Paris

I was awake long before the train pulled into the Gare du Nord station, but it wasn't until I walked onto the platform when I fell in love with Paris. There is something in the air that defines it as a different world from what I had known (it could be the pervasive stench of sewar and stale urine though). I was indecive at first, I did not have a place to stay nor did I really know where I was going. The line at the tourist information booth was long and showed no signs of moving, I just couldn't be bothered to wait for it. At first I thought I would use the small map in my Lonely Planet booked, but when I walked outside I realized that would be a disaster. Searching the kiosk like stores in the Gare, I finally found one that sold maps. The guy at the counter had picked me out for a foreigner long before I had said anything and spoke to me in English. When asked, he said I didn't walk or act like a Parisian, I don't think it was meant as an insult. He did guess I was northern European though, but I think that is a fair assessment.

My plane was to walk to the nearest hostel to the Gare, according to my book. I could have taken the subway, but I wanted to strectch my legs and walk a bit. A city is always much bigger when you are walking it for the first time and it was taking me a long time to get anywhere (for the record, only one wrong turn). Long before I reached the hostel I was looking for, I don't even remember which one, I was stopped by a young Italian man as I pass through the Place de la Republique. I usually am loath to bother speaking to people handing out flyers, but acting on instinct alone, I stopped for him. He had picked me out of the crowd because of my pack and asked if I was looking for a hostel.

I came to Paris, at the hight of tourist season, not having booked a hostel, most people would say that is a foolish and risky thing to do, but I knew I would find a place.

I let him direct me to the subway, he explained where I had to get off and how to find the hostel from the stop. Indeed, his instructions were good and I was able to get there easily.

The Hostel. Pushing open the ancient wooden doors, I found myself in a dark hallway with no apparent lighting. After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I was able to read the sign directing me to the second level for the hostel. Holding the railing to support myself under my heavy bag as I climbed the centuries old granite stairs with the centres long worn into deep dips, I came to another ancient double wooden door. It wasn't locked and I pushed through to find an old African man talking to another person. The door had led me into the middle of what appeared to be an apartment turned dorm. Leading me away, the African man took my details and money in the the small and cluttered kitchen that also double as the office.

The grand tour followed and I followed him into the adgencent room off the kitchen, what might be described as the dinning area, if I were generous. It was a room about 4x4 metres, give or take, that had a low and shallow counter on three of its sides. There were collapsable chairs stacked neatly in one corner. On one of the shelves was a postcard from Vancouver thanking the Hostel for its "Wonderful Breakfast", there was no sender's address.

From the kitchen, into the dining room, then down to the stairs to the right was the washing area, split into two halves after the stairs. On one side, there were two stalls with toilets, fortunately the walls went to the floor and there was a cieling affording some privacy. Directly across the stalls were the two shower stall (at a cost of 1€) bracketing the two sinks with mirrors. On the other side of the hall were another row of sinks and mirrors.

Passing through the hallway, there was a dorm on the left, across from the entrance, was the mixed dorm for what appeared to be couples. Bunk beds had been pushed together to create double beds. Through that room was the very small room where eight Africans lived. Next to that was the girls room and immediately to the left of the main door was the boys room. An oddly angled room with ten bunks. I knew then it was going to be a smelly, noisy stay. I settled into my room (I threw my bag on a free bunk) and decided to enjoy Paris a little.

I went to the first obvious place, the Eiffel tower. Two things I learned about the Eiffel tower; first, it was much further away than I expected and secondly, it was much bigger than I expected. The Tower is surronded by a pretty park which is filled with tourists taking the same photo. I considered going up to the top to enjoy the experienceI didn't feel like waiting in line for an hour or paying the 18€ to go up alone, so I vowed to return when I could go up with some one special...

An update...

All right, I have received sufficient harassment to update this blog, so now I am taking a few minutes to do it.

Obviously, I wasn't stabbed to death or robbed blind after sleeping outside. In fact, it was a pleasant experience (the not getting stabbed or robbed part), chilly, but pleasant. When I woke, as dawn began to light the day, I crawled out from my sleeping bag and shook off the morning dampness, then had a light breakfast of bread and meat. Perhaps I was less of a pilgrim as much as a vagabond. After hiking back to the train station and waiting around for the counter to open so I could book a ticket, I caught the next train west. It was a bit of a disastrous day, but by the end of it, I managed to catch the train to Hamburg, Germany.

I spent one night in Hamburg, staying in a very rock and roll hotel/bar. There were courtesy earplugs on my pillow. It was far more expensive, but it was worth every penny to have a shower and put on clean clothes. I never did need to earplugs, the lure of the bar outside my room was far to great to miss out, even if I was ready to fall over with fatigue. I even got a neat little tour of the better views by a local.
Since the bar didn't close until four in the morning, there was a very late check out time, which I took advantage of... Having taken advantage of the late closing time.

The next day, or the same day I suppose, I took advantage of the shower again before leaving. I had about a lot of hours to kill before my train, so I took a circuitous route to see some of the city. I watched the sun set and had a very intense conversation with a very crazy rastaman with dreads to his knees. He had a very fascinating sun salute which was part Tai Chi, part military salute, part yoga, and a lot weird. He was one of the coolest people I had spoken to in a long time. By morning though, I was in Paris with no place to stay, but this time I was determined to find a hostel.

I never did find a hostel, it found me. More on that later. In this story, I only got lost once and took one train to the wrong part of the country once.

Oslo to Hamburg - Part 1, July 25

I opened my eyes before the sun made its daily debut, but the grey-blue sky told me it would not be long before I would see it.

I had spent the night sleepless and I was tired, but I had eaten and I had a ride out of town, things were looking okay. As the dawn broke, the sky cleared, it was going to be a bright and sunshiny day. I knew I had to get a window seat, the sun would come through the window and keep me warm, nothing puts me to sleep like the warm sun. I didn't see much of the country as we cruised through Sweden, I was dozing comfortably with my sweater cushioning my head and next against the window. My only distraction was the Spanish girl beside me didn't speak any English, but she was nice to look at between naps. I just hope I didn't snore too loudly. Managing to wake up and some how communicate with the Swedish only speaking driver, I switched buses halfway to Copenhagen. That was the only time I moved more than a few inches the whole trip.

When I arrived in Copenhagen, dropped off a few streets from the central station, I tried to think of a plan. I had a vague sense to go Spain, not for any particular reason other than it was warmer there than in Scandinavia where it rarely broke 20 degrees. Heavy with sleep inertia and rather lost with any real idea of what I wanted to do, I started with the internet. Yes, this was the worst place to spend my time, but at least I could wast my time in my own language. When you are tired, trying to work in a very foreign language is quite frustrating, especially when you have to deal with surly ticket agents. without a place to stay, and without any idea what I wanted to do. I had a vague notion I wanted to get to Barcelona, but the price of a ticket from Copenhagen was, well, just silly. Tired, groggy, and grouchy, I wandered the station, trying to figure out what I wanted to do. If I at least knew that, I would have a chance to build a plan.

Thinking maybe it would be best to stay the night, I started calling hostel. They were all full. I could have landed at my family's door step, but I did not feel at all right about that. I emailed my friend who live an hour away, maybe I could crash there if she got back to me in time. It was a silly idea, but I wasn't being smart.

Buying a ticket to Slagelse, I got on a train. I thought maybe I would sleep by the beach over night, that would be kinda cool. Traveling through the country side, I realized I had no idea how to get to the beach and furthermore, the ticket I bought brought me to a city a at least 20km from the coast.

I started chatting with the girl next to me. I hadn't spoken to any one in days and was glad for the company. In the back of my mind, I had hope she would ask were I was staying and invite a weary traveler to stay the night. I say that in the most platonic way as well, all I wanted was a shower and a bed. Unfortunately, that would not be the case. She didn't ask nor did I offer the information, I wasn't going to fish for help.

During the conversation though, I accidentally on purpose missed my stop and rode right through to Odense. I knew the one hostel in town would have its reception closed, but I tried anyway with the obvious result. It was a weird sensation. I had no where to stay, no direction, and I just didn't care. I would have to sleep outside, but it didn't matter. I was on an adventure and there was bound to be some bumps in the road. Obviously the bumps came from my very poor planning, but it seems as though everything was too easy if I didn't make it hard for myself. I suppose that sounds idiotic, why would I want to make it harder for myself?

Going through life is usually fair simple affair. Eat, sleep, work, play. Sometimes unforeseen things disrupt our routines, but we do our best to plan for them so they cause minimal chaos. I could have easily planned ahead and booked a cheap ticket from Oslo to anywhere, but where is the challenge. Granted, for me the challenge is planning ahead. None the less, I was looking for that feeling of pilgrimage, even if it was forced.

Walking down the streets in the fading light, I was glad for the chance for something new. I didn't know where I would sleep, but I knew I would find a good place that would keep me dry and safe. My bag wearing me down, I eventually turned at an intersection with the intent of getting to the harbour two kilometres away, but I never made it that far.

I came across a set of abandoned railroad tracks and following them into the bush, I discovered what looked like a hobbit's shanty town. Little structures built of old wooden shipping pallets, turned grey from the elements, and odd lumber lined the pathway. Some of the bizarre structures appeared to have two stories. Among this strange little village was a large lean-two. Underneath was a large log perfect for sitting on while I ate some supper and the ground where I slept was mostly soft, without many sticks or stones.

I felt lucky to have found a place like this and I set up camp for the night. Just like a real pilgrim.

Sleepless in Oslo, July 24

I thought leaving Oslo would be a simple affair. I would catch the same ferry I had taken to get there and by morning I would be back in Fredrikshavn. It was as simple a plan as I could figure. It took some time, but I was able to decipher the Norwegian website and found the departure time the ship. My bag was packed and I had said most of my good-byes, I was ready to go.

As the day turned into afternoon and the time to sail was drawing nearer, I came across my Australian friend busking in the street and wished him well before returning to the hostel to collect my pack.

It began to rain, an ill omen. Any distance is exaggerated when walking in the rain and carrying a heavy load, so the twenty minute hike felt like forever. When I did reach the port and the ticket counter, I waited for my number to be called. I was looking forward to the trip, I would be able to enjoy the night sky over the ocean and see the stars like I never have before. When my number was called, I sidled up to the counter and asked for one ticket. Sold out. Not a pleasant surprise, I didn't want to have to stay in town another night. I inquired about the next night. Yes, there was room, but at a cost of five times the price I paid to get here. I had to rent a cabin. I walked away stunned and unhappy, I had no idea this would be the case. Perhaps if I had been able to understand more Norwegian or used a little sense, I might have been able known better.

My frustration and anger grew as I walked to the train station. I had mentally checked out of the city and had planned as best I could, but came up short. Again. Mad at myself for not planning better and mad at the ferry company for not writing in English, I thought about how I was going to leave. Plan A was barely thought through, there was no plan B. The train station had internet stations, so I thought I would search for my answer there, as though the internet gods would present me with the answer.

Signing into a terminal, I searched the possibilities and even enlisted Guro's help. She directed me to the cheapest bus service out of town, but no matter what I did, I could not book a ticket with my credit card. There was an obvious solution to my problem, but I was so fixated on finding it through the internet, I was blind to it. It appeared as though I was staying for one more night.

Guro generously invited me to crash at her place if I needed to, but as much as I appreciated the offer, I knew she simply did not have the space to house me. Moreover, I was reasonably certain there would be space at the hostel. I was mad though. Unreasonably frustrated and mad. So I pouted.

I decided I was not going pay for another room if I had to stay the night. As if my act of defiance made a difference to anyone or anything, I decided to spend the night awake wandering the city. With stubborn determination, I dressed warmly, in layers, and locked up my pack for the evening at the station.

One of my favourite spots in Oslo is the church that had been turned into various shops and boutiques. On the outer terrace that wrapped around the back of the building, was a small café. I would spend a few hours there drawing in my new sketch book and writing in my journal. Drinking my first over-priced tea, I thought about some of the things I had read and the people I had met. A common thread I was beginning to recognize in people who had achieved greatness, was a singular, life changing event. Some extraordinary thing that or person who stepped in from nowhere and directed that person to a course of action. I thought about the friend I had met just a few days before, she had a stranger walk up to her and tell her she needed to be across the country in three days. The stranger helped her get the money to make the trip and a friend found her a place to stay. A few days later, she was singing on stage with a band in the bar where she was to meet the person who would give her a place to stay. In the audience was a record exec who put her on the path to signing with a major label. It was an incredible story and wonderfully inspiring. Anything can happen when you least expect it, but where was my moment? I desperately wanted to find that person or event that would make the world clearer to me, that would illuminate my path for me.

Drinking my second cup of over-priced tea, I started to wonder if maybe I would ever have that moment and if I didn't, did that mean I would never achieve the success I was looking for? The best I could do was to sit peacefully and let my inner voice guide me. If I kept looking for these challenges and doing these crazy things, will I find that moment will come where I will find that inspiration? At the very least, I will have some amusing stories.

With a page of my new sketch book filled and the café closing, I moved on. Having nowhere in particular to be or to go, I stopped at a 7/11 to buy another cup of tea. Hopefully the limited caffeine would be enough to get me through the night. At least the night wasn't cold. From there, I went to the pier where the tourists wandered by day. There was an outdoor lounge playing some groovy chill-out music, so I sat nearby for a while and sketched some more. I was starting to regret my brashness, I really wanted a bed. I was tired and bored. There was no turning back though, it was late and the hostels would be closed for check-ins now, I had forced myself into a corner and had to see the night through. When the music ended and the club closed, I left.

I walked far into the night, with no direction or purpose, much like most of my life. Eventually seeing I was going nowhere, I turned back and sought out the spiked guardians for company. I expected them to be far more fearsome at night, but the constant stream of traffic and bright street lamps detracted from the spiritual experience I was hoping for. At three in the morning, they were not at all scary.

I made my way back to the train station, ambling slowly and dodging the dirty prostitutes hissing their offers of sex. By the time I made it to the plaza where the tiger prowled, I still had a few hours to wait.

When the station opened, I returned to the internet and tried to book a ticket on the same website with the same result. Even my mother, who came online and tried to help me, couldn't get her card to work either. I am sure there are worse ways to hurriedly buy tickets, but I am hard pressed to think of one worse than directing a person, who is an ocean away, through a website neither of us can read.

Short on patience, hungry, and over-tired, I gave up on the internet and found a little that little sense that I needed to get out of town. The bus station was near the train station, I knew that, if I could find that, I could buy a ticket out of this city. Within a few hours, I was on a bus to Copenhagen, cruising through Sweden.

My night on the town could have easily been averted. Had I just needed to use my brain instead of the computer, I would have spent the night dozing as miles flew by. Would I have had the adventure of wandering the city by night though...

Scary Demon Pets, July 24

I finally checked out from my hostel. I had the whole day to spend before I could catch the over-night ferry back to Denmark and there was one thing left I wanted to do in Oslo: I wanted to photograph the fierce demons guarding the statue of Rikard Nordraak.

I didn't know who this man or what his importance was, let alone why he deserved the honour of two of the most terrifying creatures I have ever laid eyes on, but photographing these creatures was something I felt compelled to do. It was only much later I discovered who the man was. He was a talented composer who died much too young at the age of 23. Indeed, one of his pieces is now the Norwegian national anthem. I have yet to discover the relationship between him and the statues, however, the statues themselves are the creation of Gustav Vigeland, a famous sculpture and creator of Vigeland park.

There are two of these fanstictally hideous beasts, each standing guard at the base of the staircase to Nordraak's statue. Chained by the wrist with solid iron links, they stand stoically, staring unwaveringly straight ahead. Never moving, as much as I saw, forever standing sentry until they are overcome by the elements and time. Moving between them, I hoped they did not take offense to my presence. I meant no disrespect and did not want to stir the creatures from their vigilance into violence. They looked to be capable of incredible destruction.

Each metallic bone is covered with curved spikes running the length of their limbs. These minions, of whatever hellish place they come, seem to be created for one purpose only; To shred flesh from bone. Even though they were chained by their wrists, the small mobility afforded to them would be enough to take by surprise any unwary prey. I wondered if the chains were hardened enough to hold them should they be awakened and their wrath stirred.

Reflection, July 23

Travelling through hostels provides some many opportunities to meet the most interesting people. This past week has been filled with inspirational and talented people who have inadvertently helped me chose a future for myself.

Every day of this trip has been a blessing. Moments like sharing an evening of music and song together or nights out on the town will forever stay etched in my memory.

In a time of travel and transition, I have found a feeling of familiarity and stability, no matter how brief.

I don't have dreams, I have goals... July 20

If you have been following my sporadic updates, you might remember I wrote about buying two books by Paulo Coelho. I was reading Like the Flowing River when I came to the passage about The Law of Jante. In the words of Coelho, the law can be described thusly;

You aren't worth a thing, nobody is interested in what you think, mediocrity and anonymity are your best bet. If you act this way, you will never have any big problems in life."

(You can read the full article here: Paulo Coelho and about the law here The Law of Jante) At the time, this statement only struck me as interesting, maybe something to think about later.

One of the reasons I came to Oslo was to visit my brother's friend who he has known for many years. His friend, besides living in Oslo, also travels to L.A. and London, among other destinations, to work on her music career, which as of this moment is about to take off after working with some of the industry's biggest names. As usual, I drifted into Oslo without any warning or planning, so I couldn't be surprised when I found out she was in London, recording. I had been in Oslo for almost two weeks before we were able to meet.

I had suggested we go to the famous statue park ( Vigeland Park and Museum) instead of something boring like sitting idly for a coffee, to which she readily agreed. She met me at my hostel after she had finished work for the day and we jumped on the next trolley to the park. I found her very easy to talk to and her charisma allowed our conversation to flow easily.

As we spoke, I learned much of what she was doing and what her goals were. It became remarkably clear I had met some one who knew exactly what she wanted and believed completely she was going to succeed. There was not that doubt that came with hope, but her success was simply a matter of fact. Indeed, as she recounted some of the accomplishments she had, in the past and recently, finished, there could be no doubt she would do what she decided to do. Her first single was to be released within a month or two, both in the UK and in Japan (I have no doubt of her success after listening to a first edit of the single).

She mentioned how she was keeping a low profile within Norway, not making any effort to gain recognition nor promote her music. My slow firing brain made the connection and exclaimed "Jante's Law!" She looked at me strangely and I felt a little defeated, but went on to explain it as I had read it. Eyes growing wide with recognition, she corrected my pronunciation "Yante's Law". Obviously, "J" in Norway is pronounced like our "Y". She went on to explain the Law in her own words and concluded that was exactly why she felt the need to pursue her career outside of Norway.

For the first time, I had met a person who was directly defying that Law believed, not only those in Scandinavia, but by people all over the world. People everywhere cling to that idea, in one fashion or another, that idea that says keep your head down and don't make waves. It was then I saw how my life had been shaped by this rule, never daring to make a spectacle or to believe I can achieve those great dreams I used to have. Many years ago, before the years of adulthood weighed down on me, I believed I would do great things. However, as with all things adult, we are taught to leave the childish dreams with our childhood and rather we should strive to fit the mold of our society. For years I struggled against the pressure of living in that mold, never quite fitting in, but without any idea how to live beyond it.

Before we parted ways, my brother's friend said something that changed everything for me. In a moment, my world was shaken again. I was lamenting about some of the things I had wanted and do want to do, but spoke of them as dreams. Interrupting me, she said, "I don't have dreams, I have goals." There it is. The challenge. I could either continue pining for the things I wish to achieve or I can achieve them.

Later, I began thinking about my dreams. What were the things I had wanted to do and would they ever come true. Like a loud bell, the thought clanged in my head, I have achieved more than one of my dreams. Not the least of which, was leaving my entire world behind to travel and live an adventure. I remember how that dream became a goal:

One evening in the middle of February, after having lost my job and not winning the competition for another I desperately needed and wanted, I sat depressed and frustrated. I had never been so poor in my life, unpaid bills were piled high and I had to ask for money from my parents just to buy groceries until the social assistance cheque arrived. My pride was shattered and knew then I had to change everything about my world. I knew I could not survive in the world as I had been, not with any measure of happiness. While I sat brooding, a thought drifted back into my consciousness, with it came a breeze, blowing the dust off an old idea. I remembered how a year previous I wanted to take some time and live abroad, but never did because I did not have the vacation time and could not save the money to keep my apartment and travel at the same time. I had let the idea gather dust, until it was hidden from my thoughts, but now it shone brightly, refusing to be ignored. My brooding grew into unrequited excitement, yes, I could do this. My dream had become my goal.

Now, I thought about other goals that had been long forgotten. Released from the confines of my own limitations, I set them as goals. I know I will achieve the success I long ago believed I could reach.

I will directly defy the Law of Jante, of Mediocrity. I will rise above my fears and set ambitious goals. I will learn from my mistakes and be blessed by my failures. I will work until I achieve my goals.

I will be great!

How did I end up here? July 21

Being the indecisive creature that I am, I am forever extending my stay at the hostel for another day or two, which in turn shuffles me around into different rooms. Yesterday, I found myself shuffled into my Australian friend's room, but I didn't realize that until this morning when I heard him shuffling around and asking some one else for the time. I believe the girl who answered was the person I nearly ran over in the dark of the middle of the night, coming out of the bathroom after I arrived late from where ever I was. I would tell you where I was, but I don't quite remember that far back and it didn't seem relevant when I recorded it in my journal, so don't worry about it.

As I came out of the heavy sleep inertia that makes less then brilliant in the morning and looked about my new room, a cozy six bed room with a small kitchenette and bathroom, I saw there were five of us bunked together. Besides my Australian friend and me, there were two American girls from the east coast, California I believe. One was a civil engineer and the other was about to go into law school. You might be able to take the girl out of California, but you can never take the California out of the girl...

The fifth bunk mate was an Egyptian man who insisted on making friends with every one, although he spoke about only a little more English than I do Arabic. Captain obvious says, I don't speak any Arabic. I do know a few words in Persian, but that really didn't help much. At all actually. Anyway, he presented me with a beaded necklace as a gift and felt he had to take my picture... A little creepy, but I think he meant well. The others in the room were bitter at me when I showed off my new digs, all they got were some cheesy key chains and similar trinkets. The best was when he wrote two pages of Arabic in my journal, of course I have no idea what it says, but I have chosen to believe it is some fantastic work of literature. Whether or not I ever get it translated remains to be seen.

The dynamic between the four of us (I will exclude the Egyptian man, whose name was Houman... I think. He pretty much did his own thing.) could be best described like this; Me desperately trying to not continue making an ass of myself. Perhaps it was the innate male need to compete with the most charismatic person in the room or it could just be I was a dolt that day, but for whatever reason, I kept saying stupid things. Regardless, we managed to get along well enough to make plans for the evening.

The plan fell together as the four of us were in the room doing our separate things. The girls were getting ready for a night out and spending a significant amount of time doing their hair. They had one thing on their mind and were not shy about it, as was evident when they split their large supply of condoms between their purses. Later, never shy for words, 6-string cowboy described them, in his Melbourne accent, as positively gagging for sex. These girls seemed to have no inhibitions and were looking forward to the club...and making out with each other or any other hot person around.

By the time we were all ready to leave, the boys having thrown on something more or less clean, the girls having spent hours transforming themselves into irresistible sirens, it was already getting late. Although our under-sexed Californians had already eaten, they were amiable to joining us at the tapas restaurant we had discovered the previous night. There would be drinks there and that was the most important thing.

The restaurant, called Tapas, (tapas is a type of Spanish cuisine consisting of small portions of a variety of foods, shared among a table)was a dimly lit place with solid wood furniture and art deco prints on the wall. It was divided into two sections, one section was neatly arrayed tables with chairs and a row of tables against the wall with padded benches. The other side had the bad, a few less tables, the same type of benches in the wall, and a large open space in the wall, leading outside. With warm bodies breathing their hot air into the space, the open window made for a comfortable breeze.

We choose a table in the middle of the bar section, this way we could talk with more random people. Ordering a litre of wine for the four of us, we set into the menu and ordered an array of dishes that we either new was good or wanted to try. As we ate, the girls quickly lost interest in us and were conversing with the table that was at their backs. We were more interested in our food and chatting with the tattooed waitress serving us. I have learned it is always beneficial to make nice with the wait staff, although I have yet to get a phone number for my efforts.

Having learned, from their new friends, of great club not far from where we were, our Americans in Oslo were eager to leave. Especially since there was a lull in the rain that started since we had arrived at the restaurant. They were quite concerned about their hair, after all, they had spent hours getting the curls just right.

The thing about people who travel on their own is, they tend to become fiercely independent and do not particularly respond well to orders. Although I was feeling amiable and perhaps a little ambivalent, I happy to stay or go. On the other hand, my Australian friend was no where near ready to go nor did he want to feel rushed. He dug his heels in and was not about to go anywhere. Thus, I was presented with my options: Leave for the club with the ladies who would most likely ignore me in short order or enjoy more libations in the cozy eatery with the friendly wait staff.

Ordering another half litre of wine for the two of us, we settled into our seats and chatted with the young waitress who had joined us at our table. On her necklace was a flat circle with the word Faith engraved. I asked her for the meaning of her necklace, faith in what? Just faith, is all she replied. I didn't press for further meaning, although I didn't completely understand her meaning. I felt maybe I would learn that on my own terms, when I was ready. Among her various other tattoos, was a portrait of her father and the dates of his life. Why a person should choose to believe a tattoo is a fitting memorial is beyond me, but at least I had the tact to appreciate it for what it was. I am forever fascinated by tattoos, but at the same time, sufficiently frighten of the risks to probably never get one. Besides, I am fickle and my opinions change often, I doubt I would like any piece of work for the rest of my life, even if it was permanently made part of my body.

As our wine dwindled and we contemplated leaving or perhaps, more wine, our favourite waitress returned with a two cold bottles of fine Norwegian ale, well, it was beer anyway. Compelled to stay, since it would be a terrible sin to waste free beer after we had racked up a rather large tab. We enjoyed the ambiance for a while longer, but eventually decided to leave for the club.

After complaining about people who constantly bum cigarettes off people, my companion didn't miss the irony as he did the same from the couple sitting on some steps not far from Tapas. Graciously making conversation as he did so, he was able to get two cigarettes.

Talking loudly, we continued on towards the direction we believed the club was. Our conversation attracted the attention of the couple ahead of us and the man asked where we were from. Never shy, we introduced ourselves with our names and nationalities, and fell into step with them. They were going to the club across the way from our and we were not, in fact, going in the right direction. In what would shape the course of the rest of the evening, we let them guide us to our destination. Once there, they decided to join us instead of going alone to the other club, which I am sure was equally as good.

Quickly moving through the queue, we entered into the seizure inducing, gut crushing, ear drum bashing, hypnotic, hard-house techno-trance blood-rave, strobe lighted, foggy dance hall. The very act of walking took a certain amount of concentration, the combination of music and lights was enough to throw off even a sober person's equilibrium. After getting their drinks from the bar, our friends disappeared into the crush, presumably to dance. Taking a moment to orient ourselves, we found the bar and paid the exorbitant price for Mexican beers (I have no idea why our night had a Spanish theme, Tapas and Coronas. No idea.) and waved to our American girls who were dancing with each other. Either no one in the club was good enough for them or they weren't quite as special as they thought they were. Their hair looked fine, for the record. I wondered, as they grinded with each other, if they would hold true to their promise to make out with each other.

Finding myself alone, my Australian friend having wandered off elsewhere, I decided to explore a little of the club. I came across our new friends who were talking with some other friends and I was introduced to a lovely Norwegian gal and her, thankfully, brother who was visiting from up north. Hoping for a dance partner, I chatted with her for a while until she excused herself for a moment to get a drink from the other side of the bar where they served hard liquor. Watching her go, I was sure she would be back, but the curiosity got the better of my patience and I went to explore the dark side. Winding my way through the hallways and dodging people far too inebriated, I discovered the other section. The music was a little different, not quite the reduce-your-insides-to-mush thumping I had just left, but still pretty good. My potential dance partner was at the bar, but with some guy I had not seen before. Feeling brazen, I asked her if she wanted to come back to the other side and dance. No. Defeated, but not discouraged I returned to the other section to found my crew and let my insides vibrate.

The night wore on and I was thirsty, but the bar was shutting down and I was forced to endure water. Just as well I suppose. Leaning against the bar, doing my best to look GQ with my H2O, I again observed the prize duo. Still alone. Making out with each other. Their irritation plainly obvious as no one particularly cared or bothered to take any interest.

I don't recall what time that actually was, but the music eventually stopped and the sun was not far from rising. Filing out, things got a little muddled. Some how an ex-girlfriend seemed to be able to get us into the party and a new friend joined our group. Thinking an after-party was a good idea, I convinced my very tired friend to come along. Ditching the girls who seemed to have finally found some boys who wanted to talk to them, our little group skulked off in search of this new venue. We made a brief stop at the club across from ours, where we made some inquiries, then moved on. It was not long before I realized we were not actually going to an after party, but to the new girl's flat. Apparently, we couldn't actually get in, something about the ex-girlfriend not entirely pleased about the whole situation. Not entirely sure what to make of the situation or if I believed the whole after-party story, I followed anyway. Slightly taken aback, again, as the night turned into morning.

Stopping one more time before our destination to buy rum and cigarettes, and so one of the lads could pee on a tree, barely concealed from the street by a few scrawny bushes. Then we were at the new girl's flat. A tiny little place with one bed room, a kitchen that turned into the living room if you turned around the wrong way, and a bathroom large enough to barely squeeze into. A few rum and cokes were poured (This is a drink I absolutely detest and make great pains to avoid. Never mind why), and we sat down to do I am not entirely sure. It took very little time for Melbourne to call it a night, he was exhausted and desperately wanted sleep. I understood that and did my best to quash the ribbing that came from the Norwegian couple, it wasn't as nice as it could have been. As he left, I decided to stay. I wasn't quite ready to go and thought maybe there would be some interesting discussions or something.

At the hosts suggestion, we ended up on the terrace on the roof top. The view was pleasant and we talked about nothing for a little while. After a while, we noticed that our friends had disappeared, but stayed a while longer, still chatting about nothing. Finally, admitting she didn't know them that well and wasn't so comfortable with them being alone in her flat, we returned downstairs. Once in her apartment though, we discovered they had left. Oddly, she wasn't so surprised with this as I thought she should have been. One minute they are here after trucking across town, then the next they are gone. However, I was surprised and I really didn't quite know what to make of it. Suddenly it was just me and this girl whose name I wasn't even sure of. I decided the best thing to do would be to politely drink a token amount of my rum and coke (without gagging), then leave.

I hadn't realized how far it was from my hostel, so it was around 5 before I made it back and I was quite glad to crawl into bed. Even if the sun was well up.