Europe on a shoestring

It was surreal leaving work that day. Though I was really glad I would never go back I instantly missed my students. How could I not after they give me presents like these. I had my fair share of problems with the administration of this school over money and little things they do but the students were really the only thing to tip the scale in my favor of staying there. Not all the students though.. just a few.


Okay so right after work I head to the airport. I have a flight booked to London to go visit Bailey for a couple days before she goes back to the States. I get to the airport and go through the whole airport check in routine I have grown used to. I walk up to the counter, show the lady a confirmation number I entered on my phone, she asks for my passport, I get my ticket, I then proceed through security.

Always in security I have something removed from my bag. Usually I will just throw in shampoo or shaving cream in hopes they don't care. They always care.

After I put my clothes back on I go to my terminal and just read. This is fine until my flight terminal is changed right before my scheduled flight and everyone is speed-walking in a panic to get to the new arrival gate. Doesn't matter. My flight is delayed almost three hours.

My flight is about the same as always. Anyone flying with a budget and fairly long legs is destined for a few uncomfortable hours and sore knees on arrival.

I finally touch ground in London.

Next routine is the arrival. Easy. I get off the plane. I walk out of the airport. Only.. I forgot that England had immigration officers. I was just looking for the exit and then I saw that everyone was filling out landing cards and then taking their place in line. Almost everything went to the line for EU citizens. I think one other person besides myself went to the Foreigners line. He was first. He handed the man his passport and his landing card, participated in some idle chat and proceeded through to the United Kingdom.

My turn.

I was barely paying attention. I had one headphone in and was searching my pockets for my boarding card while he was looking at my passport. He begins:


Officer: So what is your purpose for this visit?

Me: Visiting a friend for the weekend.

Officer: And where are you going after that?

Me: Back to Spain.

Officer: And when was the last time you were in your country. It says here it was in September.


OH SHIT.. OH SHIT..



I didn't say anything for a little bit. I had COMPLETELY forgotten I was not supposed to be in Europe at this point. All the other countries I traveled to never checked my passport for more than a few seconds. It was to the point where I didn't even think about it anymore. I'm sure my eyes grew wide and my knees weak. My heart started beating as if I had just ran a race. By this point I had gotten very little sleep the entire week (probably 4 - 5 hours a night), woke up at 6:30 am to go to work for eight hours, wait in the airport for another six, fly for three hours and somehow make it off the plane awake but staggering a bit. I look like hell and my throat was instantly dry. I tried to pull the "act ignorant" thing in hopes he doesn't notice.


Me: (coughing to clear my throat) Uhh.. I think.. September 24th I believe.

Officer: September 25th. You know you are only supposed to be in Europe for three months out of the year. (he's holding my passport and going through all the stamps during this questioning.)

Me: What?!? I kind of give a little awkward laugh at the situation.

Officer: Why are you laughing? You think this is funny?

Me: No, of course not. It's just very surprising to me. ( I am trying to speak as properly as possible)

Officer: Can I see your ticket?

Me: I don't have a ticket. (All I have is a confirmation number on my phone)

Officer: You don't have a ticket?

Me: Well my booking is online. I can show you if you have internet

Officer: Does it look like I have access to internet where I am?

Me: No but..

Officer: What have you been doing to fund these travels of yours?


OH SHIT.. DON'T TELL HIM ABOUT WORKING!!


Me: Well I was visiting some friends and..

Officer: Where do you get your money!?

Me: Over the summer I..

Officer: What do you do for money!?

Me: I have been saving money for..

Officer: Tell me what you do for money.


Okay he wins.


Me: I.. teach English. In a school and private in-home classes.

Officer: So you have been in Europe illegally for six months and working illegally? Do you know this is a serious offense? Do you think that just because you are an American you can do whatever you want?

Me: No I don't and I had no idea. No one told me about this. This is all new to me. Really.

Officer: You didn't bother to check into the laws of a place you were traveling to? That's a bit irresponsible isn't it? Any time I would THINK to travel somewhere I would make sure I at least knew the laws of my destination and have a printed ticket of my flights. What is your friend here doing? Is she working here Illegally as well?

Me: No, she is studying here for 5 weeks.

Officer: Can you give me any sort of reason not to send you back to your own country as soon as possible?

Me: No, I can't.

Officer: Do you know what would happen if I were to be in the United States over the allowed time and try to fly back? They would have me in handcuffs and a jail before I would know why and soon after deport me.

Me: I understand. I am not in much favor of the United States practices in traveling as well. I know that.. (he kept cutting off my sentences..)

Officer: There is a flight leaving back to Madrid in one hour. Why should you not be on that flight?

THANK GOD!!!!!! As much as it would suck to spend a lot of money and just end up flying back to Madrid, this made me really happy. I assumed it would be a sign that at the very most he would not deport me to the United States in handcuffs. After this my heart returned to beating at its normal pace.

Me: I.. don't know. (This is no joke, we are staring directly into each others eyes and I am trying to look as modest as possible with a hint of unsureness and fear.)



After a couple seconds...



Officer: Well, you are lucky this time. The United Kingdom is a bit more liberal than the states. I will give you (stamps hard on my passport) one week in this country and I hope you are out of here before then.

Me: Thank you sir.




By this time, this man and myself were the only people left in this giant room of the airport. It was nearly 2:45 am (I guess only 1:45 British time). I still had to find a place to convert Euros to Pounds, Take a train to Central London, Figure out public transportation ( I had an old underground map but even with that it is quite a bit different than the Madrid metro that I am used to), find my hostel and pray to the son of Apollo that it was not closed until morning. Apollo granted my prayer and my hostel happened to have an internet cafe open 24/7. I shared a room with 20 other people.

The next day went a lot smoother. It was awesome seeing Bailey for the first time in almost a year. Of course we each had a lot to talk about and it was overwhelming. As soon as I met up with her she informed me about a meeting she had just returned from with her flatmate. She said she got our names on the VIP list to the Ministry of Sound. A world-renowned club where top Dj's got their big break. It was incredible. A welcome compensation to my previous 24 hours.

Ministry of Sound VIP

I Feel it Too

This is me officially signing off. There were a lot more things I wanted to put up here, but I got frustrated trying to put together the Morocco video and lost the will to continue from that point. You'll hear the rest of the stories if I ever write a book (not going to happen). Good luck Glenn. Miss you Europe.

A night in the north

Alright, long time with no post, I know.

Even if there is no post up, just assume I am still carrying out basic traditions the five of us had always done since the day the crew interrupted Spain's delicately balanced society. Most of my time is still consumed by a job so whatever pieces of time I can muster together I travel. March offered "Semana Santa" or spring break which carried me to Rome (amazing) and Barcelona (Just thought about Rome). This is basically just a post on a recent venture for a short duration of time.

I believe (yes 'believe' because I am probably wrong) it is safe to say that almost every European country has its own stereotype for culture and cuisine. I made a little chart, dope huh?





Okay, not all these stereotypes are accurate but pretty close. For me to pick a favorite just out of this small sample would form clusters of cancer cells in my brain.

Worth it, I pick Belgium.

Displaying an assortment of British, French, German and I guessing... umm Belgium (?) architecture, you start to grasp the answers of why Brussels is the capital of the European Union. In the heart of Belgium, smells grip every fiber that allow you to smell and focuses it on their Waffles. It doesn't matter what you were doing at the time, when the scent of these majestic goddesses (waffles) float gracefully on small air currents reach you, you could possibly become the most manipulative, abusive, selfish human ever. You will do horrible, unforgivable things to get one of these waffles in your greedy, trembling hands. The common way to do so is simply fork over the 2.50 Euros, get your caramel, cream, and strawberry coated waffle and not have to run from your shameful past.


Brussels has two main languages; Flemish and French. Both required to properly describe a single piece of chocolate.


When a country is upset and depressed about their failing economy and tremendous crime rates topped with over inflated housing markets, grandma Belgium would simply step in with her jolly red cheeks and a fresh tray of warm comforting chocolates and gently suggest that, "Everything will be alright." (and it will be)


An eating competition in Belgium would kill every participant. Not one would die unsatisfied of his or her life.


Cocaine has a nonidentical twin. Sold legally and fair priced. Waffles.


'Once you pop the fun don't stop!' f*** off pringles, you tourist of taste.


I have only been home from Belgium for about 2 hours now and I have thought multiple times about paying for my next trip there. Perhaps the only thing keeping my cursor off the ticket purchase link is my last 250g's of chocolate by my side. Brussels, I will return someday to your waffle presses of gold, your knowledge and understanding of true flavor and your neglect of not sharing such riches with me at an earlier age.


We saw God standing at the Brussels airport security entrance with an acceptance list. Eating chocolate.

Unfortunately we were only in Brussels for a night.

I've read the Horan.

*Mark Horan

I no longer feel like constructing a post out of this. Main events are as follows.

Couch surfers from Salt Lake City, Utah show up. With them is Mark Horan (x-mormon). Mark Horan went on a 2 year mission for the Mormon church and had never drank anything before coming to Europe.

First night (At our apartment, not Europe)-

We drink. We play chess. I go to bed. Mark Horan has a push up competition with himself. Mark Horan loses. Mark Horan throws up and then sleeps in the bathroom.

Second night -

We drink. We play chess. We all have a push up competition. Mark Horan loses. We go to a disco. Mark Horan drinks more. MarkHoran appears in such videos as this. (I have to wait to upload the video)

Third night -

We drink. We play chess. Mark Horan sings to Avril Lavigne on video. Mark Horan drinks more. Mark Horan calls everybody gay for a couple hours. Mark Horan drinks more. Mark Horan slides on our wood floor head first into the corner of a table. Mark Horan is dragged into the bathroom. Mark Horan throws up and then sleeps in the bathroom.

He is called Mark Horan.


Mark Horan makes an appearance in the following pictures.

-- -- -- -- cut here -- -- -- -- --

As you know, for over a month and half we have been whoring out our* apartment to any stranger without cost or question.whoring Request after request since the originals* left have been answered in complete carelessness of whether there was room or not for them. South Americans, Belgiums, Canadians*, Australia (no dingo, I don't need your help with couch surfing), and even appearances from our home shores.

First assault from the States: I don't know how much you might have been filled in by the return of the originals so I will make this part quick. Three Americans from salt lake city asked to stay with me. I say yes. They stay. I told them they have a job teaching English if they wanted. They wanted. Emily, Derrick, and MARK HORAN* are now my current room mates. They are pretty entertaining.


Second assault: Girl from New York. Asks to stay. I say yes. She stays. She leaves. Bye.

Gangs of New York

It was two days after the apartment was finally clear of couch surfers and it was back to just myself and the other three English slaves when I receive a request from Jimmy (simply Jimmy).
Jimmy writes:

Hey,

I am all new to this...I just heard about it while
traveling in Ireland. But me and my two best friends
from home (NY) planned this trip to Madrid...and we
were going to stay with my friend max's buddy from AUP
(american university at paris) but her grandmother just
passed away and things are too hectic at her house to
accommodate us. We are going to be traveling with two
other girls, one from NYC and one from Boston who go to
AUP with my friend Max. We are all between the ages of
18 and 20.

I didn't know till right now that there are people
willing to accommodate 5 people...we are really not
looking for anything more than a place to leave our
stuff and a floor to sleep on (maybe a pillow or two).
A shower would be over the top luxury for us.

As of right now we have a hostel booked for Wed and
Thurs. but they are all sold out for the weekend for
anything under 30 euro. We are leaving for Barcelona
on Sunday if we can find a place to stay for the
weekend.

Come out with us and the drinks are on us...

Thanks for your time and consideration...if you could
only put us up for the weekend that would still be
sweet. Just let me know as soon as possible and at
the least we could exchange numbers.

I write:

hey sure, no problem. (sends address)

The five of them stumble into the apartment at around 2:00 am due to a delayed plane. Tired from working all day I just wanted to sleep however I felt obligated to entertain these strangers for at least a little while. MARK HORAN awakes from us talking, crawls out of bed and jumps into the conversation. I tell MARK HORAN to shut the **** up. They appreciate the crude humor and admit that our apartment building at night resembles an abandoned factory where people are murdered and processed into food.. or shitty beer. I confirm that it is and tell them not to sleep with their faces exposed or I will cut them off and wear them to work. They laughed and looked at each other for some sort of proof that I was not serious. Eventually people started looking for places to sleep. Three people tried sharing one of the single beds, failed, so two slept on the floor. Oh well. Free floor right? **** 'em. I try going to bed myself and one of them starts snoring louder than Joel used to. His name was Dan I think. He had just arrived in Paris that day, met up with his friends, and flew to Madrid. First time in Europe. Myself and my room mates leave for work at 7:45 roughly and Dan wakes up with a surprise and no one there to blame.



Saturday night I went to Madrid to meet up with these guys and it was hilarious. Tapas bars, racing up subway stairs, talking to Spanish people, running around buildings getting chased by security, met random English girls, went clubbing, got separated, and just when I decided to head home, who did I run into sitting in a random metro station waiting for it to open? While waiting for the metro, a man who had clearly been heavily drinking shows up and starts chanting and waving his arms until we could do nothing but clap for whatever important information he had to offer us.






See also..
Our* Sorry guys, still working on your deposits. Until then, enjoy the apartment you have in Madrid. Don Luis is a two faced snake.

Originals* I can no longer say my American friends because that confuses new couch surfers of whether I'm talking about the crew or the Mormons.

Canadians* They were incredible. Being from Montreal, their English was not as good as you would expect when you hear the name Canada. However when I said I was going to blow up the ham leg they fully understood and left me a small can of gasoline as a going away present. Oh yeah.. and I am going to blow up the ham leg.

MARK HORAN* I would like to include the asterisk details of MARK HORAN in this post but unfortunately it won't fit. Look forward to it though.

The Thief's Theme

Brock has this to say about the place we are in: Stepping off the plane in Marrakech, right onto the tarmack (like Nixon I was), and the first thing I see, a cat, a very skinny and very mangy looking cat. I think to myself, "Why is there a cat in an airport runway?". After the first hour I stopped asking stupid questions like that because the best answer I have found for any questions that I have here is in fact, another question, "I'm in Morocco, what did I expect?". Brendan and I arrived in Marrakech on Saturday i think, and if we can be frank (can we be frank? Thanks), we dont want to leave. At the airport on what I believe to be a saturday night Brendan and I were trying to figure out the best way to get to a hostel, no map, just a plan. Get to the center of town, which was a problem on its own because neither of us speak french and we didnt know where "town" was. Then once we get there, make our way through the endless moving and breathing labrynth that is Marrakech to a hostel that we only heard about from a group of mormons currently inhabiting our previous place of residence. Hell, right? Wrong. All you have to do is find an English speaking French guy to make friends with and he will figure it all out for you. We were just lucky enough to find one, and his name was Luka. An English teacher coming here for his first time too, and he was kind enough to let us tag along with him. He knew what stop to get off of the bus at, and he found us a hotel for five euros a head, and we were hanging out with him until he had to leave on the 26th, going to the desert i think, he said something about a "Rainbow Gathering". Now Marrakech. Its unbelievable, narrow streets filled with vendors selling everything from Luis Vuitton bags and Gucci sunglasses ("They must not know what they have! Designer eyewear for 3 euros! Get out of town! I was in Paris and I saw that same suitcase for 800 euros and this guy is selling it for 20.") to hookahs and ("No seriously, its real silver!") jewelery. The main square is packed with food vendors all selling the same unclean, yet delicious, food, orange juice stands, cookie pushers, snake charmers, men that wisper "Hash, I got good sh*t" in your ear and men that dance at you (for a price). This is the land of bartering. Everyone here, save the resteraunt buisinessmen, try to sell you their wares for some outlandish price, but in the end they can all be talked down to a fraction of that. Enter "The Crumb Snatcher". Here is some background for all of you, we tourists have an unwritten deal with the cookie pushers. We give them 1 Dirham (their monetary unit), and in exchange they give us one delicious cookie (some little coconut number). HE BROKE THE RULES! I go up to the crumb snatcher and ask for 1 cookie, he hands Brendan 1cookie and i hand him 1 money. So far so good, until he holds out his hand, a sign that this transaction is not over. I stare at him with a look of misunderstanding, and he manages to utter just two lttle words "Duex Dirham". After lots of arguing, Brendan and i managed to walk away with our eyes to the ground 6 Dirhams freed from our pockets and 3 cookies in our hands. Ashamed we walked back to our hotel room, the "penthouse suite" with a terrace outside where we can sit peacefully above all of the heckling. Paradise at last. Sorry there are no pictures, I have them on my camera but I dont have the cable I need to put them on the computer. Sorry. Brendan has this to say about the place we are in: We would have been lost without the French guy. The climate is a lot more welcome than Norway's and somehow the locals seem comfortable walking around in sweaters and jeans when it's 75 outside. About 80 percent of the people in the streets and squares want to sell you things and that ends up being quite a few people. "You want some hash?". Cobras dance to flutes, don't look at them though, eye contact is usually a contract and an empty hat will be in front of you begging for coins. I am not paying 2 Dirhams for a cookie that everyone else sells for two. Brushing your teeth with Moroccan water might not actually be considered progress as far as hygiene is concerned. No I don't want any hash. Taking a picture with a monkey isn't free either. No I don't speak any English, none at all sorry. Where do all these slippers come from and how do they convince people to actually buy hem? Quit calling me Ali Baba. What do you mean the bread costs 10 Dirhams? The bread is free everywhere else and I didn't even ask for it in the first place you just brought it out here. Yeah America, New York, Boston, all that good shit. "You won't find these anywhere for that price, give me your serious democratic price." All of these motorcyclists want to kill you. The megaphones on the towers wail for prayers and the rain chimes in at full force. Thunder has a word with both of them and the frenetic streets below are muted. "Follow me, good shit". I might just wither the rest of my days away here on the terrace, all I need is the sun and the sandwhich shop down the street, you'll never see me again. Seriously kid I am not going to give you another coin, get outta here. No toilet paper in the bathrooms. Sunglasses salesman slaps my pockets demanding that I give him all the money I have. You get used to the hecklers after about two days and their catchprashes (Hello, Yes, Hashish) hum along with the rest of the white noise. Here just take the cookie back OK? I don't want the cookie. The market labrynth is a cruel sorcerer of space and time, it's hallways limitless. Rumor has it that the final dead end right past the last desolate carpet shop, next to the shoe store at the edge of the universe is home to the last digit of Pi. I know your secret Marrakesh, Satan sold you these horrible smells. It's odd to imagine that somewhere beneath all of this people are living normal lives, growing up and going to school. "Come to my shop just to look, no buy." Never seen lightning like this before. How are you going to charge me 15 Dirhams for two slices of eggplant? I didn't want it, you gave it to me. Every guidebook says not to follow some shady fellow into tiny alleys in the middle of the night in search of a hostel but we did it anyway, they can't be all bad right? Once you put money in someone's hand you will never get it back. Why are you calling me Bob Marley again? This dancing man is going to keep jangling that metal until I walk away or give him money. At this point the days have a rhythm, a fine balance of walking around for half an hour, the returning to the terrace to nap for two hours. Rinse, lather, repeat. I love this place. "Promise you come back, no buy, just drink tea." Those cats couldn't possibly look more desperately scruffy and malnourished. I don't see one word spelled correctly on this menu. Always bring shoes no matter how nice the weather is supposed to be. That doesn't even make sense, you hand me a flyer and then you say sorry? Washed out canvas billboards turn their offers to the clouds, ready for rain. Every trinket wants your attention. "We have same price as everywhere else." Suspicious old French man wants to trade his old face, taped up, tattered 100 dollar bill for change, I bet his rates are good! And his money is probably real! You wake up on the terrace and hours days and months have no significance. What it boils down to is that we are invaders, and this is a small price to pay. This is their city and they are just trying to eat. Fine, just give me the cookie. 6 Dirhams, three cookies. Little kid should be in school. Oh Marrakesh, one of these days I'll have to say goodbye.

Brought to you from the shittiest Internet cafe on the planet, so forgive the errors.

Frostbit Corpses

Norway has a lot less vikings than you would expect.


What it does have are rock hard roadside mounds of far from virgin snow, long since deflowered by the savage hands of dirt, gravel, and whatever other grime the sidewalk has summoned. Those filthy monuments coupled with the crippling temperatures almost made that strange land feel like home.

Don't get the wrong impression though, Norway has far better things than that to offer. O's with lines through them, coins with holes in them, and sweet brown cheese. Statues doing things that the FCC wouldn't allow on cable TV. Libertarians throwing elk droppings at each other in the middle of the forest. An opera bar where some anonymous goddess crushes more and more rose petals with every heavenly note that runs from her mouth around the crowded pub. She isn't content with breaking you heart with only her song, the lonely galaxy in her eyes will make you want to leave a world that could ever to harm to such a creature.

It was really cool in general and Brock made this cool movie. We must also take this time to offer our infinite thanks to our hosts Ane and Marius, whom we love because they get our jokes.

We landed back in Madrid at about 12:30 AM on Friday, and finally made it home after escaping the railway tentacles of the Metro Monster that threatened to leave on stranded in the Spanish night.

Open the door to the bathroom to find a plastered Mormon passed out on the floor, eradicating any hopes of making it to the toilet to relieve your travel weary bladder. Stay awake for four more hours listening to rap music waiting for a break in the slumber of the beast.
Saturday, go somewhere else.