Surfing

I've been in NYC for a few months now and can say that there is not much about Southern California that I miss. Aside from In-n-Out burger and real Mexican food, pretty much everything else a mid twenty-something could want is in NYC. Above all, about everything can be found 24 hours a day. The only part of Southern California that I truly miss is surfing. A few weeks ago, I wrote about the chance encounter I had with surfing in Germany. Searching through all of my old surfing photos stirred a sense of nostalgia. I miss my high school and college days of surfing before, after and sometimes during class. Surfing was not only my life, it was who I was. I identified myself as a surfer. I would forgo long nights of partying to catch waves at first light. In college was where my surfing blossomed. If the waves were good, I would not go to class. It was that simple. This theory was soon ditched when I showed up to class one morning to find the professor passing out the midterm examination and the rest of my class mates scanning notes for a scurried last minute review. Needless to say, the midterm score was not my shining collegiate moment. Instead of missing class for waves, I changed my schedule the following semester. I would never again take a class before noon, or after 4 p.m. This way, I could dawn patrol in the morning, get back to my apartment to collect my notes and books, and be seated in class, salty and ready to learn. If it was a good day, I would still stay in the water, I just made sure there were no tests that day. Some days, I would head straight back to the beach after class. Surfing had become such an obsession that I changed my everyday life to score more waves. All of this changed when I went to England on a study abroad semester. Once I studied abroad, the lack of surfing was something I threw aside because I was too busy enjoying London. At the time, the same drive that made me surf made me eager to explore Europe. Before I really realized it, my study abroad semester had come to an end and I had gone nearly six months without catching a wave. When I returned from England, I went back to my old ways. I spent every worthwhile moment of the summer in the water. I went to Hawaii and surfed all day for a few weeks. The beginning of the decline in my surfing started in August a few weeks after my return from Hawaii. This is when I started my upper division courses. Now, I had engagements to take care of after class hours. I could no longer miss class and still get the A. It was the start of more challenging courses and major work. It was time to actually study. Now, I was a few times a week type of surfer. I could still challenge for peaks in almost any crowd, and most of the time, pick off set waves. My surfing remained steady for that semester, but once I started reporting for the Daily Titan newspaper, I could no longer surf in the afternoon. Most of my afternoons during the week were booked up for interviews and fact gathering for stories. My duties were extended outside of the classroom. My last year of college was even worse for surfing. Weekends I spent working. Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday mornings were reserved for flipping pizzas. Tuesdays and Thursdays were internship days. Monday and Wednesday I spent all day in class. Above that, I was an editor for the paper at this point, which means all plans for Sunday through Wednesday evenings were out the window. Instead of catching waves, I was editing mostly drivel and fitting them on a page. The amount of appalling writing was rampant. A majority of the stories were closer to a jumble of fragments than actual story. More times than not students, who were supposedly studying to become writers, would hand me 500 - 1,000 words of pulp. But I digress. After college, I worked fairly close to the beach, which was a bonus. The downside to this is that office work of that nature required my presence at my desk from 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., and many times later. For two-thirds of the year, this is not that bad. You can still catch several hours of waves in spring, summer and fall after 6 p.m. The winter is a different story because it is dark long before the dream of escaping the computer sets in. The early start also takes away from a dawn patrol. It would be cutting it close to surf, dry off, get dressed and inch through traffic to be in front of the monitor before 8:30. Before I moved to NYC, I surfed as much as humanly possible for a person with a 9 to 5. I was getting back to shades of my former surfing self. Then I moved. I love NYC and all that it has to offer, but I know that I will not live here forever. I realize that I need to surf. It is a part of me that has been missing since mid-September. I still check Surfline all of the time, but each time I do, something inside me says that I need to get back in the water. Each time I read the report from one of my familiar spots, I get an anxious, bunched up feeling. I still get the texts from my dad, telling me how good the surf was. I'll get the calls to. He will describe every drop, turn, cut and section of every wave he caught that day. Every once and again, he'll toss in a photo too. I miss that. I miss flying down the line, watching my dad as he watches me. I miss watching him surf too. It is fitting that he still includes me in his surfing, after all, he is the person who got me started. On my tenth birthday, he bought me a used 5"10 Sakal short board. That board collected dust until I was 15. Once friends got licenses and cars, the beach was easily accessible. In a few months, I was surfing. The Sakal did not last long. Six inches of that board is still stuck in the sand in Huntington Beach. I tried to take off on a shore break rebuild. At the time, I did not have the skill for that wave and it showed in the state of my board. After a nose dive over the falls in the shore break the board snapped, starting a long line of board breaking. At the time, the broken board was devastating, but now, it is just another fond memory of surfing. Surfing has given me many great memories with friends, family and also solo. I used surfing as a bonding tool. I made friends through surfing. I strengthened relationships through surfing. I also surfed all the time by myself. It is a great relaxing mechanism. When you paddle for a wave, everything else is put on the back burner. The moment you throw yourself over the ledge of a wave, the ride is the only thing that matters. Because of these thoughts I know that one day I'll answer surfing's siren song again.

Lesson Learned: A Regional Clash

After visiting Munich during my first trip to Germany, I concluded that consuming liters of frothy beer, plates of bratwursts and piles of mashed potatoes was a fantastic ordeal. Munich is a cozy urban city with massive parks. The best feature of the parks are the beer gardens that lie within. The combination of city and nature highlighted my appreciation for German culture. Of course, the beer gardens had some pull too. During my next trip to Germany, I went to Frankfurt. My idyllic vision of Germany was blurred, but this time, the beer gardens had nothing to do with it.

Our visit to Frankfurt started as a default, because it is almost equidistant from Amsterdam and Prague. Because none of us had been there before, Frankfurt seemed a natural choice to split a 14 hour train ride in half. Frankfurt is one of those cities that we some how forgot to extensively research before visiting. We soon found out that although Europe's largest financial district is

located in Frankfurt, it would hardly be as entertaining as Munich. There weren't any suitable parks to il-postino without worrying about being stabbed by a crackhead. The city lacked the beer gardens that we'd spent countless joyous hours in just months before. We spent a full day hunting for a restaurant that served full liters of Hefeweizen, but found no such place. When we finally stumbled across sausages and mashed potatoes but we couldn't wash them down with the over-sized mugs we were accustomed to. Instead, the only choice was the half-liter schooners or pints that could be found in any bar or pub. We were pretty disappointed.

After one full day of mindless wandering through the urban sprawl that is Frankfurt, we decided to plan a day trip to the closest Bavarian city. We purchased as much Beck's as our arms could carry, gathered our Eurail timetables and planned a day trip for the morning. Frankfurt, for all its follies, is a great city for one thing. Switching trains. The main station in Frankfurt is one of the busiest transfer points for German rail transit. With an overwhelming flow of arriving and departing trains, we would be off to Wurzburg with high hopes of an atmosphere similar to Munich.

We loaded our day packs with some left over bottles of Beck's and our cameras, and hit an early morning train. The 120 kilometer ride was smooth and swift. The train conductor even stopped the train for a quick rest and a "schmoke" half-way through the journey. When the train rolled into the little town of Wurzburg, we were all anxious to find the nearest beer garden.

We soon found out that there were no beer gardens. However, we did find half liters and

sausages. Although the beers were the same size and the food of similar quality to Frankfurt, we weren't disappointed. The scenery and vibe of Wurzburg was much more agreeable than Frankfurt. Also, we had tip-toed out of our hostel early in the morning under the snoring noses of Noley Bear and our other inept tag-along Patrick. This enhanced the experience ten fold. We noticed that Wurzburg had much more to offer than Frankfurt. There was a slow flowing river through the center of town, bridges, gardens and an abundance of old buildings to gaze at as we strolled through the narrow, cobbled streets and corridors. Wurzburg seemed more of a Walt Disney creation than an actual village. There was no modern sky-scrapers or litter filled gutters, just quaint chalet style buildings and ornate wooden clocks seemingly around every corner. When we stumbled across the Wurzburg Residence we were all taken aback.

The Wurzburg Residence is a baroque palace surrounded by a massive garden. This building, erected in 1744, has been recognized as the "nicest parsonage in Europe" by Napoleon. However, there have been ongoing renovations to the building due to damage during World War II. It would be a lie to say that we haven't, one time or another, suffered from a quick spell of the complex named after the French commander. So, in his honor, we decided on that day that the Wurzburg Residence's garden would serve as the "nicest parsonage in Europe" to crack open a couple of room temperature Beck's.

We were thrilled to find several sneaky park benches under green leafed canopies where we could toast Monsieur Bonaparte and his articulate description of our current surroundings. A cozy sector of the garden was accompanied by a few golden aged bocce-ballers

and made for a great place to il-postino. We drank our beverages, enjoyed a quick nap and decided to stay and watch the locals engage in their match. The players tossed the metal balls with grace, but after each toss, eye-balled us with less than welcoming glares. It seemed as if they did not appreciate us sprawled out on the benches, a scene that would've been the envy of any homeless person. They may have also been angry at Nate for taking not so candid photos of them while they played. But, I don't know for sure as I am a bit foggy on my German.

The sun was beginning it's descent and our time in Wurzburg was coming to an end so we jammed to the train station to catch the evening train out of town. In a short 90 minutes, we would be back to the strip club capitol of Germany, marked on the map as Frankfurt.

That was the last time I stayed in Germany. I know now that I didn't fall in love with all Deutschland during my first visit. Rather, I fell in love with Bavaria and its culture. You can take central Germany, and I'll take the south. Beer gardens and cleanliness are my preference, but if shooting heroin (which is legal in one district in Frankfurt) and slimy strip clubs are your thing, consider Frankfurt your place.

Okbtober Sessions

An old surfing cliche is, "you should have seen it yesterday." No matter the swell or the conditions, inevitably the surf was always better the day before. One beautiful aspect of surfing is that everyday is different. The ocean is constantly changing. Each swell and tide shift changes the make-up of the underlying sandbar or reef. So, although the cliche is still often overused in line-ups across the globe, there is one spot when that phrase is not just cliche, it's a lie.
This break is not on the North Shore or some tropical island in the South Pacific. It's not in Australia or Costa Rica. The world's most consistent surf is in Germany, but it is not along the coastline of the Baltic or North Sea. It is in Munich, the Bavarian capital famous for Oktoberfest, beer gardens and halls and large wooden clocks. A city that is hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean or sea.

The wave constantly breaks in one of the most beautiful parks I've ever been to. The English Garden park. This park has large wooded areas, vast lawns filled with people, beer gardens and surfing. There is a small but fast flowing river that cuts through the middle of the park. The river flows violently down a steep hill and under a bridge. Then, it abruptly crashes into a series of large boulders. The result is a perfect, consistent wave. There are tight pockets on the outsides and a carve-able face in the middle. The amazing part is that the seemingly artificial wave is natural, or so I was told. Like any rip-able wave, there is a crowd. Dozens of surfers stand in line on the banks of the river. When a surfer wipes-out, then next in line drops in. The drop-in is not the typical paddle and pop like ocean surfing. It is closer to a skateboarder acid dropping in to a bowl or half-pipe. The surfer will grip his or her board with one hand and use the other hand to maintain balance. Then, they will pop off their back leg, and tuck in onto the board in mid-air. If successful, the surfer will be cascading across the wave, if not, they will be churned underneath the wave, like a rag in a washing machine, and spat out the back. A wipe out on this wave is not gentle. At this point in the river, the water is crashing around the boulders, causing strange undercurrents and riptide-like conditions. By the time the surfer surfaces, he or she is about 10 yards down the river. By the time they swim to the bank, they are another 30 yards down.
My first thought of this wave was that there was no paddle burn, you could pretty much surf all day. But after I saw a couple people bail, I quickly scratched that thought. Pretty much every wave means having to walk roughly half the length of a football field back to the lineup.
The wave is similar to surfing over a shallow reef. Every time a surfer bails, there is a risk of meeting one of the boulders head on. I realized that many of these river surfers have probably witnessed this first hand, because the less experienced ones sport helmets. Most of the surfers' boards are also beat to shit. A majority had duct tape and other MacGyver style homemade repairs. Boulders and violent current aside, the far most frightening danger is much less obvious to the average on-looker.
As I inquired with a few of the English speakers about the wave, they all told me of the obvious pitfalls. One guy told me that he wasn't concerned about the rocks beneath the water, but rather, the leaches that inhabited the river. I instantly thought of the scene in "Stand By Me" where the leach squirms its way into a hole that, for the entirety of a man's life, should be treated as discharging bodily liquids only. With that discouraging thought out of the way, I realized that the leaches, in a weird way, made the Munich wave a true surf spot. Every place has some sort of a risk element. Whether it be territorial locals, hazardous conditions or the wave itself, every time a surfer paddles out, or in this case, drops in, he or she risks bodily harm for the ultimate reward that is surfing.

Reflections Of A Humbling Tune

Music has paid a huge dividend to my traveling experiences. I always had my music playing during my travels. Whether I was on a long train ride or a nauseating bus ride to some far off destination, my music complimented the environment. My play lists are forever forged in my mind with visual memories of the people and places that I visited. I am now able to play back my memories in the form of a musical in my mind.

A single album comes to mind when I reminisce about one of the most emotional days of my trip. "Without You I'm Nothing," by Placebo played on loop for the 45 minute journey from Krakow to the concentration camp at Auschwitz in Poland. I thought that I knew what this trip would do to me emotionally, but soon found out that I had under estimated the impact that the camp would actually have on me.

We pulled up to the bus stop near the entrance on a rainy afternoon. The Placebo album was still playing. I will never forget the song "Ask For Answers," because it played during my first steps under the camp's sign that reads in German, Arbeit Macht Frei, or, Work Makes You Free. I would have usually kept my music playing if I had been visiting any other type of museum or historic site, but I had an impulse that told me that by not removing my head phones I would be disrespecting those who had been contained there.

People of all ages gazed with disbelief at the cells that many prisoners called home for as long as they could survive during their encampment. Several beds of hay sprawled across the floor acted as a cushion for prisoners to sleep on. Right out side of this cell block stands the "wall of death." This is a wall where prisoners were taken to be executed for acts of insubordination towards German guards. I envisioned the prisoners inside of their crowded cells fearfully watching their fellow inmates get shot in the back. I attempted to choke back my tears. Some of the people around me bawled. I couldn't prevent myself from letting a few tears trickle out.

I was feeling famished from walking around, but my appetite was suppressed by the horrifying images that I had witnessed.
I moved among many cell blocks before stumbling across the gas chambers and the crematorium. The bricks above the massive furnaces were blackened from the smoke. The stained bricks were left to remind countless tours of people of the massive death toll that was the holocaust. An information board described workers known as "Sonderkommandos," prisoners who were forced to do this work or die, dragging bodies of other inmates into the furnace carts. I couldn't even begin to empathize with the prisoners or the other people touring the camp who had lost a loved one at this location.

My visit to Auschwitz was touching and extremely difficult to bear. When I listen to music, my mind tells a story behind it, but when I hear "Ask For Answers" I crack. My mind takes me through a type of time warp to that wet and foggy day that forever changed my perspective about life and death. More importantly, that song reminds me to stay humble and be thankful for every breath of air I am privileged to inhale.

Trevi Fountain Dip

The Italian capital Rome is full of picturesque fountains and architecture. Breathtaking scenes unfold around almost every corner. One of the most photographed and truly inspiring sights in Rome is the Trevi Fountain. The Trevi Fountain, or Fontana di Trevi, stands 85 feet high and 65 feet wide. It is also the largest Baroque fountain in the city. It is truly a spectacle. The Trevi is the fountain in "the city of Fountains." Legend is, that if a visitor tosses a coin into the fountain, the small deposit will ensure their visit back to the ancient city. While I had provided a few spare coins of my own during my first visit, the legend once again proved to be true as I found myself back there later.

The theme of the fountain is "taming of the waters," which is personified by Oceanus, the god of all water. Oceanus is centered in the grand fountain, standing in a sea shell chariot guided by Tritons. His presence is heightened by a tumble of rock and water spilling into a grand pool at the base of the sculpture.

A more modern version of the coin legend is that a person will bring themselves luck if they throw three coins over their left shoulder with their right hand. As the photo shows, I had the correct hand to toss the coin, but the wrong shoulder. With this new theory, (no body knows for sure where this theory originated, but the fountain collects roughly 3,000 euros a day) the Trevi has become more of an aquatic piggy bank.

Like the coin legend, time changes all aspects of the fountain. Oceanus may have been in charge of taming the waters for centuries, but now that duty is fulfilled by zealous guards.

The night we came upon the fountain, two guards, members of the Carabinieri were indeed fulfilling their duty in keeping everyone away from the fountain. Tossing in a few coins is fine, but if someone dips a finger, or God forbid, a toe, the guards blow their whistles, and yell to stay out of the fountain. Of course, this all takes place with a cigarette in mouth.

It was time to update the coin legend again. However, this would not require any sort of financial donation. The new legend was to submerge one's body, get photo evidence, scramble out of the fountain and run like hell.

It was initially Mike's idea, but I decided that I'd accompany him on taming the waters. Noley Bear was on camera duty. Andrew was on sandal patrol. We both slipped off our sandals like we were entering a dojo.

Mike's legs were jelly. His heart rate elevated as he descended down the stairs. I was full of butterflies. Not the type you get right before you are about to get into a scuffle, but the type that flutter around your insides right before you are about to do something really, really stupid.

Mike led the way and did a Pete Rose slide into the shallow waters. With one smooth, Michael Phelps (pre-bong toke style) breast stroke, he was in the middle of the pool. I followed with a splash. We both popped inches from the shadow of Oceanus' ocean-sized testicles.

We posed momentarily, glamor shots style, knowing Nolie bear had his trusty Nikon poised to snap. We popped up, felt a strange hush, then a surprised gasp from the onlooking crowd.

We both knew that we had to make a quick, clean bank robbery exit. Kind of like Bobby DeNiro in Heat, but without the awesome gunfight.

The bottom of the fountain is a slippery combination of moss and coin. Mike and I were neck to neck as we tried to scramble out of the fountain. Due to the slippery bottom, we both lurched for the edge, but plunged back into the fountain. I got the sensation that a possible beat down, served family style by the Carabinieri, was evident. I knew Mike had the same feeling by the scared shit-less look he wore on his face. We both clawed out of the fountain like we were contestants on American Gladiators in the home stretch of the Eliminator. The escape from the fountain pretty much mirrored the scene in Star Wars where Luke Skywalker saves Han Solo from falling into the sand monster after escaping from Jabba the Hut's lair.

The Trevi Fountain is located in a small square where three narrow alleys meet. We ran up the alley on the opposite of guards. I pulled ahead of Mike. All I could see in the narrow corridor was the blue lights police car bouncing off the walls. Sirens pierced the night, people dining in cafes cheered us on and Mike yelled "RUN!!" with the type of desperation that creeps into a person's voice pending bodily harm and or a night in jail. Needless to say, neither of us wanted a night in an Italian holding cell.

By the time we reached the end of the alley, we were running side by side. The weight of my soaking shirt was slowing me down. We both ripped our shirts off, threw them to the ground, and continued on with board shorts and bare chests.

I spied a stack of chairs that was covered by tarps near a closed cafe. It was similar to the blanket forts created by children at countless sleepovers. I thought it would make for a perfect hiding place, however, there was no place to actually hide. Luckily for me, I had seen the Bourne Supremacy recently so I was able to make a quick decision. As Jason Bourne would surely vouch, hesitation gets you caught. We took a hard left at the end of the alley, the police still in pursuit. Across the street a car was parked outside of a garage. We both slid behind it. The police passed, but we knew we had to keep moving. Bourne always keeps moving. We ran by an apartment building with a door slightly cracked. We slouched in the doorway, shut the door and hit the deck.

At this point in our European trip, we had done plenty of recreational activities, so our cardio was not at its peak. We stayed on the ground in the apartment doorway for what seemed like hours, but was actually just minutes.

I assessed the situation and confirmed the parameters to be clear. Time to move again. I was certain of one thing, we had to stay off major streets. We were not exactly incognito as we were both wet and shoeless. Rome is not the best laid out city in terms of going from point A to point B in a straight shot. It is closer to a mangled spider web than a grid. Although we had been in the city a few days, and had gotten fairly familiar, we knew that the crosstown trek back to the hostel would take more than a little navigational luck.

We rushed to a familiar bus stop, hoping that a bus would take us closer to our hostel and further from danger.

We sat at the stop for 45 minutes, but no buses were stopping. It was time to Olympic Power Walk back to safety at the Asterix II Hostel.

Walking along the stone roads barefooted is not exactly a leisurely stroll down a white sand beach. There are many hazards waiting to make your dogs bark including, but not limited to, heroin needles, broken glass, used condoms, loose stones and motor oil.

We arrived at our safe haven a few hours later. We walked in and the owner of the hostel, Johnny, said, “What the fuck were you guys doing? Causin ' trouble?” (He claimed he was full Italian, born in Rome. He said he had lived in Echo Park for a few years, but I secretly thought he was an ex-con from the U.S. in some sort of witness protection program.)

I overheard a couple from New York say that they saw two of the guys from California get arrested. I immediately thought Andrew and Noley had taken the fall for our plunge. What worried me was not so much getting them out of incarceration, but rather, that upon first questioning, Nolie would sing like a canary. The couple had been sightseeing at the Trevi during our coin legend update.

I changed into dry clothes and popped out into the common area to let them know that we had escaped. The only soldiers left behind that night were a couple of wet tees. Noley and Andrew eventually got back. I was relieved, to say the least. The couple said that it made their night to see someone jump in the fountain. They said the crowd was shocked. The guy, whose name I can't remember, said they weren't sure what was going on, until they saw the police chase after us.

I still had some fear of the police finding us at the hostel. Johnny reaffirmed that if the police came to the door, they would not be let in.

Johnny continued to calm me down and quelled my previous fear of imprisonment. He said that we would not have spent any time in jail. They just would have, as Johnny articulated, “beat the shit out of you.” Comforting. We had left our mark on Rome. Throwing coins into the Trevi may ensure your return, or bring about good fortune, but throwing your body in means a part of you always stays in the Eternal City.

The above are the series of photos Noley was able to capture.

Traveling Can Be The Shits

My trip to Europe was going well up until I arrived at the coastal city of Biarritz, France. My stomach ached for most of the train ride and it wasn't until I was no where near a toilet that I had to relieve my colon of the black snake moan that was slivering around inside. The tightly squeezed aperture that was my butt hole stung several times before I found a nice parking lot to let the snake out for some air. After a long sleepless night filled with frequent parking lot visits my train had arrived to take us on a long journey to Barcelona, Spain.

We had to take a detour from Biarritz up to Paris and then back down to Toulouse before we could board one more train to Latour de Carol. The last thing I wanted to do was keep traveling after several painful train rides. It was my fault though, I ignorantly slurped laxatives and popped Imodium A.D. at the same time. I really had no choice so I trooped on with the group and carried a burning in my anus and desire for a nice hotel room with a toilet. And not the typical non-American version of a toilet that ranges from hole in the ground to metal tin. Iyearned for a proper toilet that would act as the perfect venue to battle my demons. Before my dreams could come true, I had to board a toilet-less bus to get to our final destination.

Usually, a toilet free bus is the way to travel, however, given the condition of my recent bowel movements, a toilet-less bus was a disastrous situation for me to be in. I had almost completely exhausted my sphincter over the last 48 hours and wasn't sure if I could prevent myself from a classic slip up. I boarded the bus with a slight hesitation, but didn't really have much of a choice. The desolate train station that borders Northern Spain had no lodging facilities near by and would be closing soon.

The bus zoomed out of the parking lot onto a narrow road carved into the side of a mountain. Usually I would enjoy the beautiful sights of the mountain range during the ride, but my aching stomach was too much of a distraction. I had to use my ninja focus to keep my cheeks clenched around every tight corner. I sat nervously in the back while sweat dripped down my forehead. The perspiration was not so much due to the erratic driving, but rather, because I did not want to shit my pants.

The bus made a stop in a city where I was too distracted to take note of the name. Federal officials boarded the bus. I had to present my passport. I hoped they would be a bit more efficient than most of the border patrol that I had come across on my journey, but like any government paid employee they were in no hurry.

Finally we were back on the road with a bus driver who could have been mistaken as Sandra Bullock fromSpeed jamming at 55 plus miles per hour down the sloped road. This guy had no regard for the comfort of the passengers. He hugged every curve in the road. With every stomp on the gas pedal came an abrupt slam on the brakes keeping the passengers bobbing back and forth. I wasn't concerned with living or dying as much as I was worried about my unpredictable bowel movements, but one passenger caught my eye. Noley Bear was clenching to the seat in front of him with his head down and his eyes closed. All I could think of was how much of a pussy he was. My fearful thoughts of Hershey squirts were briefly evaded with this observation and I was thankful for having such a mama's boy in the seat next to mine.

The bus ride came to an end at another train station and my underwear was surprisingly still dry. We had to take one more ride on an overground train to conclude our two day trek. I knew I had to hang on by a thread for just a little longer for my stinging red butt hole would be home free. I closed my eyes the whole way to the city and when we arrived, we hailed a cab and took it to the nearest hotel. I gladly paid a smidgen more than I normally would for a room so I could finally have use of a clean restroom and some much needed rest.

Fire works banged loudly out side and I sat on the porcelain pedestal that I was blessed to have use of. The Spaniards celebrated noisily in the streets of Barcelona for El Dia De San Juan, but I quietly imagined from the restroom that they were celebrating my relief.

One for the birds

Denver Nuggets forward Chris Anderson has rejuvenated his career through the use of a persona. Birdman. His energy and crowd pleasing antics have made him a fan favorite and a spectacle for the hometown fans and visiting opponents alike. While one Birdman has built a reputation by gathering attention on the hardwood, another has been creating a stir on the cobble stone courtyard of Notre Dame.
The Parisian Birdman is the resident eccentric who, like Jack Hannah, is one with the animals.
The Birdman feels every scurry and head bob of the pigeons who make the famous cathedral home. He can be found, year after year, spreading seeds, offering a restful shoulder and even executing proper burials for the winged rats.
When most consider pigeons a bother, the Birdman sees a friend in need. A dropped crumb is never followed by a shoo or kick, but rather an opportunity to add to his flock of minions.
Visitors congregate in the courtyard of Notre Dame to admire an architectural gem. Not everyone notices the subtle symbols that deck the cathedral. But everyone notices the tornado of wings on its path to the Birdman. Like the aftermath of a natural disaster, the Birdman is not a sight for sore eyes. His greasy hair and unshaven face are complimented by his equally dirty shoes and worn clothes. The pigeons pay no attention to the Birdman's aesthetic dysfunction. Instead they focus on the grocery bag of seed at his side.
Like Notre Dame, the Birdman's duties are not swayed by the hoards of visitors. No amount of flash photography and gaping onlookers deter him from carrying out his seemingly only passion in life. Caring for the pigeons.
As pet owners know, pets can bring joy and act as another member of the family. This means that the death of a pet can often be as disheartening as the passing of a family member. The Birdman does not have the luxury of a backyard to serve as his own pet cemetery, but he does have the Seine. With a quick blessing, deceased pigeons are underarmed into the flowing currents. But the Birdman does not dwell. He stays true to his duty and spreads more seeds.