I guess I'm just ambitious

I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I appreciate it. Every time. I really do. But I guess I’m just… I’m more ambitious than that.

It's not just us. The French
sure know how to make a
sheep pen look dangerous.

I’m not sure when we changed over. Was it September 11th? Was that when we stopped saying “happy travels” and retreated into the more fearful “travel safe”? Is that the day we let a finite event darken our ongoing reality?

Because I feel safer abroad than I do at home. Danger is in the mundane, the autopilot trip to the store among people with a thousand things on their minds (and a steering wheel in their hands). Wish me safe grocery shopping if you like, but in the streets of Paris? Safely safe me in safety. Alert to the details of the place I’m enjoying.

I am not scared of your televised danger,

This sign in the Vatican warns us
there are two kinds of walking.
I know which one looks more fun to me.

I am not scared of every stranger.

I am not scared, Sam I am...not.

Whereas in the US post office this morning a guy was ranting about “This is bullshit!” and “It’s like the fuckin’ DMV in here!” Granted my local post office is the slowest specimen this side of the Euphrates, but still, this was more hostility than I’d experienced in any of the supposedly dangerous lanes of international travel. And the guy was pushing a baby stroller. Good luck, kiddo. Because the danger is in quotidian malcontentment. Daesh ain’t got nearly that reach.

Border outpost on the German border.
Oh yes, we live in a terrifying age.

The worst danger I encountered was the septic stink of a fellow passenger. Which was potent. Whew. Somebody’s belly didn’t start off happy, and airline food didn’t help at all. That’s the danger I faced. No need to call the army. (Well, perhaps they could send a gas mask?)

I am grateful to every one of you who wished me safe travels. I am. Thank you. And I’m grateful that we live in the most peaceful time in human history. (Don’t believe me? Come on my tour and we’ll talk about the Counter-reformation.) A time so peaceful, so prosperous and fundamentally secure that property values around the world have gone through the roof, and hordes of people are crowding into the places that used to be reserved for the privileged few.

Kinda annoying, but better than the alternative.

So thank you, friend, family, acquaintance who wished me “safe travels” yesterday. I wish the same for you. And more. Much more. I guess I’m just ambitious like that.

Travel! It's terrifying!

The Secret to Europe

No photo of the boulangerie, but this was just down the street

The smell of fresh baked bread. Is there anything on earth so glorious as that smell on a Paris morning? It was Friday and the perfectly round fruit-topped tarts were glistening with sugar and the muffins with their floured plumpness were the first part of an equation whose answer was a comfortable chair, cup of tea, and a good book. But it was the freshly baked baguettes that drew me in.

The mademoiselle behind the counter was chatting with the dignified madame l’customer ahead of me, their words lilting about in that frolicsome French that seems always on the verge of a loving tut-tut.

When it was my turn I stepped forward, gave a friendly smile and nod, and said in my very best French “Un baguette si vous plait.” I was killing it. An integrated part of this morning in the boulangerie.

Except maybe not. The mademoiselle seemed annoyed by my presence. She wasn’t rude, but nor was she nice. She was curt and briskly businesslike with my bread, so different from the affectionate glow of moments before, and barely looked at me as she handed over the bag and greeted the next person in line with a friendly hello.

Maybe the old stereotypes were right. Maybe the French (or Parisians at least) really were still rude to foreigners. Maybe my inevitable accent was just not good enough for their demanding sensibilities. How terribly disappointing!

Good thing it wasn’t true. It took me some time to figure out. Countless more small interactions across the continent, but eventually I noticed the missing piece. And what a difference it made.

So when I watched three young Americans make the same mistake I had, ordering their sandwiches on the Rue Cler last time I was in Paris, and receiving the same terse Parisian response, I was ready to share what I’d learned.

That's my big mystical secret

“It helps a lot if you say hello first.” I told them (not bothering to say hello first because we’re Americans). “It took me awhile to notice it, since back home we smile and get straight to the point, but over here they really like it if you greet them before saying what you want.”

Being Americans, they were guarded about this stranger speaking to them, their defensive caution struggling against the desire to learn and enjoy their vacation.

“So if you just start with a quick ‘Bon jour madame’ in France, ‘Buon giorno signore’ in Italy, whatever, you usually get a much better reaction.” They kind of mumbled a response, still wondering when I’d demand their wallets, so I let them be and stepped up to the counter.

“Bon jour madame” I said to the mistress of sandwiches, who chirped back the answering greeting. “Un sandwich au jambon et fromage, si vous plait.” And we were best buddies by the time she passed across my lunch.

The Americanas were immersed in their guide book when I turned around, but perhaps somewhere down the road they’ll speak from experience when they whisper to someone “It helps if you greet them first.”

I'm going to miss the technology I can't wait to get rid of

That scrappy little car was dinged up, scratched, and nonspecifically battered into a character all its own before we ever picked it up at the Athens airport. But once I figured out where reverse was, I gunned that spunky little engine (4, maybe 4.5 horsepower?) and we were off into the tzatziki swirl of Greek traffic.

Mandalay knew the rhythm

Cars coming in from the right, I’m bobbing left to pass then cutting out of the way of the speedracer trying for Dubai by nightfall, and the motorcycles sort of croon among the fray with their gaspy trumpets of unsavory exhaust and swoopy leaning turns. It was a big ballet of steel frames and plastic bumpers, scored by combustion engines and pleasantly restrained bips of horn, costumed by sunlight glints on hoods and side mirrors, and riding on warm Mediterranean wind blowing in the window to dance your hair.

I do my best not to drive in other countries. Shucks, I do my best not to drive at home either. But driving in Greece? That was fun. When I get a good car around me, the pull and shift of wheels and gears, making my strategic way through the breakdown of cohesion you get when we fallible humans are given such power, I admit it, it’s damn fun.

I love driving, but who loves traffic?

I enjoy driving.

And I can’t wait for autonomous, self-driven cars to take it away.

Of course, I personally should get to keep my normal car, but the masses around me ought to sit back and let google get them where they’re going. It will work out better for all of us that way. Because if there’s one thing I know about automobiles, it’s that humans are not yet ready for that kind of responsibility. Give us another millennium of evolution maybe, but for now we just can’t be trusted with such momentum and concussive force.

Sit back and watch, boys. It's safer.

This is especially obvious to we cyclists. Google wouldn’t pull right in front of us, because google has exponentially more eyes to point at the bike lane, as well as in front and behind and around itself. We poor sad humans have a mere two sensors (sorta four if you count the ears, but those are busy listening to Adele). We just can’t handle three dimensional movement. There’s too much going on for our monkey gray matter. I saw we let the machines do it.

Will there be a loss of fun? Absolutely. But a reduction of tedious stress? Definitely. And a massive diminishing of danger? You betcha.

This Malaysian boy knew there's
plenty of fun to be had without car keys

It’s like the end of the Wild West. Sure, after about the turn of the century you couldn’t ride around shooting your gun at whatever you felt like anymore, and I’m sure those days were a whole lot of fun. Target practice in the orchard? Why not! Until suddenly there’s a subdivision built behind it. But I for one am glad we got rid of that. (For the most part. Dangit.)

Taking away our steering wheels will be the same. I’ll miss the days of piloting my machine through the fray, but man I won’t miss the jackwad in the BMW who nearly ran me off the road yesterday, or the scatter-brained parent too busy raising a brood to signal, or the young fella who learned to drive from video games and doesn’t appear to comprehend how unsustainable that is.

So please google, automate our Bay Area traffic. And if we ever feel the need to go roll those automobile dice again? Well, there’s always Greece.

Athens, the Acropolis, and the church
across from our hotel

I still can't comprehend supporting Trump

Let’s call them Brad and Linda. I met them a little while back, found them generally likeable people, some good jokes, some less-lovely behaviors, but we got along. They live in Texas, have a daughter, and are retired. Then something fascinating. I learned that they are Trump supporters. I was delighted.

What about you, Tongue Cat?
Do you understand?

A couple weeks ago I blogged about the hope Trump gives me, and only after I posted it did I think to check my facebook friend count to see if anyone wouldn’t read it before un-friending me. Because the fact is I don’t really know anyone who supports the global political clusterfuck of idiocy that is Donald Trump.

I see them on TV. They’re...well...they’re idiots. A profoundly dangerous tide of anti-intellectualism has been growing in America for years, but Trump? He’s a whole new low. Just...stunning. A level of idiocy, immorality, and statements so preposterously infeasible and irresponsible that they damage the standing of the US every time they’re repeated.

So how on earth can a third of Americans support him? I am utterly baffled. But here, in Brad and Linda, was my chance to find out. Because Brad and Linda, for all their peculiarities, clearly had brains in their heads. They had a fundamental level of intelligence that I expected to preclude support for the walking imbecility of Trump. I stocked up on patient observation to figure it out.

It took awhile. The first clue came when they suggested that Trump disclose who he’d put in his cabinet. “For example he could put The Black Guy in charge of medicine.” I wasn’t sure who they meant until they remembered The Black Guy’s name. “Carson, Ben Carson.”

A relic of Sri Lanka's past, or a glimpse of America's future?

The Black Guy? That seemed odd. Nevermind the idea of having an Attorney General with peculiar opinions about pyramids.

But better understanding was close behind, in a story they told about their daughter. “Well, we found out she was dating some guy, you know, with a funny last name. So we put a stop to that of course.” I didn’t ask which ethnicity that funny last name belonged to. Didn’t matter.

It wasn’t that they thought Trump’s policies were strategically sound. Or that they figured a terrible businessman with a track record of fundamentally un-American values and actions would be a good leader. And it wouldn’t matter if I pointed out the contradiction between the statements “I like him because he says what he means” and “I don’t worry about his crazy comments because he doesn’t mean most of what he says.”

In Sri Lanka it's laundry detergent.
In America it's apparently still a political platform.

They were just racist. How terribly disappointing.

Racism like theirs isn’t an opinion, or an ethos, or a belief structure. It’s just a moral failing. A default of the intellect and human spirit in favor of small-mindedness and a refusal to address actual problems.

And as I watch Trump "talk to black voters" in a way that is not remotely actually about black voters, but is clearly an attempt to convince white voters that he's not racist (click here), it's all just so...sad. Maddening. Vile. And televised.

So in the end, I am no closer to understanding how anyone with a brain could possibly support Donald Trump. If you know the answer, please let me know.

Empathy

Should I add horse carts to that list? Gotta love Cuba

I think about it every time I almost get run over by a car. “If that driver knew what it was like to be a cyclist, they’d be more aware of us.” And then when I drive, and some biker is being unnecessarily disruptive, I think “Get out of the way! Don’t you know how impatient and hobbled it can feel to drive in traffic?”

And it’s obvious when some driver pushes through the crosswalk that he’s a jerkwad, right? Except when I rode with my college friend whose medical condition kept him from walking, and there was an unending line of pedestrians, he had a class to get to too.

We all need to experience the other point of view periodically to retain our empathy and shared experience. Gotta wear their shoes, man!

Amazing kids in that Pretoria orphanage, unsurprisingly

I remember the shoes of the kids in the South African orphanage, hanging in red dust off the benches where they knelt to do a craft project. After seeing their faces I would read an African news story and instead of thinking “Man, that part of the world is screwed” I’d think “There are incredible people doing amazing work to improve each other’s lives there” and on good days “Maybe I can help somehow.”

And the orderly lines of Bay Area traffic look different after you’ve sat in Nepali gridlock where cars butting into each other’s way have written a self-fulfilling prophecy that nobody’s going anywhere. “The world works better with cooperation, fellas” you understand immediately. A nice antidote to the dictatorial individualism of the United States, me first.

The tuktuks of Cambodia actually understood fast lanes
surprisingly well. Compared to highway 101 anyway.

But spend some time on European freeways, where everyone understands what a fast lane is, only moving left while actively passing then immediately shifting back right again, and suddenly our freeways are a top notch clusterfuckery of dunces. Or maybe it’s just me. (It’s not just me.)

And if the power goes out in a winter storm, I don’t rage at the electric company for it (they’re despicable for other reasons), instead I remember the unelectrified silence of Myanmar and appreciate that when I plug in my electronics and come back a few hours later, they’re charged, not fried.

A little different relationship to the grocery store

Yes, we should all spend time on a bicycle and our own two feet in addition to behind the wheel. But to really add perspective and empathy for the human experience, you can’t beat travel. Go somewhere else and see what else life can be, then come back to appreciate, and perhaps improve, what you had before.

But you already knew that.

So when does your next flight leave?

I've been coming home a lot lately

Oakland view from my weekend

I’ve come home a lot lately. First I suppose was when I landed in America again, three months gone by, and saw the smile of a friend as he picked me up from San Jose’s embarrassingly unconnected airport. The shuttle to the light-rail to the bus to the train to the other bus...wouldn’t have worked. They would have closed before I got there, and after 31 straight hours of travel time I didn’t need that.

What I did need was my friend. And he was there. And I was home, the second he showed up.

Need a photo, so that's my apartment
right now. Should I have cleaned?

And I got back to my apartment, which was nice. Clean laundry all the time!, predictable food, knowing where I would sleep and being able to choose when to do so. A functioning toilet. All good stuff. But running into my neighbors in the hallway, that’s when the phrase “welcome home” seemed to fit best.

I visited my folks in Monterey, a town where I’ve never lived, a house I’ve only visited, but the home of my loved ones was immediately a home for me too, as I curled up to sleep on the couch.

And even further, a house I’d never even seen before, newly purchased by friends, where I spent the weekend house/dog sitting with my old galpal Lucy. And to my surprise, or maybe not, even an unknown building can hold some aura of home when you know it’s beginning to shelter members of your community, where they’ll add memories and time together to the walls and floorboards.

Still definitely a fan of fetch

Definitely not mine, but definitely not a hotel. No impersonal transactions. This, all of these, were places that contacted the individual in me in some way.

And now I’m back in my apartment, not long until I go again. And though I know the physical things around me, the photos and maps and furniture, are not my definition, not the limits of me, they are the manifestations of my living, and every one of them wears memories that make this place mean more than just shelter.

And they share that, or some shade of it, with a constellation of other spots scattered around.

No filter because who needs one?

What a profound blessing to have so many homes. I remember when the closest I came was the borrowed bed for the night, and though I loved that too, when I come back here after another month of work, I will be coming home. And I’m grateful for that.

What is Skopje?

Skopje, Macedonia, from the ancient Kale Fortress

Skopje has nothing to do with the Italian verb scopare, which technically means “to sweep,” but just as “to screw” has a bit more oomph than inserting a light bulb, scopare is that favorite vulgar verb of the angry, horny, or adolescent.

And they don’t speak Dutch in Macedonia, so Skopje has nothing to do with the diminutive -je in that language, which makes things smaller, cuter, cuddlier. If you have a dog in Holland, you have a hond. If you have a puppy-wuppy, you have a hondje.

So while Skopje might sound like a quick little lusty interlude to me, and now to you (you’re welcome), no one will have any idea what you’re talking about when you try to explain why you’re giggling in front of the heroic statues. (But feel free to try anyway.)

So that’s what Skopje is not. But what Skopje is?

It's a neolithic settlement already 4000 years old when the Romans got there a bit before 0. Then centuries of chaos calming to empires that crumbled back to chaos, Byzantine, Bulgarian, Serbian, and Ottoman all getting to fancy themselves eternal on the banks of the Vardar River. After six millennia, Skopje is a powerhouse arena of history, culture, and pride...that currently hosts a Las Vegas style showroom of propaganda mayhem like I had never seen. It’s bizarre. Surreal. Kinda hideous. And I loved it!

It was mostly men, but these ladies were lurking near the opera

Statues of scholars in robes, kings in crowns, and the odd barbarian looking perplexed and aggressive over a big lumpy club line every bridge, lurk in arcades, and loom like suicidal squadrons on the edges of prominent buildings. Don’t jump, toga-clad men! We’ll get you some modern fashion!

I gave some background here (click to open), but why all the classical imagery?

Macedonia declared independence in 1991, and 27 seconds later was feuding with Greece over ownership of the name and Alexander the Great’s legacy. The quandary continues, as Macedonia struggles between Classical or Slavic origin, bashing out an identity for its ethnically diverse population in a region where such questions have been soaked in blood for centuries.

Just slightly a mother and father national
foundation story going on here.

So some say the classical theme is anti-Greek, part of that dispute. Others say anti-Bulgarian for much the same ethnic reasons. But a former adviser to the Prime Minister reassures us on both those counts.

“No! It’s not anti-Greek or anti-Bulgarian!” Says Shmuel Ben David Vaknin. And we pause for a quick sigh of relief before he adds “Antiquisation has a double goal, which is to marginalize the Albanians and create an identity that will not allow Albanians to become Macedonians."

Something of the Romans must have lingered in Skopje, because it doesn’t take an Australian playing a Spaniard in an American movie about Ancient Rome to tell me that if you win the crowd, they won’t ask questions. Bread and circus, man, bread and circus. (Except without the bread.)

So is it working? Are the people placated? Blood-red handprints on shiny new marble say no, but we’ll talk about that next time.

Because even though the towering statue of a warrior on a horse is the centerpiece of an international dispute, it is also a great fountain, spraying water from a variety of jets, at unpredictable moments from unexpected places, shifting colors as grandiloquent music piped into the square on pigeon-pooped speakers.

And the kids loved it.

And I loved that.

Small-minded men have been picking fights since we climbed out of the trees, but as July heat emanated from the stones after dark on a calm Macedonian evening, the laughter of happiness was enough.

And that's what Skopje is.