Travelogue Returns Home

Travelogue Returns Home

Song of the Open Road is coming to the end of its days of roaming the wide, wide earth. We are moving on, trying new things, and always tearing down whatever we create.

This blog will continue publication at http://www.vagabondjourney.com/travelogue

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Olomouc, Mordavia, Czech Republic
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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http://www.openroadsong.com/ has been good to me. We worked our way up to a page rank of 4/10, and are getting around 500 unique visitors a day. But a time for a change has come, as I have matured a little in my understanding of how internet publishing works.

Although I own the URL to this blog, it is still published to the Blogger server, and I am not in possesion of my raw files. I do not like this too much, as it seems to be a far too shaky of slab of groun to stand on. What would happen if something, somewhere went wrong? I would have no complete backup of all the work that I publish on here. This is something that I would prefer to keep out of peril.

So I began publishing with blogger to my own server at http://www.vagabondjourney.com/. I like the Blogger system, and I think that it is a very good way to publish a blog. I just want to be in possession of the files that put so much time into creating.

So we are starting all over again.

These previous 400 posts will remain on http://www.openroadsong.com/ but all new entries will be at the new address.

Please go to http://www.vagabondjourney.com/travelogue to continue on with the Song of the Open Road story.

If you suscribe to the RSS feeds, you may also want to update the feed url, as it has also changed (and please let me know if this works!!!!).

Thank you kind friends and gentle readers.

Walk Slow,

Wade

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Nightlife in Prague

Nightlife In Prague

Had a Prague night at a punk rock bar in a 500 year old wine cellar. Woke up beer soaked.

This is the Prague morning: streets are littered with stumbling drunks greeting the morning with cross eyed grimaces. Maybe they are thinking about the night, the booze, or the women/men that they just gobbled down? Maybe they are not thinking anything? I walked among them worshipping the blue sky coming through the ages old menagerie of ornate Prague architecture. I am a drunk too. Something must have happened for hundreds of cross-eyed zombies to be stumbling about at 5 AM in the morning aimlessly through the streets of an ancient city.

Yes, something did: Nightlife in Prague.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Prague, Czech Republic- early June, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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I watched as a sunken eyed and stumbling Czech girl flopped her rag-doll beaten body and drink bruised face into a well worn taxi cab seat. I watched as a booze soaked blond girl laughed loudly as she fell flip-flop upon the stone hard sidewalk with no regard for the fact that her well-worn crotch was peaking out from the shallow depths of her far too short mini-skirt. I watched as a flock of pigeons made a feast of a large puddle of chucky pink vomit. And I watched as a big bald Mexican tried to pick a fight with my short bald Czech friend who was at my side. But the homeward train came none too soon, and I waved ‘farewell’ to my Czech friend and his Mexican aggressor as they cut short their impending conflict as they jump into their respective trains. Everyone was ending their night as the morning was beginning its day.

Old Town Square in Prague, Czech Republic.

I walked among all of this with a pipe in my mouth and a smile on my face, as I, like everyone else, was trying to make some sense of the previous night. So this is Prague, I thought, as I watched a dark skinned man accost a pair of drunken Englishmen on the opposite site of the street. The drunk Englishmen were having none of it, and told their pursuer to properly “piss off.” I would have to say that these English men were the kind that make their home at soccer games. I think they may have been meatheads. But the dark skinned man did not want to “piss off,” and he began running after - and yelling at - the Englishmen. They now stood face to face. The Englishmen held out their arms in a “bring it on” sort of fashion. The Czech man reached behind his back and got ready to draw his blade.

Old Prague.

I stood on the other side of the street with a vantage point that allowed me to watch the knife being drawn without being noticed. The drunk Englishmen did not know that the dark skinned man was armed. I was debating as to whether or not I should give a warning call to the Englishmen, when I noticed a group of dark skinned locals rushing to the scene to lend assistance to the knife holder. I decided that this was a good time to draw a curtain on this scene, take my Prague night for what it was, and quickly beat it away from there.

I did not hear any screams in my wake.

Nightlife in Prague.

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Bars in Prague Czech Republic

Bars in Prague, Czech Republic

As I boarded my first bus in the Czech Republic, it struck me that I did not know a single word of the local language - Czech, Ceska, or whatever they call it, I realized that I did not know any of it. This could only mean that I would have to spend my first night in Prague drinking at a bar. Because the bar room, and not the classroom, is the best place in the world to learn a language.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Prague, Czech Republic- June 10, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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Kafka likes foosball too.

J. Chip Howell and Kafka having a discussion in Prague.

So after I found a place to lay my head at the Golden Sickle Hostel, I inquired as to where the nearest - cheapest - pub was. I was directed to go next door. This sounded easy. So I nodded my head and waited for nightfall, knowing that I was going to live out Prague like a tourist, and drink beer that is cheaper than bread.

In the meantime I took a much needed nap and awoke to find a fellow by the name of J. Chip Howell - a Chicago black man science fiction writer - sleeping in the dorm bed next to mine. Well, ol’ Chip has a passion for books, so we became good chums right off. He writes science fiction, I write road dog fiction. We peeled ourselves out of bed and started our night, which, at 7PM, could reasonably have been considered a Prague morning, and walked over to the bar next to the hostel.

Chip called this place the Cave Bar, and the nomenclature proved appropriate. The place was a massive underground tunnel complex in what once was a wine cellar. Prague is an ancient place, and has at least three urban occupations buried beneath the current city. I was told that this cellar was over 500 years old, and as I entered down haphazard stairwell into its belly I realized that it could have been twice this much. I squinted through the cigarette smoke and was serenaded towards a room at the end of a dark tunnel by the loud music of my youth: old time 70’s punk. I walked into the room and lit my pipe, ordered a beer, and dug all the Czechs in punk rock leathers and well groomed haircuts. This seemed to be the place to learn how to talk.

Chip and I downed a beer and watched as a bleach blond girl in a Prague micro-skirt go on a date with nobody but her cell phone. And the attention that she paid to those blinky little buttons on the key pad and the shiny screen left every lonely boy in the room wrought with envy. “You should write a sci-fi story about a lonely boy who transmigrated his soul into a cell phone so that he could go on dates with pretty girls,” I jested.

The cell phone date is now a world wide phenomenon.

And then a Macedonian girl who seemed pretty fond of Chip stepped into the room. She then began talking - an action which she did not cease nor halt for my entire tenure in her presence. She talked of this, she talked of that, I tried to shut her up by telling her that I could play the piano with my toes. It did not work. She kept right on talking. So I just smiled and drank beer to sooth my tender ears, and thought about how much Erik the Pilot would love Prague. Then the gentle waves of benign Macedonian chatter was intensified by an affront of passion: the girl got all shaken up by her stance on global warming. She tried to convince me that I should be shaken up too. I did not feel like being shaken up. So I just politely endured the monologue on climate change and downed two tumblers of good Czech beer.

I then figured that if I kept on like this I was going to spend my entire bundle of cash trying to drink away the "call to arms" that I was affronted by. I had to run away. I liked this Macedonian girl - she was a one of a kind misanthrope - but I simply could not endure an all night PBS lecture on how I have to do something “right now” about climatic change.

But I was in a 500 year old wine cellar. I was drinking good Czech beer.

And I needed to learn how to rise myself above the level of an English speaking mute in the Czech Republic.

So, with scarcely a word, I jumped up and made for the nearest foosball table. Foosball is the international key to making friends in Europe. All you have to do is find a foosball table in a bar, cheer for a second, and then you automatically make friendships.

So I walked over to the table and cheered when the next goal was scored. The Czech foosball players looked at me. I made some friends. Can’t tell you why this works.

Tomas, Andre, and a tattooed chubby boy who was convinced that I understood Czech invited me to jump in and play the next game. I am the worse foosball player that Europe has ever known, and I proved this fact once again.

But I learned some basic terms in Czech:

Hello
Goodbye
How much is this?
I want beer
Big
Small
Thank you
Shut up and show me your boobs

I was now linguistically prepared for traveling in the Czech Republic.

The night dragged on long.

Soon only myself and Tomas remained at the bar with a bar tender with a pink mohawk, two waitresses, and two teenage make believe whores.

The two make believe whores were hanging all over the mohawked bartender. They were working an interesting act.

They were tall and had long curly hair. I do not think they could have been a day over 18.

They were trying to look sexy by drunkenly kissing each other. Tomas told them to touch each other’s boobs. They did, and thought themselves all the more sexy for it.

“What are they doing, Tomas?”

“I don’t really know,” he told me.

“Are they for real?”

He asked them.

They kissed each other and grabbed some more boobs as an answer.

No, they were making believe. They wanted attention.

The night was drawing to a close. I had no more attention to give. They soon gave up - probaby taking Tomas and I for a couple of homos - and went away.

Tomas then tells me that he is a gangster and that I need to be careful in Prague.

I shrugged my shoulders and Tomas disappeared.

It was a good night.

I learned enough Czech to look stupid.

Bars in Prague Czech Republic
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Earning My Keep in Prague

Earning My Keep in Prague

“This is a good inn. I seem to have gotten very good at developing a traveler’s sixth sense in such matters. A wandering beggar’s sixth sense.”
-Taneda Santoka, Japanese wandering haiku poet.

As I stepped off the 119 airport bus at the Dejvicka metro stop in the northwest of Prague in the early glimmers of morning, I knew that I needed to land a free bed. I knew that I could not afford to pay the $25 a night for a dorm bed in this city. I had to find a hostel that would allow me to make a website for them as a trade for a free bed or a job where I could make up the bean money to have a place to lay my head.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Prague, Czech Republic- June 10, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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So I walked towards the metro entrance, and breathed fresh breathes of new country air. I had not before been in the Czech Republic, and as I looked at the metro stop bums and the hurrying morning people, I became very happy.

I took the green line metro in to the Mustek stop and sat next to a Czech girl reading Hesse’s Siddhartha. I made a motion that it was a good book, as I made my way off of the quickly crowed morning metro train. I at least need to learn how to say “that is a good book” in any country that I travel in. I needed to go to a Czech bar.

But first I needed a place to lay my head.

I could not land a couch surfing bed prior to getting in Prague, so I knew that I had to Hobohideout it or live in the airport with the group of bums that I spent the previous night with.

I had to Hobohideout it. I had to find a hostel who would take me up on my offer of making a website for them on Hobohideout.com in exchange for a free bed for a week. After meeting Andy - the mastermind of the Hobohideout hotel encyclopedia site - in Guatemala in the spring, I have been making these pages for hotels just to keep riding on my vagabond coattails.

But it was a little to early in the morning to go sauntering into unsuspecting hostels with my jive and graft. So I found a space on a park bench next to some bums and lit up a pipe. Prague was just rising for a day of work, and not even the bums were up to spanging yet. So I watched the smoke rise out of my pipe, as I got my first glimmers of Prague women.

It is said that the most beautiful women in the world live in Prague.

I was not convinced at that time. They just looked at me like I was a bum.

I think they are right.

But soon enough the Prague street bums recognized that I was not one of them, and got to work on me. Soon cheap watches were shoved into my face, and I had to cut my pipe short and make a hasty exit from my park bench. I had to find a place to lay my head.

I wanted to go out to a bar in Prague that night, and I did not want to carry all of my “swag” along with me. So I recited to myself my Hobohideout wrap as I made my way to a hostel. I mounted the steps and found a petit, young blonde smiling at me from her post at the entrance to the hostel. I asked if she had any beds open. She had to work hard to find one. They were packed. This was not good. I then inquired about the price:

$28 for a dorm bed.

This was really not good.

I gave her the Hobohideout wrap. She stared at me blank faced and said that she would ask the hostel owner’s “right hand man.”

I went and sat in the common room, and fiddled for a while with my Molskine.

Soon enough I was called back to the reception desk.

“We have a bed for you,” the blonde said with a smile, “please pay $28.”

“What?” I stammered, “I have no money.”

The blonde and the “right hand man,” who appeared to be a woman, looked at me with deer-headlight eyes.

I repeated slowly:

“I make websites for hotels as a trade for a free bed for one week. These websites are very good and are a free promotion for your hostel. Would you like to trade?”

“What can we do,” the “right hand man” woman spoke with an attitude, “we are only receptionist?”

“You can give me a map of Prague.”

They did, and I made my way for the door armed with a map that denoted the hotels and hostels of Prague.

This first attempt was clearly not successful, so I walked on through the city hopeful that the next hostel was not as stingy with their dorm room accommodation. I found another hostel nearby, and I rang the door bell.

Then rang it again, and then rang it again.

Nobody was going to even let me into this hostel it seemed.

Discouragement slowly began to slip over me. “Oh well,” I thought begrudgingly, “I will just sleep at the airport. It is cheap to get to and from the Prague airport on the 119 public bus, and I also noticed fields of pine trees that would be perfect to sleep under.

I began walking towards the river. I walked past a hostel, stopped short, and figured that it would not hurt to try to earn my keep here. It was called the Golden Sickle Hostel, and I was greeted with smiles by the receptionist, who was laughing and joking about something.

I told her that I travel by making websites as a trade for a free bed for one week. She said quickly said OK, and I got a bed.

I went to sleep happy. I found a bed.

Earning My Keep in Prague
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Travel to Prague

Travel to Prague, or Floating On Praha

Today is my first morning in Prague, and I am watching the sun rise up from the big windows of the airport. A new day is rising, I am listening to music, I feel good.

My flight from Ireland arrived in Prague around 11 pm so, rather than wasting a night of travel expenses on a bed that I would just be sleeping in, I slept out the night on a bench at the “airport hotel.” But no sleep came to me, as I could not wait until the first rays of morning and get ever more excited about tramping in a new country. I am glad that I decided to keep going “north,” and rode out my first intention of coming to the east of Europe. I like traveling in new lands. I hit a momentary speed bump right before leaving the USA, as I got the intuitive urge to go to Japan. Now I love Japan, but I have not been to the Czech Republic before.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Prague,Czech Republic- June 6, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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Erik the Pilot said, "Go to Prague and drink beer," and this is what I did.

I think that I may make the airport my residence in this city, which is seeming like the most expensive place that I have ever been before.

But costs, fooey!

Expensive prices mean nothing if you don’t buy anything.

Who cares what the price tags say, if they are connected to something that you neither want nor need. In this way it is all just numbers written into the abyss, and it ain’t mean nothing to me. Traveling means that I can eat the wind and drink the seas. I have no worries.

The sun still rises.

And so do I.

Rising upon a new day of travel, and I feel alright.

Just traveling on to a new country, just floating on to Prague.

But I must wonder about all those gutter dying poets of old who wrote the words that gave me a notion of freewill and an idea of a life worth living?

The sun is still rising.

It is 4 AM and I am happy.

A sleepless night topped off with a smile.

Today is a day for tramping. This world is a world to love.

Floating on Praha. Traveling on to Eastern Europe.

Travel to Prague
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Traveling Decisions

Traveling Man Can’t Have Everything but the World

I woke up one morning with the startling realization that I cannot have everything that I want. This struck me as a sort of odd relevation, as I am the type of fellow who has the impression that they can get anything they want if they try hard enough. But I now know that if I wish to continually travel the world, then I can't have everything I want. If I wish to seek horizons then I oftentimes need to leave friends, family, sweet loves, and almost everyone that I meet behind. I cannot travel the world and have my family with me too. I cannot have everything that I want.

There are benefits and drawbacks to every lifestyle. If I stayed put at home with my family - or if I began a family of my own - then I would have many of the subtle joys that I am now missing. But, I would also be missing out on the wondrous substance, excitement, and knowledge earned through continuously traveling the world. I have chose my path, and I wish not to stray from it now. There are disadvantages to every lifestyle, the trick is found in learning how to accept them.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in JFK Airport, New York City, USA- Early June 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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I wrote to Andy some of the thoughts that were peppering my mind, and he curtly let me know that I am thinking too much.

“Walk slow,” he said.

My own words were delivered right back upon me, but I have never heard them used so suitably before. I do need to walk slow, and realize that I cannot always have everything that I may want at any given moment.

And to realize that this is alright.

A path must be chosen, and I know not of any path that goes everywhere at the same time. Now, I travel the Road of the wanderer; so I take both the joys and the sorrows of this Road equally. It is OK to sometimes be sad. It is OK to harbor light regrets. It is OK to miss people. But I should keep walking my Path.

“If you start out north, keep going north. Do not go east, west, or south,” the Javanese say. This northern route is good, and I want to walk it through.

I just had three great weeks with my family and friends in Upstate New York, and I have traveled with Mira for no less than 600 of the past 700 days. I am happy that I have shared such great joys with these people who are close to me. I am happy that I can look back on the times that I have had with Mira and still smile deeply.

I no longer think of all of the things that I use to get upset with Mira about, and, from this distance, I can no longer find any faults with her character. She seems to be the perfect woman from my vantage point at the JFK airport, as I sit outside of the Aerlingus gate waiting to board a flight to Dublin. I am happy because I miss Mira.

To be with someone I do not think that you need to be with them all day long. When Mira and I were together, we were together 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We needed endurance to do this for nearly two years on end. No, we needed love. Love is what keeps people together through hard times, love is what makes people miss each other on long journeys. But love is also why I know that I can take these trips away from Mira.

You cannot leave a woman who does not love you.

She will not be there when you get back.

I can leave Mira and Mira can leave me (as she is going to do in September). I could not be with someone who I could not occasionally be away from.

Sometimes people need to grow and develop along their own Path. Mira knows that I need to walk on my own for a while, and she allows me to do so because she loves me.

I am a happy man.

I once did not realize that occasional bouts of dissatisfaction are a normal ebb in the flow of every happy life. I could not see the total package for the smokescreen of the parts. There are drawbacks to any lifestyle.

And the traveling man can’t have everything but the world.

Traveling Man Can't Have Everything
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The Devil Drives

The Devil Drives

Why do I leave a good home and loving parents to travel a no man’s land into some unplanned oblivion?

The Devil drives.

Why do I leave my wonderful girlfriend to walk a lonely Road without cuddle or embrace?

The Devil drives.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in JFK Airport, New York City, USA- June 4, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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Why do I have this urge to keep going to - to keep seeking out - every far gone and dingy and beautiful corner of planet earth that I have not yet been to?

The Devil drives.

What keeps me ever searching for new places in this world where the people smile when I already know places where the sun shines and the birds sing? Why can’t I just stay snug in the paradises which I have already found?

The Devil drives.

Why must I always live in a constant limbo of perpetual motion? What can’t I just sit still, quietly?

The Devil drives.

Why am I taking the long Road to Turkey?

Why am I not in beautiful, beautiful Japan?

Why am I by myself?

Where do I think I am going?

Why am I absolutely unable to function in a society (any society)?

The Devil drives

And thus spake Sir Richard Burton:

“Starting in a hallowed log of wood - some thousand miles up a river, with an infinitesimal prospect of returning! I ask myself ’Why?” and the only echo is “damned fool! . . . The Devil drives!”

And I like it this way.

The Devil Drives
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Corrupt Police in Mexico

Corrupt Police in Mexico

So Mira and I decided to walk the three kilometers back to El Panchan from the Palenque archaeology site in Southern Mexico rather than pay a dollar each to take a taxi van. It was a nice walk through some agricultural farm land in the jungle of Chiapas state. I was walking around looking at the birds and the trees and the big blue Mexican sky. Needless to say, I was minding my business when this little tiny twenty something year old Mexican man in a tight blue police academy t-shirt walked from down the road and affronts me on the path that I was walking on.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
post written about events near El Panchan, Mexico- early May 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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“What is in your bottle?” He asked me in his native Spanish out of nowhere.

I was carrying a water bottle, and water was clearly what was inside of it.

“Agua,” I replied with a slight bite to my voice. I do not like being accosted with stupid questions while trying to enjoy a jungle.

“What is in your pocket?” the guy continued with his interrogation.

“F’ off” I said in English and started to walk away. I did not know who this guy was and I was not going to disclose how unexciting the contents of my pockets were to just anyone.

He followed me.

“You have to show me what is in your pocket! I am the police," the plain clothes Mexican said in Spanish.

He was small. We were in the middle of the jungle. I was not going to show him anything. So I wave my hand at him in a ’shoe-fly’ kind of motion and keep walking on.

He stops Mira, and she actually listened to him. I became annoyed with Mira for not punching this guy in the face.

“I need to see what is in his pocket! I need to see what is in his pocket! I am the police,” begged the little Mexican, seemingly a touch insecure about his authority.

“Just show him what is in your pocket so he will go away!” Mira yelled up to me.

I let out a loud sigh and returned to where the little plain clothes Mexican, who was assuming the roll of an undercover cop, and Mira were standing on the path along the road leading from the Palenque archaeology site.

I then ripped out the little moleskin notebook as well as my ticket to see the Palenque ruins out of the front pocket of my jeans. I waved these articles in the face of the diminutive Mexican, and then stuffed them back in my pocket as I turned to leave this goon in my dust. I assumed strongly that this guy was not a police officer, and I failed to understand why Mira had not punched him in the face yet.

I began walking away. I thought to myself that Mira can stay there talking to this phony cop all day if she wants to, but I was getting out of there.

“What is in your bag? You must show me what is in your bag!” the cop yelled after me.

“F’off!” I yelled back. I was annoyed.

Mira started yelling at him.

I started yelling at Mira.

“Stop talking to him! He is not a F’in cop!” I roared. Even if he was, it is not my impression that it is a wise travel habit to talk to the police in the jungles of Mexico. I was getting really annoyed now that Mira had not yet punched him in the face.

I saw a park ranger check point ahead and made a break for it. Even though the presence of authoritative infrastructure means little in regards to justice in Mexico, I figured that if I was going to be arrested, I wanted to be taken into custody by someone who was a little bigger than the tiny young "cop" who decided to ruin my walk with his stupid questions.

Mira finaly told the tiny goon to go chase himself, and she then quickly followed after me. She had also grown tired of that little man. Our actions made it apparent that we were no longer respecting his authority, so he called out after us that we had his “permission” to leave and waved goodbye.

We then walked passed the park ranger checkpoint without incident, and looked back to notice that the “cop” actually went inside of the building. Maybe he really was a police officer.

Mira and I then returned to our little cabana at El Panchan. We had to drink two big beers to rid ourselves of the lingering memory of that annoying altercation.

In Mexico - or anywhere else in the world for that matter - I have come to the conclusion that the police are not my friend.

If I have not done anything wrong, and a police officer tries to accost me, then I must assume that he is not up to any good. If I cooperate with him, then no-good will be done to me, if I don’t, then at least I have a chance to get away.

I have been attacked and/or harassed by the police in Argentina, Uruguay, and Nicaragua. Sometimes the police really were undercover, sometimes they were not. But unless there were guns pointed at me, as they were in Nicaragua, I did not cooperate with their orders. In all situations I was just walking down the street - nothing more. One time I fought two undercover cops hard and got away, another time I slip away and was later caught and beaten up in a supermarket. If a cop accosts me out of nowhere, I am at least going to give him a run for his money, for in these situations, it seems as if i have nothing to loose by doing so.

In every and any country, the police are corrupt. A traveler has no bigger obstacle than a plain clothes “cop” in the middle of the jungle.

When I first began traveling in South America in the year 2000, an Ecuadorian woman gave me some really good advice:

She said that, “If you have not done anything wrong and the police try to get you, then run. Run to the nearest embassy. The police will rape you.”

I pass this advice along, because I have found it to be true:

The police of Mexico are not your friend.

And I still think Mira should have punched that little cop in the face.

Corrupt Police in Mexico
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Asus Eee PC Initial Impressions

Asus Eee PC Initial Impressions

Just when I had given up purchasing an Asus Eee PC after being duped by Buy.com, the phone rang.

It was my brother in law, Rory:

"I, uh, found one of those computers that you were looking for over here at Best Buy."

"What? I called them on the phone and went in there and they told me that they did not have any Asus computers in the entire Rochester area," I replied a touch skeptically.

"Well, they only have the floor model. Do you want me to try to pick it up for you?"

I thought about it for a second. The Asus Eee PC that we were talking about was the older version that only has 4 gigs of internal memory. I needed to quickly do some math.

"Do you think it has enough room to download Front Page on it?" I asked.

Rory fiddled round with the computer while we were talking:

"There is a lot of junk on it that we can get rid of; yes, I think you could do it."

"Ok, buy it."

He tried.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Upstate New York, USA- June 1, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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"They won't sell it to me," said Rory after coming back to the phone, "they say that it is a floor model and they don't want to sell it."

"What!?! So they just have it sitting out with a price tag on it to fool you?"

"Yeah, that is what I told them," Rory replied, "I think it is just sitting out here playing pretend."

The Asus Eee PC sitting next to the Dell Laptop that I traveled with for over two years for size comparison. The Asus makes my Dell seem like a giant.

No, that is not right, I think to myself. Best Buy is a store, and stores sell things, they do not just have items sitting out as if they are in a catalog. "Ask to talk to a manager and make him sell it to you. Call me back and let me know how you make out."

We hung up the phone and I laughed at the ebbs and turns that I have been going through it my effort to buy the Asus Eee PC. I am trying to spend a big wad of money, and I could never have imagined it being this difficult to spend hundreds of dollars. I once thought that money talks in the USA; that you can get what you want if you are willing to pay for it. I was then beginning to doubt this old adage.

Another photo which shows the small size of the Asus Eee PC in relation to my standard size Dell laptop that I have previously traveled with.

I did not think that the deal was going to go through. Rory mentioned that there were three other people in Best Buy who were also trying to talk the sales people into selling them the floor model of the Asus. Rory is not the kind of guy who is going to throw down in a store to get a darn computer, but I also know that he will do anything for me. He is my friend; he is my sister's husband. I knew that he would do anything that he could to get me this computer, as he knew that this was my last chance to get it before going traveling in Eastern Europe.

Rory called me back.

I answered the phone without much wishful thinking.

"So they wouldn't sell it to you?" I lead into the conversation.

"No, I have it," Rory replied, "I pushed them into selling it to me."

I was impressed.

Rory became my hero.

So now I am sitting here writing on a new Asus Eee PC, and using it is showing to be a big adjustment. It took Front Page and a few other small programs on its 4 gig internal hard drive without a struggle, and there is a slot for an SD card and three USB ports that can take flash drives. In point, storage space is not really an issue. But its small size, which is its main attribute, is also its main problem. It is not impossible to use, but getting use to it will take some time: the screen is very small and demands plenty of scrolling, its keys are miniature and tend to get caught up under my fingers, and its screen resolution is not really set up for that of the modern Internet. In point, it is not the easiest computer to use. But I think that it will be far easier to get use to the Asus than it has been lugging around my eight pound, 14" Dell monster of a laptop. I think that the obvious setbacks with Asus computer are pretty superficial, when compared against the fact that it is ultimately a tool that is designed for a particular purpose - which is to be a fully portable and fully usable laptop computer - and is not for general use. The Asus Eee PC is small, light, well made, durable, and is designed to be transported. This is why I purchased it.

For what I do - travel around the world writing articles and publishing on the internet- it is perfect. But I would not recommend it for everyday home use.

This computer is meant to do a specific job - to be a fully functioning laptop that is easy to transport - and it seems to be able to do it well. From where I now stand, it seems as if the Asus Eee PC is the ultimate traveling computer. I willl continue writing about how well it keeps up on the Road, as this little guy has the potential to revolutionize the gear setup of the traveler/ writer.

If you have any questions regarding the Asus Eee PC and/ or traveling with a computer, please feel free to contact me at VagabondSong @ Gmail.com, and I will post the answers on my Travel Questions and Answers page as well as contact you directly.

Asus Eee PC First Impressions
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Buffalo NY Friends Anarchy Nostalgia

Buffalo NY Friends, Anarchy, and Nostalgia

Last Friday, the 23rd of May, was my birthday. I went up to my old haunt of Buffalo, New York to visit an old friend who goes by the name of Smethan.

For a good four year period at the beginning of this decade I would swing through Buffalo for a quick stay each summer in a dirty attic full of friends, music, and the youthful spirit of revolt. A collection of tales an memories were made with these friends, and now I still enjoy a good swing through Buffalo to talk of the old days when we were but black clad kids out looking for kicks, rejecting every vestige of our culture, while taking on the new dawn with the passion of antiquated anarchy. The loud portion of my early 20's youth was left there in that hopeless city.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Upstate New York, USA- May 2008

Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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Buffalo is a rotting, sunless hole of nothingness, but the people there are good, and the city has provided me with plenty of memories of good times, crazy times, and sad times. I have thoroughly enjoyed my runs through that city.

I once took heed to "settle" in Buffalo for a month or so every year while transitioning between traveling in South America and working archaeology projects on the Road in the USA. It was a part of my traveling process, and created a sense of "home" for me when out on long journeys. I had a large group of around 30 or 40 friends who lived on a dead-end street in North Buffalo who lived off of dumpster diving, shop lifting, loud music, and scamming corporate business. We went for extremes, and found them in the long dark nights of youthful anarchism. A can of spray paint, a political issue, and nothing else to do provided us with many nights of love, rage, treasure hunts, and rampages. We had fun. I learned how to eat bitter and to live off of nothing. We had not a dime to spare between us all, but we always found the means to laugh.

But in recent years, my visits to Buffalo and these friends have been cut down to a day or two here and there every couple of years. The times are no longer the same, my friends have grown up: some got married, some got jobs, some moved to the western desert, and some have disappeared into the abyss of train hopping and road-dogging. The punk houses of Buffalo had open doors to all travelers, and many a night kids would hop off their ride in the train yard and make their way to the attics that I occasionally coveted. All travelers were welcomed to make themselves at home in Buffalo, and I took full advantage of having a place to temporarily hang my hat. I must say that I miss those Buffalo days when I would dwell in a dirty attic with crazy thoughts in my head and a smile on my face, pondering with disbelief that we had really pulled off our little adventures.

I remember one time when we had just gotten back to “home base” after dropping some political banner over a highway overpass, which myself and a group of friends had prepared to do for the entire previous week. The banner said some radical political statement about "no this" or "no that." I do not quite remember what I was saying “no” to at that time, but whatever it was I thought that by doing so the world would be saved. I said “no” a lot in those days. I had not yet gained the knowledge that the world is OK and the only person that I need to save is myself.

But alas, myself and a group of black clad comrades prepared for an entire week making this banner and planning on how we were going to execute the drop with military precision while dodging the Man on our junky old bicycles. We wore black hooded sweatshirts, black Carhartt double kneed dungarees, big black combat boots, had multi-tools strapped to our belts, black knit caps on out heads, and black bandanas over our faces. The most extreme of us even made their coffee with French presses.

Yes, we pulled off our much too executed plan to perfection and looked upon our flying banner with pride as we rode off into the night. We thought we had won some kind of small battle and talked of the minds that it would blow as early morning commuters would see our “no this, no that” political message over the highway as they rode to work. But as we rode our bikes away from that banner dropping site, I looked around at nighttime Buffalo, and realized that I was just doing all of this for kicks. I really knew the that my mission was futile and my actions fruitless. I knew that dropping banners and going to protests in body armor and being run down and beaten by police was just plain fun adventure. I then realized that I could no longer take myself or radical politics seriously. It was all only a joke which took me a few years to understand the punch-line. But on this bicycle ride home the punch-line shown crystal clear and I laughed and laughed. I was just a young kid who came to terms with his youth, and found it all to be so glorious.

These were the kicks that all 20 year olds should strive for. We had a war, corporations were taking over the world, and we thought that the human condition was riddled full of strife and famine. And so we prepared to fight tooth and nail with slogans, sling shots, banners, spray paint, and home made body armor. But we really just had good time.

Our talk was of downing the man and upping freedom, meatless meat, and bad music. We were anarchists and made ourselves feel real free with all of our liberty talk and the decadent dreamings of long gone political movements that we read about in dusty old books. We were on the front lines of a battle for kicks, self-made adventure, and crazy times. We were beaten up by riot cops, ran down by horse cops, put in jail, and loved every moment of our self-assembled "struggle." But I knew nothing of anarchism in those days, and my mind found itself entangled in far more chains than liberty. I confused freedom with fighting, and I became tripped up by my natural human drive to seek out and revel in conflict.

But we had fun.

Last Friday I returned to Buffalo to meet with my old friend Smethan. This kid is a real friend, and he always provided me with a free bed on my yearly temp stops in Buffalo. When I think of it, he is one of only a handful of real friends that I have, so I make sure to visit him when ever I come through the USA. On this most recent encounter, I found him with hair down to his shoulders, taller than ever - he seems to be like seven feet tall now - and with a big smile on his face. We hugged and then got right into talking about old times and the riot we had while pretending to be revolutionaries.

We drank wine and whiskey and he told me about his plans to be married. The world is turning itself into poetry. Buffalo is moving farther and farther away from me, as I am it. I now think of my times in that city in terms of nostalgia. It is no longer immediate; I no longer hang my hat there; I no longer step in from the Road to find shelter in the embrace of friends and a dirty old attic.

Keep stepping forward and you will invariably move away from what you leave behind. Travel and time turn on the same axis. But I do enjoy brief looks back on the ongoing forward Road.

The USA is my home and home is for nostalgia.

Buffalo New York Friends Anarchy and Nostalgia
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Old Man Smoking a Pipe

Old Man Smoking a Pipe

The 23rd of May, My Birthday. I have become and old man smoking a pipe.

At twenty five years of age, I still pretended that I was a youth, and at 26, I was just one year away from 25; but at 27, I cannot deny that I am a full grown, full fledged, bearded and crusty adult. I say this with a smile, as I just turned 27 years old last Friday.

Oh well, I am old. I have now acquiesced with Mira's teasing that I am "soooo ooollllddd." I suppose I am, but I think that I like it. I would not ever want to be 18 and totally (completely) stupid again. Teddy Roosevelt said that, "The only time you really live fully is from thirty to sixty. The young are slaves to dreams; the old servants of regrets. Only the middle-aged have all their five senses in the keeping of their wits."

My deep gutted approval of this quote only shows my new-found age.

At 18, I realize now, that I did not know which way was up: I was confused, angry at things that I could not change, clueless, and absolutely careless. I would jet to one far corner of the world only to long for another, I would be harsh in my love affairs, and singular in my intents. I walked a jagged line in those days between any and all extremes that I could find. I was a traveler who was just starting out on a path that was very sharp and shaky. I could not fully feel out my intuition. I simply thought too much in my youth: I mistakenly thought that I was right, I thought that I knew what I was talking about, and I thought that I was vastly more important than what I really was.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Upstate New York, USA- May 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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My mind was clouded by things that did not really matter and did not yet know how to make myself happy. I did not yet have the wisdom then to know that I do not know anything. I hope that I can always look back on my proceeding years and laugh at my own stupidity. I think that this critical reminiscence is an indication that I am growing in my life and changing with the seasons. Walking down the Path, and ever and always moving with the Path. If I can ever look back on where I stood five years previously and not think that I was a moron, I would become very frightened, as this could only mean that my development has grown stagnant.

Give me anything, but don't give me stagnation.

The second time that I tried walking slow and smoking a pipe in China at the age of 24.

I smile as I think about the Road that leads back to my youth. It was a good long Road full of trials, errors, loves, blunders, laughs, loud uncontrollable laughs, excitement, and, yes, adventures. Given all of this, I at least now know that I am assured to wake up each morning with a big smile on my face. This is my sole definition of success.

If a person wakes up smiling then they are as rich as any king and as vast as any kingdom. A deep, true, and unprovoked smile is the most sought after thing on planet earth. Through growing up and getting "old," I have learned how to smile. No, I no longer cringe when Mira decides to bust my balls about being an "old man." I take this title with a smile, for I have earned it. I have just grown into the apex of manhood: my wits have finally caught up with my feet.

For who would not want to be an old man with nothing to do all day but walk around smoking a pipe, pondering the lilies, and writing just to save their life, I ask with a jesting laugh?

As a birthday present to myself this year I bought a good Japanese made bulldog pipe to rotate in with the pipes that I already have. Smoking a pipe was always an activity that I have flirted with over the years, but never actively jumped into. I was given my first pipe when I was 18 years old in the south of Florida. But I could never figure out how to smoke the blasted thing. I walked too quickly in those days, and did not know that pipe smoking is a delicate art and could not be done with force. At the age of 24, I picked up another pipe in China - it was a really awesome hand-made pipe with a bovine bone stem - and again I struggled with smoking it. My attention could not be brought to a point then, as I was unable to find the time to just sit, smoke, and think simple thoughts. Then a year later at 25 I met Mira's father, who is a pipe smoking oracle of wisdom, and we went and bought me a new pipe at a tobacco shop in Alexandria, Virginia. He then taught me how to pack it and the philosophy behind smoking a pipe. I was learning how to walk slow, Mira's father taught me much, but was still not completely ready. Now, at 27 years of age, I have the impression that my ambition, lifestyle, and world view have come to a point - a glorious intersection where everything seems balanced and OK - and I picked up the pipe that I purchased with Mira's father, sat down, and smoked it. It felt ok; it felt good, in fact. I am learning how to walk slow.

I simply cannot envision myself as an old man without a big ornate pipe hanging out of a corner of my mouth. So let it be, let it come.

Cheers to being an old man smoking a pipe!

But I really feel as young as a glassy eyed, just born stumbly legged fawn - forever looking upon a new day. I suppose I have just entered into the dawn of my manhood. Today, at 27, I call myself a man for the first time. I am doing what I want to do and I feel comfortable. I have grown into my shell, and am enjoying the beauty of this day. I have grown into traveling as well.

I take the ups of the Path as well as the downs, I want cold rain showers as much as bright sunny days, long Roads as well as short ones, birds singing and lizards screeching. I want all of the emotions, feelings, and impressions that come with being human. I am beginning to feel that joyous balance of non-duality, as I travel through a non-dual world.

I am beginning to find what I set out for on that fateful day I stepped off the farm in the summer of '99.
Old Man Smoking a Pipe

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Travel to Eastern Europe

Travel to Eastern Europe

I am now pondering my path of travel for the summer of 2008. It looks as if this summer is for Eastern Europe. I fly through Dublin and into Prague in the Czech Republic on Wednesday June 4, 2008, and then I should take off by foot and thumb from there and travel deep into the smörgåsbord of countries that is the current arrangement of Eastern Europe.

"God looks with grace upon acts that begin on Wednesday." I do not know where I picked this quote up from, I do not know if it is true, but I always begin journeys on Wednesdays. And it just works out that Wednesday is usually the cheapest day of the week for flights. I paid $421 to get from Rochester, New York to Dublin, Ireland via JFK on the Jetblue/ Ryanair partnership and then another $65 to go from Dublin to Prague in the Czech Republic.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Upstate New York, USA- May 29, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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I split this journey to Prague up into two separate flights to avoid any complications with not having an onward ticket when I board my flight to Dublin from JFK. Sometimes on flights out of the USA, you will meet an overzealous check-in drone who will demand that you have proof of onward travel before they will allow you on the plane. It is my impression that this is just a colossal scam to sucker you into buying another ticket with their airline. To avert this I bought one ticket to Dublin and then a completely separate one to Prague. So if I am asked in JFK if I have proof of onward travel I can say "Yes, I am going on to Prague, would you like to see my itinerary?" Well, I am going on to Prague a few hours after I land in Ireland but I think I will keep this fact to myself. It will be a quick visit to Ireland, I suppose. Hey, I am a fast man.

Map of my air flight from Rochester, New York to Dublin, Ireland to Prague in the Czech Republic. Click on the map to make it bigger.

But this little flip-flopping of the onward ticket restriction should do the trick, and the two flights cost me just the same as a single flight that goes straight to Prague. For more about subverting onward ticket restrictions go to, Onward Tickets for Oneway Travelers.

Travel plan for Eastern Europe: fly into Prague then walk, hitch-hike, and maybe ride a bike through Hungary, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, Albania, Serbia, Romania, Bulgaria, and then on to Turkey. Click on the above map to make it bigger.

From Prague I have no real idea of where I am going. Initially, I thought that I will take the fast road straight away to Turkey and the Middle East, but now I am thinking that I may want to travel around Eastern Europe and the Balkans for a while. I am thinking of deep blue skies, clouds, lush green fields, and good walking. The taste for Eastern Europe is sinking into my mouth. I may stay for a while and travel the wavy path that is in the map above.

Map of the Czech Republic

I have always dreamed of traveling in Eastern Europe, and I think that it would be frivolous to just run through it on the quick Road to elsewhere. I can remember being an 18 year old punk kid working a short stint at a Blimpies sub shop in Connecticut and thinking about the day that I would be tramping in Eastern Europe. I made crappy sandwiches and could never remember if I was to put the cheese on before the meat or the meat before the cheese, but I did dream my way through the Eastern European hills. Menial jobs make for a free mind, and during my few weeks of making subs in Connecticut I was mentally hitch-hiking across the Balkans.

Now, nearly a decade later, I shall do it.

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Don't Buy from Buy.com

Don't Buy from Buy.com

I made a mistake. A week ago I went against my intuition and purchased an Asus eee PC 900 laptop computer from Buy.com, a big internet "seller consolidator." I usually refuse to make big online purchases without first talking with a representative of the company that I am buying from over the telephone. I am skeptical; I am old fashioned; I want to know who I am dealing with before I enter into a business transaction. I want to know if a company is reputable enough to not hire customer service representatives in India whose job it is to essentially say that they, "cannot do anything" with an unseen bobble of the head.

But a telephone number for Buy.com was not available on their website. This was a clear sign that they did not want to deal with me. I should have turned an ran, when I kept on going headlong into the arms of impending annoyance.

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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Upstate New York, USA- May 27, 2008
Song of the Open Road -- Travel Photos
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So I got a little lazy on my living principles, and in my excitement about getting an 8 inch Asus eee PC 900 - which has the potential to be the perfect travel computer - and made the purchase from Buy.com without first talking to a representative of the company. I was rushed into this dealing, as I wanted to buy and receive the Asus computer before I leave the USA again on the fourth of June. The Buy.com website said that my order would be shipped in 1 to 2 business days and that the eee PC 900 was in stock. I believed them. I figured that I would have the computer by the end of the week, and rode high into my purchase. I thought that I could just take a chance and order it and that I would have the darn computer in my hands before I knew it. Discretion is an old, unwooable maid, is it not? I was wrong.

Buy.com sells computers all day long, I figured, how could they screw up a simple and straight forward order?

My initial feelings prior to purchasing this computer now seem ominous. I had a feeling that it would not go through.

It didn't.

My rush to save time contradicted itself and ended with me not getting the new computer that I really need.

I did not walk slow, and my hast drove me headfirst into a dark hole.

So the Buy.com website said the the Asus eee PC 900 laptop computer was in-stock and would be shipped in 1 to 2 business days. This sounded good, so I just bought the darn thing without checking the company out at all:

• Then it took two whole business days to verify that I was the me that is represented on my debit card.