In the Holiday Season of 2013, I embarked on my first International Flight. As my first solo trip, and also my first flight with layovers, I departed filled with anxiety. Yet I proudly strolled through O’Hare from terminal to terminal worry-free of missing my connecting flight. I landed in Heathrow worry-free of navigating the city to my hotel and various points of my itinerary. I landed at 6am refusing to sleep until that evening, despite not resting on the plane, in lieu of the unlikelihood that I would ever return, to seize every second of exploration I could manage. For similar reasons, I neglected a massive opportunity that could have completely flipped my life upside down: auditioning for Disney’s Star Wars Sequel Trilogy that took place an hour’s tube ride from downtown London. I don’t regret skipping this audition and avoiding the 8 hour wait only to be rejected at the last second because I don’t look like the character they had in mind (which from the stories I heard happened frequently). I don’t regret skipping this to instead explore one of the most gorgeous Botanic Gardens in the world (Kew Gardens, which includes to this day the most impressive Japanese Garden I have experienced), see a museum of crown jewels, and visit 221B Baker Street. I don’t regret this especially after watching the films, glad that I was never involved with those abominations. Although I don’t regret that audition, I do have a couple regrets in life, and they both happened on that trip.
The first is forgetting to try the iconic English Breakfast. At the time of this trip, I often ignored the breakfast meal in general, and so it never came to mind when traveling here to try one of their breakfasts until after I had left. This regret was rectified upon a return journey 11 years later. The second regret involves events at the end of the Euro trip, which I will warn you now is a long read away (the first draft of this document was written upon return to the states 12 years ago and is 26 pages long, an approximately 40 minute read. Although I am drafting this again from memory and not referencing the original, I suspect I’ll hit a similar length, so cease reading now, if you desire, until you have the free time available.)
My first day in London focused on casual exploration, hitting sites like Piccadilly Circus I recognized from Harry Potter. I devoted significant time searching for Platform 9 ¾, mostly because I discovered it’s not actually between platforms 9 and 10 like it is in the books but instead somewhere less impactful on traffic in a spacious clearing away from the train tracks. Most of my time in London consisted of touristy activities unfortunately, including the only ferris wheel in the world I am not scared of riding, the London Eye. I walked past Buckingham Palace, ventured across Hyde Park during its Christmas Market Season (a journey of endless stalls with varying products, often handmade). Since I would be visiting so many countries, and in the holiday season, I predetermined countries to purchase christmas gifts for my family. While navigating Hyde Park, I opted out of any purchases, and luckily too for, as I found out, almost all the other cities I would visit had Christmas Markets with near identical options. I did buy a christmas gift in London though, in the most beautiful outdoor outlet mall called Covent Garden: a box of traditional English Tea for my eldest brother.
Wandering the streets of London continued on the second day, where I randomly crossed Drury Lane and hummed “Muffin Man” while contemplating a visit to his house, not knowing if such a place existed. Deciding against that, I instead visited Sherlock’s home, disappointingly discovering it to be purely a gift shop. I wandered out to the aforementioned Covent Garden, a magnificent union of shopping and entertainment in an automobile-free and Italian-inspired piazza full of lush decor and posh boutiques (at least that’s how I remember it; the ‘natural decoration’ was just Christmas decor as my photographs reminded me).
Of the 4 days I spent in London, 3 were completely solo. A semi-local (a young man who worked a summer camp with my brother years’ prior I had met only briefly beforehand) took a train down from Nottingham to join me on the Saturday for a special event I was able to use as leverage to convince my parents to let me even go on this trip: Doctor Who’s 50th Anniversary. Interestingly, this was also the only day of the 4 I got lost exploring the city, with a local of all things.
The Anniversary Celebration Event included tickets to a theater showing (I don’t know why but I remember admiring the theater’s impressive aesthetic difference from US theaters), a photo op with the Tardis free of charge, and a panel of guests starring the cast of the time: Matt Smith, Jenna Coleman and Showrunner Steven Moffat. In another room, Graham Norton ran a few interviews for his radio show where I was able to snag a picture with him. Even back then I felt hesitant to engage celebrities of any caliber, imagining a vast quantity of fans must approach them daily. Thankfully Graham Norton felt unfazed by my request and I was satisfied with his photo alone that I had no desire to pursue the stars of the show. It’s not like David Tennant was there anyway. I generally prefer avoiding conventions like this, too many people for my taste, and given that the show is Britain’s most popular production, the crowd was even larger than I’d typically tolerate. Yet I managed to still enjoy it enough somehow.
The final day led me to Shakespeare’s Globe Theater. I had initially completely forgotten the Globe existed and would never have considered a visit without accidentally passing by it as I crossed the modern London Bridge III. It would have been truly magical to watch a play there, but the tour guide permitted visitors on stage, so I still experienced some of that magic. Succeeding the Globe was the famous Kew Royal Botanic Gardens, which even with a diminished recollection 11 years later (most of which is its massive Japanese Garden displaying several pagodas that metaphorically transported me across the globe and became a progenitor for my obsession with Japan and its culture), remains a top nomination for the “most impressive sight” award among the likes of The Louvre, the majestic Swiss Alps, a towering Volcan Arenal and the reflecting waters of Grand Teton.
After my activities in London, I grouped with a tour company that would escort me across the rest of Western Europe. Our tour guide greeted us via ‘mini games’, the first being a continuation of one of the guide’s trip traditions. That same year, Daft Punk released their final album Random Access Memories. So per his tradition, the group nominated to begin all of the next 19 mornings with a listen to that album’s biggest hit, “Get Lucky.” The second ‘mini-game’ occurred slightly later after a short stop in Belgium Chocolate Shop en route to Amsterdam. The guide assigned every one a partner, utilizing a sort of ‘speed dating’ technique, mostly to get to know some of the people we’d be traveling with for the next few weeks but as part of this game also we were tasked with giving our partners a dare to commit before the trips’ end. I cannot honestly remember the dare I gave my partner, Kelsey, or even if I gave a dare or let her choose her own (though knowing how this story ends I’d call the latter more likely true). The entire situation was rather overwhelming for me, surrounded by one Canadian, 46 Australians and a half dozen South Africans (seriously I don’t know what I enjoyed more, the sights or the accents), a strange world, with a tendency to keep to myself. I appreciated the efforts taken to acclimatize with the group but it wouldn’t happen so easily for me. What I do remember is the dare assigned to me, which I did not complete until near the end of the trip, so I’ll not divulge further information about it until its relevance in the narrative.
Following the day in Belgium and these introductory games, the group ventured to the Netherlands. I grew up in a town colonized by the Dutch, annually celebrating its heritage with a Tulip Time Festival, and while in the Netherlands we happened to coincidentally pop into a workshop that assisted with the production of clogs used in my town’s festival. For some reason I recall growing up discovering that the Dutch had seen videos of our festival, of our Dutch Dancing, and heavily critiquing its inaccuracies and insults to their culture. So hearing the news of this workshop’s assistance surprised me that some of them accepted the festival enough to help. I had assumed my hometown did all the work itself (reflecting on this part, I almost feel embarrassed that I don’t remember more of the importance of my town’s heritage history. It’s not that surprising though. I never was good at history. I literally know more about Star Wars lore than Real World lore). It was a satisfactory introduction to the Netherlands but my opinion of the country reversed once we hit Amsterdam.
Much of the popularity of Amsterdam in my social circle back then and within research was its canals. Witnessing them in person, however, shattered that popularity. Maybe it was the season (late November) but the canals were dirty brown; I’d never want to swim in them let alone even look at them. I’ll grant the city its peaceful atmosphere with a traffic of automobiles replaced with a parade of bicyclists. I could vibe with that, but the canals were so unimpressive I nearly instantly decided I didn’t like the city. It didn’t help either that part of the tour program involved a sex show in the red lights district, and being a young American, not yet even an adult, disinterested in all that forced me to instead wander the district alone, uncomfortably yet afraid of leaving lest I forget the way back. The excursion ended on a slightly better note though, with visits to the Van Gogh Museum (where I discovered the proper, culturally Dutch, way to pronounce his name: kinda like Goff?) and the Anne Frank House. It was quite emotional, as you can imagine, that entire experience but unfortunately the details and memories of that experience have been lost to time.
We only spent a day in Amsterdam thankfully, as we continued our journey into Germany. I had many friends who traveled to Berlin just a couple years previously, so I already knew much of what I wanted to see while there. We arrived at the hotel late at night. The rest of the group immediately drank at the Hofbrauhaus, while I walked alone down to the Brandenburg Gate, an hour’s journey, just to see it at nighttime, despite it being on the itinerary for the following day as well. I did afterwards meet up with the few remaining stragglers at the Hofbrauhaus, a local bar chain where I first tasted alcohol, a glass of White Zinfandel.
Most of the time I spent my exploration in Berlin isolated from the others, once more hiking an hour to the Gate, then to the Alexanderplatz, to the Pergamonmuseum. My visit to the museum was short-lived, waiting in line for ~20 minutes to buy a ticket, then upon attempting to enter being informed I’d require a locker for my backpack, which in turn required waiting in line again to retrieve a key. Then after being denied entry again because I accidentally put my tickets in my bag now locked away, I freed my tickets from its former prison only to discover the locker key had a one time use. I departed the museum defeated, wasting valuable exploration time (this may or may not be a primary reason why I meticulously plan travels now).
Briefly reuniting with the group in the afternoon, we visited Checkpoint Charlie, the intersection where Russian tanks and American tanks held a staring contest, and laughed at the obvious signifiers of the “American Side” vs the “Russian Side,” that being the immediate presence of a Starbucks and a McDonalds on the American Side. I also reenacted President Kennedy’s famous speech, “Ich bin ein Berliner” which I learned translates to “I am a donut.”
A quick stop in Dresden bridged the gap between Berlin and Prague. I found the two hours there efficient for the emotional impact of the destination, a city bombed and rebuilt evident in the charcoaled lower halves of every building and pristine upper halves. Its history made Dresden seem a surprising place to host yet another Christmas Market for me, though this was only the second I had encountered and hadn’t yet realized such markets existed across the whole continent. I at least understood a desire to move beyond the tragedy.
Throughout the years, people have asked me what my favorite country is and I never have a clear answer. I have categorized my favorite destinations to emphasize the reasons I like them instead of simply granting an all around title. Like how I nominated Kew Gardens as “Most Impressive Sight” (the winner of that award, by the way, would be from my recent Wales trip), another title awarded on this trip would be “Most Gorgeous City” and granted to Prague.
Prague’s baroque architecture will always hold a place in my heart. Simply wandering around its oldest square, aptly named the Old Town Square, proved one of the most peaceful and beautiful journeys through a city imaginable (my second behind Switzerland’s Lucerne, which I’d explore later in this trip). Much of my time in Prague, actually, was simply walking through the city. The only notable points of interest I experienced were the Old Town Square, St. Vitus Cathedral and St. Charles’ Bridge, where an artist so skillfully reproduced a companion of mine’s caricature (I imagine it would be really helpful in the telling of this story to name some of these characters, but alas in my failure to truly befriend them I have inevitably forgotten most of their names. A difficult Facebook search could identify them, but I have also discovered a few of them have since changed their name or been removed from the site which further complicates the search). I do have a fond memory of this city though that transcends any other experience from this entire trip. Late at night, while our crew crawled from one pub to another, half a dozen strangers approached me, in the course of an hour, to share their opinions that I resembled a popular young boy wizard. The most intriguing feature of this whole experience, however, was the fact that this happened in the Czech Republic of all places, the one country in this 3-week trek across Europe whose dominant language is farthest from the English Language family than any other country in that trip.
The night in Prague led me to Europe’s largest club, a 5 story party scene with each level focused on a different theme and music style. In theory, I found the idea relatively cool, but the party scene and I were not meant for each other. Besides, after one of the pubs in the crawl required the consumption of a shot of Absinthe as part of the entrance fee, I had had enough to drink for that day. So while the rest of the tour group danced their night away, I ventured to the hotel alone, again in a country whose alphabet was no longer similar enough to English for me to make educated guesses on translating signs for direction. I relied on the memory of instructions given by a kind stranger outside the club.
Prague concluded with a major emotional shift as we ventured to Dachau Concentration Camp. I’m not sure the words exist to accurately recreate that experience except by those who lived it. I mostly kept to myself, ingratiating as much knowledge and history as I could without the distractions of my companions. That likely enabled increased emotional impacts, though at the time of this writing 11 years later, I couldn’t tell you more about that history than the average person anymore. All I can remember is what I felt in that moment, in disbelief that such events could happen, pained by all those lost, and inspired to greet all with an open mind (for this genocide of Jews has not been the only tragedy to befall a race in our history. Everyone has a background, sometimes predating their lifespan, that has shaped them).
Another tonal shift greeted me in Austria with a short visit to Innsbruck. Perhaps my first experience with a mountain town, staring down a symmetrical street as towering mountainous peaks overlook the background, Innsbruck created my desire to live in such a place which subconsciously led to my move to Salt Lake (although I’m not sure I would classify Salt Lake as enough of a mountain town for my preference). In Innsbruck we visited a Swarovski jewelry store where I purchased another family Christmas present for my younger sister.
One “Get Lucky” listen later and we arrived in my “Favorite Country,” Italy. I spent a total of 6 days in Italy split between Venice, Rome, and Florence, in that order. The only thing I knew about Venice beforehand was from a brief video watched in some high school science class that mentioned its lifespan of 30 years due to flooding. At some later date I learned that to counter the flooding, the city regularly installed elevated walkways. I was slightly disappointed to not experience the city in that same state. That would have been a truly memorable experience. But I suppose I also wouldn’t have enjoyed the city I nominated for the “Best Sunset award” as much either, at least not at that moment.
Exploring Venice proved a dangerous activity. With its infrastructure unable to support roads, I discovered every path was a walkway only wide enough to form one-way lanes. Its layout also challenged navigation. Our tour guide suggested not exploring the city without a map lest we get lost, but even with a map we risked wandering too far to retrace our steps. Ironically, the one time we did get lost in that city was while following our guide to a restaurant. Hidden in a maze of endlessly turning streets, all getting lost required was our guide taking one turn too fast. Thankfully, he registered reduced numbers and retreated from the maze to retrieve us.
I recently went back through this trip, scrolling through all of my documents referencing it, to map it out on Google Maps, pinpointing every destination and saving them to a “Visited” list. Unfortunately, I cannot recall nor could I successfully look up the name of this restaurant, but I will always remember the experience, its endless meal. I believe my tour company must have arranged a special dinner because I never ordered any food, I was simply given a plate. Luckily we were in Italy serving pasta otherwise my picky eating habits may have forced me to starve that night (nowadays I am more lax on cuisine when traveling but back then it was a serious concern). Unfortunately for another of my companions, she was lactose intolerant, a condition apparently not commonly heard of in Italy whose only substitute was salad (this same companion was also vegetarian which is similarly not common in German whose, again, only substitute was salad. Imagine eating only salad for a week). Upon finishing my plate, I was automatically given another, again without request, and out of fear of being rude, I consumed the entire next plate as well. And then was given another plate.
My simple dinner turned into a 5-course meal (maybe 4? I don’t remember, it was 12 years ago). Eventually I gave up. I realized I surely couldn’t be perceived as rude if they relentlessly offered me more food, and they honestly probably even felt relieved that I finally surrendered. I mean, the bill’s cost didn’t increase for every plate they handed me, did it? For all I know they lost money on my meal, though unlikely.
My fondest memory in Venice (in competition with a swarm of birds perching on my arms) was the Gondola ride through the city’s numerous, clear blue canals I found much more impressive than Amsterdam’s. It is a peaceful, quiet town (its infrastructure not being compatible with motor vehicles is a huge factor for this), and Gondola is the most efficient mode of transportation beyond walking in Venice. It is a very efficient method of exploring the city, easier to navigate without risk of getting lost, and you have a cool breeze accompanying you. Previously, I had only ventured around St. Mark’s Square, the home of Doge’s Palace and St. Mark’s Basilica. For some reason I also have this memory of passing by a Gelato store in the square and having never heard of the term before. I thought it was Italian Ice Cream (which I guess it technically is, the word translated as “frozen” and used in place of all types of ice cream. But it’s clearly also unique from traditional American ice cream, and must have blown up in popularity sometime after this trip because I see it everywhere now.) The Gondola ride also revealed the route to my second favorite bridge on the trip, the famous Rialto, which allowed me to navigate the streets to the bridge on foot once stepping off the boat.
Venice also saw the completion of another dare by the only Asian (Australian) in our group, who as my closest friend on that trip is also one of the few names I can remember. As a kind of joke reference to the fact that you can almost always find a group of Asian tourists no matter where you travel, Kieran’s task was to integrate with one such group, joining them for a brief journey around St. Mark’s Square.
Succeeding Venice was my highest wish listed destination going into this trip, Rome. I have always had a fondness for Ancient Mythology, both Greek and Roman, and the stories they told. Experiencing the capital of the Roman Empire, from the ruins of the Forum and the Coliseum to the only surviving building from the Empire, the Pantheon, Rome exceeded expectations (as well frankly the entirety of Italy).
Rome hosted several more highlights for me, including the Trevi Fountain and Spanish Steps. But the biggest highlight isn’t even a POI, it’s the scarfing down of a pizza twice the size of one’s face as my lunch group rushed to reunite with the rest before their departure to the next destination. I didn’t participate in the scarfing fortunately, simply an entertained spectator; that task was left to the same companion caricatured on the bridge in Prague (hang on, his name was Mitchell! A tall blonde and one of the few from the western coast of Australia, near Perth. His caricature was an uncanny accurate resemblance. Now that I think about it, I actually have a sweater imprinted with everyone’s name. Hang on while I confirm this. Yes, it’s Mitchell). I did have a drink I needed to chug more quickly than I am capable, a task I am not skilled at. I do not recall the drink, likely some kind of wine since I spent much time sampling alcoholic drinks throughout this trip as an underaged American. But it could have been anything; I was not even capable of chugging water for long, so I can’t gauge the difficulty properly. It was here in Rome where I made the decision to attend University and for what degree to pursue: Classics to write stories similar to all the mythology I loved (I did complete a draft of a novel accomplishing this, but my expertise in that medium is questionable and may translate that instead to screen format).
Taking a quick break from Italy, we drove into the Vatican. I obviously toured the Sistine Chapel but for whatever reason, even immediately after leaving the Chapel, I do not recall spotting the famous Michelangelo painting on the Chapel’s ceiling, of the two index fingers split by a small gap, referencing the Creation of Adam. I am fully confident I did see it but the Sistine’s ceiling is completely covered in art depicting nine different scenes from Genesis all blended together that the likely story is I simply never processed seeing the iconic artwork, too distracted by the beauty of the interior. I recall photography prohibited in the room so another factor could have been that because I didn’t have the capacity to immortalize that memory through photography, I had to fully immerse myself in the room to immortalize it mentally (which clearly worked at least long enough to talk about it 12 years later).
Florence followed the Vatican. I think the most interesting snippet from this portion of the trip is that I felt like I had already been there. I had no use for maps, for the city’s layout was so accurately recreated in a video game (Assassin’s Creed) I spent dozens of hours exploring that I already could navigate its streets before even arrival. In fact, I turned into a guide, escorting companions to the iconic Ponte Vecchio that spans the Arno River and is the only bridge in Florence that survived World War II. I further guided companions to the Santa Croce Basilica.
Florence will always be nostalgic to me for another reason, however, for it was there I celebrated my 20th birthday and there I attempted my trip dare. To be honest, I can’t recall if I needed to complete it all in one go or if my dare-giver Kelsey meant for me to do it gradually throughout the trip, so it’s possible I chose to drink 5 shots of vodka in not just one night but within 40 seconds. It’s not like I was super eager to get drunk. I had spent the past couple weeks at this point watching my companions hop onto the back of moving fire trucks, had witnessed a kiss between individuals in relationships back home and forget about it the next morning, had observed a grown man lay on his back while others drank out of shot glasses resting on his chest. There was no part of this environment appealing to me, and that remains true today. It’s definitely not the primary reason I wanted to go to Europe in the first place, despite what my parents might think. This was and will always be the only time I’ll get drunk in my life.
I could have refused the dare and let Kelsey make a new one for me. But I wasn’t just traveling around the world, I wanted to experience it. As the saying goes, “when in Rome.” I suppose I also justified my actions by considering any possible usefulness of getting blackout drunk, that if I had experienced it myself I could more effectively help out future friends who find themselves in the same situation. I could also maybe use the experience to more efficiently write future characters and stories. I believe that was the biggest reason I accepted the dare: my life up until that point, in my opinion, lacked experiences. I wanted to change that. It’s hard to write strong stories if you don’t have experiences to back them up. Maybe it wasn’t a necessary experience, and maybe if I hadn’t been traveling with the others for 2 weeks by this point I would have considered otherwise, but I was surrounded by 4 dozen people I could subconsciously trust with my safety. And rightfully so, for they protected me.
I remember walking around the club for maybe 10 minutes before passing out, briefly regaining consciousness to register being assisted in a cab, then waking up the next morning covered in puke residue. When I regrouped with the others for breakfast, they cleared me in on the night’s events after my passing out, that moments after the bouncer cleaned up a mess off a sofa, I resurrected that mess, on that same sofa (a sofa which, by the way, was on a second floor I didn’t even know existed). It was an odd experience, losing memory, the only proof it ever existed from secondhand stories. I still remember most of my birthday though: the aforementioned self-guided adventures through Florence, a glamorous meal in a grand room accompanied by 6 glasses of wine and a glass of champagne as a prep for the night’s main event. There is a video recording of me somewhere documenting my dare, a video which to this day I have not shown anyone not on that trip or even seen myself for probably 7 years. My parents have said I talk about this event and hold onto its memory as if I am proud of it and I don’t think that could be farther from the truth. I think when I told them it, I was mostly just excited to have a story to share at all. I find it most likely that my actions were influenced by both the pursuit of experience and my own personal curiosity. I think it’s kind of interesting to say that when I went to Pisa the next day, my hungover state saw a standing tower of Pisa.
My next destination brought with it a return to the mountains, the Swiss Alps. We set up a home base in the town of Lucerne, a gorgeous lakeside village in the heart of the Alps. Most of my tour group indulged in iconic Swiss Fondue, but unfortunately for me, I sort of categorized Fondue with English Breakfast, and thus neglected to experience it. It’s not quite the same situation – I was fully aware they were tasting it so it’s not that I simply forgot about it – but at the time I wasn’t as open to prioritizing experiencing cultural cuisine. If I were ever to return to Switzerland (looking at you Interlaken) Fondue would for sure be on the itinerary, but I don’t regret not trying it back then. This is probably the first time I’ve even thought about this in the decade since. Switzerland is home, however, to another quite major regret.
The day we spent in Switzerland started with a venture up the peaks. The cable car to the top took 30 minutes; Kieran and I claimed a car for ourselves. Outside of the otherworldly scenic views, and endless display of scattered peaks and an aerial of the city below, the only notable events of the ride up was the spotting of a small church about halfway up, with no clear road leading to it. I was more curious why a church would be so remote in location that it’d defeat the purpose of its existence. I imagined it abandoned though, perhaps its functionality resting in history.
Beforehand, the tour guide reminded us of the elevation of the peak and the potentially colder environment. When we reached the top however, I found the opposite to be true. I had prepared for the cold with 4 layers of clothing and removed 3 of those layers once stepping onto the peak, wandering Mt. Pilatus in a t-shirt. Hurdling around a stack of clothes may have not made for the most pleasant experience, but nor is it my deepest regret.
A goal of this trip was to befriend these international companions so that when I eventually inevitably visited Australia (at the time I was also considering studying abroad there but this visit has yet to happen), I’d have friends to show me around. There were a few people up to this point that I would have considered a friend, Kieran among them, and another that assisted me during my drunken escapade, Dan. And I seized every chance I got to hold onto these friendships. Unfortunately, the Alps had a different plan in store for me.
I always imagined I’d take these events to my grave, and thus I feel compelled to alter some of the truth, despite the desire to recreate the story as accurately as possible. As I wandered Mt. Pilatus, gazing upon the mountainous landscape, the frozen alpine lakes and the rather impressive snowman creations from individuals who had never seen snow before, many ladies of the tour group collectively performed their trip dare. Distracted by the divine beauty of the Alps, I explored past a small windmill behind which these ladies hid and witnessed the backside of their topless bodies, thus shattering any hope I had of befriending them. The regret of this event might seem misplaced, but the accidental nature of this event is not fully accurate. I was aware of the dare beforehand, I should have anticipated it, and while the distractions leading up to it were still true to justify my initial presence there, the shock of the event and the almost immediate accusatory glares from the dare participants despite my having just arrived imprisoned me there longer than I should have been. Therein is the regret, my reaction. My presence there could have been explained to salvage the friendships, but my reaction not so much. And though not everyone in the group was around to witness the events, by the time we returned to the bus at the mountain’s base, its story had spread.
We had the option to sledge down the mountain, a 45 minute journey of zigging and zagging down its slopes, but due to my diminished mood from the transpired events on the peak, I opted for the same return journey as my arriving journey, the cable car. As a causation, I consider this an extension of my regret. The opportunity to sledge down a 7000’ slope is far and few between, and one I’ll unlikely ever have again. I should have seized it instead of repeating the scenic journey down, wallowing in shock and worry for the dynamics during the rest of the trip (which was only a day and a half).
There is something positive to be said in the aftermath however. When we returned to the city, I joined a subgroup that managed to not get involved with the drama. We trekked across the Chapel Bridge, Europe’s oldest roofed footbridge connecting the halves of Lucerne split by the Reuss River and displayed pictorial panels of Swiss history. It’s honestly my favorite memory of the entire trip, this simple walk through town on the most breathtaking bridge. But I cherish that memory also for the content of the discussion that group had whilst exploring.
I don’t recall how it started, nor who brought the topic up, but at some point someone mentioned they suspected my dampened mood, that my aura had transformed. I found this a special moment for two reasons: recognizing my poor moods was not a common trait among my friends back home, or if they did recognize it, rarely said anything. The fact that these people who at this point had only known me for 17 days were able to recognize something wrong with me greatly impressed me. More importantly, it brought me hope that I hadn’t completely failed my goal. If Rhiannon and Logan, who both had at least heard of what happened on the peak, still considered me enough of a friend to comfort me at a low point, that was worth holding on to. And whenever I do decide to fly to Australia, they will likely be the first people I reach out to.
The final destination of our trip (not to be confused with the horror franchise) was the city of love, Paris. Paris felt like a half a week’s excursion jam packed into a single day. The night of our arrival featured a lift to the top of the Eiffel Tower, where I purchased my final Christmas gift. Though I don’t remember the gift itself, I recall the gift being for my mother. I found humor in spotting a soccer field while gazing down into the city, reminded of the reason I tolerated exploring only the major cities of Western Europe (instead of the natural environments I would have preferred) while not particularly caring for the cities of America. The key difference was that they didn’t feel big. Perhaps caused by its vast history, Western Europe’s cities aren’t filled with tall skyscrapers. There are the odd towering buildings like the Eiffel and the London Eye, but for the most part the continent’s ancient history meant their cities maintained their traditional aesthetics, developed long before the time of skyscrapers. London, Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague, Innsbruck, Rome, Florence, Lucerne, they all reminded me environmentally of my hometown and other small American towns I have been acquainted with. They were big cities only in terms of square feet, but their atmospheres argued differently. And even then, I found myself walking to most places in every city I visited. I find it interesting actually, that the only 2 cities in Europe I rode local public transportation in were London and Paris, the first and last cities of my trip. Even more interesting was the surprising aid from a French local (contradicting all the stereotypes about them not being friendly to outsiders) when their subway system accepted only credit cards with chips, which was apparently a system the US had not yet implemented, and he purchased my ticket for me.
The day in Paris included a visit to the famous Louvre. Immediately impressed by its main entrance under the iconic pyramid, the Louvre’s most notable feature, to me, was not its grand collection of the most famous artworks in history. Don’t get me wrong, seeing the Mona Lisa in person is a special moment despite its high security protections that permitted guests from walking within 20 feet of it. But it was also expected. The memory I carry with me the most is wandering its royal halls like a peasant unworthy of attendance, learning that to fully experience everything the Louvre offers could take 6-9 months. Yet still its commissioner found its size lacking for his taste and relocated his palace instead to Southern France, which was the Louvre’s initial purpose: to serve as a palace.
After the Louvre, Kieran and I found a quick bite where I once again let picky eating habits deter me from attempting escargot like my companion. As the last day of the tour, I think I was also just in a mix of emotions, wanting to guarantee maximum enjoyment, so I played it safe with familiar cuisine (though I couldn’t tell you the exact meal). We wandered the streets and parks of Paris, down the Champs-Elysee to the Arc De Triomphe. That reminds me, when we first arrived in Paris, as the guide was informing us of the 14 lanes that lead into the only 12 lane wide roundabout surrounding the Arc, the driver charged into the roundabout like a racehorse freed from its paddock: without hesitation and full steam ahead. It’s a miracle we didn’t collide.
We retraced our steps back down the Champs-Elysee toward the Louvre, where we crossed the Pont De Arts, or Love Lock Bridge. I suppose it was a cool experience in the moment, witnessing the endless collection of love sealed away for eternity on the River Seine. But even then I questioned the favorability. The locks diminished the inspiring views the Seine offered and overwhelmed the already high-trafficked bridge with even more tourists, as a connector of the Louvre and Notre Dame, that I just imagined the locals’ annoyance with the situation. Sure enough, it turns out it wasn’t for eternity. A couple years after this trip I read an article claiming the Parisian Government shut the operation down due to structural damage, the locks of love replaced with glass panels. I do appreciate having witnessed the bridge before its retirement because now it serves as a reminder of life’s fleeting nature. Not everything endures forever. Cherish the special moments, and seize every opportunity because there may never be another one. I suppose I thought similarly from visiting Notre Dame pre-fire, though the lesson learned there would be slightly different thanks to its efficient restoration.
The tour ended with a bang, though good or bad I’ll let you decide for yourself, as we attended a show at the infamous Moulin Rouge. Naturally, comparisons between living the experience and simply watching the experience on film transpired. The two are vastly different. The film amplifies the Moulin Rouge’s cabaret environment to a more chaotic level for my tastes, that movie influencing my opinion before even entry. The real place was thankfully more tame, essentially a dinner theater show performed by women in various styles of colorful attire with various masterful acts. Some of my expectations going in (again influenced by the movie) were proven justified, that the performers exposed more skin than I was used to in my upbringing. I thus had several reasons to conclude my 23-day journey on a different note. I think ultimately accepting attendance was partially due to the fact that I had skipped the show in the Red Lights District of Amsterdam and that up until to this point I was still relatively lacking in a cultural experience (as opposed to almost exclusively sightseeing so far). And yeah, I found the show uncomfortable at times but entertaining at others. It was an efficient conclusion. Upon reflection, it’s interesting that my EuroTrip essentially began and ended with a similar activity. “Full Circle” has always been a captivating storytelling technique for me and to experience its use firsthand in real life was a wonderful gift.
I will forever correlate that trip and “Get Lucky” together. I almost never think about one without also the other. It became more than just tradition for those few weeks. It became that trip’s theme, its lyrics summarizing the experiences and its impact as a metaphor on my life.
It’s the Legend of the Phoenix, all ends with beginnings. This opening directly references the Phoenix myth, the avian that dies and is reborn every 1000 years. Similarly to the Phoenix, that trip ignited a new life path for me, a rebirth. It inspired my pursuit of further education after a two year gap since high school, and though I may have still not known which degree to choose at the time, I did at least know what I wanted to do with my life: to travel the world. And by the time this story was written 12 years later, despite an unused degree, I had successfully managed to visit 14 countries and 31 states.
What keeps the planet spinning. The force from the beginning. I often reflect on this trip as it shaped who I am today. It gave me a reason to keep spinning, constantly traveling and planning two or three trips in advance. The memory of this journey, my first taste of the bigger world, has become my life’s greatest motivator. I’d argue it is even more than a catalyst. It’s my entire being.
We’ve come too far to give up who we are. No matter how important one aspect of life may seem, traveling will always remain top priority. I have fears that prioritizing travel so deeply will forbid me from pursuing many long term commitments that’d damage my free time, like starting a family, but I believe that sacrifice will be worth the reward. I have traveled too much to want to give that up for anything. It is my life’s purpose.
So let’s raise the bar and our cups to the stars. Our drive to Berlin landed on an American Holiday, Thanksgiving. As the only American on the trip, I felt obligated to share a tradition with my companions, borrowing my trip guide’s microphone to give thanks to all those I traveled with for making this opportunity possible. And that’s really the heart of this whole journey and tale: a thank you note, a celebration of my rebirth. I fully believe that I needed to not only travel Western Europe, but to do so with those people, at that time, even if I would have preferred to travel solo, beyond more than the major cities, and only compromised for the sake of my parents.
Now obviously the true meaning of these lyrics are questionable but I have altered them into my own personal translation. She’s up all night ‘til the sun, I’m up all night to get some, She’s up all night for good fun, I’m up all night to Get Lucky. I identify with a different metaphor than the song’s intended, instead considering night and sun as a representation of Mother Nature’s endless cycles. I would, and have, sacrificed slumber in pursuit of exploration, to “stay up all night” and “get some” opportunities and experiences. To “Get Lucky.” To this day that has been my philosophy while planning trips, leaving room for the twilight and midnight hours.
My Western European adventures were made possible by a two year gap between high school and college, taken out of fear of not having money or time post graduation. But it turned out to be such a phenomenal time that motivated me to prioritize traveling for the rest of my life, sacrificing anything unnecessary and reserving everything I could spare on a limited wage. Now I consider my riches a higher class than most, riches not of monetary value but of reminiscent and experiential, a more valuable form of wealth in my opinion. And this trip is where that all started. I owe my entire life to it and to the company that hosted it. To Contiki.
Around the World in Stories 