Stepping on Crunchy Leaves in Paris

A week in London. I joined in the family celebration of my Grand'maman's eighty-ninth birthday. Another day I spent walking around London with my brother, ambling from Kensington High Street all the way down to Tower Bridge. Watched the 39 Steps, the comedic version, with the family and I was pleasantly surprised at how well the director pulled off the comedy in this version. And then a night at the Comedy Store with my brother and cousin.

A week in sunless, damp and cool London. Quite the change from warm and sunny Thessaloniki, with its buzzing atmosphere of students sipping frappes and beers. London seems so tame compared to Thessaloniki.

But now I am in Paris. My first night in the city and I met an American fellow who was leaving the next day and would I like to walk around Paris with him since he was going to take one last look before his departure? From the Louvre we walked to the Eiffel tower, ambled towards the Obelisk and back home. It was a pleasant walk to the Eiffel Tower. By the time we got there the lights were off and so the shadow of the collosal structure stood against the night sky. It became quite chilly and our feet were getting sore. After three chilly, sore hours the bed was home. In the morning, my breakfast consisted of a bowl of coffee, slices of bread with jam, juice, and some really sour yougurt.

I met up with a friend from Budapest, but there was a tone of trepidation from him about my crashing on his couch as if the distance in time since we met had somehow altered his perception. And he only had one key. And he was studying. So now I am sleeping at another friend's house where I have my own key and can come and go as I please.

Last night, H took me down into the catacombs. Down we went twenty feet under the surface. It was hard to believe how far down we were. It was comfortable in those dark galleries, graffiti pockmarked along the walls, signs of the streets that were running up above our heads. We met some other cataphiles in a bunker and hung out for awhile. H had explained that parties were regularily held in some bunkers and can you imagine the place full of people with lights and sound? We walked for long periods, taking a break in the Break Room that had been especially made for the men who had to fortify the walls in order to prevent the quarries from collapsing. There was a well at the bottom of ten feet. A man with a friend nearby rappelled down to see and fell unconscious because there was no oxygen in the well. He survived, but it was a scary idea to fall in to that clear water and be gone too soon. Finally, around five in the morning, we emerged from the depths up through a man hole onto a street very far away from our original destination. How strange to be back in society! It was comforting to be down there in the dark and silence.

Today I plan my travels to Belgium and recuperate from last night. I am quite exhausted.

Poor Neglected You...

is the first thing I wrote in my journal just a few weeks ago. And it is still quite neglected I am quite sorry to say. What has happened since Prague? Budapest? What terrible things I have been up to in Thessaloniki? These will all have to wait while I hop from island to island in the Aegaen Sea. Or rather, attempt to hop from island to island if wheather permits. We - Anastasia, Kevin, Derek, Caelin and I - have had to stay on Mykonos for one more day, one day more than planned, because the waters were too choppy for ferries.

I have been staying in Thessaloniki for a month now and was contemplating what my next step was when I got word that my friends from Edmonton, Anastasia and Kevin, were going to do a European Tour and would be swinging by Greece, and would I like to join them on their island hopping? Well why not! Nineteenth. Down to Athens I went by the night train, cradled in the third bunk bed in a tight compartment in one of the many cars. I arrived in Athens at six in the morning. Taking the metro to Acropli station and I walked out of the station to see the Acroplis glowing in the rising sun. Down the street and to the right I found the Athens Backpackers Hostel. A little expensive, but my friends' had booked their beds there and so splurged to be with my friends. It was too early to book in so I walked around the city, or rather the Acroplis, for two hours. Ana and Kevin arrived around noon and so we took in the city a bit.

A strange coincidence the night after. Anastasia, Kevin and I are having beer on the Athens Backpackers hostel, taking in the Acroplis by night. Sitting by the couch on a cushion was girl named Vanessa. The usual conversation ensued. Where are you from? Canada. Cool. What part? Edmonton. Really? No way! So are we! Cool!

Now, finding Edmontonians on this side of the globe is almost unheard of. Any Canadian you run into is usually from Toronto or otherwise from Vancouver. I have only run into another Edmontonian once before and that was at the Sziget Festival in Budapest.

Back to Athens.

The conversation turned into life story. What did you do? I studied B.A. Art and Design at the UofA. Fascinating! Anastasia's mother worked with the Art and Design program and yes, Vanessa knew her! What an interesting coincidence. However, things turned out weirder. As Vanessa told us of her studies at Dev Studios in downtown Edmonton. Really? My brother studied there too! Who's your brother?

....Marc Jarvis?

"I studied with Marc Jarvis!"

.....


Bloody hell, this world is goddamn small sometimes.

The sun has settled, the dark sits outside my window.
I arrived at Agnes' little farmhouse in this quaint village in the Hugarian countryside in the late afternoon, when the sun blazed before setting. I am in awe of this little house with its painted tiled floors, tiny little paintings hanging off the walls, and its rustic kitchen. A field expands behind the house and mountains - as proudly as Hungarians can call them mountains - roll against the horizon. Three tiny cats pitter patter around the house and harrass one another when they are not busy licking and biting themselves clean.
I sleep and live in one building and Agnes' sleeps and lives in another - a roof is all that connects the two together. And between these two buildings, a large green wall with a door inside, large enough to fit a horse and cart through.

Understanding, Little by Little, a Post Communist Country

My diary is sorely neglected.

I have been busy enjoying every moment while keeping up with correspondences with my friends living on the other side of the pond. Regardless. It's a poor excuse as to why I have not been blogging.

The atmosphere here in post communist Czech Republic and Hungary is well, quite post communist.

Walking around the city, you find remnants from that Socialist Era still clinging to daily life and perturbingly resting on the psyche of the people. I was surprised to find that you can get onto any part of a bus or tram without having to show your ticket. No cues for the front door, just hop on! However, there is a heavy presence of undercover ticket checkers some days that arrive in full force without notice to catch people travelling for free. Some of the populace still think that transit is for the people and should be paid for by the government.

While talking to a new friend of mine, Orsi (pronounces Orshi), about the tactics of the beggars in Prague versus Budapest, she pointed out that there is a high increase of poverty and begging in Budapest since the Socialist Era. Back then you had to work otherwise you were sent to jail. Now people don't have the initiative or the esteem to work. The beggars are quite aggressive in their tactics. From begging at a corner with a baby in arm to coming right up to you and asking for help.

A few days ago, I was walking around the city of Budapest with another new friend, Bala'zs. In the depths of our discussions he began talking about Pessimism and how it abounds among the Hungarians and that Hungarians really don't do anything for themselves, that they would rather wait for someone to do something for them. I laughed. I hadn't met any Hungarians like that, perhaps due to the fact that all the Hungarians that I have met travelled or lived outside of the country for some time. I laughed too because I had a Serbian friend who was probably more pessimistic than any Hungarian that he could show me. However, it suddenly occurred to me that this Pessimism and lack of initiative that you could see and feel in Češka and Hungary, and in my Serbian friend, was a psychological result of years and years of occupation from many powers - the Ottomans, the Hasburgs, Fascists and Communists. Suddenly, I understood my Serbian friend a little better and where she was coming from.