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    marye
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    By suggestion of TigerLilly, who's been doing some traveling of her own lately: a place to talk about one's travel adventures (in the physical world!). Great road trips, the time you got a gig crewing on a yacht, your years in the Peace Corps, the time you walked the Great Wall... You get the idea!

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  • Frankly
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    Joined:
    hey hozomen..
    y didnt u put this great story on the tribe around the fire storytelling site?peace..:-)
  • Jodester
    Joined:
    Hozomeen
    Hey man, that was well written! Keep up the good work! You made it easy to picture! Are you kind?
  • Hozomeen
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    Coventry
    We raced across town that morning making all the required stops as if we had rehearsed the procedure the day before. Dropping off keys to our house and stopping at the bank, we moved with such efficiency that we had plenty of time to pick up something to eat before heading to the airport. Arriving at the ticket counter just minutes before the mandated check-in cut off time we felt as if we had made a three point shot to win the game just as the clock ticked the last couple of seconds. Minimal preparation for this trip seemed to be paying off so far. Coming to a rest in our seats on the plane we finally had time to unwrap our biscuits and hash browns. I like it when the plane pulls away from the gate; it pretty much means that they hadn’t found what was in my bag. It’s funny, the charge I get from sneaking contraband. I guess it’s sort of a kin to the sick pleasure I got by being me at a military school, or shoplifting as a kid. I just want to get away with it. I’m not one of these people who profits from this kind of thing, and somehow that makes me feel just in my mission to live the way I damn well please. Anyway, most of my friends tell me that taking weed to a Phish show is like taking sand to the beach, but really I didn’t want to be bothered; I just wanted to enjoy the show. Besides, all you have to do is get a little creative and it isn’t really a problem. It used to be that you could put a bag in your shoe, or even in your pocket and get away with it, but not these days, no sir, these days you have to get creative. Your ass isn’t even safe anymore. I really can’t believe that I have to spend all of my effort figuring out how to hide my stash instead of planning my trip. It’s only weed folks; what the fuck is wrong with this place when I am made out to be a criminal and criminals are made out to be our leaders and role models? Anyway, if you call a place paradise you can kiss that place goodbye. Now we are forced to put forth thought toward an activity that takes full responsibility for irresponsibility, and damn-it if the fun just got wiped right out. All things being equal though, all I have to say is that this was still our America, and hell yes there was marijuana in my bag. We were on our way to the last Phish show ever, and no I don’t have to be high to enjoy it, but I do have to know that I can get high if I want to enjoy it. Does that make sense? It would if you value freedom. Sitting back in our seats we began to discuss our plans. First we would get our asses from Mobile, Alabama to Manchester, New Hampshire by plane where we had a rental car reserved. We had packed as much camping gear in our luggage as we could carry, but being restricted to what we could check, we really didn’t have much. A tent, sleeping bags, a couple of changes of clothes each, and assorted other knick-knacks made up our gear. All of this fit into a couple of duffel bags and my Mountain Smith Bug-A-Boo day pack. I called it the mother ship because it had everything we really needed including our tickets to the show. I guess that was what our plans were based on; we had tickets to the show and a pocket full of cash. What could go wrong? We had certainly gone further with less in the past. Phish was putting on their farewell performance in the town of Coventry. Coventry is a small town in Northern Vermont. The show was taking place at Newport State Airport on the grounds and adjacent fields on August 14th and 15th 2004. The information read: “COVENTRY is the band’s first-ever home state festival, and first public outdoor Vermont appearance since 1995. Located amidst the rolling hills and lush green Valleys of Vermont’s Northeast kingdom, COVENTRY will be Phish’s seventh “city size” festival, with an expected turnout that will qualify it as Vermont’s most populated city for the weekend of August 14th and 15th. As with all prior Phish festivals, COVENTRY will see the band performing three live sets each day, with on site camping as well as numerous attractions and art installations created by teams of talented artists and performers.” Given that information we were confident that we would arrive the day before, get in our car, and drive up to Coventry with plenty of time to get to know the area before the show started. Shows like this usually have interesting food both inside and out, so we even planned to eat inside instead of bringing much of our own food. We actually put off taking our honeymoon for this trip. We were calling it our honeymoon, but we got married the following weekend so it was kind of a preemptive honeymoon. Still, it kept us from being able to take any other kind of trip, so all in all it was our honeymoon. It would have been nice to take a trip after our wedding to just relax and be pampered and shit, but this was history. You have to be ready and willing to put things off and travel to make stuff like this. Hell, that’s part of it. I almost feel like I am selling out by flying. We should have, in order to have done it right, been driving the little Nissan truck my friend gave me leaving our much more efficient, reliable, and comfortable (not to mention legal) Pasaat at home. I like to fly though. There is something about the airport, especially Atlanta, which appeals to me. It’s like this narrow spot in the river that we all rush through. We are exposed to people we normally avoid, and people who normally avoid us. I am most definitely a people watcher by nature. I think the feeling I get when I watch people is fear. I’m not saying that I am afraid of them exactly, but more like I feel the fear around me in a sense, like an aura. I feel like the weight of the world is gone, and I am no longer the future leader of tomorrow I once was, but rather a drop-out in so many words. I guess I just got the message all wrong, but I always thought of leaders as people who believed in things, fought for the good of us all, and opposed the evil oppressor to set us all free. The root of it all has been infected. Without a doubt we do live in a great country, but doesn’t being great come with some responsibility? The nickel and dime industry preys on us to the extent that we must each dedicate our lives to somebody else’s higher purpose in order to receive the currency that fuels us. What ever happened to my purpose, or yours? The sadness that money causes makes me cringe and feel sorry for those people out there striving for a promotion and missing the best years they could have ever had with their children. A sick obsession, and to what end? I guess I did all the prep work right alongside my fellow future leaders only to find out that there was a vast difference between what I felt was right and what was expected of me. I guess I see what might have been at the airport, and it makes me happy to be me. Anyway, there we were, a couple in our thirties trying to live down our twenties, and forsaking all things responsible to see a band play music. Out of all the people we knew who wished they could have done this; we were the only ones going. It wasn’t really convenient, and we couldn’t really afford it, but it was history and a chance to be surrounded by good souls. With the exception of the people who make money on the road the rest of us account for an awful lot of irresponsibility. Hell, it isn’t like vendors are exactly responsible people or anything. I just think of it as our responsibility to keep irresponsibility alive. Now it was real. We had left the sterility of the airport and were thrust out into the wet cold of New England. Man we were excited, and what a far cry we were from a month before when we pulled the trigger to come on this trip. I guess it must have been two months…huh. As soon as we heard about Phish’s decision to break up after Coventry, we immediately knew that we had to go. Putting off our honeymoon to Amsterdam, which we also couldn’t afford, we ordered our tickets the day before they sold out. The first thing we wanted to do after getting our rental car was to purchase a cheap cooler and expensive beer. We arrived in the early afternoon, and the traffic was just kicking into gear. The weather was a gloomy New England day, much the same as a gloomy “Old” England day I guess. Clouds hung motionless overhead, and the cool felt strange for August. The first gas station we pulled into had a pretty good beer selection and sold Styrofoam coolers. We loaded up on Newcastle and a couple of Gator-Aides and off we went. Soon after we were on our way and payin’ tolls to follow the path that lead to Coventry. We drove the day away and happily welcomed the dark evening. Having left civilization behind in a sense we began to get hungry and sort of regretted our decision to just eat on the road. There wasn’t much on the road between New Hampshire and Vermont. Finally an oasis appeared in the form of a truck stop in Lebanon, New Hampshire. After a full hour of nothing on the road we happily devoured whatever they had to offer. I tried to ignore the very Boston-esq sounding rendition of “Sweet Home Alabama” being performed in our honor by the owner, but the pain was much to bear. It was a small place, and we might as well have been wearing Mardi-Gras costumes the way he immediately recognized that we weren’t from around there. It wasn’t a bad experience, but there is little comfort in small town hang-outs when you aren’t from that place. Meanwhile there was a Taco Bell and everything just one exit down. Well, we were fat and happy and back on cruise control before long anyway, and probably better off. What could I have possibly told you about Taco Bell? “What exit were we looking for?” I asked Marjie. “Uhmm……Exit 26,” she was shuffling papers and maps as we talked. “Well there goes 24,” I got excited as I realized that our timing for this conversation was ideal. “Yay!!!” Marjie responded in her usual fashion. Her natural positive energy is why I love her, among many other reasons. “Okay,” I got serious for a moment, “we must be getting close.” Marjie studied the directions. “Yep, close to something,” I added. It was just about that time that we came upon what appeared to be a wreck or something. We drove down the left side a short while, but it didn’t take long before I realized that everyone was politely pulled off to the right in what was actually a really long line. “Maybe we should get over to the right,” Marjie said what I was thinking. “Yea, I think you’re right.” I was thinking that she was right. Then I thought that maybe I hadn’t thought it at all, but rather the idea had been planted there by her. Then I began to wonder how she could just get into my head like that, and I immediately suspected that she must be some kind of mutant or something. She flagged this car down and we got in line. I then began thinking that maybe she was more like a Jedi and uses mind control to help my aimless ass along in life. I decided to always trust her when I realized that mutant or Jedi, she was very much my guardian angel. We thanked the guys who let us in with a wave, and we pulled behind a Pacifica from Maine. It was around 8:30 P.M. I smiled at my guardian angel. Sometimes a silent smile holds much love beyond words. I soon realized how a rental car made me as homesick as a hotel room. Even with Marjie right there beside me, I missed the smell and feel of our car. (She would have won that one, there is no way we would have been sitting here in my buddy’s illegal truck.) All sorts of cars passed on the left with a variety of license plates and stickers identifying them as fellow travelers bound for the same destination. I kept wondering where they were all going. That lane kept a movin’, and our lane kept a mostly sittin’. Hours passed and we could still see the place where we had started. We switched drivers and took turns walking and peeing. We got stoned, we talked, and we listened to music. Was the joke on us or on the left laners? A few cars behind us bailed out. Did they have to circle around and get shuffled back to the end of the line? Who knew, but hours invested in our spot made it difficult to consider finding out. Our ill-preparedness hit hard when the Pacifica began to produce sandwiches right in front of us. They had also been making rum and cokes throughout the night. I walked up a good way and found a place to pee. There was so much activity on the roadside. Several carloads were out on the side of the highway, and there was dancing in the street. I struck up a conversation with a guy who claimed to have walked a good way up. He confirmed that the left laners were being shuffled back. He also said that there were only 15 ticket checkers and that people were falling asleep causing gaps in the line. It felt true enough because it explained the randomness of our motion about every 45 minutes or so. There was nothing to do really except go back and fill Marjie in on what I had discovered. About 1:30 A.M. I decided to make the back seat comfortable for my sweet bride to lie down. I got out stretching while she caught some Z’s. I stood there and watched these three guys talk to two chicks who were wandering by. After they left I observed the three of them divide up the two chicks they were likely to never see again. It was amusing, and they had lots of energy. They were playing heavy metal albums, and one of them reminded me of my friend Blaine’s younger brother Britton. He was the one with all the heavy metal trivia. My mind tried to wrap around all the different types of people who were drawn here this weekend, and all the motivations they had to make such a trip. It was about this time that we had to start rationing our water, and reclaiming water from the cooler. Man what a honeymoon. I am a veteran of the long hard road, but having Marjie with me made it seem harsher than ever. I was happy to share a side of me, though, that hopefully she would rarely get to see. Still, a family that gypsies together is bound to stay together. What better way to begin our lives together than to team up for basic survival. We could have always bailed out, but we didn’t even consider it a possibility. You know, if you take your girl to Cancun or something, and she smiles, well that is what is supposed to happen, but if you take her to the top of Vermont and sit on the side of the road for hours on end without any food and very little water, well that is when her true spirit shows, and if it shows a smile then let me tell you that there is nothing on this earth more beautiful than that. I stayed in the driver’s seat the whole night. Every hour I made an entry in my journal, and looking back it reads like a man’s journey to insanity starting out completely rational and positive and ending up with whole entries that only read, “Cheesecake…Cheesecake…cheesecakake…Ceeseekakee.” I spent the night hours making friends and buttering the Pacifica guys up for a possible food purchase. People would randomly walk by shouting things like, “NUGS, anybody got nugs, will trade shrooms for nugs…a cap for a bowl people…anybody got nugs?” It was the turning point for many, but the majority stuck it out. Sometime during the night I had been turned on to the radio station being broadcast from inside the show. The Bunny, 92.1, was our only source of hope and information. The DJ came on about seven in the morning to tell us that a traffic update would be coming soon, but it took a couple of hours more to find out that the situation had been caused by rain flooding much of the campground. We began to loose hope when the Pacifica from Maine finally bailed out. It was getting pretty awful out on I-91. It was 9:15 A.M. when the hammer fell. Thousands of people turned away. The once polite right lane society had immediately filled both lanes, and it was well past noon before we got out. We scurried along listening all the while for a message telling us what to do now, but all they could tell us was that we would be able to refund our tickets and that they would come up with something nice to make it up to us. We cruised along through all the traffic. We saw I-91’s highest elevation, and we even saw the famed exit 26. It was apparent that the moving we experienced was little more than filling the voids when people bailed out. I guess the joke was on us after all. We saw camps and the remnants of a good time. Some cars had no people, and one guy was walking along trying to motivate everyone to leave our cars and walk in. I only heard Phish being played from one car as we passed. Many cars brandished signs like, “phuck em.” People were everywhere, and the trash was piled up. The closer we got to exit 26, the more primal and savage it became. Vermont got pissed on good that night, and it wasn’t pretty. After all the sacrifice and hardship, being subjected to a room at the Hampton Inn of White River Junction was a fate worse than suddenly finding out that you are an accountant. It did feel good to drive after all the sitting though, and the Taco Bell, oh the sweet sweet big beef burrito supreme was nourishment fit for a gypsy king. At the end of the day though, we found ourselves back in the sterile environment we had purposely left behind while our motivation for doing so was happening just right up the road. We ordered pizza and tried to find a bar. Ultimately visions of our Lebanon experience kept us away from the White River Junction night life, so in the end there was nothing to do but smoke a bowl. Thank God we had that. There were other travelers and thieves among us at the hotel, but nobody knew quite what to do. We pretty much decided to salvage our weekend and just go see what there was to see in the area. Marjie was very excited. She had been dieing to go see the Cabot creamery, but I had told her that there would be no way we would have time. Well now, it had become our number one destination. I don’t know what everyone else did, but we loaded up and headed for the back roads. Now this was Vermont. Farms and dairies spotted the landscape, and if I had never realized it before, I was reaffirmed in how I wanted my life to turn out. Just being among this beautiful landscape melted away years of stress imposed on me by our highly commercial and competitive society. It made me realize that we are all dieing, but only a few of us are living. We stopped at a cross road fishing store where we would turn to head toward the Cabot farm. We had to stretch and pee, and the stream across the way was begging for my bare feet. As I came out of the store I noticed another car in the lot that didn’t belong in much the same way as our car didn’t belong. Recognizing our own kind, I struck up a conversation. Exhausted and excited, the group explained how they were taking the back way in to Coventry, and it turned out to be the same direction as we were already planning to head. I ran inside to tell Marjie. She emerged from the bathroom and I explained the situation. Hurriedly we loaded up on whatever supplies the place had to offer, and we hit the road. We still made our stop at the creamery, but we didn’t take the tour. The landscape was amazing as we drove further down the real rabbit hole. This was it, the way in. We stopped at a gas station that welcomed Phish fans on their sign to get some information. We found out that all non-local vehicles were being stopped about 30 miles out or so. We pressed on, it didn’t seem to be slowing anyone else down. As we got closer we started seeing yards full of tents and cars. This amount of activity was unusual for this corner of small town America, but somehow it was fitting. This was the area where Phish was born and raised, so this must be the place for it to be destroyed in a blaze of tents. We followed a sign down a side road to a yard where people were camping. A local woman was picking them up for $20 a piece, and so we asked if we could pay our way too. We loaded everything we needed into my backpack, and we ditched the rest. When our ride arrived it proved to be a tight fit, but I stuffed myself into the hatch-back area, and away we went. I couldn’t see what was going on, but it was worth it. They dropped us at the final road block. No more cars were permitted past the turnoff toward the airport. I was happy to be free and on my feet, so the hike was a welcome change. We couldn’t believe we were there, especially since we woke up that morning in White River Junction. People in droves moved upward toward the energy. As we neared the top we began sharing stories with other fans and soon we could see it, the door to Gamehenge, the turnstiles that would count at least two more people. Finally our tickets were reduced to stubs, and we were set free on the other side. We still had quite a ways to go, but the people and the campground fueled us with excitement and curiosity of what lay ahead. You could tell that there were many cars that would not easily escape. Suddenly I was happy that we weren’t residing among this mess. From the looks of it, it seemed for sure that we would have had trouble making our Monday Flight. Even still the nastiness was a sight for sore eyes, and the closer we got the more I couldn’t believe that we had done it. I have never felt such a sense of accomplishment just for attending a concert. Around a corner and there it was, Shakedown Street. It was an open air head shop complete with food and drink. It was our mall, the place where commerce took place, and the busiest part of the show. The first place we stopped was called the Common Ground Café. It had a seating area, and we needed to rest. Two random guys who seemed to have been there a while offered hospitality, good spirits, and shots of Curevo 1800. Moving on we passed through crowds of people and we followed the flow toward the stage. Artwork, balloon rides, and Ferris wheels made us feel like we had entered a different land, and indeed we had. The closer we got, the more we slowed our pace to take it all in. What can I say, it was magic. The desperation of a guy trying to find nugs on the roadside had been replaced by an abundance of everything. With plenty to go around, we made ourselves comfortable. We spent the next several hours exploring. I don’t think our feet stopped much at all. Around the stage we danced, and in the interim we walked though Shakedown Street. As the day turned to dusk we realized how tired we were, and realizing that made it all too apparent just how far away our car was and that we didn’t exactly know where it was. Eventually we decided to leave before the final set was over. Shakedown Street was quiet but not empty. Some people lingered as we did, and we wandered until we found ourselves back in the camping area and the road home. Through the trees we heard a familiar chord, and then “WIL-SON” rang through the night as the crowd joined the band in a final rendition of one of their oldest numbers. Knowing it was almost over our head start felt good and right, and so hearing one of our favorite songs through the trees like that was somehow made better than seeing it through the randomness of the crowd. We were no longer fans, we were travelers, and we heard it as we should, with our feet pounding the ground through the dark. Just outside the gate a van pulled over and a woman beckoned us inside. Good fortune was ours. Her name was Celeste, and hers is the only name I remember from that day. Celeste was a happy, glowing, Janis Joplin type who was a professional vendor on her way to the Dead show in Atlanta. Even though her marriage depended on making it on time, she took the time to help us find our car. We gave her bad directions back to the highway by mistake, but we later ran into her at an I-91 rest stop, so we know she isn’t still lost up there. Anyway, thank you Celeste, we promise to pay it forward. We took a moment to exhale before getting back into our car. We were married the next weekend. Marjie wore a Shield Maiden’s gown from The Two Towers, and we made our vows in front of a 100 year old springhouse in the mountains of Northeast Georgia where I was raised. We told our story to everyone, still happy to have even survived it. Mostly I could see that our guests just didn’t understand. “Aren’t you too old to go to Woodstock?” What can you say to that? It’s true that Marjie and I were in a struggle to grow up, but growing up doesn’t necessarily mean growing out of something, and growing older doesn’t mean a damn thing except your hangovers get worse. The last time I saw the Grateful Dead was in 1994 at Nassau County Coliseum, and one thing dawned on me then. I knew as Jerry walked out on stage that I was witnessing a living legend practice his craft. It literally made tears well up in my eyes when his nine fingers picked that guitar. We never even got close enough to the stage to see the band at Coventry. It isn’t that they aren’t great, they truly are or we wouldn’t have been compelled to make the journey. It’s like this, Jerry came from another time and space, he was an alien who came in peace, and his band lives on after his passing because of his powerful energy. You see, Mike, Paige, Jon, and Trey are four guys I feel like I could be friends with, and even though their music is genius, it isn’t the sum total of the art they create. Growing up I watched my father struggle to keep himself and everyone around him clean. He isn’t content until all is bleached and freshly painted. I personally think that it is our dirt and scars that define us and tell our story. You can work hard your whole life and take a few years to travel in the end and see the world for yourself basically from the comfort of your chair, or you can choose to spill your blood, sweat, and tears into the ocean for a chance at front row seats to the real world. Comfort is nice, but on the other hand you could have something beyond comfort that few will ever understand. Comfort is an illusion anyway, a carrot dangled in front of us. I prefer truth, because if I can’t be comfortable then I would rather have the knowledge that at least I don’t have to worry about it. We fought hard and struggled to be among four musicians and thousands of fans. The canvas was us. It was beautiful and dynamic. It was freedom, and it was dirty. People have made a business out of music festivals, and they finally commercialized Woodstock, but we evolved. Now that we revel in commercialism, Phish created something beautiful by going out into the woods with us to destroy it, and that destruction was the art we left behind. Some art you see, and some art you hear. Still other art must be read and processed in your own mind. This was different than that. It was all of it, and it was none of it. Phish made art you have to experience, and by experiencing it you became part of it. In other words, you don’t stand back and listen or view, you aren’t moved by it; you live it, and you are changed by it. People talk about the breakup of the band, and opinions are thrown around, but like Robert Frost said, “It means what it means to you.” I see their breakup as a random extension of their art as a whole. In some way, because they did what they did and I experienced it, no matter how grown up I ever get my true spirit will always remain in tact.
  • Jodester
    Joined:
    ?
    What song is that from? Strange line considering that the "sea" has shrunk! Must be a Phish tune... Are you kind?
  • GRTUD
    Joined:
    Caspian Sea
    "I am from Caspiar, an Island in the Caspian Sea. It sunk."
  • c_c
    Joined:
    badger
    badger, if you take pics, please host them on imagevenue.com and please post them here on the board, too. pretty please with sugar on top! peace. "There was once a road through the woods Before they planted the trees. It is underneath the coppice and heath, And the thin anemones. Only the keeper sees That, where the ring-dove broods, And the badgers roll at ease" Kipling
  • Hal R
    Joined:
    round the world with cosmicbadger
    Do you take photos? If so can you email them? Intriguing places. If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. Wiliam Blake
  • Jodester
    Joined:
    :)
    Yeah, that sounds really interesting, I hope to make it to the Caspian sea in summer. I always love to hear about strange places, I find it inspiring. J Are you kind?
  • marye
    Joined:
    wow, badger!
    the Caspian Sea! Always thought it was cool looking on the map, but I know NOTHING of that part of the world. Say more!
  • cosmicbadger
    Joined:
    from Central Asia
    I may be the only Dead Head in Turkmnistan right now, currently working on the laptop and listening to the Dead/NRPS Vine 1970/05/15. Ashkabat is extraordinary..wide boulevards, every grand building clad in white marble, few cars. The people have been very kind and friendly (like most people). Cold air, grey skies. Off to the remote shores of the Caspian Sea tonight...could be an adventure till the next time................
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By suggestion of TigerLilly, who's been doing some traveling of her own lately: a place to talk about one's travel adventures (in the physical world!). Great road trips, the time you got a gig crewing on a yacht, your years in the Peace Corps, the time you walked the Great Wall... You get the idea!
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In the beginning of the 80s i spent some time in Amsterdam.in fact i wanted to stay there,but the City was somehow beyond my weirdest dreams.The place where i was staying belonged to an english woman who spent 24 h a day in that hotels bar(really,she had a big chair where she even slept in),the guy at the bar had only 1 disc(K-tels Disco hits)which was played the whole 6 month i spent there.well,the sado-maso gay bar which was directly under my room started to mess with my sleepin regime and to be true i have to say that dutch candy is a very expensive habit.so after realizing that the only thing i got left was a free breakfast at my hotel,i decided to hit the road for France.as i was savoring my toast a pretty drunken guy set down beside me.giggling all the time he asked me what i was doing.i told him about my plans and got my last free coffee.he told me"hey man,i see you dont have any money,dont you"i nodded in approval as he got out his wallet and gave me 5OOguilders(250dollars).i was a little astonished and because i saw that he was really drunk,asked him if he was sure that he wanted to give me such an amount,..well,not only he was but he opened a big bag he had with him and took out a bottle of Bacardi gold and a carton of Camel-filt."so you will have a good journey i think"he said,and i deeply agreed.with a much better feeling than i had in the morning i went to the Highway.There was nobody there,no one guy was there.he was italian,looked like a real freak(me too,by the way)and was very strange.he carried with him 2 big plastic bags of stuff he had found in the streets,garbage cans etc.as presents for his friends in Naples.as i found out,he was completely broke.remembering how i got the fortune i was carrying with me i decided to travel with him.despite my doubts that ANYBODY would stop for us,we were lucky. after half an hour and a couple of shots a belgian driver stopped and took as pretty far.he let us off in Belgium in the middle of the night on some deserted road.as it was november,it began to get real cold.so we finished the bottle and hoped for another car,but there were none.after i realized that we would freeze to death if we had to spend the night there,i decided to stop the next car by any means.in fact i stood in the middle of the street and wouldnt move,so that guy stopped.he was a musician and we were half frozen.he told us that he was on his way to do a gig with his accordeon,and that after he would go to Lille.we came to the house were he should play and i asked him if we could stay inthe car,because it was really cold."oh,you wont stay in the car,you both come with me.i am playing at my sisters wedding!"as i mentioned before the italian guy and i,looked really..ehm freaky,but that didnt matter at all.as we arrived inside we were seated as honory guests at a table especially for us food,wine.etc was served and we felt like being in heaven.after partying for 3 hours,our driver hit the road again and to us to the highway to Paris.we had a little coffee with him and then went hitchhiking again.10 min.later we were on our way to Paris in a Big Mercedes and everything was cool.as we arrived in town the Guy let us out in front of a cemetary.The famous"Pere lachaise",and soon i realized that this was the place where Jim morrison is buried.so my italian "compagnon de route" and i went to see his grave.we met a lot of cool people there who told us where we could spent the night cheaply,so we partied a little and then went to look for a bed.my italian friend and i had a nice dinner,slept good and cheaply and when i opened my eyes in the morning,the bed beside me was empty and this dude,who didnt even tell me his name ,was gone..from a little paper on the table i read-to Naples.well to end this long story a short way,Paris was great.i spend the next 10yrs. of my life there,met my wife and our son was born in this wonderful city.and it all began with a free Breakfast and not a dime in my pocket...:-)(-:
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It was the second flight of the day and I had been up since 3am. I stumbled onto the 737 and slumped in my window seat. Boarding was nearly complete and the two seats next to me were thankfully empty. I closed my eyes for a moment, only to be interrupted by someone moving into the seat next to me. I opened my eyes. A young mother with a toddler and a babe in arms and a pile of bags was struggling to install herself alongside me. Likely a Romanian migrant worker returning home. Inwardly I groaned...small kids normally mean screaming noise for the next 2 hours. A stewardess appeared and started interrogating the young mother and I idly listened while pretending to sleep. At 18 months the toddler was apparently too small to sit in a seat by herself. The woman struggled to understand. I missed the next bit of the argument as I dozed off, only to be tapped firmly on the shoulder by the stewardess and told in no uncertain terms. ‘Sir you have to hold your child’, as the young mother thrust a tiny baby towards me. ‘Uh’ I said quite loudly‘ that’s NOT my child’ The stewardess looked annoyed and confused. People in other seats were looking. Who was this irresponsible parent? ‘That’s not my child’ I repeated. And the stewardess realised her mistake and went red with embarrassment. But she persisted. ‘Well someone has to hold the child during take-off and landing or I will have to remove these people from the flight. Those are our rules’. The young mother looked at me pleadingly, so I caved in and the tiny newborn, just a couple of weeks old, was passed to me and she proceeded to breast-feed the toddler. What a quaint family scene. ‘You must hold it tight’ the bossy stewardess instructed as she headed off up the aisle to do her safety demonstration. So I nervously held the tiny sleeping bundle till we climbed to cruising altitude, terrified that something would happen while the cute infant was in my care. After a bit of sleep my duties recommenced as we descended. Twenty five years simply vanished away as I recognised that tensing of muscles and gurgling vibration as junior emptied his bowels. As we disembarked the woman thanked me profusely, the stewardess was also quite gracious, but several other passengers stared at me accusingly! Not to reinforce any stereotypes or anything, but you have one guess as to the airline!
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Thanks for the tales my friends. If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. William Blake
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The new photo story :-) In Sevilla every April there is a big fair called Feria. Some of you have heard of this, I know, as have been discussing with with a couple of our friends here on site. Anyhow, for the uninformed, is a week long giant fair, full of little (or quite huge) tent-like structures called "casetas", where the Sevillians (plus tourists, plus people from the surrounding countryside) go to meet their friends, eat alot of fried fish, drink beer and manzanilla, and generally have a riotous good time, as Sevillians are so good at that. Is also required to dance "Sevillianas" with dozens of before unknown partners, AND is highly recommended to attend the Feria in traditional flamenco attire. Before Feria, was alot of fun to discuss this flamenco attire with Sunshine Daydream, who was alot more informed about Feria than I was, and also with Hal, who is interested in Flamenco music. Bob made the brilliant suggestion that I needed a tie-dyed flamenco dress, which was not to be this year, sigh! And now on to the photo explanation. A co-worker invited me to lunch the Saturday afternoon right before Feria started. Spent a good hour or so right after lunch, trying on a lovely blue flamenco dress that his wife´s mother had sewn for her. Rocio (the wife) dressed me from head to foot in authentic flamenco get-up, which was a whole lot of fun. Then we went into town to drink a coffee, and spent alot of time window shopping other flamenco dresses. One shop we actually entered, and the next thing I knew, an over-eager shopkeeper had be kitted out AGAIN in classic flamenco style. Tried on two different dresses, gorgeous, but with nauseating numbers on the price tags. Trying on experience developed into a huge shop animation, with all other customers watching and commenting on my appearance. Ended up with being offered a job to model these dresses next year before Feria-evenings and weekends, which absolutely cracked us all up! And there is photographic evidence of this adventure (all dresses and get up) and new photo here is one of them. Was a grate adventure, so story belongs here, I think! ********************************** Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone, you will still exist, but you have ceased to live. Samuel Clemens
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Great adventure My story invloves my Boy Scout troop backpacking for two weeks in New Mexico at the Philmont Ranch in the mountains around Taos. I got my youngest son David involved in scouting to keep off the couch playing video games. My older boys were jocks and rock musicians and David being 8 years younger was kind of langushing. If you know anything about Philmont it is an adventure-it is fun but also meant to test young men. There are no cellphones, no electronics allowed on the trail. You carry everything on your back. The boys are in control they choose and rotate squad leadership. It can also be exhausting as you are hiking about 9,000 feet and coming from Miami thats a challenge. We had been on the trail about 7 days. The dads were having the hardest time being in their late 40's up to 60 years old. On this particular day we started at 4 am because 1. the sun comes up very early out west and two we had a long hike ahead. The day went well we stopped at an old hunters camp so the boys could shoot muskets with a 'Mountain Man" to teach them how. By 4 pm we noticed something was wrong. We were no where near our destination. One of the boys had made a mistake and read the map wrong. We were going to have to back track about 5 miles and hile another 7 miles. There was some grumbingly and apologizing however we pushed on. David pushed his way to the front and stated he wanted to be the lead man. He is very tall and walks fast -psychologically he "pulls" the squad. The views were stunning because we were on top of Mt Phillps and it is !1,900 feet high. By 7 pm it was dark we were down to 3 quarts of water for 12 people and still about 5 miles away. now it was starting to get hairy. All you could see was the person in ftont of you and one misstep and you were off a cliff with a 3-4000 foot drop. Some boys started to whimper and David started telling jokes. Laughter broke out. At 11 pm we got to camp-the rangers were aghast at what happened they put us up for the night in real beds instead of sleeping bags. The next day spirits were high and the boys were proud they survived. My son and his friends still talk about it. And the road goes on forever.... BobbaLee
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Tiger Lilly I knew there was a very interesting story to your photo. Usually when I see someone’s photo on this site I always try to imagine ones story of the photo which is pasted to ones words. I always look at the photo and think who is this person or what does this represent etc. I first posted my daughters photo, but then I started challenging the State, so then I decided I had to show at least my face and protect my daughter, so I decided to show my family, but then the State became too angry, so I put my photo up there for the day and thought fuck, why should a caption of me from a time that only I can explain shield the State. So I eventually put up the backdrop of my last photo. The hills and the pool. Anyway, you have had 3 photos posted so far. The first one if I can remember was a young girl with blonde hair. Maybe my memory is off a bit. Anyway, it looks as if you enjoyed the moment and let’s see more of these photos. Sexy, intelligent, intangible, and in a room full of mirrors reflecting on time. That’s what I think of when I see that photo.
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the more the better..thanks TL and Bobbalee!
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Liked your airplane/infant adventure too! ;-) Have a new one about basic human kindness, so will share. The apartment building I live in here is basically all older people and me. Building has 3 floors, European (4 American), with 3 apartments on each floor-so are not too many of us altogether. When I first moved in, these older people (mostly widows living alone, from what I can tell) were friendly enough, but were obviously curious and wary of the new "Guiri" (foreigner) so strange and alone. Would catch bits and pieces of their conversation in the hall that would stop suddenly when I passed by-but suspect that this phenomena is normal in every corner of the world. One little old fiesty gal, with two bad hips who has to be pushing 90 was especially penetrating in her staring after me. One evening even had a small discussion with her in the hall on the stairs, she was trying to block me climbing the stairs, with her crutches, because I "do not belong here". One evening, I encountered her one evening coming home from work. She was trying to toddle up the stairs on her apparantely quite painful hips, carry her crutches, AND a bag of shopping. I did what every normal person should do, under the circumstances, and very politely asked her whether I could not carry her bags for her. She agreed, so we climbed the stairs together, at the pace of a snail, until we reached her apartment on the 2nd floor of the house. At the door, she invited me in, so I went with her. This woman was talking a mile a minute to me by this point-very proudly showing me her home, and that she was a good Catholic who had the required crucifix in every room of her home. Her rapid-fire Sevillian dialect was somewhat difficult to understand, but got enough of it to at least follow her general themes. She was asking me questions as well, where I came from, what I was doing here, etc etc. So I told her bits and pieces. Told her had moved from Germany to work, and that my children were still there, not too much, but the basics. "Chatted" with her for 20 minutes or so, then made my escape, telling her to phone up on the phone for the front door lock, if she ever needed help with carrying things again and fled. WELL, the next few days, noticed a very obvious new warmth in the greetings I got on the stairs, from everyone else in the building. Was suddenly "hija" (daughter) and "mi vida" and was getting genuinly warm smiles. Seems that the scouting mission of the older woman had been successful. Was no longer the "friki Guiri" but a woman with children, just like them. Greetings had always been polite enough, but never that warm before. (For a while they all thought I was a woman of "loose morals at best" but is another story :-) And then I was coming home from work the other day, and encountered the woman with the crutches in her doorway. She started her machine gun dialogue at me again, and what was coming out was this: She told me she had decided that when she is cooking for herself each day, she could cook for me as well- as"cooking for two is no more work than cooking for one", and that I "am so alone, and go off every day to work for my children, and am way way way too thin, and have such beautiful sad eyes". She said that I could knock every day to pick up my dinner, and either take it up with me, or even occasionally eat with her. I told her that this was not necessary, but was so touched that I sniffled my way up to my place, when I left her. As soon I was up the level to my floor, I encountered my immediate next door neighbor in her doorway, who told me that she noticed that I leave early in the morning, which must make it difficult to meet the gas delivery truck, when my bottle is empty (here the water is heated by a gas bottle, and a truck comes Monday mornings with new ones-when mine is empty, shout out the window to the guy that I need a bottle, and he brings it up, very archaic but very funny!!!) Anhow this neighbor told me that when I need a new bottle, I should put my old out outside the door, put the money for the new one underneath the bottle, and when the gas man came, she would take care of it for me. Moral of the story: Just a tiny bit of sharing personal information can go a long way to change wariness to acceptance, and the right basic fact being shared can turn total strangers into just another human. ********************************** Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone, you will still exist, but you have ceased to live. Samuel Clemens
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Heartwarming. Further proof that most people are decent, and the few who are scoundrels shouldn't get the rest of us down. Thanks for sharing! Conversation is always more interesting than recitation, so speak your mind and not someone else's.
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In my little learn-all-about Spain for foreigners "In the Garlic" guiri is spelled like that, with gu. ********************************** Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone, you will still exist, but you have ceased to live. Samuel Clemens
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i never knew how to spell it, just spell it like it sounds. They can probably understand someone working to send money back to their family. So many Andalucians worked abroad for that reason, around here it was mostly Germany and Andorra as well as Barcelona. There is no work here. Bob - - - - - - - - - - - - - - http://spanishsunshinedaydream.blogspot.com/ http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?id=633338979 Spanish Jam
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greetings to all the old ladies! I got home yesterday after being out of town for a few days to learn that one of my favorite neighbors had a heart attack and died while I was gone. This is going to leave a huge hole in the neighborhood.
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There are lots here, about half the village. In the cemetery in the village to see 90 on a gravestone is not unusual, quite a few over 100 it is the clean mountain air and the fact that they are tough mothers Bob - - - - - - - - - - - - - - http://spanishsunshinedaydream.blogspot.com/ http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?id=633338979 Spanish Jam
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So I arrive at Cluj airport in provincial Romania for a Lufthansa regional flight to Munich then home. But when I arrive the flight is cancelled as those pesky Lufthansa pilots are striking. The poor staff in the tiny airport can hardly cope with this but I manage to get myself rerouted via Madrid. Soon I am on the bus out to the plane, but suddenly we come to a halt. This is what we see. A Romanian Airlines 737 is trying to leave but has to squeeze itself between two other parked planes (the only other planes on the apron: one of them mine). Everyone has parked badly so It’s a tight squeeze and the pilot comes to a halt. Soon ten ground crew are running about, some waving him this way, some waving him that, some saying go, some shouting to stop and one just shrugging his shoulders. The pilot creeps forward another six feet. His right wingtip is now above the nosecone of an MD80, 6 feet from the windscreen, and his left wingtip is about to take out the side of another Romanian airlines 737. Some ground crew are still waving him forward, but he shuts the engines and we have airplane gridlock. By now it’s way too hot on the bus and someone bangs on the drivers cab to open the doors, which he does. We all jump out onto the tarmac to cool down and watch the show. Security what security? The obvious solution would be to get a tractor and push one of the planes back a bit…but one of them is on the edge of the grass, and it would be hard to fit a tractor between the other two. And ... they don’t seem to have a tractor anyway. Meanwhile another plane lands, taxis to the apron and is about to block in all the other planes. As ground crew run around waving, at the last moment the pilot realizes what is going on, executes a tight U turn close to the three stranded planes and parks elsewhere. So how do they fix it..Yes! 20 ground crew put their shoulders to the landing wheels and manage after 5 minutes heaving to roll a fully fuelled 737 back 10 feet, so the wedged plane is able to squeeze through and leave. 30 minutes later my flight follows and I am now telling this story from Madrid airport! The joys of modern travel! If you saw it in a film you wouldn’t believe it.
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Incredible, Badger!********************************** Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone, you will still exist, but you have ceased to live. Samuel Clemens
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I'm certainly glad you got through that one safely!
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I think it was 11 years ago my dog and I backpacked from Crescent City, CA. to Mt. Shasta,CA. It was about a 230 mile hike. From the ocean we went right into the redwoods at Jedidiah Smith St. Park, and then up into the Siskiyou Wilderness Area. Down Clear Creek to the Klamath River. Up the Klamath to the town of Happy Camp, CA. From there up to the Marble Mt. Wilderness area where we hit the Pacific Crest Trail. Stayed on that through the Russian Peak and Trinity Alps Wilderness Areas. Then at Mt. Eddy we turned off onto the Sisson-Callahan Trail and down to Lake Siskiyou and into Mt. Shasta. 90% ot the hike was on trails and about 10% on dirt roads with one eight mile stretch of paved Hwy.96 from Clear Creek to Happy Camp. Would have liked to see this hike become a real trail. You could start or end at the top of 14,162 ft. Mt. Shasta. or the Sierra Club cabin at 8,000 ft. level on Shasta. It took us 3 unforgettable weeks. Awesome!
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just to say I am off to Indonesia for a couple of weeks. I will report back with any good stories. Maybe its good to take break from here 'cause I am told I am not funny enough these days (even though most of my secret invisible friends disagree :-P ) Take care everyone and I hope you all get the tickets you want in the great rush. And I hope you get the rush you want too ;-)
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My parents were there in '69 when we were living in the Phillipines and this xmas they got all the photo slides digitalized and we have enjoying them. It is a beautiful country and a very interesting culture. Have a great time. peace,pk
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Ok not sure where to post this but I have been wondering about the deads stage and how they put it up and down with the crew roadies etcs. On this tour and maybe other longer tours are there 2 stages that are the same and they leap frog around or do they break it down one night get to next location and rebuild it???Not sure who can answer but guesses are welcome thanks see ya in the lot! Nuthin left to do ....
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I think you want the In Search of Info topic.
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For shure there's only one ``rig``. Load in and load out the same day. Techs travel by night to the next venue and do it again. Don't worry, could and should be a lot of fun. these guys just love their job. Thanks them if you have a chance. Share the Love! Richard.
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and a great time at the Gorge! Did get a little toasted sitting in the free parking lot all day. Missed the Doobies and most of the Allmans before it got cool enough to leave the doggie in the car.. God bless the Grateful Dead for keeping the dream alive, they were smokin! Phil even stared me in the binoculars for like 3 seconds and flicked me a note! Dark Star, Eyes, I loved it. Got up real close and got one of the four drumsticks the stage crew guy gave out after the show. Drove 2,600 miles in 12 days and saw a little of every state that borders Oregon.(Washington, Idaho, Nevada, California) Saw Sahallie Falls, Painted Hills, John Day and Grande Rhonde rivers, crossed the Blue Mts., Paloose Falls, before the show. After saw the Wallawa's, Stawberries, Steens Mt., Hart Mt., and home through the redwoods of California. One day went from Mickey Hot Springs on the east side of Steens Mt. to Hart Mt. Hot Springs the next day in Hart Mt. National Antelope Refuge. I've named this drive the "Mickey-Hart Hot Springs Highway" and on a beautiful day in May with snow on the higher peaks it's one of the nicest anywhere. Got my Ratdog ticket for August and can't wait!
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greetings from Syktyvkar in the Komi Republic in Northern Russia. Here for a few days then heading towards the arctic circle by helicopter. What fun. As ever GD on the Ipod. Listened to DP 12 on the flight up, to take my mind off the 40 year old Tupolev 134 jet swaying around in the night sky. It even had a glass nose for the navigator/bomb aimer. ain't wifi great!

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Safe travels Mr. Badger, I sure hope you're enjoyin' the ride in that old Tu-134... Did you know that plane's NATO codename is 'Crusty'? Hurry back to the comforts of your badger sett. (Badgers live together in large extensive systems of underground tunnels or catacombs and nesting chambers called "setts", that are huge tunnel systems, in some cases, actually centuries old.) P.S. I enjoyed reading your suggestion to return defective Winterland '77 discs to the Rhinos, with the $5,000 valuation. Give them a taste of their own medicine... HAHAHAHA
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have the 4 winds take care of you.
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Just back from 3 days in Paris-a combination work/show new company owner Paris trip. On Friday night we were in this most bizarre restaurant I have ever seen. A combination of old fanshioned oppulence, (gold filagree on the ornate doors, chandaliers, red velvet tapestries, marble floors) and utter tackiness-snakeskin toilet and sink, AND an 8 foot tall onyx black rhinocerous statue in the foyer. I took a photo of this rhino for all you guys, but sadly did not come out too well. Today & tomorrow at home, and then Wed-Sunday in Essen, Germany, then Mon-Wed home, and Thursday-Sunday at Lucca in Italy. My first time ever in Italy.********************************** Education: that which reveals to the wise, and conceals from the stupid, the vast limits of their knowledge. Mark Twain
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safe travels youse two. love&peace
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We climbed into the ancient battered MI-8 helicopter and with a deafening, vibrating roar lifted off into the grey skies of the Russian North. For 4 hours we flew over endless forest without a sign of people, vast, magnificent tracts with an occasional huge winding river. The first snows of winter had arrived and the trees looked like someone had shaken icing sugar over them. We were in the 500foot space between the clouds and the trees, dodging snow flurries, but it was so beautiful out there I forgot to be scared. Three times we tried to climb above the clouds to see the peaks of the Ural Mountains, but three times we were had to retreat because of bad visibility. Eventually we stopped at a remote mining camp and drank vodka and ate smoked reindeer meat with the owners until our pilot urged us to leave as more snow was coming in. We dashed to the chopper and flew the last ½ hour to the city of Inta as the light was fading. In order to avoid paying landing fees at the airport the pilot dropped us on the top of the spoil heap from the city coal fired power station. We jumped out with our bags and the chopper vanished into the snow, while we stood there freezing, phoning for someone to pick us up from town. It was a fifteen minute wait for a taxi to appear so we kept warm with a couple of shots of vodka. Inta city was founded in the 1930s in the Stalinist era as a Gulag, a camp for political prisoners 50 miles from the arctic circle, and grew rapidly when coal was found there. At its peak there were 27000 prisoners there, men and women forced to work as slaves in the coal mines, on road and railway construction, in brick kilns and on constructing the city. They were given a diet of 550 grammes of bread and soup a day, even in winter when the temperature drops to 40 or 50 C below zero. For the most part their crime was to come from a bourgeois family, to have said or written something wrong or just to be related to someone who had done such a thing. People died in their thousands, but ironically the coal they dug probably saved Russia in WW2,as the other coal and oil fields were in the war zone. When the camps closed in the 1950s many stayed on (they had nowhere else to go) and built the city and worked the mines (this time with a wage). The city museum has a very moving exhibition on the Gulag. Many prisoners hid messages in the walls of the buildings they constructed and now they are on display. Desperate attempts to be remembered amidst the nightmare of their forgotten lives. Like the Nazis and the Khmer rouge, the Stalinists kept meticulous records. Lists of transportees, the living and the dead. Photos of gaunt broken people. The city is not beautiful, but the people there, mainly the descendants of the prisoners (and their guards) have an amazing spirit of community and a deep love of the home they built in the frozen wastes. Each year they celebrate 'Victims of Repression' day. But now nobody wants their dirty coal, the next generation is leaving and the city is dying. A determined group of local leaders is trying to find new ways revive their city, as a centre for wilderness adventures and arctic tourism. But walking the streets at night in the biting cold, the smell of coal smoke stinging my nostrils, I was walking with the ghosts of the Gulag. We are so lucky.
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thanks for the travelogue. Stay safe...
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cool shit, as always badger. stay safe, mate. cheers.
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Our friend Frankly is today heading from the Czech Republic to swinging London for a great adventure into the unknown. I think he knows already that the streets are not paved with gold, but lots of good things can happen in that city. Here's wishing him a safe, happy and productive time.
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i love to read your travelogues... you write so well and your destinations are interesting and unique. safe travels, sir-caroline
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Frankly Conversation is always more interesting than recitation, so speak your mind and not someone else's.
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to Frankly! I love London, not that I've been there for 30 years.
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I am in the city of Kavardaci in the south of the Republic of Macedonia in the Balkans. It is a famous wine area and today the local grape growers started a direct action against the low prices being offered for their grapes this year by the big wine producers. The low prices are because of over production last year, the warehouses are full and the retail prices at rock bottom. The growers have now blockaded all roads in and out of the city with their tractors and are not letting anyone in or out! So here I am, stranded for an indeterminate period in a city full of cheap (and delicious) wine! What a dilemma!!!
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quit wineing... Conversation is always more interesting than recitation, so speak your mind and not someone else's.
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Breaks my heart to read that sad, distressing post. And a strike! You must feel like you're right at home.********************************** By trying we can easily learn to endure adversity -- another man's I mean. Mark Twain
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after 3 days we escaped the blockade of Kavadarci thanks to the intervention of 2 mayors, 2 police chiefs and the United Nations and a long long wait while negotiations took place. Eventually the tractors were moved and we were allowed to leave. SHorlty afterwards the growers got a price hike for their grapes and the dispute was settled. So its back in Skopje, away from the wine lake and on to the BEER FESTIVAL. Great fun last night with some fine brews and loud gypsy-punk-ska bands. I do work on these trips too...honest
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I am trying to wrap my brain around gypsy-punk-ska. Clearly I have led a sheltered life.
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How about Lithuanian rap? :) Saw that live at a festival this summer.********************************** By trying we can easily learn to endure adversity -- another man's I mean. Mark Twain
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ATTENTION ALL FAMILY: A great kid needs your help! I'm Mindy, my fiance Chris from Conneticut, one of the kindest realiest kids was popped on some old warrants on the way into Moe DOWN, Chris has had some very bad luck in his life. He has spent the past 2 years in the hospital, he has had 2 open heart surgerys, a heart attack and a stroke at 27, all caused by an abbcessed tooth. I thought because of his medical conditions they wouldn't keep him in jail, but they came down from a 9 month sentence or 5k fine to 90 days or 1k fine, but he isn't getting the medical attention he needs, I have to get him out. Fortunately for me some great family, Woodstock Ron from Utica took me in. but we haven't been able to come up with the bail money. I need to get him out as soon as possible and was hoping that if any of you kind dead folks here could help out with donations it would be gratefully appreciated. Any amount will help and would be payed forward. You can send donations to Mindy Riffle at 1610 Sunset ave. Utica Ny. 13502. I hope that we can get Chris out, get him to his many doctors,get him some rest and then see you all on November tour. Forever Grateful, Mindy