Somewhere in London
The holiday festivity has inspired me to upload some long overdue photos. For your consumption, I have put together London 2005, a Flickr photo set recalling my summertime excursion to Europe. More cities are coming.
And I’m continually adding to Chicago 2005 with photos from my current trip.
Enjoy!
I have returned home safely, albeit disoriented. As you can imagine, I feel like a European citizen by now. American money, electrical outlets, cars, language all seem so foreign right now. It’s like my trip to San Diego is just another city on my tour.
But I’m here to stay — for at least two years, anyway. I have two juicy bits of news to share:
Yes, it’s official: I have (finally) left North County to move to downtown San Diego, California. In fact, I came straight home from Europe to the new place. It’s on West G Street. The ZIP code is 92101.
I have one roommate, Lisa, who you’ve seen before on this Web site. Now home, I am faced with the fun but daunting task of furnishing my empty apartment.
I’ll be talking more about the apartment and putting up a subsite in the coming days.
As for the second bit, yes, I have decided to attend UCSD. I’ll start as a junior, studying political science, at the end of September.
Until then, I have to find transportation for myself, and it might not be a car. I will also be working quite a bit. This was the subject line of the first e-mail I received, from an editor, when I got back to LAX yesterday:
Welcome back! Can you do a story?
I guess it’s back to reality. But honestly, I am really digging reality.
Last night was my last night in London, and my last night of an 85-day tour of Europe. I have been desperate to come home, quite frankly. I’m tired, lonely, and oversaturated. I have done plenty of finding myself, had plenty of wild encounters with beautiful women and great friends. I will come home to a brand new chapter in my life, filled with exciting things that I will announce in the next few days.
But still, I was a little sad last night. London is my favorite city in the world. I capped off my trip with something I have waited years to do: ride the London Eye. I went at dark, half past nine, when the crowds were thin and the enchanted Thames twinkled amber.
The view was incredible. The only people in my capsule — a big, glass egg — were a young couple speaking a foreign language and Rich Alderson’s hairdresser and husband from Bonsall. (Small, bizarre world this is.)
The end of the trip came very slowly in most ways but quite suddenly in others. Before checking out of my hotel, I thoroughly rifled through the two bags that have accompanied me every single day for three momnths. I threw out everything I wouldn’t need to take home, like old receipts, my nasty toiletry bag, my bulky Europe guidebook, etc. And I saw all the postcards I never sent, the journal entries I never finished, the e-mail addresses and phone numbers of friends from around the world that I’ll never remember. I realized that my Web site was also a disappointment this summer. It was a lot tougher than I expected to keep up a vibrant, everfresh adventure diary for the world’s consumption. But I do have lots of stories and photographs, and I still plan to post them in the coming days.
I’m in Heathrow Airport now, very early for my plane, and completely numb to my emotions and my location. At this point, after traveling so long alone, day-to-day life has become a mental survival game: always on-guard against thieves and scam artists, always walking fast, always thinking about how to save money, always counting down the days till the next city.
So in this airport, a soulless hub where the world comes and goes, I feel like I could just as well be in any airport in any city. And at 10:55 BST, I will board a flying vacuum and cross eight time zones in 11 hours. It’s a good transition, perhaps, from a foreign place to home.
The Cinque Terre (literally, five lands) region of northwestern Italy, a cluster of five tiny Mediterranean towns, is on my list of the most beautiful places in the world. Each town is connected by spectacular hiking trails. Except for the first one, these photos come from my euphoric and grueling hike from tiny Vernazza (where I stayed) to the resort town of Monterosso.
(Click the horizontals to enlarge. These images are somewhat large. )
The view from my apartment in Vernazza
Vernazza
The Mediterranean coastline, distant Monterosso
Hillside houses
A house in Monterosso
Umbrellas on the beach, Monterosso
I am determined to return here, but not alone.
Today I visited what is now my favorite church in Europe: Saint Bavo’s Grote Kerk, built in the early 1300s. It is the centerpiece of Haarlem, a town 15 minutes outside Amsterdam, and a national Dutch landmark. (America’s Harlem was named after Haarlem, back when New York was called Nieuw Amsterdam.)
The church is most famous for its majestic pipe organ: 5,068 pipes, nearly 100 feet high! Händel and Mozart (at age 10) once played here. I walked in during either a rehearsal or a jam session — somebody was blasting the heck out of all the different pipes.
The floor of the church is a seemingly random assortment of stone slabs, each with different carvings and inscriptions. These slabs bathe in the light of the stained glass window above.
Detail of one stained glass window
The interior baptistry chapel, which is sealed off in ornate ironwork, is lined with threatening spikes -- perhaps to keep the pigeons out of christenings.
Since words are failing me, I will use pictures to communicate.
I took these today throughout my incredible, 30-mile bike ride through the Dutch countryside. I traversed the region called Waterland, an expansive, quiet, rural area that is separated from Amsterdam by a small waterway. A short ferry ride took me to paradise.
Click to enlarge.
A view of Broek in Waterland, a village where the homes float in a swamp
An old kerk
Tractor talk
Watch out for vogels!
Taco and Lonneke Souer, owners of Hof Van Marken Hotel & Restaurant, on the (former) island of Marken, where I ate the best Dutch ham-and-cheese-filled Pannekoek
The Amsterdam skyline from a distance
The comments are working again. The location map is usually up-to-date. I have so much to write that I have reached an impasse. It is too overwhelming to write everything, so I’m not able to write anything.
But I’m still alive!
I have finished my stay in Naples, Italy, a cradle of history for my family. It is where my father spent so many of his early years, a Navy kid who cried when he came to the United States because he didn’t speak any English.
This was a trip to meet the Vittoria family — my grandmother’s brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews. It was a trip meant to be taken with my father, but that could not be done. So I went alone.
Sunbathers, fisherman, rowboat, and Mount Vesuvius.
It was important for me to go. I have always wanted to see the places about which I have heard so many stories. The crazy traffic, the old apartments, the Neopolitan dialect, the delicious food. And of course the beauty of the Amalfi Coast -- Pompeii, Sorrento, Positano. My aunts and uncles and grandparents know these things very well.
I understand things better now -- why it was funny when my dad called me "louie", why my uncle likes Peroni, and why my entire family is so enchanted with the south of Italy.
Uncle Cyrano and the Amalfi Coast
I stayed with my Uncle Cyrano and Aunt Lina in their apartment for several days. Uncle Cyrano knows English better than any other person family -- and still communication with my loved ones was not easy. At 83, his jumble of Italian, English, and Neopolitan can be quite a challenge to understand. (Fortunately, as my grandfather pointed out, the Italian hand gestures make things easier.)
The view from my bedroom every morning
I had a thrill ride through the city on the back of my cousin's scooter. I bought roses from Cyrano's favorite florist. I ate real margherita pizza at the best family restaurants. I experienced Naples as travelers should -- which is not in the back of a tour bus. I am grateful for the love of my family.
Cyrano in Positano
I have come from northern Europe to the south, to Rome, the world’s city, where the pizza is calda, the vowels are lazy, and the people are as warm as the summer sun.
I enjoy Rome terrifically. I have met more friends here than anywhere else — and from all over the world. I have witnessed inimitable beauty in art, architecture, and landscape. I have seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and touched this city.
Yesterday I met my Uncle Giovanni and his wife, Alba, and daughter, Ilaria. What a kick. Johnny and Ilaria speak English impressively, for Romans, even though they insist they’re not very good.
But as soon as those three are in the same room with me, the conversation turns into a blur of Italian. It is at once the most overwhelming and hilarious sensation. The phenomenon of an Italian conversation is that, as it warms up, all participants get louder and more competitive, until it becomes a din of flat sound that no one involved can understand. It finally ends with a sudden bang, usually marked by a trailing opinion from the patriarch, and then silence. But the cycle restarts not long afterward.
Having grown up with Italian family, I feel quite at home, even if I only understand poco italiano. My visits to foreign countries make me wish desperately that I could speak all of the languages of the world. I hope to try.
Now I’m sitting in a Roman street caffè, where the prices are blissfully lower than in the north. The (halfway-decent) International Herald Tribune is spread before me, and I just finished a cup of caffè latte and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Lots of pulp, like I like it. (The juice in France is pulpy, too, but they add ice cubes — divine.)
I have seen the Coliseum, built during the time of Christ, as well as Vatican City, which does not feel much like an escape to a foreign country — but Saint Peter’s Square, the basilica, and the Sistine Chapel were awe-inspiring. I may never see more beautiful things in my lifetime.
It’s a few minutes till noon and I have been relaxing here for too long. Time to set out. Maybe some tiramisu gelato?
Yes, like Ben and Lisa, the Eiffel Tower is spectacular. It is at once not familiar when seeing it for the first time in person.
The Eiffel Tower
The tower, like many other buildings in Paris, is decorated in “Olympics 2012” propaganda (unfortunately). Paris (and London, Madrid, Moscow, and New York) is competing to be the host city for the games in seven years.
Paris and the Seine, as viewed from the top of the Eiffel Tower
I have finally found Internet access for my laptop in Paris! Look out for a bunch of photos coming down the pike.
In London — which feels like a distant city after having toured France for 12 days — I was a fresh face in Europe with no idea what to expect. In my two short days there, the seeds for the recurring themes of my trip would be planted.
The first is that I got horribly lost — a lot. On my first night in town, I searched for the River Thames for hours, seemingly fruitlessly, knowing that it would be bring me great joy. I have been fascinated by the Thames for as long as I can remember.
Along the way, sweating in a bizarre London heat wave, I saw some other neat things.
(Click the horizontals to enlarge.)
A memorial tribute to the Great War
A soft-ice scene, shot from the hip
The road to Buckingham Palace
As night fell, I hit some seedy areas, and my aloneness started to feel very heavy. Finally, near exhaustion, I arrived in a different part of town. I looked up and saw Big Ben. Just like that.
My first view of Big Ben stopped me dead in my tracks.
Like many of the famous European sights I have seen so far, I discovered it quite by accident. And, also like the other sights I've seen, it was spectacular, enchanting, and not at all overrated.
I walked along the Thames and was taken by its beauty at night. The bridges, British Parliament, the London Eye. And I met a kind German man named Christian, who took a portrait of me in front of the landscape.
The London Eye, a giant ferris wheel overlooking the river
Apparently not a photo opportunity
Finding the Thames made my day. It was truly an evening that should have been shared with another person -- and it will be next time.
(Two weeks early.)
Today is Father’s Day in the United States, and I’m glad I’m not home for it.
I miss my dad.
In Europe, where the timeless echoes of war, religion, love, and art paint the landscape, I miss him even more. He lived here for much of his early life. He was raised in Naples, Italy, among other places, and his first language was Italian. In just two days, I will be there, where he spent so much of his youth. I will be with my family, and to them, I am Harold R. Phelps IV. I am, after all, his eldest son.
Tonight I am in Arles, where the lavender fields whet the senses, where the Rhône river meanders, where the window shutters are blue, where Van Gosh lost his ear, and where the Italians once held their capital in Roman Gaul. This is my favorite town so far. I could escape here forever.
With my father always at my side, I am living the life of a fortunate man.
Cardinal numbers in French are seemingly normal — until you hit 70, and then everything is nuts. Seventy is soixante-dix, or “sixty-plus-ten”, and 80 is quatre-vingts, or “four-times-twenty”.
I was shopping in the alleys of Aix today, and a lot of the prices were €19.99 (19,99€ in these parts). So hearing it aloud was exhausting:
“Dix-neuf (19) quatre-vingts-dix-neuf (99)” — or “ten-plus-nine and (four times twenty)-plus-ten-plus-nine”!
The French should adopt the Swiss number style, which is much simpler: “dix-neuf (19) nonante-neuf (99)”. There, 90 is just ninety, no arithmetic required. (My brain is a math-free zone.) Yes, I have decided, it must be done.
Je suis fatigué.
I am in Aix (pronounced like the English letter X), the capital of the Provence region of southern France. It’s a small, upscale, and sexy university town nestled in the middle of endless wilderness. Tomorrow I will visit the huge open market here and then hike Mount Saint Victoire to breathe it all in.
But tonight I’m at The Four Courts, an Irish bar on the town’s main drag, sipping a €3.40 Coca-Cola (€2 cheaper than in Paris) and watching the beautiful people go by. I’m not yet ready to order a glass of pastis, the milky yellow wine of Aix, which was recommended by my Provençal guru, Candice.
But I did have my first glass of wine tonight, a French red called Côtes du Rhône. I suppose there is no better place to start. Unfortunately, it was awful — bitter, stale, and hard. Quelle horreur. Perhaps this is due to the naïveté of my virgin pallete — or to the fact that it’s the French equivalent of Two Buck Chuck’s.
Adjusting to French life has been all of the following in the most extreme degree: exhilarating, mystifying, exhausting, miserable, enlightening, humbling, fun, uplifting, and depressing. I have only been here for 10 days or so, but it feels like I have lived here for years. Home feels so distant.
Parlez-vous anglais?
The language barrier is quite difficult. (Almost) nothing in France is in English. I have no gripe with this, even though je suis americain, but it has thrown me for a massive loop. (The preceeding idiom was inserted to confuse my French readers.)
Indeed the trip has not been all magic — far from it. For much of the time I have been downright despondent. Simple things, like washing clothes or buying a train ticket, are immensely difficult in a foreign land. In Paris, I visited a laverie with a backpack full of wrinkled laundry. Then, as is usual, I stared at the all-French directions with my mouth open. Normally, I sound out the word in French over and over again until I connect the sound to an English word. (For example: huile (silent H) in the Musée d’Orsay.) But sechoire and lessive weren’t ringing any bells. At that moment a cheery Parisian waltzed in.
“Bonjour!” She practically sang it.
“Bonjour,” I said with a smile. Then I realized I had deposited €4 in coins into a machine that did not give monnaie, so I had to act then and there. The woman caught on to my confusion. I parlez-vous anglaised her and she said “oui” — for once, not “oui, un peu” (a little) like everyone else (the code phrase for “perfect English”).
She was a gift from God. She told me to put les clairs and les foncés in separate machines and press here, here, and here. Don’t forget to put in the lessive (soap powder!) and use the sechoire (dryer!) afterward. An hour later, I had found surprising success. But my socks were still pretty wet.
Despite the difficulties, I have been learning the language very rapidly and have become pretty comfortable using what I know. For example, it used to be that the first thing I told a waiter was that je parle pas français upon entering. Now I wait until I’m confused before saying it, which is happening less and less often. Here in the south of France, I’ve even had the guts to tell someone that “I just arrived from Paris” when she was confused by my pronunciation of a word. (Some words are different here. Marché, or market, seems to be foreign to the locals, unless I’m missing something.)
Away with words
The language aspect of my trip has been the most fun. I love language. J’adore language. Today, I sat for hours in a British librairie-café and read French phrasebooks over café crème and biscuits. I pronounced the words aloud, trying to master French’s succinct vowels and mind-tripping liaisons.
I realized in the middle of my self-lesson that the little boy at the table next to me was learning English with a tutor, struggling to sound out English words and simple sentences, and making silly mistakes from time to time. He wore the same, white Ralph Lauren Polo shirt as I did. We kept exchanging glances, amused by the other’s experience.
The Turkish man
Yesterday afternoon, on the bullet train from Paris to Aix, I sat next to a Turkish man who spoke neither English nor French. Despite this short-term mutual disability, he was insistent on having a conversation with me. He knew about three English words: yes, job, and you. So I tried to teach him English, using only hand gestures, drawings, and his French-Turkish dictionary. I would look for the word in French, if I knew it, point to the Turkish word, and then verbalize it in English.
It took a half-hour to explain my line of work.
“You. Job?” he said.
“Oh, God,” I thought. “Journalism?” I gestured holding a newspaper and tried to look informed. He didn’t get it. I turned the pages of this invisible newspaper, scanned its invisible headlines with my finger — still nothing.
So I drew a page dummy on my journal with LE MONDE scrawled across the top.
Finally he said, “Magazine.”
I said “Close, but not quite,” even though those words meant nothing to him.
Finally I found the French word journal in his dictionary and then pointed to myself while pretending to write.
I think he figured it out. Phew.
The French girl
I went to the dining car to get a snack, but of course it was closed. So I stared at the beautiful rural scenery, at the tile-roof houses and the charming cathedrals. And I fell asleep. When I awoke, I was surrounded by French conversations on mobile phones. The girl next to me finished hers but didn’t leave the car. The others left. She stared at the scenery alongside me. Then, she moved — I thought to leave. But she sat down right next to me… without saying anything.
I know it was not because she thought I was American. In fact, I have never been approached in English by the locals or the Americans — they think I’m a Frenchman. I guess I blend in.
Anyway, I wanted to say something, but I dreaded the monotonous routine. (“Bonjour. Parlez-vous anglais, mademoiselle?” … “Oui, un peu.”)
But I had to. So I started the routine.
“Bonjour. Parlez-vous anglais, mademoiselle?” I asked politely.
“Oui, un peu.” she responded.
She was elated that I spoke up. As soon as she spoke, her eyes lit up and glittered like tinsel. Her English was good, and her disposition was very sweet. She was going to Nice, farther southeast than Aix. I started telling her my story, and I was really enjoying her company already. Suddenly she looked down at her watch and told me that I would have to get off soon. As soon as she finished speaking, the massive brakes of the train dragged the cars to a stop. We exchanged names quickly and I pushed through the line of people waiting to get off so I could grab my luggage. I was now in the middle of a “Before Sunrise” moment: Do I go back and ask her to get off the train with me?
Sadly, real life is never as beautiful as in the movies. I was stuck in the mass of bodies, and the train was only to stay at the station for two minutes on the dot. I stepped off and the train pulled away, and for a brief moment I saw her looking through the window. I had missed my opportunity.
I’m finishing this entry now in my little apartment near the town center, alone as usual. No luck meeting friends (read: girls) at the bar or on the street. But tomorrow is another day.
It’s almost 5 o’clock in the morning here in Paris and I can’t sleep. After a late-night arrival from London and a visit with two dear friends, I ate a 2:30 hamburger pomme frites at the outdoor cafe below my tiny hotel, Hotel de Nice. I’m only five stories up this time, instead of eight, like my place in London. And this hotel has a lift. No lift in London.
It has been a whirlwind of travel and supreme life enjoyment. In two days I have met two cities and four girls. On my first night in London, while walking along the River Thames alone, I had an early breakdown: How will I survive alone for so long? But that evaporated when I introduced myself to some backpackers on the train.
I will have lots of pictures and more insights when I can process them all and really sit down. First I have to go shut my window. It’s 5 now and some jubilant Parisians are singing fight songs in unison.
I arrived safely in London, and I love it. It’s a beautiful, sunny day here.
I’m writing from Piccadilly Circus, London’s version of Times Square. This picture should explain it better.
Odeon Theatre
My bags are packed. I have said the last of my good-byes. The road to here has been long, stressful, and, at times, sad. Now I am sitting alone, appropriately, in Los Angeles International Airport. I have done the best I can to get ready to leave my life for three months. I forgot my only jacket and sweater at home. Ugh. Something had to be forgotten.
I have said good-bye to my house, to my dogs, to my dad, to North San Diego County. A return here would mean a departure from my childhood things. A new apartment. A new car. A new school.
I am wistful.
The international terminals feel different from domestic ones. The mix of people around here is eclectic. I think the people left of me are Dutch. The people ahead appear… Vietnamese? There’s a gay Brit to my right and some unrecognizable accents behind me.
Just 30 minutes till boarding.
I’m leaving for Europe today, and you’re coming with me.
In six hours, I’ll board a plane for London and arrive there half a day later. Visit my Web site throughout the journey to track my travels and view my photographs. And you’ll be able to follow my progress across the Continent with the dynamic Flash map above.
You can learn more about my trip by reading my Eurotrip FAQ.
Au revoir!
This is my attempt at compiling the most frequently asked questions about my Europe trip, which starts in six days. These are actual questions I have been asked frequently!
When are you leaving? May 25. I leave LAX on a direct flight to London Heathrow.
How long will you be gone? 85 days, just short of three months.
When do you get back? I return August 17. This date could change, but it probably won’t.
Are you going alone? Yes.
Aren’t you going to be lonely? Yes.
But aren’t you worried about being lonely?! A little bit, but not really. Being alone will force me to meet new people (and there are plenty in Europe). Plus, I will be meeting up with friends and family members throughout the journey.
Are you planning everything or going completely spontaneous? A mixture of both. A good portion of my trip is planned; on the planned days, I still plan to be spontaneous.
Are you *so* excited? Yes. But sort of not really yet. It doesn’t quite feel real. It feels like I’m going to be getting on a plane to Sacramento, or something. In other words, it hasn’t sunk in yet.
Which countries will you visit? The United Kingdom, France, Italy, Germany, Spain, Portugal, the Czech Republic, Poland, Finland, Denmark, Belgium, Luxembourg, Sweden, Norway, Ireland, Greece, Morocco, Corsica, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, the Netherlands, Andorra, Austria, Croatia, and Belgium. I might be forgetting a few.
Where will you be staying? I’ll be backpacking and mostly hostel-hopping. I have hotel reservations in some places and connections all over the continent for homestays.
How are you getting around? Are you renting a car or what? I don’t plan to do any driving in Europe. I purchased a three-month Eurail pass to travel almost exclusively on trains. Plus buses, ferries, and planes, on occasion. And I might hop on a Vespa.
What are you bringing? Just a backpack, a daypack, some clothes, and other necessities. Oh, and my laptop and some camera gear. I’ll be blogging about this topic in a few days.
Will you be blogging your trip? You bet. Part of the reason for this trip is to explore new avenues in blogging. If you stay tuned, you are in for a treat.
Will you be taking pictures? Yes. I bought a lens especially for this trip. I’ll post them as often as possible.
Is the trip for school, for work? No, neither. But a few media organizations are talking to me about occassionally producing stories. I will not be studying.
Why are you going? For personal enrichment. I need new perspective, life enjoyment, an escape from this place. Travel is in my blood and I do it whenever I can.
Have you ever been to Europe? No.
Can we meet up? Absolutely.
How can people get a hold of you? I will have the same U.S. phone number and the same e-mail address. Nothing will change except that I’ll probably be harder to reach and slower to call back.
Will you be patronizing Starbucks while abroad? Yes. But probably not very much. Just because I’m traveling doesn’t mean I need to boycott American companies, for God’s sake.
How can you afford to go to Europe for three months? Why do you care about that?
Is Krystill coming? Nope.
I’m going to miss you! Why haven’t you called me? I
have been swamped with last-minute work before my trip. We could conceivably see each other before I leave, but it would be tough. Please don’t be hurt if I didn’t call you; it’s nothing personal. If we’re close friends, chances are I have called you. Check your voice mail.
Will you send me a postcard? Sure.
Why are you so amazing? I was born with a chromosomal mutation that makes me superior to other human beings. I can’t help it.
Huh? Sorry.
I lost my wallet. Can you think of a worse time to do so? I can’t.
I’m hoping the power of the Internet will somehow bring my wallet back to me. It could only be in one of these three places: Vinaka Cafe in Carlsbad, Brian’s car, or my house. All three have been exhaustively searched. If you were at Vinaka last night, maybe you found it.
It’s a black, leather, Dockers-brand wallet with a magic $2 bill inside, as well as a check for $111.08, my California driver license, and other important things. (All of the aforementioned will be useless to you.)
If you have it, please call or e-mail me for a cash reward.
I am a person who goes great lengths to ship wallets and cancel credit cards when I find them. I hope, with just 10 days of (stressful) preparations for Europe, someone can return the favor.
A short, rough list of things to do/buy/pack. Numbered.
Any additons or subtractions?
PS: I leave two weeks from today.
With just 18 days to go until my three-month solo backpacking tour of Europe, I seem to run into more and more people with interesting connections to the Continent. They always have advice, lots and lots of advice. (Yesterday alone, I had four such conversations.) Here’s a random assortment of tips so far:
Do you have any to add?
Last night, as I prepared to make reservations at the
world-class Hotel Mayfair in Paris, I got my credit card ready and ran through what I would say on the phone. “Bonjour! Could I have help in English?”
The woman on the other end would greet me with a kind, Parisian brogue and begin to ask about my intinerary. I would jokingly ask for the “Pro-France American Rate” and hear her laughter 6,000 miles away. The vast differences in time zones and cultures would be transcended by a single phone connection.
But none of that happened. I went to the Mayfair Web site and discovered that online rates are the biggest bargains. I couldn’t even find a phone number if I wanted to.
As hotels worldwide become more savvy of the international marketplace — taking advantage of the technology that connects continents — the romance of making a long-distance call for reservations is gone. Plus, the Web sites of countless hotels, museums, tour groups, and even restaurants are offered in every language and accept every currency.
I cannot complain too much about the shift, and I certainly understand it. It’s expensive to make a long-distance call, and the ability to go online at any hour and change my mind at will is wonderful. Naturally, businesses can boost their bookings when they pop up in Google searches all over the world.
But I still long for the mysterious foreign accents, the cross-language confusion — the human voice attached to the transaction. I would like to imagine what is going on in that room, what the person looks like, what kind of people are around.
But at 10:30 last night in San Diego, when the next day was starting for the Parisians, I was confined to a few, impersonal clicks. I guess my whiff of culture will have to wait till I get to the front desk.
Planning for Europe is exciting, overwhelming, and surreal.
A plethora of information
Fortunately, I have access to people along the way who are helping. And I will get to meet up with others along the course of my travels.
Unfortunately, I have to leave some people behind who have different lives and cannot simply fly to London on a whim. This is a sad fact of life.
This entry was filed under Europe, a new category for my multination journey.
Status: Confirmed
Name: Andrew Richard PhelpsDepart - Wed. May. 25 - 5:50 PM
International, Los Angeles, CA, US (LAX)Arrive - Thu. May. 26 - 12:15 PM
Heathrow, London, GB (LHR)
View more categories in the archives.
Hi everyone,
My name is Kenny Rodriguez, the son of Manuel Rodriguez~Esparra. My father is first cousins with Rafael Esparra. Which would make me a second cousin. I’m so surprised that this man was such a horrible father because my father has always been there. I just called Ricardo and we will speak later on and hopefully keep in touch. But I am also interested in somehow getting to know some of you. I came across this forum in doing some family research. Me and my father have been doing this for an amount of years and we discovered that our family was Jewish. We can trace it through my grandfather and my grandmother (who was an Esparra). The family supposedly converted to Catholism out of fear of persecution some time ago, but the info I found was vague and I’m very interested in speaking with anyone who can shed some light on this side of the family. You can reach me at caddilacken@aol.com
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Firestorm 2003
It’s weird experiencing the scary equivalent of “snow days” here. On the news the other night, Marty Levin said, “In the East, we have snow days, and in the West, we have fire and ash days.” My mother pointed out one difference: snow days back east are fun days in winter snowscapes.
Harold “Rich” Phelps
1957-2004
on Quietly Remembered