From Platform 4 to 13

Trains are new to me. Having spent my entire adolescence sponging rides off my mom and dad and then bumming them from friends when I hit high school, there was never any need. That and the fact that Canada isn't a huge supporter of train networking leads me to where I am today, alone in Florence's train station, trying to print my ticket. I decided I'd save a few bucks by booking THE cheapest ticket I could find online. I was offered a second-class, extra slow-moving, piece-of-shit-but-I'll-take-it-anyway, one-way ticket to Rome. My luck ran out when reached the station and found that my confirmation number was invalid. I turned to the first member of staff I could find; a middle-aged woman with a sneering smile and crooked teeth. Her straw-like hair was scraped into a tiny bun at the base of her skull and I couldn't help but shiver from the cool air that emanated from her vacant smile. In the middle of explaining my dilemma, she shooed me away while mumbling something about the ticket booth.

Waiting in line I couldn't keep my eyes off the clock. I started out with 30 minutes to kill before my train left and that once plump number was quickly whittled  down to 10 in the blink of an eye. I began to panic and left the queue and found the same woman who had originally "helped" me. Surprisingly, she collected my papers and found the first open ticket window. I think her generosity was more of an attempt at getting rid of me. It wasn't until she turned on her heel and click-clacked her way back to me that I saw the wide sneer plastered across her cardboard face. The code was invalid, alright.

I rummaged through my head looking for a solution, I knew I placed one somewhere around here. Searching the woman's face for some kind of sympathy, I went out on a limb and asked her what I should do. 7 minutes. She shrugged and said check the number again before walking away. I did a quick evaluation of my options before grabbing my heavy pack and flew down the stairs that led to the metro. I ran up and down the halls, made a left, and then heaved a sigh of relief when I found the giant "@" sign I had been looking for. No scratch that, praying for. 5 minutes. Not wanting to waist time, I flew through the cafe's doors, tossed the cashier a 1 Euro coin, and began hammering furiously on the first keyboard I could get my hands on. I signed into gmail, pulled up the confirmation email, scrolled through the small print, and found it, yes, the confirmation numbers were the same. 2 minutes. Hot with anger I threw my pack over my shoulder and set off down the hall in a dead sprint. Skidding around corners and crashing into other innocent bystanders, I made it up the 2 flights of stairs and nearly collapsed, I was so out of breath. Frantically I searched the platform numbers until I found number 4, empty. I squinted my eyes, focusing on further down the tracks and could just make out a departing train, my hopes of getting to Rome waving neatly from the window.

Thinking my luck was bound to change, I approached a plump, hopefully more friendly station employee and delivered my story with as much despair and sadness I could muster. I think I might have even stuck out the bottom lip once or twice. The woman hummed and ha'd along with my elaborate tale and just as I finished and flashed her my most desperate pleading face along with watering eyes, her features turned dark like someone had switched out the light. She crossed her arms and said in a thick, snarling but somehow still beautiful Italian voice, "You want to go to Roma?" I nodded furiously, "Then go buy another ticket." And she stormed off.

I let my pack slide from shoulders with disappointment before it landed with a heavy thud on the cement platform. I didn't have any money left in my bank account, my credit card was maxed out, and all I had for cash in my purse was a crumpled up, sad looking 5 Euro note. But the part that stung the most was that I had no one beside me to share the disappointment with. I was alone. And this painful burden was mine.

I sat there alone on the cool cement floor just watching. The people continued to board trains and leave them, shuffle from platform to platform, say their good-byes and welcome backs, and that's when it hit me. I was stunned at first, maybe even a little hurt, but what matters is that it got to me. People kept on moving. Trains kept to their schedules. No one stopped because of my tragic streak of misfortune, no one cared. This world was going to keep on living and breathing and growing, with or without me.

So I slowly rose to my feet, pack secured to my back, and I marched over to the station's huge schedule lit up in yellow and green. With a quick skim through I found it, platform 13, my saving grace. I weaved between fellow travelers until I stood face-to-face with Trenitalia's 14:16 to Roma. I took the first step like you do a leap of faith, knowing all too well what I was getting myself into. But I didn't care. I boarded the train anyway. It was when I began to walk down the aisle I started noticing things. The over sized plush seats, the squishy red carpet that I could practically feel massaging my toes through my dirty sneakers, the leg room people over 6 feet dream off, and the men dressed in neatly pressed suits.


Shit. 


In an attempt to double back and get the hell out of there, I crushed a woman's neatly combed up-do with my pack and nearly sent her glasses flying. The whistle sounded and the doors shut. There was no going back. I ditched my bags in a very posh looking luggage bin and took my seat next to a wanna be stock broker with big pink cheeks and silver framed glasses. Don't worry, they hardly ever check tick-, I tried to reassure myself but was cut short but the soft calling for biggliettas. I peeked my head out into the isle just quick enough to see the small ticket woman coming my way. With my thoughts swirling together in a big jumbled mess, I did the first thing that came to mind. I closed my eyes, let my mouth fall ajar, and did the best damn imitation snore of my life. I could hear my heart beat rattling in head, bouncing around against my skull. And her footsteps getting closer were like a steady jackhammer. A waft of floral daisies let me know she had reached my row, and in a whispered voice she checked the tickets of those nearby and continued on. Anyone carrying a pair of fresh undies in their Armani briefcases today?

The train arrived in Rome in just over an hour. I did the fake sleep routine twice during that time and was never bothered. When I stepped off the train the weighted feeling of disappointment and loneliness seemed to some how muted themselves and I felt like a feather floating in the wind. Sure, I was alone, but for today I was on top of the world.

A Sight For Sore Eyes

I left Venice after a few days with a heavy heart and an even heavier stomach. But aside from the good food, spectacular architecture, and winding waterways I had already expected, there wasn't much anchoring me to the city. Sounds crazy, I know, describing this majestic city with a whirlwind of adjectives and then summon the nerve to say it wasn't good enough. But all of these things, the gondolas, the street vendors, the wave after wave of blatant tourists seemed somehow staged. As if there was nothing past the picture on the postcard. I was beginning to question whether or not that Italian magic everyone talks about really existed.

Then I headed South to Florence. There I once again dipped into the couchsurfing bank and spent the next couple of days with an Italian speaking Turkish medical student. While he was away at class, I took to the sights. Well, to be perfectly honest I sprinted from awning to awning avoiding the blistering rays from the 35 degree sun and indulged in one or two cups of flavored gelati. During one of my walk abouts I found myself at the bus station, timetable in hand, and just enough money to get to Siena and back again before night fall. So I boarded the bus and set off for a new city; one that I hoped would deliver me the little slice of Italy I had been dreaming about.

Siena was beautiful, of course. But it was a mind-numbing, what's-next-on-the-agenda kind of beautiful. I wandered through the medieval city but couldn't stop myself from checking my watch, bored. With the heat almost unbearable, I had thrown on a light cotton skirt and a white tank top before I left and could already feel the beads of sweat trickling down the backs of my legs.

I admired the Gothic architecture of Siena's cathedral before finding myself melting in a pool of my own sweat in the Palazzo Pubblico. Cafe patios were buzzing with conversation as the patrons drank their iced cappuccinos and sought refuge under the cool awnings. Still standing in the sweltering heat, I began rocking from side to side. White dots speckled my vision and I became light headed within seconds. But before I had the chance to collapse and make a complete fool of myself in this busy square, a giant gush of wind was summoned from God knows where, snapping me back to the present. I exhaled a sigh of relief before noticing all of the gawking faces that were now directed towards me. Following their horrified glares, I looked down only to notice two pasty white legs, unaccompanied by the previous mentioned cotton skirt. My cheeks flushing red I reefed the skirt down from around my waist where it sat scrunched up after the sudden gush of wind and looked around frantically for an escape route. Tourists who had stopped to watch the spectacle began giggling uncontrollably and their stifled  laughs followed me as I tried to navigate my way through the old city. When I finally reached the bus station, I collapsed on a bench, out of breathe, but relieved none-the-less. When the shock of having flashed the entire population of Siena wore off, I couldn't help but laugh at myself, bare ass and all.

I didn't find the magic of Italy in Tuscany's medieval city. But I think in a way my little fiasco in the square was a reminder that it's out there, somewhere, but it won't be giving itself up without a fight.

How to Stay Afloat

Can you feel it? The sinking of the Earth beneath your feet? The slow and steady slurping of the sea, the gulping of the waves? I can feel the rumbling earth beneath my worn soles: I can feel the water swallowing us whole. Can you feel it?

The vendors line the alleys side by side and sell their beautiful trinkets. Sequin masks beautifully painted along with little stamped and printed copies of artwork that was once real. And there, stands a beggar, next to the hand painted crafts. Hunched over in the stifling heat to steady herself, she rocks.

The gondola man beckons, his song so sweet. They’ll dig further into their pockets, a wealthy price for a slice of Italian life.

So long as the gondola glides, the beggars will beg. With the weight of this world a much too large burden to mask the green eyed sea, the world will continue to crumble, and be swallowed by the sea. Tell me, can you feel it? 

Serenissima: Venice; the Most Serene

Stepping off the train onto the platform, I struggled with my luggage. A woman sitting on a bench across from me choked down the last few puffs of her cigarette before flicking the butt away and I cringed at her broken smile. The air around me was thick and my t-shirt clung to my back with sticky sweat. After swinging my pack over my aching shoulders, I followed the herding crowd to the double doors that opened to the streets. On the other side I squinted against the sun's bright light and blinked again and again until I'd adjusted to the world around me. What I saw was no Western city, no buses, no sky scrappers. Instead the bustling streets that I had grown accustomed to were replaced by winding waterways, lengthy canals, and a steady thrumming from the engines of the boats that cruised down the waterways.

Stepping onto the Number 1 boat I took in the city that surrounded me. Merely floating on the tepid waves, the entire city crammed together in an enchanting collage of color. Peach washed apartment building walls lined the canal with their hanging flower baskets over flowing with spiraling vines and violet buds. My eyes drank in the warmth from the setting sun with a satisfying gulp and I couldn't help but sigh with regret as the city darkened, the last image, the silhouette the Rialto Bridge.

The water sloshed onto the dock with my leaving the ferry and I could feel the night's chill sweep in off the canal. After dropping my bag at the hostel, I took to the streets that had just begun to wake. Music buzzed along the alleyways and I could feel its rhythm tickling my skin. I turned left, then right, then left again, until the sweetest smell enveloped me in a drunken haze and it was then that I surrendered to a white and red checkered table cloth and a place setting for one. I sat down and watched the gondolas float lazily down an open passage, and watched as lovers skipped over chipped and worn cobblestone. When the waiter approached me I panicked, not having properly studied the menu, I was lost. I turned my instincts, closed my eyes, and pointed to the first thing I saw. He beckoned me to view the wine list and I shook my head, not ready to drink alone.

Instead I watched this ancient city glide gracefully through the night as if a painting moving in its frame. I could feel the electric energy of the people through every nerve ending in my body and couldn't help but float on this high.

When my order reached me I gawked at the tabletop size of the steaming pizza I had ordered. With greedy eyes I pulled apart a piece of the soft dough and bit into the melting cheese. The basil pampered my taste buds as the fresh mozzarella rolled down my throat. Soon after my love affair had begun the waiter approached me. With a mouthful of everything good in this world, I managed to string together a few incomprehensible words, "How's about that wine?"

A Finnish Fairytale

Finnish people are one tough breed. They've a messy history of fighting off the greedy hands of their neighbors, Sweden and Russia, battling famine, and ultimately keeping their own identity and culture in check. During Swedish occupancy in the 12th century, the Finnish language was spoken only by commoners and the country's native tongue began to quickly diminish. It wasn't long after that the Russian Empire extended its borders and made Finland a Grand Duchy. Along with a strong Russian influence came the famine and nearly 15% of the population was lost. But after load and load of crap was dumped on these people, they still managed to wade through the mess and in 1919 the country elected its very first president.

But it's not just the country's violent past that's left a lasting mark on these people of the North. Their language, quite possibly one of the most difficult in the world to learn, doesn't sympathize with history. Sounding like a combination of Japanese and Spanish but relating closest to Hungarian, true Finnish speakers have got it tough when it comes to learning their ABC's. It's no surprise that the Finnish would be the ones to master such a complex language. The country's educational system kicks the rest of Europe's ass ten fold.

But like every story there are two sides. When first arriving in Helsinki I thought I had hopped on the wrong plane and was returning to Prague. The locals didn't like being asked for directions or help or anything really, never mind being asked to lend out their cell phone in a time of dire need. It wasn't until after having spent a few days in a Finnish house hold that I realized the intimacy and importance that these people place on relationships. While Canadians are off chatting up the entire universe and forgetting every new acquaintance's name, the Finnish go on with their lives and don't pretend like every stranger on a train could potentially be their new best friend. They're calm and collected, stern but precise, and to the outside world they just might seem a little more reserved and chilly than your average Joe.

"The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction."

There is however an unexposed softness that the country possesses and just as it should, it comes in the form of romance. Just a short train ride away from Helsinki is the country's third largest city, Tampere. Here, like many other European cities you'll find the ever so popular Love Padlocks. On the Tammerkoski Rapids overpass and the Rönö bridge there hangs padlock after padlock secured to the bridges' rails by young budding couples who lock away their love and throw away the key. A little cliche, I know, but no matter where you're from or where you go, you'll always come head on with the likes of a hopeless romantic, and let me tell you, from one cynic to another, the world could use a little more love.

Swedish Meatballs

I look up, long bay windows stretch the length of the first floor and intricate metal works frame each pane. I let my eyes drink in the soft burnt orange that swathes every corner and can't help but fix my stare on the steeple that towers over me. The Stockholm Cathedral is but one of the many architectural feats that I've witnessed so far in Stockholm. Frying schnitzel, homemade donuts, and freshly made stroopvaffel swirl together and float past me as I lower my eyes to the street I've been walking along for the past couple of hours. Broken cobblestone paths weave between rows of brightly painted buildings that lead to Stortoget, the city's hub for the multi-cultural market.

We head left down to the harbor, walking along the bay in non-hurried steps and listen to the slapping waves. A couple holding hands smiles as they walk past us and I let my ears follow them as a wave of Swedish rolls from their tongues. There's something about this city that embraces outsiders with its charming nature and friendly locals.

After an exhausting day of wandering the streets of Stockholm, Henrique and I start heading back to his flat. On the way we both become distracted by a shop across the road. Abandoning our in depth conversation, we give each other knowing looks and follow our noses to the root of our diversion. We take our seats on two patio chairs outside the shop and motion for the waiter. Ten minutes later we're greeted by two plates pilled high with creamy mashed potatoes and steaming Swedish meatballs slathered in cranberry sauce. Sometimes things just can't get any better.

My Brazilian Amigo: Couchsurfing Gone Right

Because Sweden is so well recognized within the international community thanks to H&M and Ikea, it only felt natural to add it to my list. Arriving well into a Saturday night, the streets were buzzing with energy and the entire city seemed to spot an intoxicated haze. Weaving between out of control taxis and staggering drunks, I found a nook along the outside wall of the rail station and waited patiently for my couchsurfing host.

Henrique, a Brazilian born optimist and Swedish loving meatball eater, was exactly what my Sverge experience needed. His kind demeanor was decipherable through his hazelnut eyes from the moment I saw him and his ear to ear grin reminded me of a benevolence I'd long since forgotten. Spending time with Henrique was so natural and soon after introductions we were talking like two old friends. His quirky sense of humor often left me in knots and occasionally a little dumbfounded. We talked openly about our pasts, our presents, and our hopes for the future. But what I liked most about Henrique was how he described the world through his own eyes. He broke down everyday literal interactions and found a hidden and deeper meaning. He was non judge-mental and seemed to have a cool and collected way of making sense of our crazy world.

I believe that people are in your life for a reason, a season, or a life-time. It might be years before we cross paths again, but I know that when we do, we'll pick up right where we left off, never having missed a beat.

Vestmannaeyjar: The Westman Islands

On Thursday I decided that I had had enough of mainland Iceland. I was enjoying the country and small trips outside Reykjavik, but something deep down was egging me to go one step further. So I did a little research and came to the conclusion that the Westman Islands would be just as good a place to visit as any. As I began booking my 2 day excursion to the secluded island, I ran into a bit of a problem (and when I say a bit of a problem I mean a brick wall). There were two ferry ports that transported people from the mainland to the island and the ports were two hours apart from each other. That was all fine and dandy until I realized their schedules were based solely on the weather and that only one port operated at a time. This meant that at any moment the departure town could change along with the scheduled time. I found it difficult to wrap my head around this concept and continued to question whether or not this trip would be worth it.

When the time finally came for me to get that show on the road, I was shuffled awkwardly from bus to bus by various drivers, whom none of which actually knew which port to go to. Assuming they knew what was what, I boarded the first bus, took my seat, and hoped like hell I was going to the right place. When the bus rolled to a stop in front of a congested ferry terminal, I was able to rest easy knowing I had made it.

Heimaey, the largest of the Westmand Islands, was one of my favorite places in Iceland. I spent two days strolling along the cliff edges and listening to the water splash against the shore. The air was so fresh and cool that I felt more awake wandering through pastures and spotting puffins than I had in ages. Determined to hike one of the island's volcanoes, I challenged Eldfell. Half an hour into the trek and half way up the side of the volcano, I began slowly sliding downwards. The volcanic rock beneath my feet was so fragile that it kept chipping into tiny flakes and would shift with every step. I struggled at first, scared of losing my footing and tumbling down into the canyon, and then shifted gears and made a mad dash for the top. With the wind whipping my hair around in a mad frenzy and the sun's last rays seeping through my flannel shirt, I ignored the groans from my calves and pushed my body forwards. Once having crested the summit, I was able to take in the tiny community below, the ferry port to the West, and all of the tiny islands that bobbed along the coast with a breath of achievement. But there was something strange about being on top of this volcano that I couldn't put my finger on. It wasn't until I strained my ears that I was able to pin point what it was. Silence. It was just me, the sea, and a very steep hike back.

Second Star to the Right and Straight on Till Morning

Draft.

Eyjafjallajökull: A.K.A The Icelandic Volcano that Erupted

Living in a place like Iceland can have its setbacks. From ferry schedules based solely on weather forecasts to freak snow storms that hinder road transport, Icelandic people have seen it all. But in 2010 not only the residents of Iceland were affected by the eruption of one of the country’s most active volcanoes.

Located on the Southern tip of the island, Eyjafjallajökull, pronounced Eh-ya-fyat-la-yuh-cuttle, released a violent cloud of volcanic ash that hovered South East along the jet stream bringing air traffic to a halt for weeks; the greatest disturbance in air traffic since WW II. Nearly 500 local farmers and their families were evacuated from the site, and thousands of travels throughout Europe were left stranded.

Ever wonder how a volcano erupts and why?

A volcanic eruption is the change in volume and density of molten rock. Deep below the funnel of a volcano is a series of channels and layers of sediment. Depending on the rock and its proximity to higher temperatures, it will melt into magma. Magma, being less dense than the rock surrounding it, floats towards the surface and is encapsulated into little magma chambers. During this rise to the surface, components such as water, sulfur dioxide, and carbon dioxide expand into steam and when they are pressurized in these chambers, causing an eruption.

A new eruption can be caused by the buoyancy of the magma which deciphers how quickly the magma rises and pressure levels of the gases inside the magma.

Eyjafjallajökull was just an inside glance at how powerful our Earth really is. Because when it comes down to man vs nature, we all know who the undefeated champ really is.

Resouces:
www.vulcan.wr.usgs.gov
www.universetoday.com
www.earthmuseum.see.uwa.edu.au