798

Forty three degrees in 798. Beijing's art district.

Graffiti and getting in cars with strangers...

Do Not Erase.

Brightly colored posters announced the opening of the new exhibit at G-Dot Art Space, a gallery somewhere in Beijing (the location of which I have been and continue to remain ignorant of and unconcerned with.) Visitors consisted of fellow Americans, Beijing's stylish, and other artists, both local and travelling.

The day, completely unplanned, set the tone for the remainder of my time in Beijing.

Canvases hung in the air conditioning while six artists worked on a collaborative mural outside. Colors, textures, and styles unique, each artist's personality merged through work and word, alike.

A small startup based out of Hong Kong, Small Sake, offered free drinks. I hope these guys make it (stateside would be even better); they're passionate about their brand and their product.

As for getting in cars with strangers, don't, unless you realize that sometimes you need to just hop in and see where you end up.

Marseille

Waking up 25 minutes before your train's departure is not advisable. I took off down the hallway in my boxers, past the hostel's cleaning ladies standing amused (or confused) in the doorway to the eight bunk room, and feigned composure as I called for the desk attendant to hail a cab.

Just barely making my train to Cerbere, once seated I found time to catch my breath and suck down the final drops of a one liter bottle of water wisely placed beside my pack in the hostel. Relief settled in as the train disembarked and I was quickly asleep, soothed by the sensation of motion and the sounds of For Emma, Forever Ago.

The train came to a stop and the noise of people lining up at the door roused me. Confused about being the only one still sitting, I grabbed my pack and hopped off. The herd mentality is troublesome. As the doors closed behind me, the gravity of my mistake emerged. "Figueres." At the home of the Salvador Dali museum and apparently all of my fellow passengers, I was not where I needed to be. According to the itinerary I needed to follow to make it to Marseille, I had just trapped myself in Spain for the remainder of the day.

Do I go back to Barca to enjoy another night out and risk repeating this hectic morning? The next train to Cerbere wasn't coming for two hours and at this rate I would be stuck in some little town right before the French border for the evening.

Catharsis shouldn't come easily.

I let the anxiety and frustration go. As I watched Barcelona-bound trains pass every thirty minutes, I reminded myself that I would figure this out.

Onward, to Narbonne.

I did.

Notre Dame De La Garde from my hotel window.

I arrived in Marseille at 11:30 that evening and would soon discover that my only actual mistake was not staying in Barcelona for another day or two.

The absence of hostels meant I was truly on my own in this city. I was restless in my hotel room, but at the very least, I got some much needed sleep after the consistently long evenings in Spain.

Knowing what I left behind and what lay ahead, I was disappointed by my surplus of time in the city.

 I tried to stretch the hours while in Spain; here I had to learn to slow down and compress them.

The views from the Notre Dame De La Garde were stunning and well worth the long walk up.

The hidden path up.

Over the course of this trip, I realized I was rarely on level ground. My seemingly constant climbing led me to new views and perspectives; the only thing that mattered was seeing something different.

Remnants of one of my favorite meals- moules avec frites. 

A preview of the sun-bleached colors of the Riviera.

Creatures along the harbor.

Ready for the Riviera.

Barcelona

I stepped off the train from Madrid at 5:00 pm. As I exited the Arc de Triomf stop, I was bathed in the warm light of a beautiful afternoon.

 The weather changed the following day and I found myself, once again, caught in the rain on the way to La Sagrada Familia. This time, we waited in the shelter of a pharmacy as the downpour telling jokes and stories from past adventures and the evening prior.

Searching for the best views of the city, I headed north with a roommate to Tibidabo after a brief jaunt through Gaudi's Park Guell. The clouds cleared just as we left the park and the heat taunted us, having dressed for cooler temperatures,  over the next hour as we made our way towards the peak.

Notice the slant.

Easy ride in the opposite direction.

We took a shuttle for the final uphill stretch, the road winding serpentine past large houses turned commercial. Moments before the shuttle arrived, local police had explained that Tibidabo was inaccessible. The funicular wasn't running. After our two hour hike North, we had to see for ourselves.

With overcast views of the entire city at our backs and an ominous layer of dense fog obscuring the peak, we approached the empty funicular station. Not far from the bottom of the track, three cars reminiscent of VW buses approached at a crawling pace.

Just too funicular for anyone else to ride.

The two funicular(s?) run in synchronicity, simultaneously reaching the single split in track halfway through their trip that allows them to pass.

As we ascended, I accepted that the views I'd hoped for would remain beyond my reach.

We were met with dense fog and cold winds once on Tibidabo and as we walked through the gates, the funicular unapologetically began its trip back down.

The place seemed better suited for a B-list horror film than a fun summer afternoon.

The church and amusement park rides, alike, sat solitary underneath their shrouds of grey, ignorant of the bustling city that lay below. As I rolled down my sleeves and longed for a jacket, I forgot that I'd been cursing the sun just an hour prior.

The wind blew incessantly, pouring fog across the empty streets.

We walked through the park equally fascinated, frustrated, and amused by our own meteorological misfortune and surroundings.

So you want to see him?

The weather stayed wet and grey until the morning I left for Marseille. I had been deceived by the city's radiant welcome, but the energy and pulse of Barcelona's clubs rejuvenated and exhausted us every evening; the flashing lights compensated for the drab colors during the day.

Despite the weather, having navigation issues that are unparalleled by any other place in the world I've been, and a variety of humorous and terrifying mishaps, I can't wait to go back someday. With a handful of Canadian hostel mates, I had some of the best nights (mornings) of my life, that is, until I realized I was saying, "eh?"

Madrid

I finished Less Than Zero on the flight over from DC. IAD to FRA. FRA to MAD.

Arriving in Frankfurt, the immediateness of my situation became increasingly apparent. I kept my iPod off, though I found distraction in another coke-dusted story of Bret Easton-Ellis. In the airport, I put down my Kindle just long enough to help translate for a frantic Chinese family. They checked their stroller at the gate and it was sent to their connecting flight instead of left out for pick up; try communicating that through charades. I now have a place to stay in Naples, should I ever need it.

It was the imminent arrival of the unknown. My imminent arrival in a foreign country. Time that I failed to recognize I needed. Time away from family and friends. Time away from the comfort of home and my bed.

Enter Madrid. My first stop.

Home for a bit.

Time for change.

As I collected my pack, I thought of the unknown that laid ahead of me. A new city. A different language. No plans, but I was finally detached. Disconnected. Liberated.

There are restrictions wherever you look.

Dream big, even if you're living small.

Though I brought almost all new music to listen to during the trip, I decided I wanted to immerse myself in the sounds and energy of the city, and I succeeded. What I accomplished by doing so, I'm still unsure of.

Despite the spontaneity of my trip, I managed to cover both classical and modern art museums, an afternoon among roses, getting caught in the rain, a football game in the Real Madrid stadium, and most importantly, the sobering perspective granted by traveling alone in a new place.

Beauty, everywhere.

Do you know where to look?

It was time for me to learn to be on my own, to let go, and to get in touch with getting lost.

As I left La Retiro, Madrid froze. A city stopped and a boy in motion. The skies shut down and the clouds opened up. As people hid under overhangs and in bars, I continued forward, letting each step remind me of where I was, and that it didn't matter where I was going.

Get caught in the rain; it's probably been far too long.

(By the way, some of you may be happy to know my jeans received a much needed rinse during that walk back.)

Scranton by way of...

Bar Harbor.

At around 12:30AM we finally decided to look for a place to sleep. It was somewhere between Hartford and Scranton, and closer to Scranton. I didn't know what part of New York we were in then. I don't know now. It was liberating and relaxing. Spend a night in a town and don't worry about where you are, only that you're there.

It's been two years since gSF and I last saw each other. Odd how quickly time passes and things change. Around December 2005, we moved into the same dorm room, one of the two massive rooms under the stairs of Main Hall. It was the type of room that underclassmen would randomly visit out of amazement, not just curiosity. 520 square feet and hardwood floors, we didn't know that it was all downhill from there.

The sleepy town, well past its glory years from the turn of the century, looked soft and desaturated. Aged brick and stone both encouraged the calm of a quiet Sunday.

The temperatures rose, but the clouds remained as we walked through Nay Aug Park in Scranton.

To the bridge.

Down to the water.

We followed the stream down the bank, our ironically matching Black Rapid R-straps held D7000s by our sides as we negotiated the wet and slippery path.

The steep walls of the small canyon rose up around us, covered in moss and moisture from earlier showers.

Back onto the path, only to scramble down from it again.

Inside the tunnel.

Not being able to climb back up to the path, we followed the tracks into town.

There was a lot more to see; I'm glad we did.

As we walked from tie to tie, catching up and talking about our recent foray into photography and the future, I thought of Stand By Me, close friends on an adventure down the tracks. As easy as it was to enjoy the moment, it's hard to forget it could easily be another year before we meet again.

They say you meet friends for life in college prep school.

With law school classes starting in six weeks, I continue making the deliberate decision to embrace reality and the looming change, not ignore it.

...the security of being first, with full sight and full knowledge of one's course- not the blind sense of being pulled into the unknown by some unknown power ahead. It was the greatest sensation of existence: not to trust, but to know.