August 22 2002 - From my personal journal:

Today is my last day in Sighisoara. I'm gonna get a haircut and try to avoid sappy goodbyes. This place was home, at least for a while...and a good one at that. I like the people, the atmosphere and I love the lifestyle. Its hard for me to be too sad...I've done this a million times...sometimes that doesn't help.

Going home i don't think I could be in a better state of mind. I have plans to look forward to. I'm clear as to my responsibilities to myself. My head is open and focused. I know it'll take patience, but I'm also clearer than I've ever been concerning the direction of my life. I could be wrong...but I like where I am nonetheless.

This trip has made me a better person I think, and taught me a little about following my heart, which is a difficult thing to decipher.

Tonight Soren got drunk and found me alone; reading a book. I remember the other day walking back from the station in the rain; he told me all Romanian people are shit. No one has any money. The pay is shit. There are no jobs unless you pay bribes to get them. He longed for the days of Communism: "With Ceausescu people go to school..after they promise you a job. They tell you...go to this school and study and after there is waiting for you this job."

We passed a building under construction. "See this building. They are building it now 7 years. They will not finish. All the people are stupid. With Ceausescu he say make building and the people make it...maybe 2 years."

He was drunk and likes to complain, especially to me. I suspect its because everyone else has already told him to shut up.

Someone walked in and took a cigarette and walked out. "I hate that man. He is so stupid." I finally looked up and set my book down. There would be no more reading for Elliott. It had been sort of quiet and peaceful before.

He explained he always asks before taking a cigarette. Then he commented on the guy himself. "He used to work here, but Nathan fired him. He tells lies to the tourists." Then I heard the story of how he was engaged and caught his best friend "making the fucking" with his fiancee. Next he shared a story about a drunk American that tried to fight him, but assured me he never gets angry at people when they are bad drunks. I told him I didn't either.

He failed to get my private joke and just kept on...though I stared at him like a block of wood. I never hid the fact that I wasn't one bit interested in sharing his bitterness. I have enough of my own.

The next story was about 9/11. I learned that, although a tragedy that people died, it was a good thing for the conceited, close-minded Americans. "Before 11 they think 'We are America. We are the best. There is no other country.' Now, after the Towers, they are more open mind. Now there are other countries. In America it was a bad thing, but in the world it was a good thing. It was a lesson." I considered telling him that Romania still fails to register as even a faint blip on most American's radar screen...but thought it useless.

And he kept on, with passion and hand gestures and laments of his lost finacee, with the bluntness unique to a drunk with bad English. And I just stared with unhidden apathy. My pulse barely jumped even at his story about the odd justice of meaningless death. I felt nothing but annoyed that he was keeping me from a book I really wasn't enjoying that much in the first place (The Plague - Albert Camus). He was like a TV I'd yet to figure out how to turn off. But I did. I offerred to buy him a beer, thinking he'd forget to come back after. Best 50 cents I ever spent.

And in this way there gets to be a blinding normalcy to travel. You come to expect stories of dead people in the streets in India, renting rocket launchers to blow up cows in Pakistan, of tanks in Jakarta, bribing the police, sleeping in the streets, of robbery, time in jail and the mafia...of Sultans, living for pennies a day, making it with strange women, selling organs, insurance scams, opium dens in Laos, the sex trade in Vietnam, on horseback through Mongolia, of beggars with no arms and legs, poverty past imagination, the greatest beaches, beers, skiing, diving, trekking, the cheapest food, drugs, women...and it just goes on and on and one day a story about losing your fiancee to your best friend, the old days of Communism, or the justice of your dying countrymen...is just sort of normal...or as normal as it gets anyway.

Yesterday Nick told me he bribed his way out of mandatory military service for 1000 bucks by paying a doctor to declare him insane. Last week he tried to bribe his teacher for exams with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a box of Cuban cigars.
Nick: And that mother fucker said no!! I couldn't believe it. Romania used to be the Land of Opportuniy. You could get anything you wanted...and now its come to this.
Me: What are you gonna do?
Nick: Try to bribe his secretary.

Last week 3 Irish got jumped by some Romanians at 4 in morning leaving a club. The cops came to the hostel at 5:30...turns out one of the Romanians was the Premier's son. They had to pay/bribe 100 bucks to get their passports back.

The hostel owner, a 27 year old American, told me his last girlfriend was 16. His comment: "She told me she was 18."

There was the chain-smoking Aussie chick from the Turkish Gullet and her fabulous stories of globetrotting with a Sultan oil tycoon...women and cars and mountains of cocaine and ridiculous amounts of money spent on nothing in particular. "He kept me around because of my big mouth. I made him laugh...and I always refused to sleep with him."

You just shrug your shoulders after a while and think, "Of course...why not?" Its made me alot less judgemental...but its made coming home hard to do. Its sometimes difficult to feign interest in some story about office politics, an ingrown toenail or some big upcoming meeting. "Wow man, last week we got really drunk, picked up these two hot chicks and took them back to our place.." Its an ok story. But "Man, last week in Transylvania we got pissed on 50 cent vodka shots and picked up two 18 year old Romanian girls that hardly spoke any English. We were staying in the hostel so we got with them under the bridge next to the walls of the old city with people walking by till the sun came up. We had to ditch them after that cause we had a train to Budapest at 8..." It just sounds better. I realize this is my deficiency and that it really is interesting if I just ignore the past 7 years of my life...but its hard sometimes.

These pictures are a little late. I left Turkey about a month ago.

This is the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, about a 5 minute walk from where we were staying. The Hagia Sophia was behind me as I took the picture. I'd say its one of the best places in the world to just stand and look. Two of the most amazing buildings on the planet, gardens and a fountain within a couple hundred yards of each other.

This is taken in Cappadocia. It isn't even one of my better pictures, but I've lost patience trying to upload more.

This is for my fellow classmates: What's an MBA really worth?

Did you know that there are no hostels in Bulgaria? Not one. I loved Bulgaria and it needs some hostels...preferably ones that I own. After having lived here (at this hostel in Sighisoara) for the last two weeks I know I can do it...and well and for cheap (I could get it up and running and cover about a year of operating losses for 20,000 bucks)...but cheap isn't free, and so I think I'll have to go back home and make money and perhaps, if no one has opened a hostel by the time I get the cash, come back and do something then. Anyone have 20,000 bucks lying around they want to let me borrow? I met a guy from Philly the other day that skipped out on his student loans. He just never paid. He's living in Prague now.

Nathan, who owns the hostel here, used to work corporate in the States...6 figures a year. Thats a mountain of cash. He had a house in New York and a convertable Saab turbo...and he had a wife, 2 cell phones, a pager, grey hair and was overweight. Now he is almost a rock star. His grey hair went away. Thats incredible...in fact I don't even know if I believe it, but its a great story. I interviewed him the other day and might write an article about it. This was my favorite part:

Me: How much money do you make now?
Nathan: Nothing, just enough to live.
Me: What would you say about your quality of life here in Romania as compared to back home?
Nathan: Its better. A ton better.
Me: Do you think you'll ever go back home?
Nathan: Not planning to.

Better. He lives better. A six figure salary couldn't buy him a better quality of life than he has here making nothing. Think about it.

I'm feeling lightheaded.

Reread it and think about it.

I was on the train to Bucharest, slightly annoyed. The gypsies were all throwing rocks at the train, there were two gay guys fondling each other across from me and the Romanians were all complaing about the Bulgarians. "Why does Romania hate Bulgaria?" I asked. "Because Romania is better" said the girl as the gypsies scurried about outside dirty and barefoot. "Why" I pressed. "Because it is so." She was upset and considered the matter settled. I, however, didn't. I met someone in the hall smoking a cigarette, looking philosophic, so I asked him: "Because there must always be someone lower on the totem pole, you understand?" I understood.

They all asked me what I thought of Bulgaria: "I like it very much. Its cheap and Soviet and the people are nice. Its also very beautiful.." I got the same frown from everyone. Obviously I had the wrong answer and you know what they say: When in Romania, do as the Romanians...so I amended my opinion: "It was ok...sort of dirty and I couldn't read anything. Romania is better." They were much happier.

First stop in Bulgaria the two gay guys got off and a Romanian in a flowered shirt got on. "What religion you?" he asked immediately. Great leadoff question!! I wanted to give the right answer but he didn't strike me as particularly Protestant or Catholic. "Protestant." I guessed. He smiled and nodded, "I Episcopalean." "Me too!!" We were instant friends and he was actually a great help to me.

The next stop an American, David, got on. "Where you been?" He rattled off a string of Western European countries. "Where you going." He rattled off a bunch more. "How much time you got?" He had to be in Amsterdam in a few days and he'd planned stops in Prague and Poland first. "Thats a lot of travel," I deadpanned.

Each nationality has their own way of travel, and one can tell a lot about a nation's character from the way its youth vacation abroad. I remember this 28 year old American law student I met in Valencia. "I went for a jog and then to the museum of sciences this morning so I could lay on the beach and do nothing the rest of the day." By my reckoning she could've done that anyway, she didn't need a jog.

The American on the train had 7 weeks to travel. He'd been to almost every country in Europe, but I'd venture to say he didn't really see much of anything, except through the couchette window, and could only comment intelligently on the state of the European train network. I can see it now: "Hey David, how was that trip to Europe? Is the Quarter Pounder really called a Royal with Cheese?" "Yep," he'll say with satisfaction. Good thing alot of train stations have McDonalds.

The two Americans fairly accurately reflect the way we travel. Anything that can be checked off a to-do list, such as countries or museums, is good. They feel they made the most of their vacations. I mean, come on, how many more countries could David have fit in? My question is this: Is a vacation really supposed to be productive? Isn't that what you're taking a vacation from?

Australian travellers largely reflect their national character too. Their to-do list isn't museums and countries, its bars and beer. Days are marked for recovery. The vacation happens at night. For Spanish speakers it revolves around cigarettes, food and lots of sleep. The French are always looking for some out of the way place that takes three days to get to where there is said to be great climbing and hiking...and they are usually smoking a cigarette. The Korean girls are the best. They never say a word to anyone, giggle everytime you walk by, and never leave the hostel. They are only qualified to comment intelligently on the state of cheap European hotel rooms.

So...we finally got to Bucharest. I went to a hostel and caught a quick nap after a long trip. David caught another train to Prague and checked Romania off his list. He never even stopped in a city, but he has been to Romania...technically.

Some food for thought:

If a tree falls in the woods and there is no one there to hear it; does it make a sound? Here is the answer. Wow...I'm glad they cleared that one up. Now I just need to find out "which came first, the chicken or the egg?" and I think I'll have just about everything figured out.

What does an article about the Six Degrees of Separation and one of terrorists hiding their secrets in EBay photographs have in common? They show modern media at its finest: a bizarre feedback loop that creates the news as much as it reports it. The more you report on a story, the bigger and more credible it gets. Stanley Milgram's "Small World" experiments in 1967 were never confirmed, nor did they measure what they were supposed to. (..more) The "findings" were simply repeated because people liked the idea. In fact, they were repeated so often that they are now considered true.

Are terrorists using steganography to communicate over the Internet? No one really knows. But I do know that Jack Kelley wrote an article quoting some other ill-supported previous pieces that spawned other articles that began to quote one another as evidence of the existence of these messages. The only real evidence is the lamentable existence of a bunch of other articles all spouting the same nonsense.

And that is how Urban Myths are born.

It seems we're also teleporting stuff now too, and the article is 2 years old.

Thats enough to think about for one day. I remain convinced the world has not gained its senses, so I'm going for a bike ride in the Transylvanian mountains (cue bolt of lighting and crackle of thunder) and leave the media and everyone else to continue feeding on themselves.

This is a continuation of the previous entry on July 29:

I was at the station huddled under an overhang trying to stay dry. At moments like these, one thinks the worst. You have no initiative. I froze up and did what one always does in such situations: wait for something to happen.

I was wet now; it was raining thick and dark. I couldn't see anything but silhouettes. A man walked out the door with a package. "Where you go?" he asked. I told the truth, always a dangerous proposition: "I don't know." "2 lev. We go my car."

I didn't have 2 lev, only 20, which is often the same as being completely broke. No one ever has change. "Ok," I shrugged, which broke every travel rule I have: Strange man approaches you at the train station carrying a large package and offers to take you for a ride...always say no. But facing the alternative of standing in a cold rain in front of the train station for the rest of the night, I suppose it was the lesser of two evils.

He had a Lada, which leaked badly, and there were tools everywhere. With his 10 word vocabulary I made out that he only studied one year of English, but made a 100% and liked to practice. We passed into town...a good sign. We stopped at an intersection and it was black and rainy...a bad sign. "You sleep my house 10 lev. We go hotel, maybe 30 lev. You want my house or hotel?"

Hmm...my brain lit up with every possibility in the universe and I felt lightheaded and decided that if you're going to break rules, break them all in a grand fashion and reap the benefits. I recalled all the stories I've heard of people being drugged, robbed, kidnapped and left in the middle of nowhere, so I said, "Ok, your house," and we turned away from town. I experienced the euphoria one feels after making a potentially disasterous, but wickedly fun, decision. And I became paranoid.

"Where are you from what do you do how old are you I came from Istanbul its nice but I like Bulgaria better (a lie)," I said in one giddy breath eyeing his mail. Were there drugs in the package? Maybe the gun he'll use to kidnap me? I was trying to pay attenetion to the direction in case I had to make a run for it. Why did he keep looking in the rear view mirror? Is looking in your mirror a lot really all that suspicious, or am I just paranoid? I blurted out some more jibberish to distract myself, "I love Bulgaria the people are very nice no one speaks English I can't read the signs."

We stopped outside an apartment building. "You wait. I go talk to my woman. Maybe she not ok." I was in the car alone, but feeling good about the wife thing. I fished around his car, but found nothing suspicious except my own wandering mind.

He returned what seemed like hours later. George had a nice apartment, big by European standards, a wife named Melina, and a son, Martin. I felt good. We sat around the table and I showed them pictures from Turkey while Melina brought out some food: oversalted sliced cucumbers and a barely cooked egg. I hadn't eaten for 8 hours so it was excellent and I became giddier still on account of the sudden rush of nourishment. Through odd and infrequent meals, bursts of activity, long waits, noise and no sleep, travel causes violent mood swings. I found myself caught up anyway.

"You drink alcohol?" asked George. A beer would be great before bed, "Sure," I nodded as I bounced Martin on my knee and spoke too fast for anyone to understand. Melina brought out two shot glasses and a non-descript bottle with a pale yellow liquor.

This is the part of the movie where you cringe and the dumb tourist gets drugged and robbed. Twice in Istanbul alone I heard stories of drugged drinks and waking the next morning with nothing.

He had a glass too and I saw her pour it so I made a toast to our health and drank. He only took a sip and set the glass down. The mind plays tricks on you if you let it, and sometimes even when you don't. Was I feeling strange? Yeah, a little. But I took a shot of strong liquor, so maybe its normal? Was I getting sleepy? Hmm...I'd been sleepy anyway, it was a long day. I couldn't place anything threatening or non-threatening so I just imagined stuff.

Luckily, nothing odd happened. Breaking the rules doesn't always catch up with you. Risk = Reward. Big Risk = Big Reward. Breaking the Rules = Rock Star Fun and Drug Dealer Profits. Of course, there is the significant flipside to those equations, but we are preached the dogma of those from age 0 until we forget that safety and caution are easy substitutes for boredom and old age. Fun and profit have a cost.

George is a civilian working with the military. "We break rockets. Last year automatics (rifles)." Bulgaria is meant to join NATO. Although, to me, you'd want a military ally to have rockets and guns, it seems NATO doesn't see the value of a military ally with a military. I am a simple fellow though and certainly not meant for politics.

George has a good job and is richish by Bulgarian standards. He counts himself lucky to have a job, but is worried about the future because they are running out of things to dissasemble. His wife shared that there are several good beaches on the Black Sea. I was, according to them, the first tourist in their home and George picked me up because he felt sorry for me standing out in the rain looking lost. I even found out the contents of the mysterious package. It was a Bulgarian sweet bread sent from Melina's mother in the south. We ate some and I slept very peacefully after another shot of the homemade liquor (turns out its a plum brandy called Polenca which is the most horrible thing I've ever tasted, including the cough medicine I used to take when I was little).