out of touch.

In the early days I used my passport as a form of escape - losing yourself in a strange land can remove you from your daily reality in the same way as alcohol, video games, or fiction can. It's incredibly important to travel for the right reasons: exploration over avoidance, the journey over the destination, and most importantly realizing that the allure of the new and the unusual is not inherently "better" than what you left back home.

"Wherever you go, there you are" is an overused adage but remains one of the hardest lessons to learn when you find yourself alone, thousands of miles from home. Exposure to other cultures does not soothe crises of the self and it doesn't somehow bestow clarity of purpose. In fact I'd argue travel does the polar opposite - it throws everything into question, it shows you a myriad of ways you could be living, and generally leaves you with the uneasiness of insignificance - playfully coated by terms like Wanderlust. For me it's more of a philosophical addiction.

My fantasies of returning to Seattle were unrealistic at best and hint of an inverse irony to what I describe above. I sought to return to solid ground, to be back among the familiar, to open myself up to the possibilities of romance, to get some help with the project I'm working on, and to merge myself back into the conversation I'd somehow lost among my stateside friends. Was my return an escape from an escape? Or did I come back full-circle as intended?

In only a handful of months I've found myself in the perfect little rental, surrounded by all the familiar possessions I've done just fine without. Am I playing house? This disheartened heart wants nothing more than to return to the security I've come to crave in the utter unknown of that endless horizon. THIS is the escape I speak of, and the type of travel that I think can be incredibly self-destructive.

Then again, if I'm to play the part of lone wolf I should be taking full advantage of my dwindling freedom.

Cutting off your nose to spite your face might seem extreme, but it sure makes you breathe easier.

I can't wait to get back on that plane.

bristol.

The inter-city UK bus system is pretty radical here.  Going across the map is frequently £1.  Compare this to the local Birmingham bus which is £1.70 and you can’t even transfer!  I know, WTF?!

ANYngland I arrived to a rainy Bristol on an early Friday afternoon.  The city made it dead-easy to find my hostel as it accompanied the same arrows as “museum”, “waterfront”, and “cathedral”.  Why this hostel has been declared a national treasure was beyond me, but who am I to refuse a helpful sign?

The newly-renovated YHA building was right on the river and one of the nicer shared joints I’ve stayed in.  I sighed in happy relief at the actual bed that sat in front of me, still scarred from the city of Manchester.  I asked the front desk for a spicy recommendation to beat the wet and the cold, and the cheery man pointed me across the footbridge towards a curry shop.

I entered into a parallel universe American suburb  – oversized restaurants with stupid names and excessive ceiling heights surrounded me, Australian Wildland Outback Adventure this and Royal Indian Tiger Brigade that.  (You’ll note I’m exaggerating because I would totally eat at any place called Royal Indian Tiger Brigade).  I hate it when people recommend places they assume "the tourists" want to eat at, especially when I say “tell me where you would get dinner tonight”.  Yes sir how did you guess I’m in the mood for an animatronic robot panda to nom circuit board bamboo above my microwaved fake Chinese food.  Dammit, still exaggerating.

After escaping this hideous culinary theme park I walk along St. Nicholas market until I land at an Indian place sans novelty throne and have a completely forgettable meal.  Strike one, Bristol.

Er, strike two. As if the trendy t-shirts worn by ignorami everywhere weren't enough. HOMOSEXUALS GET 10% OFF AND 5 YEARS IN PRISON!

The next morning I go exploring and St. Nicholas market is a great place – loads of small businesses and food merchants serving up far nicer / organic / local fare than I’m used to here.  After walking for one million miles I end up at probably my favorite place in England: Start the Bus.

Open, spacious, brightly colored interior, squishy sofas, SUPER friendly staff, great music, decent grub, full bar.  I spent at least 2.5 hours here sipping my sequential coffee, reading every newspaper within sight.  Considering the rest of the area could be called one long tourist trap this was indeed a sight for sore everythings.  I LOVE START THE BUS!!!!

I head back to my hostel and encounter my new bunkmate: a British WWII vet in his 70s, cheery as hell and one of my favorite old people ever.  He apologizes about locking up his belongings before jumping into the shower (oh I trust you… *click*). Oh man I want to be this guy so bad.  Any elderly dude that can handle a night full of French teens snoring is A++ in my book.  Me?  Those tronçonneuses turned me racist.

The old vet headed off to his yearly boarding school reunion dressed to kill while I sought out a skate park in an industrial part of town that throws some of the biggest shows in Bristol.  Of course I get there way too early and the nearest beautiful dingy pub closes right in front of me, so I land at a chain place co-branded the Knights Templar.  It doesn't take long until I befriend a pair of 40-somethings for a few hours of engaging conversation before returning to the huge building surrounded by an abundance of nothing.

Tonight’s menu was my excuse for visiting Bristol: the Ninja Tune 20th Anniversary tour.  If you don’t know Ninja Tune (Amon Tobin, Coldcut, DJ Food, blah blah) they were a huge musical force back in the… uh, 20 years ago.  The multi-stage skate park is indeed big and the crowd thin, so I head to the main area and get my dance on.

Not five minutes later and I’m knuckle-bumping more than I’ve knuckle-bumped all year – two separate groups of people have taken a liking to me and we are all dancing in a certain beautiful singularity.  I can feel the acceleration as I start making introductions of introductions and before you know it I’ve met one Swede, two broke Canadians following Ninja Tune around the UK, an Irish comedian worried the CCTV could ruin his teaching career if he rolls a spliff, and I’ve somehow attracted the female attention of a now-tense couple.

Strangely enough this is the exact moment that my entire year turns on its axis and I find myself wanting nothing more than to take root back in Seattle.

The crowd rapidly thickens to the point of non-enjoyment, marking the long and uneventful walk back to my hostel.  Right, and those 120dB Frenchmen.

I took advantage of the quiet Sunday morning to walk as much as I could along the river.  Bristol is that perfect mix of vibrant happening, friendly people, and old world beauty.  I’d live here in a heartbeat.

Courageous II ?!?!  Didn't you learn your lesson from the sinking of the first one? (says the man on his 14th boat)

Upcoming fun: one of my favorite gents (+ fellow Welshman) and I take on the city of Cardiff, followed by a solid week at an off-season holiday resort playing putt-putt with Weird Al Yankovic.

manchester.

I confess, I’ve skipped over writing about my disaster of a trip to Manchester.  I initially contacted the established CS member in the gloomy Manchester band t-shirt because hey, shared love of a gloomy Manchester band = yay common interests = BFFs!  I asked if he could put me up for two nights and would he possibly be interested in seeing Swans perform at the Academy since he liked wearing this gloomy Manchester band t-shirt so much?  He had never heard of Swans and wasn’t going to start now, but that worked out in my favor as I would be joining him at a house party later that night.

I arrived to the house several miles south of city center, the door answered by a nice and wary flatmate.  Mr. Popular wasn’t there but I convinced her to let me in and drink the beer I brought to share.  She laughed when I told her this was my first surf, and led me towards the kitchen in response to my raised eyebrow.  This was indeed a bachelor pad if there ever was one – food and trash piled and molding everywhere.  I didn’t mind the state of the place one bit.  I was appreciative that I had a space to sleep.

Mr. Popular arrived a bit later and it became clear that he had forgotten about my arrival, distracted it seems by the notion of having a Czech and two Swede girls booked as well.  I did the math in my head and came up with the four of us sharing one small couch and one not-a-loveseat-more-a-chair.  “Don’t worry”, he smirked, “I’ll get at least some of them into bed with me and you can have the couch!”.  I began worrying.

I met the rest of the mates and everyone in the house was quite friendly but the conversation kept coming back to sex, specifically how this group of guys relied on CS to bring in a steady stream of fresh, young, needy females.  I began getting queasy, and continued worrying.

After failing to share my beer with the hungover lads I went off in search of food and more beer in preparation of said early early show.  A masterful swipe of guilt on Mr. Popular’s part had me bringing my purchases back to the house to spend a bit more time with the peeps, though when I returned all eyes were fixed on the Local Sports Game [tm].  I ate in silence and slowly realized I was not a proper guest, rather it was expected I become one-way fascinated by and inquisitive of these feather-headed cockquistadors.  Especially the leader, the one in the gloomy Manchester band t-shirt.

I made my way to a surreal pint at the Temple of Convenience, a pub built into an old public toilet (featuring a great jukebox).  From there I entered the Academy and had a second helping of Swans.  The show was fantastic and deafening and I exited church a bit off of my head into the streets of Manchester on a Saturday Halloween party night.

Central Manchester is hella young, dare I say younger than London, and as I passed the crowds either dressed up in costume or as costume I wondered how my early 20s would have been spent in a city as lively as this one.  Bars and clubs consistently dotted the streets, with the dressed-up eye candy so fascinating I decided to walk the three miles or so back towards this party.  The one that I didn’t have a costume for, but one I was assured wasn’t costume required.

A long time passes, and not only have I traversed most of the city but I’ve walked the entirety of Curry Mile.  I’ve so far seen dozens of sexy nurses, three Batmens, a Hulk, and plenty of sexy mustard – every single costume vaguely superhero and/or sexy was out on the streets, out to fight and/or sex up crime.

I arrive to the address I was given, tired from the walk and completely in my own headspace from the powerful performance.  I get my first insult as I approach the door, something both aggressive and snide about me the unknown just “helping myself” to the party.  I wasn’t sure what he was on about until I opened the door into an apartment jam-packed full of EVERYONE ELSE in costume.  Costume optional my ass – I made a quick round but didn’t see Mr. Popular or his perpetual wingmens or any sign of available alcohol.   While the wizards and robots filling the halls tried to figure out my costume I made a hasty escape back out into the cold night.  Party fun failure, hardcore.

A stumbling woman speaking in slurry Russian asked if I know how to get her home, and thanks to my handy iDevice I’m convinced I just might.  Let it be said that getting lost in southern Manchester escorting a blacking-out Russian past the people she’s insulting is a far better time than being the odd duck out at a pick-up party.  After another hour of walking and finally getting her to a recognizable bus stop I realize just how exhausted I am and how little I want to return to that party.  I text Mr. Popular and tell him I’m heading back… back to a locked door and no one answering.

I knew this outcome had a high probability, so I curled into a ball on the porch and tried to get some sleep.  It’s fucking cold and I’m still deep in my head - hours go by in minor misery before the 4am screen door opens and I jump to attention.  As I enter the living room and prepare myself for the couch I realize there’s a body already on it.  Fuck.  I do what I can in the chair but I wake up not 4 hours later, sore and delirious.  The Czech girl was wildly apologetic about taking the couch, explaining that Mr. Popular told her I’d brought my own sleeping bag and would be fine on the floor. It's 8:30am and I'm already pissed, in the opposite meaning of the word from the night prior.

I say my good-luck-good-bye to the token female flatmate and tear out of there, abandoning the rest of my Manchester weekend for the first bus back to Birmingham.

God I hate Mr. Popular.  He probably doesn’t even own any gloomy Manchester band CDs!

(sidenote: CS feedback works like eBay, and Mr. Popular is basically a powerseller.  He was miffed because he “never got” any of my text messages with the subtext that I used him for his terrible chair and exploitative yarns.  If I leave bad feedback on him and/or call him out it’ll scroll off of the page within a week.  Him leaving a negative on me would destroy my n00bile reputation.  Some things are better ignored forever and ever and a day.)

Manchester: Loved what I saw.  Hated what I experienced.

supersonic festival.

Words to come soon.

Birmingham, continued:




Red Sparowes






Supersonic Festival:

Gum Takes Tooth

Fukpig

Drumcorps

Napalm Death

Godflesh

Melt Banana

Nisennenmondai

Chrome Hoof

Swans

birmingham: “it’s not that bad”

Getting kicked out of the Schengen Area meant I would be evicted quite widely.  My options were basically Morocco, Lichtenstein, or out of the region entirely (requiring quite a bit of money shuffling back and forth to the upcoming festivals in England).

Mr. Hat is an old-school Brummie and in leaving Berlin I knew that I craved the social familiar rather than start all over again.  The perks of moving to Birmingham meant being here during the shows surrounding the Supersonic Festival, exploring a parallel universe Detroit (complete with abandoned factories), PLUS (and possibly most importantly) the rain-laden UK weather would ensure I get quite a bit of work done.  Careful what you wish for.

People here seem to go out with purpose, rather than out to be out.  Young women in tiny skirts and towering heels queuing up for bad music down Broad street.  Pubs filled to capacity while sidewalks feel eerily empty.  A surprising number of burkas worn by women wheeling groceries and textiles from market to home.  I’m not sure if “hanging out” on the street indicates trouble or invites it, but it feels a bit odd coming from Berlin where hanging out is a legitimate career path.

The eye contact is something I’m having to unlearn.  Germans are notorious for their stare-downs; I found myself locking eyes with everything from open windows to animals on the street.  Here things are quite the opposite – a few seconds gazing too long and you could very well end up on the other end of a Scottish handshake.  It does feel a bit like I'm getting some of my public privacy back.  Oh right, the cameras.

I’ve been here two weeks and I haven’t written about Birmingham yet because I haven’t really connected with her yet.  I met the social circle of Mr. Hat which has been quite nice, starting things off with a good group of tight-knit people.  The CS meet-up was quite fun, though many of the “what brought you here” questions came with notes of “why would you ever come here”.  Defense for this city is very much “it’s not THAT bad”, which I find to be an amusing peak to any scale.

I was walking in the direction of home alongside a character in his late-40s: a Laibach fanatic in every sense of the word – this opinionated industrial 96%-man-4%-monster fled Portland many years ago and never looked back.  We were having a nice conversation heading through the vacant city center as we approached a group of quite young girls in various body shapes all Britney Spears-ed up.  The diminutive leader of the pack sneered as we passed, her opener of “oh don’t you two look so cute together” marked the beginning of baited line after baited line, seeking only to emasculate us in front of her hesitant peers.

This was the Birmingham I was waiting for but it still saddened me how small town a city this size could be.

Last night my flatmate and I drove a bit out of town to an arts center housed in what looks like an old Victorian school complex.  The folding tables and chairs made the space look more like a cheap cafe than a proper venue, the crowd was sparse with ages all over the place, but I’d heard some of The Miserable Rich and thought their abundance of strings would translate well live.  I sampled a variety of the finest in old man Kentish ales while the mostly forgettable openers played. Once The Miserable Rich took stage this small strange space transformed completely.  It was the kind of show where you are disappointed at the small turnout but feel selfishly privileged to be sharing a certain mutual presence with the performers.  Witty lyrics, beautifully done, the audience enthralled, and it all felt so intimate.

Poodle was probably my favorite, a song about the relationship between England and America:

You say what game to play
and break all your own rules
You say what’s the song of the day
and we all sing your tune
and we follow, yes we follow... follow you down... too well
and we follow, yes we follow... hopelessly on into Hell.

I’m glad to have found a new definition of peak in this city below sea level.

london.

I’ve done London a few times in the past and I admit I’ve never found my stride with this city.  I owed her another chance and thanks to our worldwide economic collapse I found a great deal on a sweet hotel.

You may have surmised that I have not stayed in a “sweet” hotel in quite some time, mostly because people using “sweet” as adjectives are typically both utterly uneducated and financially famished.  My naiveté worked in this hotel’s favor and proves this point, as I tore into the bar candy without realizing it would cost me $8 for a bag of M&Ms dumped into a glass jar.  At least I didn’t have any pounds sterling on me when the bellhop showed me my room, otherwise I could have done something rash - like tipped him.

Today I was hell-bent on either getting properly cultured or getting out of Zone 1.  I ended up with a half-price ticket to Blood and Gifts, a play surrounding the CIA’s involvement in Afghanistan back in the 1980s.  Needing to spend a few hours prior had me drinking a pint-as-lunch at an old firehouse and getting lost in South London.  Once I hit a housing project I knew I should find a classic, dubious pub.

The Bell had a tiny black cat owning the doorway, staring right up at me.  Wondering if the entire establishment was run by felines I stepped in and the handful of people watching the game nodded back.

The bartender was putting together her plastic stair-climber she was excited about paying only 20 pounds for, admitting the QVC box probably “fell” off a truck and/or doorstep.  She poured me a perfect Guinness and made me feel right at home.  The sporty guy in sweatpants continued to ignore his girlfriend, transfixed on the projected men punting.  Beside me the man in the denim jacket continued drinking while his young son smiled eagerly at anything that moved.

Eventually I made my way back to the theater, and quite the performance it was.  Focusing on a CIA agent working out of Pakistan, it walked the line nicely between the testosterone of war and the individual stories of being so far from home.  The nemesis here was a Soviet agent, connecting to the American as both being men living lonely lives (sons and wives) on opposite sides of the fence during a time of back-and-forth slaughter.  The humor was welcome and fit in with the story - resistance fighters demanding the latest Duran Duran and Olivia Newton John  in exchange for information.  Very well done, great use of directional sound, and a brisk, biting pace.

“You know what is funny?  Absolute power corrupts abso…”

“Yeah yeah yeah, everyone knows that phrase.”

“No, what people don’t know is the line that follows it.  Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men.”

It all ended with crispy pork in Chinatown, sliced in cross-sections of half meat and half fat sitting between edges of crunch.  Insultingly simple and deliciously so.

Tomorrow: off to Leeds for Grinderman, then TALLY-HO BIRMINGHAM!

best of times / end of times.

I had a beautiful afternoon at the corner of Revaler Strasse and Warschauer Strasse - dare I call this the most perfect people-watching spot on our planet.  What started out as a quick outing for a Chicken Döner mit scharf soße landed me at the corner of busy and vibrant on a sunny, clear day.  My cold Warsteiner in-hand slowly took the form of a second, and a third.  I just couldn’t leave the wonderful moment I was sharing (alone) with this city.  Over the course of 90 minutes sitting at my small table under the warm sky I took in:

• The standard Friedrichshain ratio of 4:1:1:7:2:1:5:1:1 (scuzzy punk:rad old person:businessman:hipster:graphic designer:nouveau-hippie:obvious tourist:fashionista:crazy old person)
• The usual bustle heading towards the nearby train stop.  Rare is the East Berlin suit, but fantastic is when it comes with an old man sporting a twirly mustache.
• A British mom exclaiming “look how cool THAT guy is!” with young son 1 (of 2) responding “whoa!” just before I realized she was talking about me.  Moments later she spins her head around, wearing a MOMMY LIKEYS smile that made me blush.  I keep forgetting I’m a foreigner that people mistake for local flora.
• A cluster of skateboarders trying to impress the ladies underneath the new-to-me-possibly-guerilla sculpture.
• A guy in crazy leprechaun pants, white suspenders, and the stupidest (some circles might call it “most ironic”) hat known to man approaching every cute girl on the street and getting rejected over, over, and over again.
• Several pairs of people passing me from behind excited about their fresh strips of photos from the next-door photobooth.
• Token young American girl complaining how dogs aren’t on leashes.  OH COME ON THERE ARE ENOUGH RULES IN GERMANY AS IT IS LET A PUP RUN
• An old lady swinging her cane at a young boy on a bicycle that came a little too close.
• A bearded guy in a Motörhead t-shirt sitting against the local bank, banging out a solid beat on a portable kit.  His wide smile after I threw him a compliment made up for the glare I got when I tipped my beer to a Beck’s-carrying passer-by.
• No less than two dozen Berlin girls in black tights and brightly-colored Converse.  I have no idea why this trend is so damn popular but Chuck Taylor must have made a small German fortune.
• More than a few happy dogs eagerly following their bike-riding owners, disturbing no one.
• The Turkish song of the kebab shop carver drifting out of the open window.

Oh Berlin.  Just when I thought I was ready to move on…