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It’s hard to believe it’s been an entire year since my journey-of-a-lifetime backpacking EuroTrip of 2004. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it every day. Some apparitions are as brief as a glance at my Mac desktop background: the satin, moonlit harbor promenade of Split, Croatia. Others are more vivid, as I recreate entire evenings in my mind, pacing through memories of European meals, nighttime walks and tiny Italian bars. While this writing session will likely be more therapeutic for me than informative for you, I hope it will give you a glimpse of what inspired me to create this site.

When my mind drifts back, the first things I remember are the smells. Last week, I was on my way to the train when a distinctive scent hit my brain — the sweet aroma of wet summer garbage mixed with cigarette smoke. Immediately I was back in Paris, watching Rue Mouffetard shopkeepers sweep a night’s worth of loose trash and Gitanes into a swiftly flowing stream of gutter water. It’s an intimately familiar smell to the early morning wanderer.

This is not to suggest that there aren’t good olfactory memories from my trip: fresh croissants, roasting kebab meat, flower stands at outdoor markets, vespas — all great things we don’t smell too often in the States.

Now back in my somewhat cynical Chicago routine, I also miss the camaraderie among backpackers. Every year there are thousands of us, hopping from city to city via TGVs and InterCitys every few nights, often skipping countries faster than we can learn “thank you” in the local language. Some find a place they like and stay for a week — or forever. I am reminded of my ad hoc traveling partners Jesse and Steve, whose two-day stay in Interlaken, Switzerland, turned into an unanticipated, eight-night bender. Others try to see every capital from Madrid to Moscow in the time it takes a cyclist to cross Stockholm.

Whether it’s loneliness or instinct that leads to such rapid altruism on the road, I can’t tell. But even tonight, as I sit writing on my back porch nearing midnight, I am transported to the patio at Florence’s Ostello Archi Rossi, where memories of genuine — though short-lived — friendship and many hours of Peroni-enhanced conversation were made in similarly balmy air last May.

Prior to my departure, I swore to my friends and family that Europe wouldn’t change me. This was, after all, my fourth trip there. But this time it was different: no parents, siblings or chaperones. Fending for myself — alone — on a daily basis was my new reality — in a dozen different languages. While I thrived (thus this site), it’s tricky going three months not knowing if you could trust anyone around you.

Before I left, I wrote that my primary reason for the escape was just that: an escape. In reality, living out of a backpack was every bit as normal as life in the States. Heck, most of the foreigners I encountered along the way spoke English. I was hoping for a linguistic challenge; in reality, I had to try to meet Europeans who would offer me a game of multi-lingual charades. I did, however, learn the value of a few things that I had probably always taken for granted: time, companionship, guts and good socks.

From about last July through this January, I swore I was going back to Europe this summer: EuroTrip 2005. I was going to blow my savings on another three months on the road, and then come back and piece things together — again. I fantasized about places I’d never been: Lisbon, Plovdiv, Warsaw, Copenhagen. I had a rough route planned and was already working out the expenses. Then one afternoon I stopped and scrapped the plan completely, deciding to move to New York City instead.

Why? Because a year later, everything is still fresh: the smell of spit-roasting Döner kebab, Dragostea Din Tei echoing from a Czech cafe window, even the suspect fragrance of hostel pillows. To go back this year would have almost been a waste — I’m positive I will appreciate the experience more in another year or two. Until then, I’m left with my memories, photographs, a few friendships I’ve kept from last summer’s trip and an exciting new project: this website.

La Tour

83 days later, I’m back in Paris and getting ready to fly home. I’ll avoid tear-jerking reminiscing, but this has been a wonderful vacation and I am sad to leave. I’m not sure what it is about this city that makes me so happy here: whether the river, the snaking streets or simply the Parisian joie de vivre. I also like the fact that I can walk for seven hours and not see the same corner twice.

It’s great to be back at the Young & Happy Hostel, which is not as comfortable as it first seemed 30-some hostels ago, but still has the unpolished charm and perfect location that I find so inviting. It’s a treat to be able to come home in the evening and strike up conversation with an international group over an overpriced Kronenbourg or five. To yet again give you a taste of the consistency of the Y&H scene, at one point the other night, it was me, a Canadian guy from Vancouver, a couple from Newfoundland, two American law students, a few Aussies, an Italian girl, two Austrian guys and a Norwegian guy… just shooting the shit in the lounge for a few hours while the clerk rocked out The Streets on repeat.

Back in the Latin Quarter

My first full day, Sunday, I checked out a few museums: the Pompidou Center (modern art) and the Picasso Museum. The free entrance (first Sunday of the month) was nice, but the museums were unbearably crowded, especially the small Picasso. The Pompidou was just as fun as my first visit eight years ago, with much of the art posing questions about which narcotic(s) the artist was sampling during production. My favorite piece, which I (naturally) neglected to jot down any information about, is a room-sized sculpture of pantyhose filled with what looks like yellow and gray powder. The dozens of bulbous, leg-like projections are fixed to a massive, bubble-shaped main vessel, spanning almost the entire room (15 feet x 15 feet or so). The Picasso Museum was interesting enough, but its small size and huge crowd made for unbearable heat and a surplus of squirming kids. I jogged through and left.

Paris sewer tour

My first hike Monday took me along the Seine, almost to the Eiffel Tower, where I continued my search for the weird underbelly of Europe by attending the Paris Sewer Tour. The sewer system forms a city below the city, complete with street signs and address numbers (matching those above) indicating which pipes come from each building. The tour goes through a real, working part of the sewer and smelled appropriately. In the canals, I saw the reality of metropolitan sewage: turds, toilet paper and crying babies. But for three bucks, it was worth it.

I walked across the river to the Champs-Elysees, taking one last stroll down Paris’ best boulevard for people-watching. From there I hopped the Métro to the Monmartre area, where I climbled up to the Sacré-Coeur for the first time and enjoyed yet another look at the city from above. In need of some exercise, I walked back to the hostel — a two-hour trip through the Red Light district — and was solicited in three languages.

Up all night at CDG

To end my voyage in style, I have booked a suite at the cheapest five-star hotel in the world: L’Aéroport Charles DeGaulle. That’s right folks, I’ll be sleeping on a cold, hard chair tonight, thanks to the inefficiency of Paris’s nighttime transport system. My Swiss flight leaves tomorrow at 7:30 a.m., and public transport wouldn’t get me there before 6:30. So instead of spending 75 bucks on a taxi, I’ll be heading up to the airport around midnight and camping out for five hours until I can check in. Perhaps I saved the best adventure for last.

Time for a few hours of walking, saying goodbye to the city and then the last meal: an omelet crepe with my amusing Aussie roommates. Thanks for keeping up with me on my journey this summer. If everything goes right, I’ll be doing another one of these things soon.

Amsterdam’s Red Light District

Who knew there was more to Amsterdam — oh, you know, art, pretty canals and Indonesian food — than good-old weed and hookers? I find it hilarious that most backpackers spend most of their time here stoned out of their minds — on a couch in their hostel. Without the urge to parttake, I spent most of last night and today walking around the city, nursing several bottles of hometown Heineken, trying my best to avoid — or at least ignore — the tens of thousands of American college students flooding the city center.

Slightly beyond the tourist belt

Five minutes in any direction from the ass and grass and you’re thrust into beautiful, cozy neighborhoods… tiny streets and flower box-lined canals winding their way around. Some of the more residential areas I was walking around last night share a strong resemblance to streets in Greenwich Village in “New Amsterdam”: quirky two- and three-story brick buildings, improvised barbeques taking place along the sidewalk and quiet little streets brimming with outdoor cafes, flower plantings and potted plants.

My hostel, the Flying Pig, is legendary among the backpacking circuit. But the place is pretty disgusting, giving the squalor of the Funny Farm in Interlaken a run for its money. I knew I was in the right place when, walking down a dimly-lit alley from the train station, I confronted the thick stench of urine. The Pig, of course, has a bar — with enough smoke and enough drunk American girls, it’s perhaps the first hostel bar that actually feels like the bars I’m used to. To its credit, the hostel sports a decent kitchen, free breakfast and Internet and lots of sitting space for the inevitably baked guests.

Picture my amusement as I watched two American girls — probably stoned for the first time in their lives — celebrating after they built what in their minds was an intricate statue, using two beer glasses stacked on a few coasters. Now imagine my shit-eating grin as their monument fell over, shattering all over the bar — and bartender. Priceless.

Red Light central

I’m happy to report that the Red Light District is alive and well. I spent about an hour walking around in circles last night, amused to no end by dirty old men window-shopping for a 12-minute bride. The variety is astounding. One of the ‘tutes was dressed in an FBI hat (no love for the Dept of Homeland Security?) and leather catsuit; another wearing little more than Glad Cling Wrap. Quality seems to be related to location… the most attractive ones are concentrated along the main stretch of The District, while questionable options are available on small streets radiating out. I did not, however, have the budget to sample on this trip — maybe next time for the movie version.

Venice without the pigeons

I spent the day breaking the bank at museums. First, the obligatory visit to the Heineken brewery museum, where I learned everything there is to know (and more) about how one of the world’s most overrated beers is produced. Then, after my three free ones, I stumbled in the heat over to the van Gogh Museum and took in some culture. The museum’s permanent collection is fairly interesting, but the special exhibit of Manet and van Gogh’s seascapes was a delight, especially to my hydrophillic aesthetic senses. Paris tomorrow.

Dresden, Germany

Maybe it’s just me being sentimental near the end of my trip, but I really like Dresden. It’s modern, functional and a little edgy, and it’s small enough to cover on foot. And the place just has a great feeling to it. Three districts compose the heart of the city: the shopping district near the main train station (very modern), the touristy old town (oldish) and Neustadt, a funky part of town north of the Elbe River (moderately modern?).

My hostel is in Neustadt, where the nightlife is quirky, such as the bar Lebowski, where my favorite movie is playing nonstop in German, and mostly aimed at a younger, uhh, “alternative” audience. There are more head shops and kebab stands per capita than might be healthy, but at least they’re keeping the streets lively.

My coffee-addicted Italian friend

The Mondpalast hostel itself is pretty wonderful, certainly one of the best I have stayed in: big, airy rooms at a good price, great facilities (including a big kitchen) and even a decent bar downstairs. The clientele is international and interesting. Tonight at dinner, I spoke at length in the kitchen with a German guy who lives in Holland. Later, I was treated to real Italian coffee by a few guys from Como, Italy, who are traveling with their own espresso maker and a bag of their favorite beans. “If I don’t drink coffee after dinner,” one of the guys said to me, “I can’t stay out drinking until 5 in the morning. And that’s not good.”

Inside the Dresden Hygiene Museum

My obligatory weird museum stop was the Dresden Hygiene Museum, which has very little to do with hygiene. The permanent collection is typical, complete with interactive displays and computer presentations about the human body and glass models of a human and a cow. The special exhibit, a modern art show loosely centered around the Ten Commandments, was even more interesting. Most of it is bizarre, such as a video of an Israeli woman using barbed wire as a hula hoop — buck naked. Another video showed Bosnians looking for landmines after the war. And it went on… sculptures of naked kids, a dollar sign made of lightbulbs, and even a 500-kilogram pile of tiny pieces of foil-wrapped candy.

Tourist central

After that, I needed to relax for a bit, so I caught a screening of Super Size Me, half in English and half in German. I guess the point comes across no matter what language the voice overs are in: fast food ain’t good for ya. I am also reading a new book, Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer. Assigned to cover the commercialization of Everest for Outside magazine, the author accidentally winds up witnessing one of the biggest Everest disasters ever. So far, a good read. I will probably finish it tomorrow during my nine hour train ride to Amsterdam. With that in mind, I am going to hit the hay, as my wakeup call is really, really early. Auf wiedersehen for now!

Bohinj, Slovenia

Well, not completely, but for the next two nights I’ll be back in two familiar cities on my way back west. After two days camping in the rain in a Slovenian campground resembling a combination zoo/German trade show, I’m back in Salzburg for a night and Prague tomorrow. Camping was great, despite rain that turned my $8 water-permeable Tesco tent into a cold, slimy bathtub. The tent, at least, was easy to pack up for the drive today… the photos of me throwing it into the dumpster explain everything.

My $8 tent in action

Lake Bohinj, where we camped, is described by Lonely Planet as “exceedingly beautiful.” I can’t argue with the Aussies; my admittedly uninformed expectations of Slovene beauty were indeed blown away. The lake, about two miles long and only several hundred feet wide, is crystal clear and gorgeous. Green mountains in every direction make for a fantastic view, and the scenery makes it hard to complain about anything, even when you have to wait in back of 90 kids to use the bathroom in the morning. The Lake Bohinj trout served at a nearby restaurant was fresh and delicious. If only I had fishing gear and a grill… I might stay forever.

In Salzburg, I’m planning on meeting up again with Canadian Matt, who will once again (I hope) demonstrate his uncanny ability of making American girls look easy — not that that’s hard to do in Europe. In Prague, it’s one last stop at The Unpronounceable Place and then an early morning train to Dresden, where I will rejoin the backpacker circuit for one last week.

On the road in Dalmatia

Pardon the interruption… I have been away from cheap Internet access for several days and have been a bit too busy to update. After three nights in Dubrovnik, we headed back north to Split to catch a car ferry to Brac, a nearby island in the Adriatic Sea. It was nice to see Split again, which, for some reasons, I prefer over Dubrovnik. While Dubrovnik is more picturesque and relaxing, Split has more character. Dubrovnik has history and style, but Split feels more youthful and simply more lived-in.

Bol, Croatia

On Brac, we drove to a beach resort town on the far side of the island called Bol. Bol initially sounded pretty remote, but once we got there it was immediately apparent how touristy the place was. The town features a jumble of outdoor restaurants, each with a band playing American rock music, a tiki bar and timeless coastal views. The famous, pointy beach, just a few minutes from the center of the town, is the main attraction. Bol seems to have money… a new walkway leads to the beach from town and the restaurant scene is expensive for a seemingly obscure location. The water was nice, so I swam for the first time on the trip, and continued working on what has become an impressive tan.

Synchronized windsurfing in Bol

After two nights in Bol, we decided we were a tired with the island scene. We boarded the Jadrolinija ferry back to Split and focused on motoring as far up the coast as possible. We spent our last night in Croatia camping outside Murter, a little town along the sea. It took almost an hour to find a campground that wasn’t swarming with 1973-issue German car campers, but eventually we found a nice plot with sea views at the right price.

Sunset in Murter, Croatia

Sometimes I wonder how Europeans put up with the craziness of their campgrounds — concrete and gravel villages packed to the gills with motor homes, trailers and giant tents, each with its own clothesline drying a half-dozen speedos. Some campgrounds have grocery stores, others have tennis courts, swimming pools and Tae-Bo lessons. Whatever happened to a nice flat spot under a tree, next to a lake, beyond spitting range — let alone earshot — of your neighbors? I guess it’s a treat enough just to be away from the city and relaxing in the great outdoors, never mind the fluorescent light coming from the next tent, or the kid down the way crying in an indistinguishable Slavic tongue. I suppose the scenery makes it worthwhile: From our dock on a bay of the Adriatic — and with the pleasant absence of city lights for the first time in a long while — the stars were out in full force — a wonderful goodbye to a country that thoroughly surprised me with its beauty and character.

Ljubljana, Slovenia

Last night we landed in Ljubljana, Slovenia, after a full day of driving along the rest of the Adriatic. The flora switch from Croatia to Slovenia (the “Switzerland of The East”) was drastic… less than 30 minutes after leaving a dry Croatian coastline, we were back in forested hills, ravines and pastoral countryside. So far, Slovenia is a nation of great smells: the drive varied from lavender to watermelon. Small — for a capital city, at least — and cosmopolitan, Ljubljana is clean, funky and surprisingly modern. The central pedestrian area of old town is bisected by a tree-lined river, illuminated with Seine-like floodlights — without the Bateaux Mouches — and generally very pretty. More exploring to do here, and then the Bled resort area in northwest Slovenia is next.

Dubrovnik, Croatia

Welcome to Dubrovnik, the pinnacle of Dalmatia and one of the most beautiful towns I’ve seen in my life. Near the south end of the Croatian coast, this is the farthest south I have ever been in Europe. Driving here from Split, weaving back and forth around the coast, in and out of little seaside villages and overlooking the mountainous Dalmatian Islands, I knew I was in a special place: One minute you’re in the white stone hills of southern Utah and then you round a bend and come across miles of terraced fields and swear you’re in Thailand. One more turn and you’re overlooking a series of lakes as far as the eye can see… Minnesota with mountains? Just gorgeous. The drive also took us through a small stretch of Bosnia and Herzegovina, which would have been unrecognizable except the tiny border station and ten minutes of different words on the road signs.

Downtown Dubrovnik

Dubrovnik has been called one of the ten best destinations in Eastern Europe and I believe it — thanks, Lonely Planet. Walking around, the Mediterranean climate suggests that you’re in Italy or Greece, but the culture seems a little more in-line. The old town, similar to Split’s, is enclosed by centuries-old ruins and is completely car-free. The pavement consists of large rock tiles, shiny and very slippery from hundreds of years of traffic. Music echoes and voices carry around the tiny corridors that snake between buildings, up stairs and to the water.

Dubrovnik from above

My plan is to relax and do as much wandering around town as possible. Last night, my friend Serge and I walked down to the old town for dinner, which became a Dalmatian feast of fish soup and seafood pasta. We opted for the scenic route home, which became a two hour excursion up and down stairways, winding down narrow streets hugged with citrus orchards and dodging the occasional Vespa. At one point, we walked past an ourdoor movie theatre screening something unrecognizable, but we couldn’t find an unlocked door and kept walking.

Dubrovnik’s hills

Two more nights at our bed and breakfast here in Dubrovnik (complete with a balcony overlooking the hills… pinch me), a few nights on the islands, and then back north. A spell in Slovenia, another night each in Salzburg and Prague, and then the last week hits quick: Dresden, Amsterdam and Paris… and then home. Hard to believe that I’ve been living out of a bag for more than two months. Even harder to believe that I’ll be home in less than 20 days. And of course I’m already planning my next trip back.

Stooped in Split

A few closing thoughts on Split that I jotted down a few nights ago:

Stooped on the foot of a statue in the middle of the old town square in early evening, I witness the essence of European life in full bloom. Groups of men and women sit at outdoor cafes, drinking coffee or beer before they head home for dinner. Teens come home from the beach, with bright towels and wet hair, leaving sandy footprints on the polished rock tile square. Young kids play soccer for hours in the middle of it all, right in front of the town’s museum, slipping and sliding on the sidewalk like the pigeons do here. Men set up a stage and chairs for a live opera concert to take place later that night. And here I sit, surrounded by centuries-old Roman ruins, watching it all come together… wondering just how I got here and why I ever have to leave.

Split, Croatia

Might as well continue the trend of naming journal entries with corny manipulations of city names. I was going to name the last one, “Hungary? Try The Magyaroni” but that’s a little too, um, cheesy. Either way, right now I’m in beautiful Split, Croatia, where it’s sunny, dry and about 80 degrees. Besides being an important port town and a gateway to the gorgeous Dalmatian islands, Split has a Mediterranean party atmosphere and a maze-like old town. Last night we dined on top-notch seafood at a classy joint overlooking the harbor for less than you’d spend on a McDonalds Filet-O-Fish meal back home in the States.

Last night in Budapest

We left Budapest after a fantastic sendoff, headed for Croatia. The ride in our trusty Czech station wagon took us through up-and-coming parts of Hungary that featured giant Tesco and Auchan soccer-mom supermarkets, and other, more depressed areas that don’t see many tourists (or money). Especially in gypsy towns, pretty much every driveway has a roadside stand selling huge jars of honey and very suspect-looking blocks of cheese.

Croatia is just starting to recover economically from the war, but the progress is impressive. They are building a highway network that’s just as nice as any highway I’ve seen in Western Europe, but it’s evident that they’re still working out a few kinks. For example, once you cross the border, you’re immediately given a tollway ticket. Between there and two toll points, there are no gas stations and no ATMs. So unless you come into the country with Croatian currency, you’re stuck putting the tolls on your credit card — which would be easy enough if they all took credit cards! The first one did, so it went well… but number two was a mysterious cash-only toll plaza. When we informed the attendent that we had zero kuna to our names, he replied in English with a hilarious Eastern European accent with what has become the quote of the trip: “That is not my problem. That is your problem.” Luckily, he accepted our mangled, leftover Euros, or I might be writing this update from the Zagreb County Jail/Saloon Megaplex.

Plitvice Lakes, Croatia

We camped in one of Croatia’s more war-torn regions near the crowded Plitvice Lakes National Park. The park is famous for its dozen or so breathtaking lakes with clear, deeply turquoise water, connected by series upon series of waterfalls. Parts of the park still contain landmines from the war, so most of the hiking is done on long boardwalks going over the lakes and waterfalls. This means highly concentrated tourist traffic: at one point we had to wait three minutes just to cross part of the path as hundreds of people streamed across. The lakes were worth it, though… I think I took more than 100 pictures in eight hours. Camping was fun as well, despite a few chilly nights… doubling up the 60-cent sleeping pads and adding a little more pillow height helped things out a lot.

More Plitvice

The drive to Split was unusually scenic, on par with the train ride from Paris to Nice. Leaving a forested inland area, we hit a patch of terrain not unlike southern Utah, featuring large, sparsely-vegetated, rocky hills and red sand. Closer to the water, the palm trees started and civilization once again reared its head. The coast is not quite “coastly” as there are hundreds of islands blocking the full view of the sea, but it’s beautiful nonetheless. The water, even in a major urban center like Split, is transparent. Looking out at the islands, I was struck by bold, vivid hues: the blue of the sea, the green of the trees, the gray of the hills and the bright red of the rooftops. It’s a sight to remember.

Old-town Split

After some haggling, we found a great private room for a few nights right in the middle of the old town, only a block from the waterfront and two blocks from the main inland promenade. The air just felt like Vegas last night, even down to the hilariously bad band playing American classics ranging from Layla to Creedence.

It’s about time I did some exploring. There’s a park outside the city center — right on the water — that I’m going to check out. And then maybe I’ll work up the guts to get a haircut from a Croatian barber with whom I have little to no chance of communicating verbally.