A trail to nowhere

With each passing foot, the trail of shifted cobblestones became more and more faint. Yet I continued to follow it mindlessly, determined to find its end. Through the windings of streets flooded with shops and tantalizing smells, I followed.

Then, somewhere along the way, I stopped. I had no idea how far I had walked, but I quickly realized I was in a busy intersection filled with people. Have they not seen this headless giant roaming the city? I looked for remnants of shock on their faces -- but not a trace.

Upon this mind-and-body-halting realization, I sat down on the unoccupied footsteps of what appeared to be an apartment entryway, and began thinking. Am I going crazy? Was there something I drank today? Something I ate?

I looked up to find the trail again so I could at least finish the journey I had begun. But there, where I thought I came from, was nothing, absolutely nothing. There were certain cobblestones that were more shifted than others, but nothing out of the ordinary, like it appeared before. I diagnosed myself as sleep deprived and proceeded to find a coffee shop where I purchased a double espresso and croissant. I took a window seat and let my thoughts drift like river currents.

Within a quarter hour's time, I saw Lenka and the group across the street. There seemed to be fewer people than before, but the girl with the tattoo, four slick-haired men, and older gentleman with his lady were all still there, as was Esteban.

"I didn't realize we were allowed to take coffee breaks," he whispered to me.

"Oh, hush, Esteban. I think I lost my mind for a moment there," I tried to explain myself.

"Did you find it?"

"I think so."

"Good, please try to hold on to it. We need it for the rest of our trip."

Chapter 4: The shifting of things

Lenka led us to the astronomical clock that towered above us. She pointed out its features – the apostles, dial and, most interesting to me, the skeleton of death with the bell cord in one hand and hourglass in the other.

In front of the clock, we waited. And waited. And….

“Why aren’t we going elsewhere?”

“Oh you need to check this out. Every hour the clock rings.”

I was unimpressed. We had already wasted ten minutes and had to wait another three. But I did not lead the tour, so I was forced to iwait.

CREEEEKKKKK!

The minute hand moved obnoxiously loud to the hour as the ground around us started shaking. It was shaking so hard, the cobblestones were flying at least an inch above ground. I was startled, but everyone around me was unmoved. The ringing proceeded and the skeleton danced around in a circle for the entire sixty seconds of the eleventh hour. When it all ceased, I noticed that everyone around me had shifted approximately a shoulder’s width away from the clock – everyone but me. Was I going crazy?

“That was pretty magnificent wasn’t it?” asked Lenka.

Everyone laughed.  I did not understand whether she was being sarcastic; my confusion made it difficult to interpret.

Lenka then led us towards the Jewish Quarter, as she told us the history of the city – how it came to be, flourished, suffered, and was rebuilt. She made me want to study European history with as much detail so I could also tell people such eloquent stories.

She stopped. Once we had all gathered around her in a tight semi-circle, she stepped onto a ledge and began speaking from the lush labyrinths of her memory:

"The road on which I rode was rocky, and inclined considerably, but this is what appealed to me, and with the steepness, I rocked. As soon as my friend stumbled, I snatched him by his collar, and when he sighed, I punched him in the head..."

Her words rang like Christmas bells; they bounced onto the twelve-foot tall bronze sculpture standing alongside her. With each passing word, the sculpture rumbled. I noticed the feet of the headless figure trying to free themselves of the platform; he struggled. His arms began flailing. Kafka, who was sitting atop the headless figure, started awakening – he started bouncing like a little kid. Then, the headless figure ripped his left foot free – soon thereafter, the right. He stretched out his arms like a gorilla ready to attack and began walking down the street we were standing on, in the opposite direction, with Kafka still atop, bouncing.

Again, everyone around me was unphased; they all were still listening to Lenka recite her memorized lines as all this was happening. I couldn’t believe I was the only one who had noticed this. But I thought it too rude to interrupt her in the midst of her recitation.

When she was done, she asked if anyone knew what she had just recited. I, wanting to confirm I still existed, blurted out, “Description of a Struggle."

“Very good!”

“Originally, Kafka was not appreciated in Garpue, despite being born here. He was much more known in Linber, which is where he often traveled. They loved him so much there, they would host grand welcoming parties for him. In the past 20 years, however, there has been a significant growth in Kafka appreciation...”

”In fact, about a decade ago, this sculpture was built to pay homage to his life’s work. However, the most peculiar thing occurred a couple years back. The sculpture artist, Jaroslav Rona, often visited the site to inquire as to what people thought about the sculpture. On one day's visit, he found, to his surprise, there was nothing left standing other than two footprints.”

I looked to where the statue had torn free, and in fact there were just two massive footprints. Beyond the footprints, there were crumbles of cobblestone tracing the headless figure’s path. Curious as to where this statue was determined to go, I decided to follow.

“I’m going to go try to find a bathroom,” I told Esteban.

I had no guarantee I would find my way back to the group, but for some reason I was not worried.

Chapter 3: The formation of group 0050 to 0075

We gathered at the old town square meeting point. Lenka, who guided us to that point from our hostel, was clad in black fishnets, loosely fitting black leather shorts, and a buttonless blazer with her company shirt underneath. Within just minutes of conversing with her, I noticed how she bounced around from her left to right foot and elaborately gestured with her hands as she spoke without a single hesitation. It was an unusual, engaging way to tell stories, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Although I already knew I wanted her as our tour guide of the five that had gathered at the meeting point, it felt more as if she had chosen us. She handed out numbered tickets in what she tried making appear as a random manner. But once she announced that everyone 0050 to 0075 was to go with her and I saw that my number was 0050, then saw all the other people gathering around her, I wondered on what basis we had been picked. Among the people in the group was a girl with three thinly separated bars tattooed on her wrist, four guys who looked and smelled like they just flew in from a Mykonos beach party, and an older man reminiscent of Richard Attenborough who was accompanied by a woman who I could not decide whether was his girlfriend or daughter.

I then noticed that Esteban had received the number 0049. Noting how strange it would be to go on separately guided tours, I came up to Lenka to ask if it would be okay if he joined her group. After only a three second hesitation during which I noticed her mouth just barely pout, she exclaimed, "Oh yes of course! No problem!"

Once we all had comfortably settled in around her, Lenka commented, "What a spectacular looking group of people! This should be a fun tour."

To start out, she introduced herself to us. She said she was originally from Minneapolis and came to Europe two and a half years ago to backpack through the Swiss Alps. By a turn of unfortunate events, by which I assume she meant she was robbed, although I still cannot be quite sure, she found herself without money or food by the time she descended. Not knowing what else to do, she planted herself on the side of the first road she found, stretched her arm out, and pointed her thumb up until someone pulled over.

Starved and exhausted, she fell asleep almost instantaneously when an older lady pulled over for her and let her in. When she awoke, she asked where she was, not recognizing the cobblestone streets that surrounded her.

"Guarpe," said the lady. "My son works at the hostel here and he will get you a job to earn your keep for a bit. I wish you the best, my dear. I think you will love it here."

"And I did! I fell in love with Guarpe the moment I arrived," Lenka said. "I returned to Minneapolis once I earned enough money for my ticket home. But, being back, I felt somewhat estranged. Everything in Minneapolis, the city I once called home, felt so void of color compared to Guarpe. So I began studying Czech in my spare time, finally graduated with my history major, and paid for my one-way ticket back here. And I haven't looked back since! I absolutely love it here!"

I believed her. Her face lit up like Christmas morning when she spoke about Guarpe. As the tour progressed, I began wondering if at some point of my trip I would fall in love with a city just as much as she had. Perhaps in Europe there's a city for everyone, I thought.

Chapter 2: The train ride

We ordered a second round of beers. Beer was cheaper than water and the train was like a sauna with no exit door. I stuck to Pilsner Urquell; I enjoyed its refreshing light taste accompanied with a mild hoppiness. In that moment, I further appreciated and understood why beer served for so long as a form of payment, nutrition and hydration. If it wasn't for beer, we would maybe never have had the pyramids.

I had not seen Esteban in almost a year. He worked as the photography editor for the magazine I managed. Last I heard, he worked for a company for a couple months then decided to move to the United Kingdom. Our communication since he left the magazine was minimal. I knew he had traveled throughout Europe quite a bit prior to coming to Nivena to meet me so I wanted to pick his mind. I was about to set forth on my own European expedition and I wanted stories -- recommendations -- words of wisdom. 

"What has been your favorite moment in Europe?" I asked.

The gap of humid air between us fell silent. His eyes suddenly left contact with mine and began shifting along an internally stored path of numerous sights, sounds, smells. London, Barcelona, Rome, Florence, Venice, Milan, Hamburg, Berlin, Amsterdam, Brussels. He traveled to so many places, seen so many things. I began to regret asking that question as the silence proceeded without a sign of answer. I then thought of my own traveling experiences. I knew that everything in a new place was special and wonderful in its own way. I could, for instance, never compare the praying temples of Kyoto with the beaches of Barcelona. Although my question was a dumb one, I needed a conversation starter. Thus, I took a sip of my beer and tried my efforts in mind reading. 

"It's hard to say. But one of the most beautiful moments was when I was overlooking the Arno River one night in Florence. The lights from the city bounced off the water and onto the buildings. It was like watching the solid world melt into liquid; it was a spectacle of colors morphing into one another... it was ... yea, beautiful. Just beautiful. Florence is great. You really need to visit." 

Esteban was a photographer. He saw things through the lenses of his eyes that he wanted to remember forever just as they were. This moment in Florence he tried to describe was obviously something he could not quite capture and share. I think that was why it was so enchanting for him. No matter how expensive a camera, how powerful a lens, how right the angle, he would not be able to quite capture the moment's profound tap on his soul. 

I then grew a little jealous of him. He had seen so much while my starvation to understand new people, languages, and cultures had been eating away at my focus throughout my American routine. The people I met, news I read, feelings I experienced in my nearly 18 years of living in America seemed to all follow an incredibly predictable trend -- so much so that I sometimes wondered if I kept zooming out I would eventually see Americans as a series of pinballs falling through a grandiose maze of predetermined sine waves. I felt like I needed to know if the rest of the world was like this. It was my turn to travel and begin to understand the human constructs of this planet on a grander scale. 

However, I still did not feel like I was prepared enough for my European expedition. The only languages I knew aside from English were Spanish and Russian, and in the upcoming weeks I was supposed to set foot into Czech, German, and French territory. I suddenly felt like I needed to get off the train, go back to the United States and purchase a stack of foreign language, history, and culture books. I never liked how most Americans infiltrated other countries in their baseball caps, cargo pants and sneakers, expecting everyone else to know English and just as much about the NFL while ridiculing foreigners within their borders for their well-fitting clothes, soccer and accents. I was seriously becoming all too conscious of my own American scent. How far is it permeating? I wondered as I sat on that bumpy, hot train ride. 

As a result of my internal dialogue, Esteban's declared exhaustion and the stuffiness of the train, the trip from Nivena to Guarpe was a fairly quiet one. By the time we got into Guarpe, it was already nighttime. Deciding to reserve our energy for the next day, we had a couple beers at our hostel's bar, and then retired to bed. The vivid dreams I had that night felt so real that when I awoke the next morning I wondered if they were actually foretellings. 

Chapter 1: The arrival

She reminded me of Sara Goldfarb from Requiem for a Dream. Her sheer pale face surrounded two coves of glazed sea water, the pupils sunken deep within empty waters . The way she stared and smiled at me as if she was trying to hide something made me very curious about her. I wondered if she realized I had taken notice of her peculiarities, because as soon as I sat down and opened my book, she questioned the first passing flight attendant as to whether there were any open seats further up in the plane.

When she switched seats, my eyes followed her as she carried her fake designer suitcase up the aisle. I wondered what kind of life she may have led in her younger days; her frantic motions and body hugging clothes conjured lively nights filled with dance clubs, cocaine and abiding men.

Usually I don't pay much attention to people I fly with. I especially don't like engaging in conversation with strangers sitting next to me; I'd rather ignore them than go through the typical pre-take-off and post-landing banter. I've never been much for single serving friends. This lady, however, radiated an off-center energy I wanted to study. Even after we landed, we kept running into each other -- at the airport bar where I grabbed lunch, in the bathroom prior to the takeoff from Detroit and finally in the Restamdam border check. She was my unofficial traveling buddy whose life story I have already begun scripting. I still wonder if I will run into her at some point again throughout my travels.

When I finally arrived in Nivena, I was greeted with a cruel initiation ceremony. The first day in a new city is always overwhelming, especially when lugging a 70 pound suitcase alongside a 40 pound one in scorching heat. I had arrived in the city perhaps a little too confident with myself; then, in just a matter of hours, that confidence was stripped off me as I wandered over ten blocks in the wrong direction of my apartment with sweat dripping from my body. I wanted to cry, but I knew that with my arms about to explode and my legs about to break, I needed to instead hold on to every drop of hydration. My water bottle was empty and Europeans are not as fond of water fountains as Americans. At that moment I was glad I watched all those episodes of Survivor Man and Man vs. Wild. If I ever reach the point at which I need to make a camel skin blanket to shield the sun, I am glad I know how, I thought.

After completely disregarding every piece of broken navigation any Austrian gave me in those miserably misguided hours, I made it to my apartment right before I was about to shatter into overheated pieces of clay. I did not have a key, phone, or directions as to what to do once I arrived at the apartment, but I was just glad to be there. With my last remnants of energy I buzzed every button of the apartment, hoping someone would let me in. The landlord must have heard the buzzing throughout the building because soon thereafter a demanding German voice boomed from the entryway speaker, "What is it that you want?"

"Please let me in. I don't yet have a key."

After a five second delay, the man arrived at the entryway doors. The initial agitation that I sensed from him appeared to dissipate once he swung the doors open to reveal my withered body in my worn-out, sweat-drenched ankle length dress sitting atop my 70 pound suitcase. I was probably the equivalent of a dirty, ownerless mutt -- the kind people feel sorry for but would never allow into their home.

"Come in, come in," said the man as he led me into his office.

This office had much more than just a desk and computer. It had a couch, tv, book shelves, weights, refrigerator, and pantry. It looked like the studio apartment of a man who was kicked out of his home by an angry wife, left with only the male essentials. The two peculiarities was that the room had everything but a bed and that there was a mural of a princess riding a unicorn on one of the walls.

"Coffee?" he asked.

His heavy accent indicated that the upcoming conversation would be a struggle. I knew not a word of German (not counting bratwurst and bier of course). So I found myself developing my own sort of accent and excessive hand motions to try to explain I was one of the students staying at the apartment for five weeks. Instead of understanding me like I hoped he would, he shot me an ice cold look of confusion.

"This thick American English, I do not understand!" he exclaimed.

Right when I was about to wave a flag of defeat, a thin, simple faced woman alongside a man with the hands of a construction worker wandered in from the back of the building. They were speaking Russian, a language I knew.

"Excuse me, can you help me? I am trying to explain to this man that I am staying here. I am a student taking a class at the university here for five weeks. This is where I am supposed to be staying," I told the Russian-speaking couple in my native tongue.

"Oh, you speak Russian, huh?" the landlord commented.

"Yes do you understand? I need to leave my suitcases here because I am going to Guarpe and Umnich     for the next four days. I will be back Sunday."

"He doesn't understand Russian. We will explain it to him. You, sit," said the Russian lady. "You are shaking, how are you going to go to Guarpe?"

She was right. I was so dehydrated and hungry that I couldn't keep my hands from shaking as I was trying to explain myself. Sitting felt like a luxury. To complete the salvation, the lady set a raspberry jam filled croissant and a cup of coffee in front of me. That was her blossoming moment as a motherly figure for my stay at the apartment.

While the rugged Russian man translated my Russian into German to the landlord, I spoke with the Russian lady. She told me about where she was from in the Ukraine and I told her about what I would be doing for the summer.

By my last bites of croissant, the landlord understood my situation, and we had all quickly become friends. Then, almost as if everything was right on cue, my friend, Esteban, wandered into the office. I was ecstatic to see his familiar face. He had been waiting for me at the apartment for three hours and I had no way of contacting him to let him know I was lost. I promised him a round of drinks once we arrived in Guarpe.

"We need to make sure we can catch the next train. Are you all packed and ready to go?" Esteban asked.

"Yes! All ready! Let's go! Where do we need to go?" I jumped up with a sudden burst of energy, no doubt from the cup of coffee that probably seeped into every crevice of my liquid deprived innards.

After scrambling through a series of maps and getting directions from the landlord, we gathered what S-Bahn line to take to get to the central Nivena train station. By a mere ten seconds, we jumped on the last train from Nivena to Guarpe. It was a pretty remarkable feat, for which we rewarded ourselves with Czech beer from the food cart on the train. A beer tastes so much sweeter after a long day.

The Premise of the White Toothed Traveler

"Ah, I see now that you are an American, because of your whitened teeth," said the German woman who sat next to me on the train from Munich to Vienna.

I did not realize it in my first couple of days of traveling, but it really is true that Americans have peculiarly white teeth, kudos to the bleach in our toothpastes and the fluoride in our water. From this, stemmed my pseudoname: the white toothed traveler. Now, if I ever am not sure as to whether a person is from America or not, I just look at their teeth.

The name now having been explained, I would like to point out that this is not going to be the standard travel blog. I think that just about anybody can go to Europe and give an account of what they saw -- probably the same things that everyone else who traveled to the same cities saw.

Rather than blog about my adventures through Europe in a typical, dull fashion, I am sharing my experiences in a quasi-fictional sort of way. Since one of my goals for this trip was to dedicate more time to writing fiction, I am going to try and kill two birds with one stone. I am not just going to tell you my stories but also weave them alongside some fantasy. It is up to you to decide what really happened.