceiling is plastered with smoke and low set with pictures of Jenna Jameson in the 80’s. The men on the other side of the bar top look like an image directly out of Quintan Tarantinos head and your hand is resting on something moist and still warm. As you take that preliminary shot and you feel the harsh burn of that bottles contents you begin to embrace your surroundings just as you embraced your skepticism of that last shot. By the end of the night, not only have you fully embraced the rest of the bottle but you seem to have given your surroundings a second chance as now they look so much more attractive. England has this same sharp candid bight but with a smooth surface layer candor that only is presented after time, a second chance…and maybe a drink.

The originality of a working woman’s movements as she walks her London streets, the odd peripheral vision sightings of all the uniquely experimental and bizarrely unconventional people surrounding Camden City, Trafalgar Square at night, or simply me as the American still not willing to admit that the rest of the world uses the metric system and there are particular countries that find a sense of sanity in driving on the wrong side of the road. This is the beauty of England’s capital city.

The day is people watching, sightseeing and self amusing, the night is a Soho bar and then the Broadway, and everything in between is just the cruel realization that the pound towers above my delicate dollar. Starbucks has even discontinued its purpose of giving me that American corporate comfort and instead it’s been replaced by the reminder that my corporate America sits on the brink of the domino effect. So, now when I sip my coffee with that modest green mermaid staring back at me I star back with pity and sadness because I know its dying just beneath those golden arches lying next to Ronald MacDonald.

This next addition to my collection of journals is brought to you in a very English fashion. As I speak to you from a corner street English pub I am surrounded by a series of distressed leather oversized armchairs, the BBC is presenting the years best snapshots, I’m sipping a pint of lager, and I’m over hearing conversations of last weeks fox hunting expedition. All quite English and very much out of my comfort zone but still intriguing causing me to stay and tell you some of what’s happened since my last chapter in The Eurail Dairies.

It’s been six months since I’ve left my eight foot by ten foot room just left of the basement bathroom in my parent’s house. I have reached the two decade mark forcing me to really pretend like I’m an adult. I have traveled through England, France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy and I have a big boy job teaching English in the capital of Spain, Madrid.

I began my time in Spain on September 22nd. I came in by Eurail after one blameless bus detour in Rome caused a string of events that ultimately caused me to miss my flight. After reaching Madrid I immediately began a one month high intensity course that certified me to teach English as a foreign language. During the first three weeks as I searched for the perfect apartment I spent some quality time in a five foot by five foot hostel room with the most flattering green curtains and white lighting. I swear to you the bed was bought from the local nursing home. It had a side crank that would give you your desired level of elevation. It totally worked wonders because for me to see the late presidential election on the TV behind the door I would have to put it on its highest possible level. Although highly amusing it was quite unnecessary and made me feel like I was predestined to possess arthritis or some disease causing total immobility.

My big boy title to accompany my big boy job is, brace your self, “Jacob Michael, Professor of English”. Jacob, it sets a good tone for, Hi, I’m Jacob and I like to work”. The name leaves little room for Club Pacha on Friday, lunch and then the bar marathon in La Latina on Saturday. So, Jake seems to come out just as frequently as Jacob. The difference is that when Jake is introduced, Jacob is ready for the weekend.

Anyway when Jacob has his obligation to work for his living he teaches a range of students from a class with two four year old girls to a 45 year old Lawyer to Corporate business classes. I enjoy my job for now. I have the opportunity to meet and understand the Spanish. It’s an opportunity that eight months ago I am so glad I had made

Said to be the Paris of southern Europe Madrid gives more to her residence that anyone would think to receive. It’s hard to get any understanding of all the advantages until you become a work-in, live-out style resident. My schedule by day is booked with classes but the Spanish night brings out the most timid of people and hurls them into the 12 hour city wide social assembly lasting till eight the next morning. Sitting a little behind the times Madrid gives that perfect balance of old European culture with the hype of the in fashion and class. The people themselves have migrated with the times and kept a sense of in the mode existence but tradition has continued as the people continue to practice and value it.

Until July when I return to the States I will continue to recreate my European adventures and stick them in Cyberspace. Also I will be very mentally busy trying to figure out what life will bring me after my glorious stay in Madrid. As of now the most attractive option is either business or journalism school in the city that never sleeps. But my ideas change just as fast as my appetite for a change of scenery.


A big boy but not yet an adult,
Jacob Michael, Professor of English (it’s a weekday)

The Eurail Diaries: Simplicity

Venice

The Eurail Diaries: Simplicity

Once upon a time, in a land not to far away, there was a curiously peculiar child that most of you all know. That same slightly atypical child hasn’t changed much if any change at all. He’s proud of his past and eager for the future. His mother would drill one particular command into his head at the end of every breakfast meal. To this day that for ever imposing voice gives him the same inevitable command that as a child he could never escape. Even now, as a young man, far from the control of his parents he doesn’t know what it is to finish a bowl of rice crispies with out the sweet whispers of Snap Crackle, and Pop muffled by a shrill “drink your milk! You pour it! You drink it!”. Its time she knows that her piercing matriarchal voice sticks within my head as I travel some 5 thousand miles from listening range.

There is a point to this however. Only two days ago was this point made clear to me. This clearing of the mind happened just as I finished perfecting the art and science of slicing my three dollar block of cheese in a way that it would evenly accommodate a whopping four sandwiches. Mind you, this was no easy process but now, it stands as a true expertise.

After this modest experiment I asked myself why in the hell would I take the slightest effort into making flawlessly flush cheese slices fit in between pieces of bread. I couldn’t answerer that question. All I know is six months ago I was paying 150 dollars for jeans, and tipping the coffee girl three dollars for drip. Who tips for coffee! Now I refuse to pay extra for pre-sliced cheese. I’m crazy, no? But is drinking the remains of Snap, Crackle, and Pop any different?

In between my common attempts to save a little money, I travel. At this point I have just enough money to see Italy, travel to Madrid, pay for my first months rent, and all the frequent beers in between. As crazy as this may be to hear, coming from one American to another, simplicity is a lifestyle and just for this year I plan to embrace it. Not until you taste the full sense of this routine do you totally understand how refreshing it can be. My head seems to no longer be traveling along with the happy meal, super target, want now and get it generation. Instead it’s clear to explore the other options. Even if that means no instantaneously appearing Big Mac at the drive thru and then a pit stop at the 24hr Wall-Mart at 3am. Everything closes by 9 in Europe, just to fill you in.

I never thought anything of Germany except for maybe; sausages, Hitler, and yodeling little bow peeps. As it turned out, I never had a brat worst, there’s no mention of the dead Jews and sadly, I’m told Little Bow Peep only existed in my pre-adolescent nursery rhymes. I was housed by my cousin from my father’s side; he’s catholic and believe me when I tell you the Catholics know how to wine and dine a life out side of the cathedral. This city of Konstanz, with no more than eighty thousand seemed to have more diversity and high end energy that that of my metropolis of Spokane and Coeur d’Alene. It sat on a lake combining Germany, Switzerland, and Austria, thus making it a prime area to feed my eager need to explore. Most days were filled with nonchalant walking, touring the infinitely abundant collection of castles, and my enthusiastic effort to try and keep up with the German tradition of drinking beer.

From Germany and with a burn in my wallet I took the train to visit the land of fine chocolate, high security banks, steep watches that would put the average working man into a second mortgage, and of course, once again, insane sub-way clientele (another story, another day).

Switzerland has a diversity that stands far beyond most other countries I have traveled to. Small, ya, but some how condensed with French, Italian, German and Swiss German speaking citizens, then after all that throw in their huge African American population. It was crazy, id get to Zurich and struggle to get a German speaker to tell me where an ATM is (not a success) then after an hour train ride to Lausanne Id try and get a French Speaker to tell me where the bus station is (outcome again lingered at a negative).

The sub-way continues to amaze me. It has come to my attention that anyone with an unusual quality, whether mental or physical, seem to decide to sit next to me. I love it, I will admit to that. This time my adjacent seat was filled with someone half way sane. Okay…imagine…an adorable, cookie cutter old lady, dressed up in brightly colored cloths, probably coming home from that evenings church pot-luck, she’s a little insane but still quite functional. Alright, that same depiction of a woman sat next to me, for the whole of the sub-way ride she embarked on a seemingly never ending account of how she makes stuff. I didn’t know what “stuff” was because this conversation was in French. I speak no French. She didn’t seem to care. In between her gasps for air and the subtle caresses she gave my arm I really really tried to tell her that I spoke English. I left yet again, another sub-way feeling slightly abused but chuckling to myself.

It was only one second where the conveniences of modern day Western Europe disappeared. My grasp wasn’t until I got off the train 2 hour later in Milan. It was my cross over that made me recognize, once again, that toilets with a seat are foreign to most other cultures. Haha, if you’ve ever traveled you may no exactly what I am talking about. Not only is there no seat, but no bowl. Let me explain, you prepare your self just as you would with the usual method of “relief” (Ass bare, knees bent, and a willingness to sit back and enjoy). Although the difference is that the toilet…is a ceramic hole in the ground. Benefit? You walk out having had a major thigh and glute work-out. Disadvantage? Still, any appearance of a seat remains non-existent.

After getting to Milan my fascination left with the train I just got off. Hostels were sparse and roads dirty. The only allure I have is of coarse its label of being the fashion capital of the world, dry yes, but some how intriguing. From the sprawling dirt and the art of textile I journey to Venice. This quick pit stop was only for a day but a day that will leave me wanting to return, just next time with some capital, a boat, and some romantic company. All are hard to be with out in the idealistic “Bride of the Sea”. No more than thirty minutes after leaving my hotel I get lost. This shouldn’t be a surprise to most of you. It certainly wasn’t one for me. Just this once however I took great advantage of it. Meandering the streets of Venice is like a maze but the revelation around the corner will astonish you every time.

Roma gave me something that few other places did. This was native English speaking folk. Roma is understandably the biggest tourist destination in southern Europe. I took great advantage of this. Soon after arriving, a short conversation of travel small talk turned into a leisurely trip to Naples, and later a free place to stay in Rome. I can’t say my days involved any thing more than the customary Roman highlights. I won’t attempt to write a colorful digest of The Vatican City, The Pantheon, La Piazza di Navona, The Spanish Steps, or even the post card plastered Coliseum. No travel guide or double decker, super express, tour bus will ever give this city the justice it disserves. Think about it, how does one present justice to a city where justice was derived.

My time in Italy isn’t over and I’m not leaving until the Tuscan sun stops giving me such damn good rays. I’m getting tired but I need more culture, the Italian people are insanely mad but insanely intriguing, my tension span is too short for the beaches but I go anyway, pasta gives me cramps but I eat it. Many things Italian contradict fixations that any where else I would go with out. Screw it! When in Rome.

Not in collage and on the open European road,
Jake

Eurail Diaries: Cocaine

Eurail Diaries
Cocaine

First, right off the bat let me begin with a confession. I seem to be suffering from what some people call writers block. For me it entails sitting in front of the computer patiently awaiting some remnant of a creative spark and it not arriving. After several attempts on the train, one in an English pub, and one other in some god forsaken French town called Boulogne, igniting this spark as come to be quite a process. Thanks to the vibe of southern Germany I’ve got one paragraph written, so for your benefit and mine I can continue with this dialogue of an irrational young American caught up in the European allure.

This next ramble of words has been delayed longer than I had planed but my excuse is legitimate. Hey! If a guy can’t write, he can’t write! It was only two weeks ago, on August 5th that I arrived in Europe. My departure from the States could only be explained as a relief. With six months of planning, my last year of school coming to an end, and the thought of parental freedom right around the corner, containing my self was not an option that I thought within my mental capabilities. Even now the thought of investigating some other outlandish country is hard to keep under a realistic mindset. Of coarse you can understand how my mind wanders. It’s too easy to do when on a seven hour train ride from Paris to Zurich. Let me put it this way, travel is like cocaine, you try it, you love it, the high can get out of control and before it ends you look for that next white line whether it be in Venice or Tim Buck Two. (Disclaimer: Cocaine, it’s just an analogy.)

At this point I have lost all track of time. All I know is I am into the second week of my travels. The joy is that I don’t need to keep tabs on my time spent; I have no itinerary and no real plan. It’s a beautiful and satisfying thing. Time however has been busy and spent on things that I never thought would be possible at my young age. After arriving in London I wasted no time. I caught the next bus to Bristol and soon after met up with old friends that I thought had forever gone their own separate ways. (I have come to find out that the English are more than just tea, crumpets, and top hats) Attending clubs, pubs, and viewing the latest in English culture was a major period of reflection as we reminisced of memories and of life’s instances that most would assume to be ludicrous.

Two nights in Paris. To be absolutely frank, not much more time is needed. First impressions are the ones remembered and mine was the sincere greeting of a Parisian bum that insisted quite persistently that he needed money for is three children. After looking at his coarse design of burses and blisters on his for arms I took this story of his three children as a hallucination at best and continued to the sub way. The sub way only more deeply defined my thoughts of the Paris city scape. With the unavoidable aroma of piss and god knows what else, I made my trip across town with a junky on my left and a junky on my right.

With a few tweaks and a minor demotion in appeal Paris still stands to be the city of love, of architecture, egotistical men and of fine woman. A dismal sub way ride and the abundant array of colorful but still homeless public is no excuse for me or anyone else to
define the city of lights to be anything other what it is; superbly extraordinary with a hint of urine.

Tonight I stay in Munich. With a superb diversity and lousy underground system I made my way to America’s equivalent of Rodeo Drive. Although I have little reason to even enter this modern day coble stone street of synthetic and absurdly priced textile I figured glance won’t affect my stiff budget. It didn’t, I’m still stuck with my bread, cheese and an occasional beer.

Now imagine some picturesque scene from The Sound of Music. Few guys will admit they’ve watched Julie Andrews prance around in flowers singing a pocket full of sunshine. That’s beside the point though; this picturesque scene is my home for the next week. It’s just lacking all the nuns, singing school children and I don’t think Julie Andrews has even been here.

Time has a value, don’t spend it all in one place, chances are you’re life will ensue prosperity.

Looking for that next white line,
Jake

The Eurail Diaries-Screw the Tithings

The Eurail Diaries
Screw the Damn Tithings


Jacob M. Szymanski


Its 6pm on the corner of Eastlake Ave and Lynn St at the ultra modern and overly designed Vox Café on Capital Hill, Seattle. Why I am here, I don’t know. I leave for Europe in only one month. I have spent an effortless four hundred dollars on clothes and food in the last three days and I have only a few designer labels to show for it (this lifestyle is not my norm and only for today…only until Saturday…today is Wednesday).

So, as I sit in my contemporary but some how astonishingly uncomfortable chair at this Café and I’m asking myself; what would move some one to leave an address where car insurance, gas, house, and phone bills have a monthly balance of…zero. Anyone in their right mind would ask me where such a glorious and oh so dubious place exists. This home is no delusion, it’s not life after death or even a man’s wet dream (ha-ha…the playboy mansion maybe?). It’s no other than my parent’s house.

Say it was the playboy mansion. I would…well, I guess that’s a whole different story. Nevertheless, in my reality I have looked for ways to abandon all of which I am naturally suppose to conform to. Naturally I would willingly receive the three kings tithing of gold frankinsence and murr but some in habitual force of mine would screw the damn tithings only to make them for myself. I’m sincerely hoping that made some sort of practical sense as that was my most unusually atypical analogy I have made yet. Hence, my strive for something original.

How ironic, after years of forcing myself to conform to the rest of society I’m desperately trying to escape precisely that.

(Before I continue let me address this chapter’s consistent self venting. The last hope I have for this diary is it to become a diary. Believe me; my diary wouldn’t include such nice flowy words.)

Anyway, with less than a month before I span across the globe, I find my self scraping together necessary details that should have been finalized months ago. Ha-ha, I kicked myself for this one; so I purchased this open ended ticket deal six months ago right. Just the other day did I ask myself where my confirmation was. I called, gave them a ridiculously ludicrous sum of money and for six months I have understood this ticket to be somewhere floating in cyber space next to some other unassuming e-tickets. Well, it was, it was sitting next to seat E33 the whole time. What happened to the days when you paid for your ticket and some time later you received a slip that said “TICKET”. Oh well, it’s the motorized PC world we live in today. Just an observation.

Expect some additional observations I have regarding or airport transit systems around August 5th as I get real up close and personal with the nice people who make me take off my shoes and seize my charming little travel shampoos because I’m going destroy a plane with them.

Patiently awaiting some brilliant British sarcasm and some witty French attitude,

Jacob M. Szymanski

The Eurail Diaries

The Eurail Diaries

“And so it begins” Or… “and so it ends” Just some super familiar remarks from this years graduating seniors. Don’t know what I’m saying yet? Maybe I should be a little more frank; “ shit ya! or; “oh shit, now what”. You’ve herd them both. Maybe you know which quote is yours. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you still have no idea what I’m talking about. Well, on June sixth each senior at CHS will be saying one or the other (for some, minus the four letter word, for me…I love adjectives). I guess if I cut the bull “adjective”, it all comes down to- what are you doing? The next chapter in life is what? Damn, what’s it even titled?

Hey, who am I kidding! You can figure out what’s next your self. In the mean time my next chapter is titled (title- no longer meant figuratively, this is the real deal); The Eurail Diaries.

And so it begins, or I guess on August fourth it begins. Either way, it’s what I would like to say is the beginning of something bigger. Like, say, as big as the continent of Europe. If that doesn’t make sense, this should. An open ended plane ticket from Seattle, Washington to London, a bag with the bare necessitates, a lap top, a jar of
peanut butter and limitless opportunities to get into trouble. Man! You’re thinking right now; “Why didn’t I think of that? College is great and stuff but damn, I’ve got my whole life to do that”. Ha-ha, that’s what I thought too!

Along with my jar of peanut butter ill be bringing a mental itinerary of…nothing. All I can tell you at this point is that in the near future lies world class woman (ahh the French) unsurpassable art, food and drink that the average American can not even fathom, and the freedom to do as I please. Freedom; this could get out of control.

To crazy for his own good,
-jAKE