7-9-09

"A life worth living... Is a life worth recording"

The journal I wrote these experiences in was given to me by a family friend who has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. She had written that quote in the inside flap before giving it to me, and I feel as though it represents the subject of this exercise. I was frequently reminded of her point every time I opened this log, and so it came to be the underlying theme of these records...

Today is traveling day. The day I embark on my three week escapade in Europe. Excited? Anxious? Fearful? It's hard to say. After the initial week with our parents and friends in Italy, my sister and I will be on our own, traveling for the first time without a parental escort. I'm trying not to think about it too much, though if anything, I'll be a stronger person because of this trip. I can't wait to see what the other countries of the world can offer me. However, I'm trying to keep my expectations in check. I have a long history of losing my mind to grandiose expectations, which end only in disappointment.

Getting on the plane, I immediately notice the girl across the aisle where my dad and I are sitting. She's a brunette, wearing a maroon sweater with a chic white scarf wrapped playfully around her neck. She's wearing faded jeans with a stylish brown leather belt that outlines her sensuous curves. She speaks to the flight attendant, her voice full of music, and orders wine. Damn it! I have no chance... These European women always have held a fascination with me. Maybe it's the exotic air they emit - a special kind of aura that memorizes and intoxicates me. But I've gotten ahead of myself.

Getting to the plane was an adventure in itself. First we got our boarding passes and our bags checked. We'd be flying from Portland to Amsterdam, then from Amsterdam to Italy. However, to get our boarding passes for the Amsterdam-Italy flight, the attendant told us we'd have to stand in a different queue. She directed us to an exhaustive line where we waited and waited, moving in increments of centimeters. Getting half way through that line, the attendant came up to us and directed us to another line just as exhaustive as the first. So we did as the brainless ushers bid and moved to the new line. Finally reaching the desk, after what felt like hours, we were told we couldn't pick up our boarding passes here, we'd have to wait and pick them up in Amsterdam. The thought of standing in yet another exhaustive line in a foreign country made my head swim. (I didn't know at the time that my sister and I would be doing a lot of this in the coming weeks...)

We checked our bags and made our way to security. My dad and I followed the formalities of the TSA. We took off our shoes and belts, and emptied our pockets of coins, keys and cellphones. How frivolous, I thought, they must do this only as a means of pleasing the public. The people have come to expect it, and so the TSA minions have developed this process as a means of maintaining the illusion of control in an otherwise chaotic and violent world. It's all just a false sense of security, but who cares? We must all endure hell in order to find heaven... right?

Having placed my bag and shoes in the scanner, I readied myself for the metal detector. The attendant, a middle-aged, bald, Caucasian-black-Puerto Rican waved me through. Before I could scoot passed him he stopped me with his baton. "How old are you?" he asked with a serious note in his voice. Taken back, I answered, "Uh... 18? Why do you ask?" and with a wink and a coy smile he said, "Just curious."

Thoroughly confused and feeling somewhat violated, I retrieved my carry-on and found my dad outside the bathroom. "Hey, the TSA people here are weird," I said. "No kidding," said my dad, "but what do you expect of Portland?" He was right, I've lived in Portland my whole life, I should be used to these people by now. I pondered this as we made our way to the gate. Europe HERE I COME!!!

Welcome!

Hello y'all,
This, as you may have guessed already, is a blog. But it's not just any blog. It's the Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler. The DYT is of course, me. I've been to nearly every continent, except Asia and Antarctica (Nepal holds a special interest to me, but money/time is tight because of school... blah blah blah). And as you can discern from the title I'm a fan of Bukowski. In fact, I'm a fan of reading in general. There's nothing better than rocketing towards the great unknown with only you're wits and books to guide you.

But I digress. The point of this blog is to recount the adventures my sister and I had in Europe this last summer. We went for three weeks, and I would be lying if I said it wasn't the greatest trip of my life. So if you're interested, read on. If you're not, screw you, you obviously have no sense of humor. Go back to watching you're reality TV shows and pop culture icons, there is no use for here.

I feel as though it's my duty to forewarn you, at times this blog may get gritty and downright revolting. It is an all-inclusive account, so no details have been omitted. Feel free to give up on it anytime you please. Just know that if you do, you will be considered a pansy in every sense of the word by everyone, including you're mom. So without further adieu, enjoy the Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler.
-BTR