Note – This article was originally intended to be published in the fall of 2019, before moving to the USA, but life has a tendency to get in the way.I hope you can – at the very least – enjoy some vicarious travel in the time of Covid.
It was meant to be an exciting whistle-stop journey through Europe. In returning to some of my favourite places before heading stateside, I would rekindle old friendships, revisit old haunts, and reminisce about memorable escapades; all while being welcomed as something of a prodigal son. But at just over a month in, I yearned for it to be over.
Spot the difference
Pulling on a harsh cigarette and nursing a pint on the cold stone steps of the Vertigo bar in Olomouc, CZ, the reality hit home. It had been a full six years since I last set foot in this beautiful corner of the world, regularly frequenting this particular, legendary stomping ground. A place very dear to my heart and filled with riotous memories of debauchery, there was a time when I would walk into this dive bar and, like a Czech version of Cheers, everyone would know my name. Those days were long gone.
An old picture, snapped back in the day, circa 2013
I felt lost and alone, out of place and time, an ageing hostel refugee whose friends and peers had realised how the game is played and sorted their own lives out years ago. And while it didn’t take me too long to fall into conversation with gregarious locals and remind me why I fell in love with Olomouc in the first place, the notion I was done with this lifestyle was never more rigidly solidified. Yet, curiosity got the better of me, and I was determined to see this journey through for one last hurrah.
Belgrade
The Serbian capital was the first port of call, which has become something of a building site. A “new” waterfront regeneration scheme has been in place for what feels like an eternity, while nobody actually knows where the money is going. It appears the Serbs will be doomed to have a skyline of cranes for some years to come.
The hostel I used to volunteer in wasn’t the same, unaided by the recent birth of nine puppies, taking their total count to something like 12 dogs, two cats, and a partridge in a pear tree. While having a beer outside in the puppy pee smelling designated smoking area, one of these bundles of joy deposited a foul-smelling turd at my feet.
Cute but smelly
An ageing, one-eyed cat would make itself comfortable on my bed, and while ignominious rakija-fueled evenings with good friends threatened to derail my onward journey, I reasoned that as much as I loved animals, they weren’t ideal in a place with not enough space to swing one around in.
Sofia
Hostel Mostel in Sofia is one of my all-time favourite dwellings. It’s an old traveller’s inn that dates back to the 19th century, and although it’s changed hands a few times, it’s now back doing what it does best – sheltering many a weary soul and assuring them that everything is going to be okay. I was one such pity case for some considerable time in the summer of ’14.
My beloved Hostel Mostel – the picture was taken with a potato
A great deal of my fondest travel memories were born here, with a truly eclectic clientele of guests from all over the world, from every background and culture you can think of. But knowing just what staying there would likely entail (potentially leading bar crawls every night for several months) I wisely opted to rest my weary bones at their quieter premises further out of the city. From there, I would occasionally venture out to explore the sights of Sofia I had missed previously due to a haze of booze.
The House with the Strawberries in Sofia. A beautiful abandoned villa – but I couldn’t sneak in
With the impending small fortune of a US visa, green card and further travel arrangements momentarily bleeding my modest finances dry, I knuckled down for a good fortnight to earn some coin with my writing. I still managed the odd evening out to see old friends, but for the most part, it was a sensible affair, a far cry from the Stuart of old that haunted the lethally-paved streets of the Bulgarian capital some five years since.
The famous snail house in the suburbs – made entirely out of environmentally friendly materials – and utterly hilarious at the same time
I even managed to visit the Museum of Socialist Art, some abandoned locations, and an unusual house on the outskirts of the city. The only negative was living in a hostel with a large African man and an English truck driver who appeared to be competing to see just how many decibels of snoring they could unknowingly achieve together. These two put that entire Argentinian basketball team back in Colombia to shame.
Workers of the world unite! There was plenty of this at the Socialist Art Museum in Sofia
Bucharest
As far as change goes, never was it more palpable than when I arrived at the X-hostel in Bucharest this time around. You may remember a few short years ago there was a tragic fire in the city that burned down a nightclub and claimed a number of lives. The powers that be decided to shut the stable door after the horse had bolted, implementing new health and safety regulations in hospitality and catering establishments throughout the city. All bars now required emergency exits, (which makes a lot of sense when you think about it).
X-hostel scenes like this have become a thing of the past – for better or worse
Consequently, having only one main door in or out, the popular watering hole in the hostel basement was forced to close and has suffered as a result. I was greeted with a sad shadow of what used to be a spirited den of iniquity, where once shots were syringed into people’s mouths, volunteers played table-tennis and beer pong in their underpants, and the cries of wild, sexual abandon rang through the hallways.
I left a man behind in Bucharest – swapping out my old, faithful, kindly donated backpack for a stupidly expensive new one. But boy has it been worth every penny
Still, it was nice while it lasted and the friends/owners are moving onto bigger and brighter things – which is sort of the theme of this post, coincidentally enough. Out with the old, in with the new. They’re not the only ones who realise that hostelling is a young person’s game. It’ll likely be a combination of tents, Airbnb and Motel 6 for me from now on.
The stunning Cărturești Carusel bookstore in Bucharest – one of the most beautiful in the world
While the hostel had seen better days of no vacancies, limbo parties, and having its name tattooed on penises; Bucharest itself hasn’t changed much. It’s still largely geared towards stag and hen nights (that’s bachelor and bachelorette parties to my forthcoming neighbours), but as I’d taken ill during my short return here, I actually managed to see more attractions in a couple of days than I did in three months of all that tomfuckery back in 2014.
Garish delights await at the Museum of Kitsch
This included an enormous 17th century abandoned printing press known as the Palace of Truth, one of the world’s most beautiful bookstores, and the charming, tat-filled Romanian Museum of Kitsch. I’m becoming significantly more cultured in my old age – or more likely significantly less drunk.
The Palace of Truth – one of the best abandoned urban exploration sites I’ve ever visited
Budapest
I took the night train to Budapest which was a surprisingly pleasant experience – not least because the new backpack was making my life so much easier. Nonetheless, there is something indubitably romantic about an overnight journey in a six-berth couchette, even if you are sharing it with pot-bellied, hairy Romanian dudes. I was reading Paul Theroux’s The Great Railway Bazaar, and the characters he chanced upon were not too dissimilar from my own experiences on the rails.
Bed for the night
Back in early 2013, I’d lived on the Buda side of the Hungarian capital while simultaneously partying recklessly, getting rejected for threesomes and learning how to teach English as a foreign language. As I’d only earmarked a weekend in Budapest, it was largely taken up with seeing an old wingman, flatmate, and all-round good egg. We did a boat party for old time’s sake, and realised in a very short space of time why we don’t do that kinda shit anymore.
One of the more sobering attractions in the Heart of Europe
As beautiful as Budapest is, there’s a notoriety about it that stems from the infamous Budapest party hostels, numerous pub crawls and ruin bars, booze cruises, and other such shenanigans. Again, aside from one allotted evening out, I visited a number of Atlas Obscura locations, including the moving (but touristy) “Shoes on the Danube Bank” art installation, and a statue of the late, great Peter Falk as Colombo. Nobody really knows why it’s here, but it was fun nonetheless.
Zagreb
Of all the days my US visa interview could have been pencilled in for, the 11th of September didn’t bode well. And yet apart from the copious amounts of time, effort, medicals and money we/I’ve spent on this process, actually getting the document on that date was easier than gaining access to the embassy. I had returned to Zagreb solely for this purpose, and no sooner had it been confirmed than I was away – likely never to return.
The kind of bright, crisp September morning that informs you winter is on the way – and my last in a capital I’d called home
I could write a veritable tome on several unsavoury experiences both myself and Alex endured in Croatia, but in the end, it’s not worth my time or the evocative effort I would have to subject myself to again. You’ll just have to wait for the book – if I ever get around to writing it. Suffice to say that it’s a great country to visit, but not to live in, and even this will rely immensely on whom you meet while in its borders.
The sun has well and truly set on my time in Croatia
In the end, I will remember the good times, the genuine lifelong friends, and incomparable memories, while allowing everything else to slide into oblivion where it rightly belongs.
Vienna
Arguably the most beautiful city in all of Europe, Vienna is home to a good number of pals, sadly all of whom were unavailable or away during my allotted one night visit. I stayed with the friend of a friend instead but was deeply dismayed when I couldn’t even meet my wonderful Iranian Couchsurfing host who had moved to live across the other side of the city.
During our my last visit to Vienna, we found the fascinating “cemetery of the nameless,” made famous in Richard Linklater’s “Before Sunrise.” Sadly, there was no time for sightseeing on this occasion
It’s not the first time that the geography of a place has inhibited the reuniting of loved ones – and it certainly wasn’t the last on this little trip alone. “Vienna waits for you” sang Billy Joel. I deeply wished I could wait for it.
Olomouc
Like Prague but without the tourists, Olomouc is one of my favourite places in the whole world. If this little town had a waterfront (and I could speak Czech) I would move there in a heartbeat. It’s large enough to have everything you need, yet small enough to not be overcrowded. With outstanding restaurants, a young, student-led nightlife scene, and limited tourists, Olomouc has been Europe’s best-kept secret since the 10th century. Although it might have changed a little since then.
Sitting in the corner of the ‘corner. Easily in the top five of my favourite hostels, ever
And indeed it has – but only minimally from an aesthetic point of view. Sure, there might be a new department store, but other than that walking the familiar streets felt…familiar. This in a town where I would get lost during the day, but knew it backwards at night. And although I was returning to the homely Poet’s Corner hostel and I did manage to meet up with an old friend here, it was a melancholic amble down memory lane.
It was on this hostel kitchen floor that the kilt came to die. A fitting end to a graphically indulgent journey at a location it did arguably the most damage
Still, it’s good to reminisce and recall when the wine flowed freely from reusable plastic bottles from the Vinoteka, table foosball was king, I fought to defend a lady’s honour, fell off a roof rafter to be saved by a giant inflatable penis, and the ambient sounds of the anthemic Call Me Maybe echoed through these medieval streets well into the wee small hours of the morning. Good times, man, good times.
Prague
It was another one-night-only affair for Prague, but I used my time most efficiently. Arriving early on a train from the east, I promptly locked my gear up in the station and turned right back around to visit Kutná Hora. It’s a quaint enough town, but I was going for the sole purpose of visiting the delightfully macabre “bone church,” at the Sedlec Ossuary. It’s a tiny chapel adorned with the remains of some 40,000-70,000 people, artistically arranged to form decorations throughout, and is one of the most visited tourist destinations in the Czech Republic as a result. Folks like freaky shit.
Altogether now…the knee bone’s connected to the…
In 1278, an abbot was sent to the Holy Land from the local Cistercian monastery and was said to have brought back some earth from Golgotha, spreading it over the chapel cemetery on his return. As you might expect from people blinded by fairytales, the churchyard became a highly desirable place to be put into the ground.
OOoooooOOOOOooooooOOOOOH!
Following the Black Death and the Hussite Wars, real estate in the cemetery ran out real fast, but it wasn’t until 1870 that a local carpenter was given the task of organizing the exhumed mountainous piles of bones. For some reason, František Rint decided the best way to do this was to create the elaborate skeletal sculptures you see today. I highly recommend a visit for those not faint of heart.
Wiesbaden
I had originally intended to spend some time in Frankfurt looking for a horse that has taken a morning walk without its master along the same route for the past 14 years, but a very good friend from the inimitable Wild Fig hostel days decided we should get drunk instead, which was a splendid idea. At least until he did exactly the same thing he did when I first met him.
Wiesbaden – a charming alternative to the financial boom town of Frankfurt
It’s impossible to ascertain if it’s my presence, or the simple combination of eating pasta for dinner and sinking tequila shots that causes him to projectile vomit in the bar. Thankfully, apart from the staff, we were the only clientele by this time, and props to them for sending out a conveyor belt of buckets for my buddy to promptly fill right up. Credit where it’s due though, he didn’t spill a drop, and Wiesbaden is a really pretty town.
Amsterdam
The final stop before a return to the UK was in country number 66. By rights, I should already have been to Amsterdam, considering it’s usually a rite of passage for teenage boys breaking their holiday virginity and blazing the heads off themselves with their mates. Except I didn’t have any mates at the time, so I missed out.
Amsterdam – lots of this
I was ripped off by a nasty Flixbus driver on the drive north, but rallied to have an eventful evening negotiating the famed red-light district, including a meet up with an old travel buddy dating back to the insalubrious days of San Juan Del Sur, in Nicaragua.
Amsterdam – lots of this
The Dutch capital is everything I expected it to be, beautiful, friendly, picturesque, and utterly rammed with English geezer wankers and classless mongs. And I just couldn’t quite get the image out of my head of a Dutch fellow I met on my travels regaling a story about how he and his partner used to shit off the bridges here onto unsuspecting tourist boats passing below. A den of vice it most certainly is.
Woe betide you if you’re caught in one of these and you’re not riding a bike
If I had more time I would venture further afield, but apart from an afternoon spent exploring the postcard-perfect canals, I was just surrounded by cocks, tits, and weed. Oh, and bikes. Lots and lots of motherfucking bikes. After two short days avoiding tyre marks across my person and happily hungover, I slumped into my Eurostar seat for my first Channel Tunnel experience and finally a return to the isle that spewed me forth.
One moment you’re on the continent, the next you’re in England. Truly a modern wonder of our times…
London
I desperately wanted to give the capital of my own country another chance, and as I would be living in Hatfield with my twin for over a month, there was plenty of time to do so. But after only managing to see one friend here at a cost of over £150 for a single day out, you can shove London right up your arse.
If you have money, London might well be the best city in the world. If you don’t (like most people who actually live there) then it sucks balls
Exploring off-the-beaten-track alternative attractions with my sister was the highlight, but as historical, cool, and hip as this city is, to me it’s a desolate and lonely wasteland where only the wealthy can truly find any pleasure. Everyone else strikes me as a prisoner in their own homes, with the only chance of seeing a friend requiring you to book them months in advance.
“One foot on sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never.” (except that was about to change)
Curmudgeonous I may be, but when you’ve become used to it costing a buck to cross an entire city, to suddenly setting you back 20-30 quid just to get anywhere of note, my reverse culture shock was arresting. I’ll never fathom why anyone would choose to live in or near obnoxiously expensive metropolises, but I suppose one person’s overpriced, overcrowded rat-race is another person’s dream.
Indeed, we are Oscar, indeed we are…
The one thing I am thankful for is that it significantly softens the blow for moving to the USA, where the cost of living in Madison doesn’t come so much as close to that of London. Tipping for bottles of beer might be a problem though, and I am going to miss a good English pub and a hand-pulled ale. You can’t beat this city for events, either, and I did get to see my favourite band (Elbow) and stand-up comedian (Stewart Lee) perform while I was here. I guess it’s not all that bad.
I even got the set list
And my sister got a snake
Wetherby
I turned 40. In the past, I used to fantasise this moment would be a delinquent affair of scantily clad women, copious amounts of booze, an endless supply of cocaine on silver platters and a lifetime achievement award. In reality, it was a trip to a war museum we used to frequent in our childhood, a Nosferatu themed escape room (failed), and a Dracula ballet. Lindsay was too scared to go for the live-action zombie survival shoot-em-up I suggested, but since I got a visit to Anfield last year, and she chose Hogwarts the year previous, it seems we’re taking it in turns.
Eden Camp, Malton, North Yorkshire. 30 years later it’s still the best war museum I’ve ever been to
Our “birthday party” turned out to be a small but meaningful gathering of friends at our old local in Wetherby on Friday night. It was the first time Lindsay and I had been there together since 2003, and I was pretty rubbered by the time everyone arrived. I spent the evening getting progressively more so, trying to talk working-class lads out of voting Tory because Corbyn certainly isn’t a “terrorist sympathiser,” and eating my weight in pork scratchings.
“I demand to have some booze!” Painted by the very talented Artful Bones, there could not have been a more fitting 40th birthday gift from my sister
By the time the evening came to an end I was crying my eyes out over when I was ever going to see any of them again. My friends that is – not the pork scratchings. On the whole, it turned out to be a typical birthday after all.
Moving to the USA
It’s now 12.39 am on the morning of Wednesday, November 6th, 2019. I am writing this as a lie in bed, pulling an all-nighter, so I can hopefully pass out on the plane and be oblivious when it falls out of the sky. Today I venture into a new life in the states. This moment has been a long time coming, through a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, hard effort, commitment, financial detriment, and perseverance.
Fish and Chips, real ale, Marmite, Robinson’s Squash, and Yorkshire Tea – but I’m not going to miss the constant, pissing rain
The farewell to Europe tour is at an end, and I go quietly in the early morning darkness across the pond, finally moving to the USA. I know not what adventures await me there, or the direction future travel will take, but I do know that there is a very special person and a very special pooch looking forward to my arrival (although one of them doesn’t know it yet).
And wherever they are – that shall be called home.
Moving to the USA – The Farewell Europe Tour
Note – This article was originally intended to be published in the fall of 2019, before moving to the USA, but life has a tendency to get in the way. I hope you can – at the very least – enjoy some vicarious travel in the time of Covid.
It was meant to be an exciting whistle-stop journey through Europe. In returning to some of my favourite places before heading stateside, I would rekindle old friendships, revisit old haunts, and reminisce about memorable escapades; all while being welcomed as something of a prodigal son. But at just over a month in, I yearned for it to be over.
Pulling on a harsh cigarette and nursing a pint on the cold stone steps of the Vertigo bar in Olomouc, CZ, the reality hit home. It had been a full six years since I last set foot in this beautiful corner of the world, regularly frequenting this particular, legendary stomping ground. A place very dear to my heart and filled with riotous memories of debauchery, there was a time when I would walk into this dive bar and, like a Czech version of Cheers, everyone would know my name. Those days were long gone.
I felt lost and alone, out of place and time, an ageing hostel refugee whose friends and peers had realised how the game is played and sorted their own lives out years ago. And while it didn’t take me too long to fall into conversation with gregarious locals and remind me why I fell in love with Olomouc in the first place, the notion I was done with this lifestyle was never more rigidly solidified. Yet, curiosity got the better of me, and I was determined to see this journey through for one last hurrah.
Belgrade
The Serbian capital was the first port of call, which has become something of a building site. A “new” waterfront regeneration scheme has been in place for what feels like an eternity, while nobody actually knows where the money is going. It appears the Serbs will be doomed to have a skyline of cranes for some years to come.
The hostel I used to volunteer in wasn’t the same, unaided by the recent birth of nine puppies, taking their total count to something like 12 dogs, two cats, and a partridge in a pear tree. While having a beer outside in the puppy pee smelling designated smoking area, one of these bundles of joy deposited a foul-smelling turd at my feet.
An ageing, one-eyed cat would make itself comfortable on my bed, and while ignominious rakija-fueled evenings with good friends threatened to derail my onward journey, I reasoned that as much as I loved animals, they weren’t ideal in a place with not enough space to swing one around in.
Sofia
Hostel Mostel in Sofia is one of my all-time favourite dwellings. It’s an old traveller’s inn that dates back to the 19th century, and although it’s changed hands a few times, it’s now back doing what it does best – sheltering many a weary soul and assuring them that everything is going to be okay. I was one such pity case for some considerable time in the summer of ’14.
A great deal of my fondest travel memories were born here, with a truly eclectic clientele of guests from all over the world, from every background and culture you can think of. But knowing just what staying there would likely entail (potentially leading bar crawls every night for several months) I wisely opted to rest my weary bones at their quieter premises further out of the city. From there, I would occasionally venture out to explore the sights of Sofia I had missed previously due to a haze of booze.
With the impending small fortune of a US visa, green card and further travel arrangements momentarily bleeding my modest finances dry, I knuckled down for a good fortnight to earn some coin with my writing. I still managed the odd evening out to see old friends, but for the most part, it was a sensible affair, a far cry from the Stuart of old that haunted the lethally-paved streets of the Bulgarian capital some five years since.
I even managed to visit the Museum of Socialist Art, some abandoned locations, and an unusual house on the outskirts of the city. The only negative was living in a hostel with a large African man and an English truck driver who appeared to be competing to see just how many decibels of snoring they could unknowingly achieve together. These two put that entire Argentinian basketball team back in Colombia to shame.
Bucharest
As far as change goes, never was it more palpable than when I arrived at the X-hostel in Bucharest this time around. You may remember a few short years ago there was a tragic fire in the city that burned down a nightclub and claimed a number of lives. The powers that be decided to shut the stable door after the horse had bolted, implementing new health and safety regulations in hospitality and catering establishments throughout the city. All bars now required emergency exits, (which makes a lot of sense when you think about it).
Consequently, having only one main door in or out, the popular watering hole in the hostel basement was forced to close and has suffered as a result. I was greeted with a sad shadow of what used to be a spirited den of iniquity, where once shots were syringed into people’s mouths, volunteers played table-tennis and beer pong in their underpants, and the cries of wild, sexual abandon rang through the hallways.
Still, it was nice while it lasted and the friends/owners are moving onto bigger and brighter things – which is sort of the theme of this post, coincidentally enough. Out with the old, in with the new. They’re not the only ones who realise that hostelling is a young person’s game. It’ll likely be a combination of tents, Airbnb and Motel 6 for me from now on.
While the hostel had seen better days of no vacancies, limbo parties, and having its name tattooed on penises; Bucharest itself hasn’t changed much. It’s still largely geared towards stag and hen nights (that’s bachelor and bachelorette parties to my forthcoming neighbours), but as I’d taken ill during my short return here, I actually managed to see more attractions in a couple of days than I did in three months of all that tomfuckery back in 2014.
This included an enormous 17th century abandoned printing press known as the Palace of Truth, one of the world’s most beautiful bookstores, and the charming, tat-filled Romanian Museum of Kitsch. I’m becoming significantly more cultured in my old age – or more likely significantly less drunk.
Budapest
I took the night train to Budapest which was a surprisingly pleasant experience – not least because the new backpack was making my life so much easier. Nonetheless, there is something indubitably romantic about an overnight journey in a six-berth couchette, even if you are sharing it with pot-bellied, hairy Romanian dudes. I was reading Paul Theroux’s The Great Railway Bazaar, and the characters he chanced upon were not too dissimilar from my own experiences on the rails.
Back in early 2013, I’d lived on the Buda side of the Hungarian capital while simultaneously partying recklessly, getting rejected for threesomes and learning how to teach English as a foreign language. As I’d only earmarked a weekend in Budapest, it was largely taken up with seeing an old wingman, flatmate, and all-round good egg. We did a boat party for old time’s sake, and realised in a very short space of time why we don’t do that kinda shit anymore.
As beautiful as Budapest is, there’s a notoriety about it that stems from the infamous Budapest party hostels, numerous pub crawls and ruin bars, booze cruises, and other such shenanigans. Again, aside from one allotted evening out, I visited a number of Atlas Obscura locations, including the moving (but touristy) “Shoes on the Danube Bank” art installation, and a statue of the late, great Peter Falk as Colombo. Nobody really knows why it’s here, but it was fun nonetheless.
Zagreb
Of all the days my US visa interview could have been pencilled in for, the 11th of September didn’t bode well. And yet apart from the copious amounts of time, effort, medicals and money we/I’ve spent on this process, actually getting the document on that date was easier than gaining access to the embassy. I had returned to Zagreb solely for this purpose, and no sooner had it been confirmed than I was away – likely never to return.
I could write a veritable tome on several unsavoury experiences both myself and Alex endured in Croatia, but in the end, it’s not worth my time or the evocative effort I would have to subject myself to again. You’ll just have to wait for the book – if I ever get around to writing it. Suffice to say that it’s a great country to visit, but not to live in, and even this will rely immensely on whom you meet while in its borders.
In the end, I will remember the good times, the genuine lifelong friends, and incomparable memories, while allowing everything else to slide into oblivion where it rightly belongs.
Vienna
Arguably the most beautiful city in all of Europe, Vienna is home to a good number of pals, sadly all of whom were unavailable or away during my allotted one night visit. I stayed with the friend of a friend instead but was deeply dismayed when I couldn’t even meet my wonderful Iranian Couchsurfing host who had moved to live across the other side of the city.
It’s not the first time that the geography of a place has inhibited the reuniting of loved ones – and it certainly wasn’t the last on this little trip alone. “Vienna waits for you” sang Billy Joel. I deeply wished I could wait for it.
Olomouc
Like Prague but without the tourists, Olomouc is one of my favourite places in the whole world. If this little town had a waterfront (and I could speak Czech) I would move there in a heartbeat. It’s large enough to have everything you need, yet small enough to not be overcrowded. With outstanding restaurants, a young, student-led nightlife scene, and limited tourists, Olomouc has been Europe’s best-kept secret since the 10th century. Although it might have changed a little since then.
And indeed it has – but only minimally from an aesthetic point of view. Sure, there might be a new department store, but other than that walking the familiar streets felt…familiar. This in a town where I would get lost during the day, but knew it backwards at night. And although I was returning to the homely Poet’s Corner hostel and I did manage to meet up with an old friend here, it was a melancholic amble down memory lane.
Still, it’s good to reminisce and recall when the wine flowed freely from reusable plastic bottles from the Vinoteka, table foosball was king, I fought to defend a lady’s honour, fell off a roof rafter to be saved by a giant inflatable penis, and the ambient sounds of the anthemic Call Me Maybe echoed through these medieval streets well into the wee small hours of the morning. Good times, man, good times.
Prague
It was another one-night-only affair for Prague, but I used my time most efficiently. Arriving early on a train from the east, I promptly locked my gear up in the station and turned right back around to visit Kutná Hora. It’s a quaint enough town, but I was going for the sole purpose of visiting the delightfully macabre “bone church,” at the Sedlec Ossuary. It’s a tiny chapel adorned with the remains of some 40,000-70,000 people, artistically arranged to form decorations throughout, and is one of the most visited tourist destinations in the Czech Republic as a result. Folks like freaky shit.
In 1278, an abbot was sent to the Holy Land from the local Cistercian monastery and was said to have brought back some earth from Golgotha, spreading it over the chapel cemetery on his return. As you might expect from people blinded by fairytales, the churchyard became a highly desirable place to be put into the ground.
Following the Black Death and the Hussite Wars, real estate in the cemetery ran out real fast, but it wasn’t until 1870 that a local carpenter was given the task of organizing the exhumed mountainous piles of bones. For some reason, František Rint decided the best way to do this was to create the elaborate skeletal sculptures you see today. I highly recommend a visit for those not faint of heart.
Wiesbaden
I had originally intended to spend some time in Frankfurt looking for a horse that has taken a morning walk without its master along the same route for the past 14 years, but a very good friend from the inimitable Wild Fig hostel days decided we should get drunk instead, which was a splendid idea. At least until he did exactly the same thing he did when I first met him.
It’s impossible to ascertain if it’s my presence, or the simple combination of eating pasta for dinner and sinking tequila shots that causes him to projectile vomit in the bar. Thankfully, apart from the staff, we were the only clientele by this time, and props to them for sending out a conveyor belt of buckets for my buddy to promptly fill right up. Credit where it’s due though, he didn’t spill a drop, and Wiesbaden is a really pretty town.
Amsterdam
The final stop before a return to the UK was in country number 66. By rights, I should already have been to Amsterdam, considering it’s usually a rite of passage for teenage boys breaking their holiday virginity and blazing the heads off themselves with their mates. Except I didn’t have any mates at the time, so I missed out.
I was ripped off by a nasty Flixbus driver on the drive north, but rallied to have an eventful evening negotiating the famed red-light district, including a meet up with an old travel buddy dating back to the insalubrious days of San Juan Del Sur, in Nicaragua.
The Dutch capital is everything I expected it to be, beautiful, friendly, picturesque, and utterly rammed with English geezer wankers and classless mongs. And I just couldn’t quite get the image out of my head of a Dutch fellow I met on my travels regaling a story about how he and his partner used to shit off the bridges here onto unsuspecting tourist boats passing below. A den of vice it most certainly is.
If I had more time I would venture further afield, but apart from an afternoon spent exploring the postcard-perfect canals, I was just surrounded by cocks, tits, and weed. Oh, and bikes. Lots and lots of motherfucking bikes. After two short days avoiding tyre marks across my person and happily hungover, I slumped into my Eurostar seat for my first Channel Tunnel experience and finally a return to the isle that spewed me forth.
London
I desperately wanted to give the capital of my own country another chance, and as I would be living in Hatfield with my twin for over a month, there was plenty of time to do so. But after only managing to see one friend here at a cost of over £150 for a single day out, you can shove London right up your arse.
Exploring off-the-beaten-track alternative attractions with my sister was the highlight, but as historical, cool, and hip as this city is, to me it’s a desolate and lonely wasteland where only the wealthy can truly find any pleasure. Everyone else strikes me as a prisoner in their own homes, with the only chance of seeing a friend requiring you to book them months in advance.
Curmudgeonous I may be, but when you’ve become used to it costing a buck to cross an entire city, to suddenly setting you back 20-30 quid just to get anywhere of note, my reverse culture shock was arresting. I’ll never fathom why anyone would choose to live in or near obnoxiously expensive metropolises, but I suppose one person’s overpriced, overcrowded rat-race is another person’s dream.
The one thing I am thankful for is that it significantly softens the blow for moving to the USA, where the cost of living in Madison doesn’t come so much as close to that of London. Tipping for bottles of beer might be a problem though, and I am going to miss a good English pub and a hand-pulled ale. You can’t beat this city for events, either, and I did get to see my favourite band (Elbow) and stand-up comedian (Stewart Lee) perform while I was here. I guess it’s not all that bad.
Wetherby
I turned 40. In the past, I used to fantasise this moment would be a delinquent affair of scantily clad women, copious amounts of booze, an endless supply of cocaine on silver platters and a lifetime achievement award. In reality, it was a trip to a war museum we used to frequent in our childhood, a Nosferatu themed escape room (failed), and a Dracula ballet. Lindsay was too scared to go for the live-action zombie survival shoot-em-up I suggested, but since I got a visit to Anfield last year, and she chose Hogwarts the year previous, it seems we’re taking it in turns.
Our “birthday party” turned out to be a small but meaningful gathering of friends at our old local in Wetherby on Friday night. It was the first time Lindsay and I had been there together since 2003, and I was pretty rubbered by the time everyone arrived. I spent the evening getting progressively more so, trying to talk working-class lads out of voting Tory because Corbyn certainly isn’t a “terrorist sympathiser,” and eating my weight in pork scratchings.
By the time the evening came to an end I was crying my eyes out over when I was ever going to see any of them again. My friends that is – not the pork scratchings. On the whole, it turned out to be a typical birthday after all.
Moving to the USA
It’s now 12.39 am on the morning of Wednesday, November 6th, 2019. I am writing this as a lie in bed, pulling an all-nighter, so I can hopefully pass out on the plane and be oblivious when it falls out of the sky. Today I venture into a new life in the states. This moment has been a long time coming, through a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, hard effort, commitment, financial detriment, and perseverance.
The farewell to Europe tour is at an end, and I go quietly in the early morning darkness across the pond, finally moving to the USA. I know not what adventures await me there, or the direction future travel will take, but I do know that there is a very special person and a very special pooch looking forward to my arrival (although one of them doesn’t know it yet).
And wherever they are – that shall be called home.