Me

Less than two minutes ago I was criticized for me, due mostly, I believe, to this blog. I was astonished for two reasons: 1)I didn't think anyone actually read this; and 2)I didn't realize that documenting some of the noteworthy experiences here would result in the disparagement of me. As a result, I've chosen to add an article about me, written in complete honesty (at least from my perspective).

I was born in Stillwater, Minnesota in 1986. I was raised from birth in the rural-suburbia of New Richmond, Wisconsin, where I graduated from High School. I am a middle-class, white male with two parents and a younger brother (who has a mild case of autism - undeniably one of the most influential factors of my personality and being). I grew up under the principles of compassion, kindness and respect for others, alike and different. I was taught work ethic from my father and altruism from my mother.

I consider myself a natural introvert with an affinity for self-improvement, including the acquisition of being socially competent. Growing up, I believed that being kind to everyone was the key to acceptance. During high school, I found that this was not the case. I was excluded from most social gatherings, endured harassment from the "cool kids" and experienced obstacles in school, athletics and even summer occupations. In no way whatsoever was I "popular." Fortunately, I was blessed with a small group of great friends (hence the necessity to thank them in a previous post).

So, for those who feel that I am overly judgmental and excessively critical of others, this post is devoted entirely to you.

Before coming to London, I decided to create a blog (mostly for myself) to recall the good times (as well as the bad), as well as share my experiences with my friends and family. In my first few attempts to construct a legitimate article, I failed miserably. I wrote about the people I was privileged to have met, the food I was lucky enough to eat and the opportunities I was given. Unfortunately, these articles were one-dimensional and monotonous. Does that take away from the value it meant to me? Of course not. Even the people who I spoke to only once had a lasting impression on me, and I'm deeply thankful for that. However, I wanted these articles to entertain. I didn't intend to hurt any feelings - I obviously didn't tell the people who I have written about the address to my blog (i.e. The Leviathan, Bus Boy, French Delight, etc.). I have kept these stories, or so I thought, mostly to myself.

I realize that we're not all here for the same reason. Some of us are here to run away from problems back home. Some are here to meet new friends and experience another part of the world. I'm here to write a blog (note that I make this comment in jest). While I do not want to offend anyone directly, let me make one thing perfectly clear - I'm not forcing anyone to read this. For those who have been reading and were upset by it: Thank you for giving me another thing to write about. :)

The Leviathan

The first monster movie I remember being truly terrified by was a movie called "The Relic". Although I do not recall the exact events, whether the movie was realistic or not, nor why I was so scared, I do remember crawling into my bed that night, afraid to turn off the lights. Since "The Relic", I have seen many horror movies. Some have left me frightened, while others have left me laughing. Perhaps it is a growing maturity, a realization that the things in movies which scare us are often so unrealistic and unlikely that we cannot truly fathom the emotional impact should it actually occur. Or maybe we live in a constant state of denial, one which refuses to acknowledge what we’re really seeing. Either way, one thing is certain. When the monsters become real, so does our fear. This is my story of meeting the Leviathan.

I arrived in Barcelona, Spain in the early hours of the afternoon on a beautiful spring day. Trees were in blossom, the sun was shining strong and people all around were basking in the day’s delight. Meeting two friends from school, we walked down the road to our hostel. They already had their room reserved, a room which was full, so I was forced to take another room. I was led to a 10-bed room, where only one other person was staying. As the door opened, the individual laying in bed (surprising since it was so beautiful outside, especially at 3:00 P.M.) pulled the covers over her head (I knew it was a girl based on the clothes laying around). I took a step inside and was immediately taken aback. I inhaled a biting scent, one of chloroform and Icy Hot. I thought, perhaps, that it was the cleaning supplies used on the floor. Whether or not it was, I had to ask for another room. The man working at the front desk informed me that there was – a six-bed room. I moved in there, where no such scent existed, as well as any other people. Perfect. This room would be mine for the next two days.

Later that evening I decided to take a shower before going out for the night. The hostel was eerily quiet, but the potential for danger never crossed my mind. The men’s and women’s showers were both located down the same lonely hallway, and upon leaving, I heard the door to the woman’s shower open behind me. Starting a conversation while wearing a towel – a new one for me, but well worth a try, or so I thought, seemed like a good idea at the time. That is, until she walked out. Hot-pink underwear, a matching bra and, unfortunately, nearly 300 pounds of woman beneath (barely). With a destroyed desire to communicate, I hurriedly escaped down the hall to the safety of my room. With the door closed behind me, I let out a sigh of relief. I could hear a lone pair of feet slowly closing in on my room. Step after step the volume increased, until I could see the silhouette from under the frame of the door. I held my breath and listened as the steps continued on to the room which I had first been brought to. When I heard the click of the closing door, I felt reassured that everything was ok. I dressed, putting my insecurity in the back of my mind, and left for the night. When I came home, my room was safely, peacefully empty. Little did I know it would be a long time before I ever slept soundly again.

The hallway is dark. Only a lone, white light at the end offers any guidance. I feel my bare feet make their way over the cold, off-white tile floor. I can hear the soft purr of a fan somewhere in the distance. I know not where I am, only that I am alone. The cement walls and ceiling of the hallway make me realize that I am confined. I feel a faint, cold wind on the back of my neck and the hair raises. I hear a low growl from behind me, in the darkness. Suddenly, my feet feel wet. I look down and see a stream of cold water coming from the darkness. I turn to run. My wet feet slap the surface of the floor, stinging with every step. The stream soon becomes a river, and within seconds I’m overtaken. As I fall, I turn to see a pair of gleaming, haunting red eyes. I go under. I wake up.

It is raining outside when I open my eyes. I look at my watch and see it is nearly noon. A cold breeze flows through the cracked window. I get out of bed, shower and dress. I am out for the day. Upon returning in the late afternoon, I walk into a room to see girls clothing scattered about. Tank tops thrown on the bed, girl shorts scattered around the floor near a baby blue suitcase and a pink thong hanging from the top bunk. I perform a double take – the pink thong is enormous. The pink thong is . . . the same one I saw the girl wearing yesterday. Within minutes, she walks in.

“Hello,” in a thick German accent, “aren’t you the boy in my room yesterday?”

“Nope, I don’t think so,” I reply.

“Well maybe you are the boy I saw in the towel,” she says with a smile.

God doesn’t like me.

Over the next 10 minutes, Anne, as she calls herself, a 45 year old traveling from youth hostel to youth hostel, describes her interests, marital status and thoughts on dating, as well as inquires as to my relationship status, thoughts on older women and thoughts on dating. When the conversation becomes too intimate, I inform her that I need to leave to get ready to go out. I leave to take a shower and get ready. Having prepared myself for this situation, I bring my clothes with.

When I left for the shower, she was fully clothed. When I return, my mind was nowhere near prepared to witness what it was about to. I push open the door to find Anne lying in bed, facing away from me. She is lying on top of the covers, wearing a thong and loose-fitting tank top. My stomach becomes weak when I see her sensually massaging her upper leg. I cough, hoping she will acknowledge my presence and stop. She continues. I avoid facing her, although I can see her in my peripheral vision. She turns to face me.

“Oops, I didn’t see you come in here,” she says.

“Bullshit,” I think to myself.

It is then that my fear is fully unleashed. As she lays there smiling at me, I notice a dark brown spot emerge from her shirt. I hold my breath and hurriedly put my belongings into my suitcase. There is nothing I want more than to escape the evils in this room before they/she consume(s) me. Suddenly, I see my greatest fear. One of the monsters within the monster is unleashed to the helpless world, where it was only lightly restrained by her loose-fitting tank top. Plop! I want to vomit. I try to avoid looking, but when she offers no reaction I have to ascertain if I was really seeing what my mind had conjured. My dread is confirmed by the sight of her, and my eyes burn and my heart races. My fight or flight reflex is in full effect, saying nothing but run! She giggles a horrific, malevolent laugh. Fuck it. I slam shut my suitcase and dart out of the room. I feel as though I can hear the malicious laugh all the way down the hall.

When I make it to the safety of my friend's room, the girl inquires my anxiousness.

"I can't talk about it right now," I tell her. "I'm sleeping in here though, no questions asked."

The next day I had one of my friends come with to get my belongings. Anne was laying in bed, probably hungry and tired from not having the blood of a human to feast on the night before. It was minutes before we were out of there, but as I turned to go, she decided she wasn't going down without another fight.

"Where are you going next?" She malignantly questioned

"Bern, Switzerland," I lied.

"Me too. Maybe I get your phone number and we can go out for drinks," she replied with an insatiable smile

Ben, if you've been getting calls from a creepy German girl, it's not my fault.

Greyhound

Not too long ago, I took a trip to Scotland. Doing my usual 'last minute planning,' I went online in search of a train ticket to Edinburgh. Much to my delight, on the National Express website a round trip ticket was only 30 GBP (Great Britain Pounds). I checked the box for one and was brought to the check out online, when I realized that 11 hours was a very long time for an approximately 350 mile journey, especially since these trains are reputably fast. It was then that I realized this wasn't a train ticket, but instead a bus ticket, which brings me to my central thesis of the article - only two types of people ride the greyhound: Those who are complete idiots and those who incorrectly book a bus ticket thinking it's a train ticket. Evidently, I qualify for both, since I was informed prior to purchasing the ticket that it was, in fact, on a bus.

Imagine large, spacious, comfortable, reclining seats with leather upholstery. T.V's every few rows, personal headsets and a smooth, quiet journey. Now it's time to describe what it's like on a bus. Cramped (so much, in fact, that my knees were nearly rubbed raw by the reclined seat in front of me) and tiny, the seat was also wonderfully put together by some itchy, rough fabric which was hardly worthy of being carpet in a busy, country bar. There was a T.V. Although, when it doesn't produce video or sound I'm not sure what the benefit of it is, and concerning the smooth ride - A kamikaze pilot, snorting caffeine and driving the world's first airplane through a hurricane would have felt uneasy driving across the winding countryside of the U.K.

I've decided to skip the trip there, since a drooling, snoring, Irish girl who probably suffered whiplash from the amount of head bobbing (if not a concussion from how many times those bobs made contact with my shoulder) during the night trip wouldn't have a chance against my wonderful ride home. So, let it begin:

Never wanting to make anything easy, I spent my last night in Scotland doing a pub crawl, complete with several shots of scotch (and possibly a few of absinthe - it was a fuzzy night). By the time I stumbled back into my hostel - ready to convince all my roommates who I was yet to meet that I was now the Scotch drinking champion of the world, I was only four hours away from my departure time of 8:30 A.M. Fortunately for me, I anticipated the certainty of a hangover and thus adaquetly prepared. A few hours later I woke up to the Red Hot Chili peppers performing a concert from my phones headphones (which were for some reason in my ears) that would undoubtedly lead to conduction deafness within minutes if I didn't do something about it. Suddenly, I remembered my brilliant 'hangover defence' plan . . . as I removed the bag of half-eaten McDonald's from my bed (for some reason a Big Mac meal and six piece order of chicken nuggets seemed like a solution at the time). As I took out the dried contacts in my eyes and searched desparetely for my glasses (at least I was able to retain my rationality when it came to sequencing - note the sarcasm), I realized the only thing I had protected was my stomach from feeling anything but sick. I packed my things and rushed for the bus station.

Despite being hungover, I felt good when I boarded the bus and made sure to have a pair of seats to myself. However, my good feelings would soon fade. The first hour was unbearable. The winding roads, uphill and downhill were not sitting well with my deteriorating stomach. Fortunately, I managed to pass out after about an hour. An hour of sleep and I was waken by the stopping of the bus. I opened my eyes, fighting the painful sunlight shining through the window. My head ached. My neck was now kinked from the position I had been sleeping in. I watched people one by one enter the bus and look for open seats. No way was I giving my second seat up. A decent looking girl entered and made her way towards the back of the bus. I could see her eying my sight, but I was adamant that I was sitting alone. I put my headphones on and looked out the window. She took a seat a few rows behind me. One by one the seats filled up, but mine stayed empty. Success.

Or so I thought. Perhaps it's an active imagination, or maybe it was reality. The bus rocked. Again. I looked up. A man, no smaller than 330 pounds had entered. I look around, realizing that every seat on the bus is taken. Every last one except mine, that is. No! This isn't happening. I frantically search for a seat as he takes step after step after step towards me. Fuck my life. Why do things like this happen to me. He sits down and I'm immediately pressed up against the window. I want to scream. I want to cry. I consider vomiting, thinking perhaps that will make him leave. I reconsider, thinking instead that I would get kicked off the bus. I squeeze into the back of my seat, feeling defeated. I sigh. I sniff. What the hell is this? Not only am I sitting next to the fat guy, but also the smelly guy and, I would realize shortly thereafter, the snoring guy who constantly had a streak of drool running down his mouth. The hours were agonizing. I tried sleeping - not possible. I tried reading - couldn't comfortably hold a book with the lack of space I was experiencing. I knew I was stuck, literally, in this position until I got home, so I began a countdown. 8 hours, 21 minutes from the time of the stop until we were supposed to arrive back in London. It's funny how sometimes you just know that you're going to be late.

My first break from a rest stop about 3 hours after this giant had entered. There were several restaurants inside the rest stop, including a KFC, Burger King, a curry place and a sandwich shop. Take a guess where this guy ate. On a slightly more positive note, I was humored when I walked in, noticing approximately 50 people in this rest stop, 9 of whom were black - all in the line for KFC. I'm not racist - I'm just pointing out a reality. I got KFC too.

Getting back on the bus was pleasant. The smell of curry, the breakdown of the air flow. The initiation of sweating from my new friend - yeah, bad days generally just keep getting worse. I became desensitized to the smell after a short while and the bus continued on. While taking one of his many power naps on the bus, Goliath (a very unfit goliath) began going through a phase of leaning his head onto my shoulder while he was sleeping, snoring and, yes, drooling. Although I was spared any marks that I noticed, the sight of it was enough to make a pig throw up. The wheels continued turning.

Finally, after hour upon hour of travel, we made it near London and the first stop came - about an hour before getting home. Nearly half the people on the bus exited, and the man moved across the aisle to a pair of empty seats. However, after the last person stepped off, those traveling to London stepped on. A man and woman entered and the woman took the recently emptied seat next to me. I believe she began arguing with the man she was with, although I can't be certain because they were speaking in a foreign language. Nonetheless, I was able to listen to their incoherent rambling for the remaining hour and a half (yes, the bus was late). I decided it would be fun to make up my own version of their conversation since I couldn't understand them, so I chose the topic of which Dr. Suess book was the best. The lady made some great arguments for Yertle the Turtle and the Lorax, but ultimately the man's analysis of discrimination in the Sneetches proved to be too much to handle.

Again, only two types of people ride on the buses here. Perhaps I'm only a member of the former.

Friends

When I was two, I made my first friend. At the age of nine, I found a real friend. At 13, I met my best friend. While 17, I met my other best friend. During my 18th year, I had my first actual girlfriend. On my 21st birthday, I lost a true friend.

Over the years I've had my experiences, as we all have, with friendship. Friendships have developed which lasted for a day, and others have developed that will surely be for life. Our lives are irrevocably altered by the friends we let in them, so I decided to take a break from the usually writing to denote a little thank you for those we call friends.

If there is anything I've truly learned from my months here in London, and especially the last three weeks around continental Europe, it's that our lives are wonderfully enhanced by the people in them. At the same time, a life can be inhibited, degraded and destroyed by those we call friends, so it's especially important to acknowledge the times when the uplifting occurs.

So, in accordance with my initial proposal, I would like to take a few sentences to say, "Thank you," to those who I call my friends.

As I said, a friend can really make one strive to lift up his/her life a little. In the past months I've had ample amounts of time to think about the various friends I have/had, and the conclusion I've come down to is this: there are no limitations on true friendship. Distance doesn't degrade them, nor does age wear on one. Time doesn't decay them, nor new friendships replace one. But, perhaps the most important aspect, is that no words can describe them, no algorithm define one, no picture display it, nor any voice perfectly say it. So while friendship may be a social phenomenon, it definitely is all around us. Ralph Waldo Emerson said "The only way to have a friend is to be one." So, to all those who have been my friends, that in itself has been a tremendous thing, and I deeply, sincerely, permanently thank you for that, and I hope that I have been/will continue to be one to you.