Hitchhiking Planet

Sonntagmorgen, ich will nach Bern. Ein Auto mit Waadtländer Kennzeichen hält an, also Leute aus dem französischsprachigen Teil der Schweiz. Ich frage, ob sie nach Bern fahren, sie antworten, nicht direkt, aber sie werden einen kleinen Umweg machen für mich. Nun gut, es ist ja eine Frau die fährt, also steige ich ein. Die ersten 5 Kilometer blättert der Freund der Frau in ausgedruckten Routenplanerblättern und diktiert jeden Meter. Bald wird mir klar: Die beiden haben keine Ahnung wo sie lang fahren müssen. Also frage ich nach, wo sie denn hinfahren. Nach Zürich! Wenn sie also den “kleinen Umweg” für mich fahren würden, würde sie das mindestens eine halbe Stunde kosten. Ich erkläre ihnen das, und sie sagen, sie versprechen mir sicher nicht etwas und machen es dann nicht. Aber ich lasse mich dann trotzdem in Schönbühl - da wo sich die Autobahn teilt - absetzen, meiner Erfahrung nach eine super Auffahrt zum trampen. Zwei Minuten später (Sonntagmorgen, nicht wahr) werde ich auch schon von einer Frau aufgegabelt, die mich in Bern dann auch fast vor die Haustür fährt.

Sonntagabend, ich will schon wieder nach Bern. Entgegen aller meiner Vorsätze trampen im Dunkeln. Ein Mann hält an der halbguten Stelle (Radstreifen..) an und muss erstmal 2 riesige Kartonschachteln in den Kofferraum bugsieren. Dann die Fahrt, die sehr nett und interessant verläuft. Er macht beruflich Umfragen, sein Allgemeinwissen ist dementsprechend gross. Kurz vor Bern fragt er mich, wo ich hinwill. Ich frage, wo er denn hinwill. Er muss eigentlich nur in einen Vorort von Bern, ich antworte, kein Problem, ich kann ja ein Tram in die Innenstadt nehmen. Da sagt er: Nein, sicher nicht! Wenn ich dich jetzt einfach irgendwo abladen würde, hätte ich dich gar nicht mitnehmen müssen! -und fährt mich vor die Tür!

Ansonsten waren noch x-mal Biel-Bern und Bern-Biel, die bis auf einen komplett vom Leben frustrierten Zahnarzt auch alles nette Fahrten waren. Und dem Zahnarzt hat nun wohl endlich jemand zugehört……

Ausserdem endlich mal die Auffahrt Neufeld in Bern ausprobiert, die sich seit dem Umbau zu einer hammer Stelle entwickelt hat! Mein neuer Favorit - Wankdorf ist ja jetzt immer mehr Baustelle…!

Em todo lugar que chego, as pessoas perguntam as mesmas coisas. E pra mim, era um pouco difícil no começo, mas como agora as perguntas são bem previsíveis, resolvi estudá-las, catalogá-las e listá-las!

Uma das perguntas é - Como você pega carona? Selecionei essa sessão de fotos que tirei junto com a Andressa em Periquito - MG:

I dream of mould. Everytime I close my eyes, they're there.
They seem to glow this morning, emerald green, in their thousands. I can see my breath in the air. I gaze out at the green hills stretching out before us. My hands tremble and my chest rises in a shiver. It's the longest row we've cut in the five days since we've began. The dew that tumbles off the the grapes grips onto my jeans like wet rats clinging to the riverside. My bucket fills until it becomes a mountain.
How many grapes make one bottle of wine? You're drinking everything that ever touched my fingertips, humanity!
But I have orange gloves and so only the emotion wraps the vines. My breath is blue. I taste a grape. There are two pips. I spit one out and eat the other. My index finger on my left withdraws violently everytime it touches a branch, the result of a glove full of blood on the first day.
Lunch is three and a half hours away. I'll drink the sea away to ease up the muscles in my right leg, the back, the feet, the eyes full of grapes everytime I shut my eyes.
My bucket tips over. Grapes spill out onto the stone ridden ground. Yasin walks by for collection. I scoop up what has fallen out and heave it in. The 8am bones are not strong, the sun has barely risen behind the clouds, everything is grey or green or the poor mauve of rot. I reach for Simon's bucket on the other side of the bush. I nearly throw it out into the hills. It's almost empty. There is no hole and there is no grape eating beast beside him, sucking at the juice and spitting pips. I gaze at him straight in the eyes. He is a wreck. He can barely move.
'Whats happening? Do you see how far behind we are?! We're the stupid damn English who can only drink and fuck and break things, but can we at least pick grapes?' 'My hands are about to fall off...'
The night before it had stormed. Today, in the cold, the dew becomes colder, kissing at the hands as snakes sucking into a horse.
'We've got to go faster man. We're 20 metres behind and we've not even halfway through. Heave yourself into the branches, beat at the vines with sticks and bones and anything it takes to make them fall', I yell at him, I curse him.
But its no use. Everything fucks us. People finish their rows and come along speaking of les anglais. Even then we're so far behind. We're far enough behind to be dogs biting off each vine.
And the heart is of the purple juice stains on my hands, growing back again, upwards to the sky, gasping for air. It beats through my hands in the hours till lunchtime, till we finish for the week, for a fire and virginie again, if she'll touch me, breathe next to me.


The collector comes around. I don't know his name. He wears a shiny chain around his neck.
'You speak English?' he calls out. The girl like a pie next to us laughs. He repeats it next time
'O, you speak English too?', I reply the third time, grinning.
His face falls.
This time, we finish ahead of everyone. We had drank the wine and eaten the pasta and the cake and the two cups of coffee for lunch. Nobody else could be as powerful and quick as us in the afternoon.
Then it rained and I got so angry that I could spit, when come 5pm the manager took us to a different vineyard in Sancere. We finish at 5. It stormed and we worked the hills for another half an hour. I could see nothing through my glasses. He spoke to everyone about grapes on the floor and cursed the english for not being able to understood. Even demi chat could understand this, shitting next to the litter every evening..He tries to explain. Je comprend, je comprend. Arrette. Alle! Anything to make him leave with his whistling at the top of the hill with his waterproof trousers on and me in my drenched sticky jeans.
I don't do it anyway. I can see nothing through my misted glasses and care only for warmth right now. I leave the leaves in with the grapes.
'Le vin et tea!'
I grin and shrug. My blood has already gone into your wine, this year, monsieur.

Its so wonderful to be able to sit, sometimes.

Quando se chega em Governador Valadares, a primeira coisa que se observa é um gigante abraçando a cidade, chamado de 'Pico Ibituruna', por toda a cidade enquanto caminhei dava para se ver o enorme pico cortando o céu, e as vezes enevoado.
A população nos explicou que o que há de mais procurado na cidade, é um passeio pelo topo desse pico. E é claro, encaramos...

No caminho, algumas pessoas nos explicaram que o lugar é muito procurado por praticantes de 'vôo livre', e que muitos esportistas desse gênero circulavam pela cidade. Próximo ao pé do pico conhecemos o Toninho, um dos praticantes dessa modalidade. Ele queria subir o pico de moto, pois existe uma estrada até o topo, ele precisava de alguém pra pilotar a moto de volta e pegar ele onde ele pousar. Mas.... eu não piloto nada mais rápido que uma bicicleta.






No topo tivemos uma visão extraordinária, além de acompanhar o vôo de alguns esportistas, até que apareceu uma carona pra voltarmos... e não perdemos!

Achei esse berrante nessa loja de chapeus, e fui experimentá-lo. Mas entrei em um extase tão louco que não percebi o barulho que fiz, até o dono da loja não conseguir falar ao telefone!

Before doing some hiking in the German national park Sächsische Schweiz, we also had to hitchhike of course at least one time. So for what, we got out of Schmilka, hitchhiking towards Bad Schandau, the next village for starting the hiking through the mountains. 3 minutes waiting, an old couple stopping, and there we have our [...]

Today I ve got to Tulum after a day in Palenque. Before I was in San Cristobal - trying to work again with the Zapatistas. Unfortunatelly CAPISE, the Organisation I went in Feb. to the community does not send volunteers anymore and FrayBa just sends for two weeks.
So I went just running around a bit in San Cristobal and visited two Caracoles of the Zapatistas.
Now it s just one week left after 15 months of travelling and studying out of Europe.
I ve got to say that I m really looking forward to get back and have a change again. Travelling is exhausting. Even though I m sure that I m going to keep moving within Europe for the next few months and then maybe hop over the atlantic again. But next time not so much for travelling. I do feel a lot more like getting somewhere, renting an apartment, looking for a kind of “occupation”. I mseriously starting to hate buses and getting into a new town and searching around for everything (food, accomodation, internet, etc.) again.

So you ve read it in the anteriour post, come to the KTS or you can show up on the 17. at my place in Watterdingen.

A Andressa, que apresentei no post anterior, resolveu me acompanhar até BH. Ela pretendia ir a um evento da PUC-MG, mas não tinha tanto dinheiro, então veio comigo.
Devido à despedida, acordamos um pouco tarde. Tinhamos feito no dia anterior nossa rota, e descobrimos que tinha ônibus de Salvador para Simões Filho pelo preço normal da passagem urbana de Salvador, R$ 2,00. Acordamos de 8:00 horas ao invés do combinado que era 5:00. Fizemos as malas ainda pela manhã em uma correria doida.









Feira de Santana é um lugar muito central em relação ao Brasil. Lá é uma perfeita encruzilhada, desde os tempos históricos. Tem carro passando pra todos os lugares do Brasil, principalmente em direção Sul. Mas também tem muitos carros em sentido Norte. A grande maioria são caminhões e carretas. Executei minha conhecida estratégia de posto de gasolina - perambular pelo posto afim de ganhar simpatia dos motoristas, e discretamente vou pra a saída do posto, e só então pesso carona e mostro minhas plaquinhas.



Na saída do posto, logo veio um rapaz sem camisa conversar conosco, e fazer algumas perguntas e sorrir bastante pra a gente com bastante simpatia. Ele explicou que era motorista e que ia pra Jequié, e nos levaria caso uma pessoa que ele estava esperando não vinhesse. Aconteceu que enquanto estávamos conversando com esse rapaz, chegou um outro meio curioso e com um fortíssimo sotaque de Santa Catarina. Ele anunciou que nos levaria até onde ele fosse naquele dia. Ele iria pra Belo Horizonte, mas iria pela rota de Montes Claros, portante não servia pra nós que iamos por Governador Valadares. Mas boa parte do caminho poderiamos ir juntos.










Nosso motorista me explicou que era muito conhecido lá, mas nunca tinha dormindo com ninguém. Ele era realmente muito respeitado, e respeitador. Ele conversava com todas as meninas como se fossem irmãs ou parentes. Teve uma que encarnou em mim, e queria a qualquer custo dormir comigo. Não entendi bem, mas o nosso motorista acabou convencendo uma moça a ceder de graça o quarto que ela dormia, afinal, ela iria trabalhar no balcão a noite inteira, e não ia usar a cama até de manhã. Convenci a dona do quarto a deixar eu levar minha amiga pra lá também, pois ela se sentia mais segura lá perto de mim. Desconfiei que o interesse dela no quarto era dormir comigo.


Pela manhã, nos explicaram que houve uma enorme confusão nos cabarés, e tanto eu e a Andressa, quanto nosso motorista que dormia na carreta, nem se quer ouvimos. A dona do pedaço estava muito eufórica, e desconfiam que ela estava com um espírito chamado 'pombagira'. Ela quebrou vários copos em todos os estabelecimentos, e até mesmo a polícia esteve lá, e apreendeu drogas e foi uma confusão enorme. Eu não percebi nada, dormi e acordei puro e ingênuo. A dona do quarto lamentou um pouco sobre mim para o motorista:
- Esse aqui, a moça passou a noite chamando ele pra dormir com ela, COM TODA BOA VONTADE, e ele enrrolou ela a noite inteira. (sobre a prostituta que me cantou o tempo todo)
- Eu estou cançado, estou vijando....












No dia seguinte, viajamos bastante, até chegar na fronteira de Minas, onde nos separamos do simpático catarinense que nos contou histórias fantasticas sobre caronas e viagens pela Ampérica do Sul. Também foi bastante divertido conversar pelo rádio amador durante a viagem na carreta com ele. Na divisa de Minas, no posto Faisão, fizemos um almoço de luxo, que custou R$ 9,00, e comi o equivalente a almoço e janta. Brincamos um pouco no salão de jogos (em um posto de gasolina, quanto mais você é visto, mais pontos você ganha, basta ser natural e se divertir).







Na saída do posto não demorou muito, um caminhão Truck parou para nós, mas alegou que não tinha espaço na cabine pra duas pessoas e uma mochila tão grande.
- Podemos tentar - eu disse.
E assim seguimos viagem com o Sr. Mendonsa. Um Cearense super simpático e agradável. Bastante humilde. Ficou encantado conosco. E logo mostrou seu gosto músical, defindo por ele como: Um gosto muito jovem pra minha idade. Sr. Mendonsa é fã de clássicos da música pop e rock clássico dos anos 90 e 80. Imagine a trilha de Michael Jackson, Tina Tuner, Pink Floyd, Phill Colins, entre outros. Dançamos o caminho inteiro, mesmo esmagado pelas bolsas, na paisagem impressionante dos picos e pedras enormes da Rio-Bahia no norte de Minas Gerais. Queriamos ir até Governador Valadres, onde iriamos encontrar uma amiga. Sr. Medonsa dormiu conosco no Posto Xeroque. Lá, tomar banho custava R$ 2,00 por 8 minutos. Achei mais prático tomar banho na torneira com um copo, usando um shorte o qual estendi durante a noite. Eu e a Andressa dormimos na minha barraquinha, para no dia seguinte seguir até Governador Valadares.







Pela manhã fomos para Governador Valadares, a 8km do posto, com o Sr. Mendonsa que ia para São Paulo. Em um outro posto falo sobre essa cidade. Passamos um dia, e dormimos em um posto na saída para Belo Horizonte. Caminhamos bastante, até chegar ao trevo, e pegamos um carro até um posto. O posto era muito fraco, mas lá conseguimos um outro carro, com um policial fora de serviço até Periquito no Posto Periquito. Lá no posto fomos muito bem recebidos pelos funcionários, que até tiraram foto conosco. Isso elevou nosso espírito, e fomos pra a saída do posto. Estávamos tão alto astral, que dançamos, fizemos estripulias, sorrimos, cantamos e quando menos esperávamos, conseguimos um motorista.








Welton era um mineirinho super simpático. Simpático ao jeito clássico mineirinho, quietinho, porém muito sorridente, modesto e humilde. Uma pessoa muito cativante. Que não queria mais que saíssemos da carreta dele. Nos ofereceu carona pra Divinópoles; pra voltar pra Bahia; pra São Paulo; em fim, ele praticamente queria que viajassemos com ele o mês inteiro. Esse caminho foi fantastico, pois subimos serras lindas paralelando com um rio e uma estrada de ferro ao som de Raul Seixas! Provamos pela primeira vez o tal do mixidão, que custou somente R$ 4,00 e foi o nosso 'almoço reforçado'. Chegamos finalmente em BH. Desconfio que o Welton estava pra chorar quando nos deixou... mas provavelmente ele irá me levar pra São Paulo quando eu sair daqui.

In the past 2 weeks I’ve set up two new wikis. Trashwiki is a wiki about dumpster diving and anything else that’s related to trash. There’s already a tiny community, and I guess we’ll soon have 100 articles.  We did copy some stuff from Wikipedia to get started, but do feel free to remove the dry encyclopedic stuff.

After that I decided I needed some money.  Or cash.  So Cashwiki is a wiki about money. So far it’s just me, and I copied a lot of GFDL and public domain stuff from other places.

All this got me to playing with OpenID on MediaWiki, which I also set up on my favorite hitchhiking website.

"New York Slim" walked under the bridge into my camp this mild winter day.

I love waking in the morning, to the sound of the train horns blow. Sitting next to my campfire with hot coffee, nowhere in particular to go.

Cascade Tunnel Flathead Tunnel. The first time that I rode the High-Line was in 1989. I had caught-out of Spook on what then was the "Burlington Northern" Railroad.

It was the spring of 1988. I was to graduate high school the late spring of 1988. I was in the 12th grade, I had already moved 26 times in my life since birth!

What crack did to my friend. I had originally met this person in Aberdeen, South Dakota. We became good friends. It was the fall of 2004 I tried for my second time in my life to get an apartment.

Hitching through Laos, we jumped to conclusions...

My 11th trip up to Alaska was not supposed to end up with a bike trip, but I indeed ended up with one.

Muito bem recepcionado em Governador Valadares, foram duas noites na estradas, fiz várias fotos extraórdinárias. Uma amiga de Salvador resolveu ir coigo... Pra agora mando só essas fotos:

On a wind and showers Monday I'm stood at the roadside near Skipton, Yorkshire, heading west with my thumb out, thinking about those Calender Girls doing their Tai-chai together on a nearby hill. It's beautiful country in which to dream.

[John Klaxon: Hello, Harrison, how's it all going? - Harrison Bergeron: Pretty mind-boggling. - John Klaxon: I think your mind can withstand considerable boggling.]

Lasterfahrer, Lasterfahrer

[Chuck D: United we fall, yes, divided we stand]

istari Lasterfahrer, istari Lasterfahrer

[Torsun: Wer wird denn rumstehn?] - Na, icke

Da stand ich mal wieder neben der Gesellschaft am Straßenrand
und spreizte den Daumen meiner rechten Hand
Daumen - auf Latein pollex, sind sie dann pollexophob
die vorbeifahren und mich genauso angucken wie ihre Autos?
Nein, ruptophob sind sie, wollen nicht unterbrechen
wollen nicht anhalten und mit niemandem sprechen
wollen sich lieber von ihrem Radio oder ihrem Navi vollquatschen lassen
wenn der Volkswagen läuft und läuft und läuft und läuft und läuft

Aber immer noch besser an der Ausfahrt auf dem Seitenstrich
als an der Tanke darüber Ausreden anhören, warum sie mich
leider nicht mitnehmen können, obwohl sie doch so gern wollen
doch der komplette Rücksitz ist schon mit ihrem tollen Anzug voll
Das Kennzeichen, das sieht natürlich anders aus
aber sie fahren wirklich schon an der nächsten Ausfahrt raus
und überhaupt, ja, lassen sich ganze Kerle dank Chappi
ihr Fahrtziel nicht vorschreiben von so ‘nem dahergelaufenen Schlappi
von Tramper und fahren schon darum ganz woanders hin
und das will ich alles gar nicht wissen, ich für meinen Teil bin
immer eher auf der Suche nach dem führerlosen Wagen
laß mich lieber ohne Führer und Reiseführer raustragen
will nichts zu tun haben mit dem passenden Volk zum Wagen
muß mich trotzdem in sie hineinversetzen und mich fragen:
Was will der Autofahrer, das unbekannte Wesen?
Larifari, Aufregung, Unterhaltung, steile Thesen?
Autofahrer kommen vom Mars, Tramper kommen vom Mond
wo der Pappe-im-Kopf-und-Pappe-in-der-Hand-Gott wohnt
Autofahrer können nicht zuhören und Tramper nicht einparken
fliehen lieber aus der Stadt des Kraft-durch-Freude-Wagens
Ich laß die Illusion der Welt an mir vorüberziehen
während ich von Mitternacht zum Morgen trampend flieh
und ich kann nicht springen und ich kann nicht gehen
und vor allen Dingen kann ich hier nicht stehen

Es hält der Lasterfahrer namens istari
his story’s real history not his story
der ist anders als die andern Autofahrer, er jammert nicht
hat bessere Musik, überwiegend selbstgemacht, und da ist
noch viel mehr, wo das herkommt, schlau, schön gebaut und knusprig
wie die Musik ist auch das, wofür er steht, ziemlich lustig
Er hat’s mir lang und breit und mit Zeichnungen erklärt
ich wie meist auf dem Beifahrersitz und er fährt
den Lasterfahrianismus, eine Sammlung von Symbolen
von maßgeblichen Diskordiern und Kommunisten empfohlen
Er hat ‘nen Apfel, der richtig gerollt produktive Zwietracht sät
für einen großen Sprung nach vorn in eine neue Qualität
Er hat ‘ne Katze, die ist wie Schrödingers tot und lebendig
verweist grinsend auf die Möglichkeiten, verschachtelt und unendlich
Er hat ‘ne Schlange, die sich in den Schwanz beißt, für das Feedback
genausogut könnte man sich selbst besudeln - spritz, piß und schleck
Wie komplexe Kommunikation rückkoppelt, illustriert sein Dreieck
zwei davon ergeben den Stern von David, und der führt weg
aus Sklaverei und Knechtschaft, von Verfolgung und Vernichtung
steht für Zurückschlagen und für Flucht, für Streik und Aufkündigung
Der Hammer zeigt, wo er hängt - wie bei Antitainment
und wie man einen Nagel in die Wand bekommt - wie in der Polytechnik
die Hand - mano cornuto - repräsentiert die Vieldeutigkeiten
bedeutet Satan wie Eifersucht, ist Fluch, Gruß und Liebeszeichen
Tote Fische schwimmen mit dem Strom beziehungsweise oben
Lastafahrians eher am Grund, quer und dagegen
Dafür steht auch die Möhre: radikal an der Wurzel, root am Rechner
Der Blitz schlußendlich zeigt die Lastas als Verfechter
des Aha-Erlebnisses, egal ob spontan oder hart erarbeitet
egal ob aus der Tüte gezogen oder jahrelang vorbereitet
Ich hab Hegel gelesen und ist alles, was ich davon hab
dieser lustige rosa Kapuzenpulli, den ich anhab?
Vom Straßenrand der Gesellschaft hat der Lasterfahrer mich mitgenommen
und wir erkunden nun die Dialektik von getrennt und zusammen

[Chuck D: United we fall, yes, divided we stand]

[Song anhören]

Estou indo embora, e deixando muitos amigos aqui. Espero voltar um dia, não sei quando, nem quem vou encontrar...











PS.: Essas fotos foram tiradas com minha câmera nova que comprei hoje! Me custou ao todo R$ 404,00. Agora sim vamos ter fotos boas!

A close call for a guy that picked me up at Flathead Lake

I am an aristocrat for madness as the tide comes back in.
The waters have calmed. I settle in now for my writings, books, collages, grape pickings and then south to see how the leaves change, to drink down foreign lands again.
I'm so disappointed at myself that I haven't mastered the french language yet, nowhere near. If I discipline myself over one aspect of my being, it must be this, the concentrated grasp of what comes in and out of the tongue.

I don't know how long we can stay together (is that the point? distance?) but when things are great, they are very great and I can't bring in enough into my skin, into the grips of hope. But when things are not; when the air sours and daggers fly, my whole body grows into the cold kitchen floor in wretches. We gnaw away at eachother's feet, its hard to walk anymore (more so for her).
But with it came back the urge to write and losing myself in great tales, cutting, cooking, walking at night again and listening to the night animals searching for things to warm the belly. Of course, these storms are fruitful beyond what the consciousness can resonate, I will discover details I never could have imagined later on from these spats. And also, an awareness of how we are growing, how I must grow and move and tremble and dance through all the despairs and joys that are encountered. In the middle of nowhere, the demons become interior and more vast. As the city chokes with its fumes and beasts, here I wade through solitude and intimacy, it can be the purest way of being if I can master its channels.
Simon will be here soon and on Sunday we leave for the vineyards. We begin at 7:30am on monday morning.
The morning sun will be extraordinary in these days.

We're onto something better.

Nabokov had described in his "Lolita" some types of hitchhikers. When hitchhiking myself, in different parts of the world, I started to consider why do people stop for me. Below you can read my thoughts.

Some of you know that on Greyhound buses travel mostly foreign students and/or rather not too rich people. But if you meet a weirdo there, you journey may turn into a nightmare (or at least a lesson of patience and tolerance)...

Camps that roared with chatter have all but faded away. Riding into Laurel, Montana last winter was cold lonely! I rode to Laurel on a pusher unit on a coal train got off at rail mile marker 11 on MRL's tracks just east of town.

When, while travelling around the world, people ask me where I am from, I say 'the Black Forest', creating an imagery of wolfs and witches, and lots of trees to climb as a kid. Barring the last point, the reality is slightly more prosaic. Because even though the town I'm from is surrounded by slopes of pine forest dotted with lookout points affording lovely views, you only see wolves' turquoise lozenge eyes lurking in the dark if you walk away from the camp fire some saturday night that you're on acid. Evil wizards wield their wands -the shape and size of pointers- in schoolrooms only, and don't produce magic so much as detention classes.
In any case, the schools they're housed by are century-old buildings painted in inept colours that sit on steep hills. If not as malignant wizards, their teachers are best described as fire-breathing, child-eating, hideous dragons.

Anyway, Baden-Baden really is a peculiar place. Its average age must be higher than life expectancy in the rest of the country, and its mean yearly per capita expenditures must number in the hundreds of thousands. Yes, you got it: Baden-Baden is a natural habitat for millionaires and OAPs. And even though this townlet counts only 30,000 inhabitants, its name is widely recognized: In Georgia people knew my town because their ex-president Shevardnadze has a villa there. In Russia or Armenia its appelation rang familiar because of the shoe-brand of the same name. In other places around the world people like to name kuaförs after it. Italians often know it because it counts as the Italian mafia's capital beyond the borders of their own country. And of course in languages around the world there are jokes about the place, like the Spanish ''Where have you been on holiday?' -'In Baden-Baden. And you?'-'I went to Villabajo de la Consuegra Villabajo de la Consuegra'.

The mafia connection -the fact that every single pizzeria across town is paying protection money, as an Italian schoolmate once told me-, is because we sport a large luxury laundrette of a special kind: our casino.

Lev Tolstoy, the great Christian anarchist, came here to gamble his money away. Dostoevsky, a minor columnist interested in crime and its conclusion, even scribbled together a famous story about compulsively playing roulette at those same tables.

Other Russians of true note were equally present: Turgenev's old residence reads 'This house is not a museum'; and Gogol came, and came back again and again, to heal his health at our sanatoria.

It is probably correspondingly that even today when I go to my local supermarket I hear five times Russian spoken (and maybe three times another Slavic language) before I catch the first snippet of German -from the woman on the till informing me it's 5,75 Euros, with a perfect Russian accent.

If not for Russian roulette and Italian ice-cream, Baden-Idem is famous for its hot springs. The finest of our public baths is the Friedrichsbad where you have to go in the nude and must show proof of being over 78 to enter (the easiest task for the majority of Baden-Idem's population most of whom saw the continents in the making). ''The bath dates from almost 2000 years ago, is located in an underground vault whose walls are ornamented by original Roman mosaics, and entry costs about 74 Euros'', I always tell when travelling. I may be exaggerating, though: not like I could go and check for myself.

During World War II Baden-Idem constituted a hideaway where wealthy Germans drank champagne and danced the charleston while in the rest of Europe bombs were falling. Ferdinand Celine chronicled this in his book 'North' which was based on his own experience of passing through the town at the time. But by no means everyone there lived the high life: My father, a simple wood trader's son, told me of those same times, of collecting edible chestnuts in the forests surrounding our town because there was no other food.

Forever a centre of conservativism, at the height of the 1968 revolution in Paris, Charles de Gaulle took his whole family to Baden-Idem, probably taking the first steps in case he'd have to make a run for it should the hippies take the upper hand at home. His token reason for the trip was to speak about the crisis with General Massu, Algerian veteran and then chief of the French forces stationed in the region since 1945.
The French army stayed up until my own childhood, the French quarter of town just across the river from our house. Before the troops left at the very end of the 1990s I myself had time to kiss French boys as a young teenager (and black ones, too! They were especially a hit with us girls. We didn't really have black Germans in that town at that time. Things are changing now though.).

At the turn of the century I got kicked out of highschool which gave me the stimulus to run and leave the place in a trail of dust behind. Whenever, once every year or so, I now go back there, I open the newspaper and find stories that capture the spirit of the town all too well, stories like these: 'After a shoot-out between different mafia-members in front of a disco which left four of the participants dead and two by-standers wounded, one of Italy's biggest mafia-bosses, Paulo Aureliano, was captured last night.' or
'Last night the octogenarian Baroness of Windeck was found dead in the masterbedroom of her manor. She had been murdered with 14 knife wounds while she was sleeping. The police are puzzled about possible motives: Not only nothing was stolen, but on the table next to her bed a stack of money notes amounting to more than 20,000 Euros were left untouched.'

Baden-Baden's nicer places are outside of town on a hill, on the skirt of the woods, but it remains the locale of the rape of my youth, so I cannot make friends with the place.

Estou pra ir embora... E pra não sair desprotegido, é claro, tive que ir na benção da terça no velho Pelourinho. Bem, continuo ateu! Mas sou um 'ateu abençoado' ,como diria meu pai!.
Também me flagraram sambando em um boteco, quando eu pegar eu publico.

Sunday morning, 7.30 a.m. Service station “Marienborn”, direction MD; former inner-German border 2 hours driving through the night. It’s a strange feeling, being a driver, not the hitchhiker. The way is boring, no one to talk much too. I had to drive towards Dresden on time, so no time to do the trip by hitchhiking. It’s Sunday [...]

How we met a Muslim family while raising thumb in a road of Bosnia and Herzegovina and what was the life lesson we got from them...

There are still rides in Montana. After getting out of jail in Billings, Montana with only the clothes on my back, and not a dime to my name, Butte looked a long ways away.

This is a story from my travel blog. I was very lucky to have stopped Bill for my very first hitchhike in the USA. He drove me all around the place. I think we made more than 300km on that day. And I fell in love with Yosemite National Park.

Powder puff dressing rooms are no place for alcoholics.

That morning I woke up with the sun warming my smiling face. For I was living, truly living and nothing could take that away from me.

You know, you travel around to here and there. You meet a lot of people. Some places you go are a lot of fun, and some just flat out stink.

Então, aqui está meu último trabalho em origami. Esse vai ser vendido, ainda não sei por quanto. Vou impermeabilizá-lo com rezina. É o Buddha de Takashi hojyo. Se alguém mais se interessar por esse tipo de arte e puder contribuir em algo (de preferência dinheiro) em minha viagem, podemos negociar.

Ein paar Meter hinter dem Schlagbaum am Zulieferweg ist schon die Tankstelle. Nur ein paar Tropfen Regen kriege ich ab, dann sehe ich gleich als erstes ein Auto mit Pferdeanhänger und LDS-Kennzeichen, in dem ich kurz darauf zu sitzen komme. Der Fahrer sieht sich als Cowboy, macht Rodeo-Veranstaltungen und nach mehreren Jahren tatsächlich bei der amerikanischen Einwanderungslotterie eine Green Card gewonnen. Wir unterhalten uns über Auswanderung und Fernbeziehungen, über die Vor- und Nachteile von Großstädten. Er ist endlich mal jemand, der von allein darauf gekommen ist, daß Trampen mittlerweile eigentlich ziemlich gut gehen müßte.

Ich komme mit ihm an Dresden vorbei bis zum Rasthof Freienhufen, wo ich mit einem Mr Brown’s zur Ausfahrt laufe. Ich hab noch nicht ausgetrunken, als eine etwas ältere Frau anhält, die ich an der Tanke nicht gefragt hatte, weil sie etwas verunsichert wirkte. Der Eindruck täuscht, es gibt wiederum bis Berlin eine angeregte Unterhaltung, ausgehend von dem Klassentreffen im Erzgebirge, von dem sie gerade kam, über den Verfall der ostdeutschen Provinz hin zu verschiedenen Ost-West-Anekdoten.

Portland to Cheyenne. This was just another usual wet west coast day in December of 1994. The Burnside Bridge had always been my catch-out spot in Portland. This trip would pay off later on.

There are some truly profound aspects to hitching. Is it chance, random selection, or pre-destination?

He was a madman, a crazy lunatic whose intellect suffered multiple dimensions experienced all at one time.

Since I m convinced that the NATO should not keep on fighting against terorism in the world I would like to invite all of you to the SoliParty in the KTS in Feiburg.
That is going to be the welcome back Party for the Freiburg Connection and all the profit from this party goes to a fund which helps to organize the protest against the aniversary meeting of the NATO states in Strassbourg (FRA) and Kehl (GER) in April 2009.

more info: http://natogipfel2009.blogsport.de

PS: Yes, I m still in Mexico. Right now chilling on the beach in Mazunte, Oaxaca.

THE DANGER IS NO LONGER THEORETICAL
Spent so long imagining up heart revolutions; new ways of living, thinking, feeling
and now, somehow, I'm stagnate as a scarecrow pecked at by thousands of vultures and have been for months. I've stopped writing for too long due to my words overtaking my actions, coiling around my throat; dripping with mental semen. I cut the wrists of madness in exchange for calm....calm, calm of what? nothing calmed, it just kept burning, itching, singing and screaming inside. your demons are immortalised in art or lost forever and you will never again be whole.
What happened? Where is my next experiment after living in the woods for one year? Where does it come from, now?
I'm growing, but in what direction? Sometimes I fear it's out of my back...hunchback prophecies, strung and quartered to routine. Ho! Routine...my weakest foe, so easy to ruin but delicious in comfort. Drawing out maps of the hearts around me, don't tell me they go nowhere, don't tell me all my friends will stay there forever, don't tell me they'll never explode. that everyone is bound to their new careers, willing away the seconds..

I am weak in that I have forgotten to be skillful with my challanges, that suddenly the challanges are those that I choose instead of every singular thing, the simultaneous attention at all directions..and sleep has abandoned me.
Hesse wrote, from a voice after waking from a dream one morning -
'Listen to me! Listen to me, and remember: suffering is nothing, suffering is illusion. Only you yourself create it, only you cause yourself pain!'

É impossível vir a Salvador e não provar nada da culinária regional. Pra mim essa sentença é ainda mais forte: É QUASE impossível eu fazer minha jornada de 4km para ir trabalhar e não levar um trocado pra degustar o que é que a baina tem.

Acarajé

Na Africa, era comido apenas com pimenta, e recebia o nome de àkàrà. É uma comida sagrada do candomblé. Diz-se que a receita não pode ser modificada e apenas os filhos-de-santos podem prepará-la, mas hoje em dia isso não é mais uma realidade, pois está bastante comercializado e se tornou um meio de vida de várias pessoas que montam suas banquinhas de acarajé na rua. As baianas (assim como é chamada as vendedoras) levam calderões com a massa pastosa que é finalizada ali mesmo na banquinha de venda. Atualmente é vendido normalmente em qualquer esquina, e o preço varia entre R$ 1,00 a 3,50 (R$ 1,00 foi um achado raro! R$ 1,50 é o preço justo e mais comum de ser achado no centro). O valor pode aumentar em R$ 0,50 ou mais caso seja servido com camarão refogado.

A massa do Acarajé leva como principal ingrediente o feijão fradinho, e uma outra principal caracteristica está na fritura que essencialmente deve ser feita com o famoso óleo de dendê (que foi trazido pelos africanos, e hoje em dia é produzido aqui mesmo). O acarajé pode ser servido morno, quente ou frio, é assim que chamam os níveis de pimenta, portanto, muito cuidado quando pedir um acarajé 'quente'. Eu prefiro ele morno. O acarajé vendido, é cortado ao meio e recheado com vatapá, caruru e salada, a baiana sempre pergunta se quer por todos esses ingredientes. Vale lembrar também o detalhe de que é muito complicado comer o acarajé sem sujar toda a boca, e isso pode ser um grande desafio pra quem usa barba e/ou bigode.

Vatapá

Servido normalmente como recheio do acarajé, também pode ser servido em restaurantes junto com outros pratos. É uma pasta amarelada, que é feita com farinha de mandioca e azeite de dendê misturado com outros ingredientes como castanha-de-caju, amedoim, tomate, cebola, gengibre, pimenta e peixe ou camarão. Pra mim, é a parte mais saborosa do acarajé.

Caruru

É um delicioso preparo a base de quiabo, onde também entra o famoso azeite de dendê, e outros ingredientes muito comum aqui como castanha e amendoin. É um ingrediente muito importante no recheio do acarajé.

Abará

Irmão do acarajé, esse tem a mesma massa do acarajé e recebe o mesmo recheio também. Até mesmo o preço é o mesmo. A grande diferença é que esse é cozido e o acarajé é frito. Um detalhe curioso sobre o abará, é que pelo fato de ser cozido, as baianas já trazem um caldeirão com os abarás prontos, já o acarajé é frito na hora. Por isso, geralmente quando você chega em uma baiana que está ainda iniciando o dia de trabalho, é normal ter abará pronto, mas ainda não tem acarajé.

Bolinho de estudante, ou Punheta

Essa comida de nome curioso é feita com a conhecida goma de mandioca (a mesma que produz a tapioca) e coco. Tem um formato celindrico e com as pontas arredondadas, e desconfio que o nome foi inspirado pelo formato. É um dos meus preferidos do tabuleiro, pois é uma das coisas mais baratas e é doce. Custa de R$ 1,00 a 2,00, sendo que o preço normal encontrado no centro de Salvador é R$ 1,00. É servido frio ou quente (caso tenha sido frito a pouco tempo), e é passado no açucar com canela. Quase sempre que tenho R$ 1,00 eu procuro uma baiana pra comprar uma 'punheta'. Curiosidade sobre a punheta, é que nem todas as baianas vendem, apesar de mesmo assim ser muito comum. Mas algumas vezes ouvi:
- Só vendo acarajé meu filho.

Cocada baiana

É uma cocada um pouco diferente, não sei explicar como é feita, e só comi uma vez. Sei que são grandes, e é muito comum no tabuleiro. Não lembro o preço, mas acho que é uns R$ 2,00 ou menos.

Cocada puxa

Esse eu só provei, é um amontoado de doce escuro feito com coco e com consistência grudenta e pesada. Não tenho idéia de quanto custa ou como é a porção.

Passarinha

É o baço do boi frito e acompanhado de vinagrete. Não gostei muito. Também é comum colocar uma pimentinha, e segue a mesma regra de morno, quente ou fio. Comprei uma vez por R$ 1,00.


Fora do tabuleiro da baiana tem muito mais coisas, e até dentro do tabuleiro tem coisas que esqueci ou não sei o nome. Mas vale muito a pena, daqui a pouco quando sair dessa lan house vou correndo comprar uma 'punhetinha'.

Every ride in Alaska is an adventure.

When I first arrived in Tbilisi I fell into one of those golden cages of hospitality which in Georgia, due to the country's drinking habits, most closely resemble black holes. For two weeks it was cosy and merry at Azelma's and Shako's place, but when I was finally spat out again from the intense gravitational field of daily inebriation that their home represented, I decided it was time to search for a more permanent place to stay. Thus, I went through the following row of adventures:

After trying to rent a room with an elderly lady who forbade me to touch the tea-pot "lest it explode", or take a shower without her supervision, I crashed one night at the house of an amiable elder Japanese man who spoke Georgian, Russian and French, but none of them enough to comunicate; then I stayed a few nights at my friend Mtvarisa's, who, along with other former refugees who refuse to be bought out, still has a small room in an old athlete's home, assigned to her family when they fled Abkhazia over 15 years ago; and finally, I found a new abode: I now have a room in a dinky family home around the train station.

It is a dodgy part of town where mini-tornadoes form towers of dirt in the air and the wind whirls up the rubbish and chases it down the street before me as I walk home. Fat men in yellow shirts follow me from the metro exit and mumble "Haven't I seen you here before?" in my ear, which is code for "how much are you?". Indeed the whores cost less than two Euros around here I was informed ("No, prices have already gone up", corrects the chatty lady on night duty at the chemists').
When Shako and Azelma lived down the road, the scuffles on the street frequently got so noisy that Shako once felt impelled to stop the nightly disturbance by emptying a pot of cold water on the louts from his third floor balcony.

Meanwhile the 'boudoir' I have been allocated is a stuffy, rectangular chamber whose size is yet diminished by the tall bookshelves obstructing its walls. They are impressive in both size and garniture: The crème de la crème of European classics seem to be crowded onto them. Their natural alphabetical order has been partially disrupted only by the last earthquake I am explained.
The lodging has two beds, the other one of which is warmed at nights by a hefty Georgian spinster around fifty who gets up before dawn to sell washcloths and potholders on the market, then comes home around nine to watch Brazilian telenovelas on the flickering telly in the kitchen and forthwith drop to sleep. I, meanwhile, make good use of our room's paraphernalia and sit and read in the fading evening light by the window in the hall.

The family who rents out to us is constituted of mummy, daddy, two teenage boys and a tottering old granny who was especially quick to take me to her heart: ""Какая ты глупая -что ты хочешь опять, придурка? И какая ты неряха -Ты же женщина! Женщинам надо всё убирать! Женщинам надо аккуратно быть! Очевидно, чем-то тебе не хватает в голове. Ты просто помешанная...
Когда ты уедешь?"

I travelled for 2 short weeks in Turkey. I used buses most of the time. It was the kind of travel I doubt that I'll ever repeat, because it was quick, but I have to say that the bus system in Turkey is impressive, with modern buses staffed like airplanes, and regular stops at places that could rightly be called malls!

The first 2 segments are from my journal, before and after I got the ride, hence they're signed. The last bit I added on as it seemed appropriate. This is the true story of my first hitch.

Sonntagvormittag, laufe zur Autobahnauffahrt Ostring und wer steht da?? Die Polizei! 5 Polizisten, ein Polizeiauto, ein Kastenwagen, zwei andere Autos = irgendeine Kontrolle. Zum Glück entscheide ich mich zu warten und fahre noch nicht ans andere Ende der Stadt, denn schon nach ein paar Minuten ziehen die Uniformierten ab und überlassen mir mein Plätzchen.
Wie erwartet ist am Sonntagvormittag niemand unterwegs ausser vollgestopfte Familienautos. Ich beschliesse, mindestens eine halbe Stunde lang mit “Zürich”-Schild auf eine Direktfahrt zu hoffen. Sonst würde ich das Schild wegpacken und von Auffahrt zu Auffahrt trampen… Nach 20 Minuten werde ich aber von einer netten jungen Frau mitgenommen. Zwar nicht bis Zürich, aber Lenzburg liegt nur 20 Minuten vor Zürich und ich kann mir vorstellen, dass von dort aus viele in die Stadt reinfahren. Tatsächlich werde ich in dieser komischen Ausfahrt, welche mitten im Nirgendwo liegt, prompt von einem sehr interessanten und netten mexikanischen Meeresbiologen, der aber in Zürich als Ingenieur arbeitet, mitgenommen. Er muss zwar nicht nach Zürich rein, hat aber genug Zeit, um mich in der Stadt abzusetzen. Perfekt!

its cold, these days. I wear two pairs of socks. I drink hot drinks and rub my hands together. I don't know if scandanavia is possible. perhaps we'll go south instead to latina and buckets of sangrias..
and I'd like to imagine that every drop of these days is absolutely essential.
and if it isn't, then something is terribly wrong. that everything is a forward motion, that nothing is rejected. that we'll fight til' our frostbitten toes fall off and all we have is our imaginations and blood, blood..surging into each other and everywhere, every vein connected, every vessel on fire.

and what is the reality?
sedate my humour, and again - lift that black flag till you collapse..

Hi guys, new to writing but I love it, this is the first poem I've written. We are all a minority in this world, one of the few people who don't put comfort above everything else, take a minute to look at life from another perspective... Peace!

I will find the blue mushroom.

I'm new to the site, so I thought that if I related a story or three it would help others to know a bit more about me. I did most of my hitching in the '70s, so as I mentioned in my profile, perhaps I'm too old to think about this now, but I have the desire, so I'll see where it takes me.v

Today we reached the milestone of 1000 articles at Hitchwiki.org!  It took less than 3 years to get there.  Already before I found the then called “Hitchhiker’s guide to Hitchhiking” I was sure that a wiki for hitchhikers was a good idea.  So I’m very happy that I moved the project to Wikia.com in December 2005. At some point I had been thinking to move it to hitchhikers.couchsurfing.com, but fortunately MrTweek was around. He did an excellent job setting up and maintaining the current Hitchwiki.org and adding the extremely cool integrated maps. All in all the project has become a prime source of current hitchhiking info, and a lightning rod for online social cooperation - in three years’ time we never felt the need to set up even a single rule.

Next…

• Last week I contacted Salman of digihitch.com and we can probably show a nicely integrated Hitchwiki on there!
• More syndication, especially maps.hitchwiki.org to other places and vice versa
• More info in other languages besides English
• Most important: continue the do-ocratic conviviality!

Links

Nach einem drei tages zwischenstop im zu sauberen und teuren Singapore, wo ich mir ein neues gebrauchtes Objektiv gekauft habe, verbringe ich jetzt schon 6 Tage im schoenen Indonesien, was ein wenig mit Kambotscha zu vergleichen ist; nur freunlicher und nicht so vermuellt wie ich finde. Mein momentaner standpunkt ist Tomok (mittlerweile TukTuk) am Lake Toba. Ein hammer schoener see in den Vulkanbergen, wo ich mir ein hotelzimmer fuer 1Euro pro nacht goenne und versuche mit meiner mitsegelgelegenheit nach Australien in kontakt zu treten. Kann, wenn alles klappt, kostenlos mit nem Catamaran nach Sydney segeln *huepf*

Hab mal wieder die scheisserei, aber ansonsten gehts mir praechtig. Arbeite grad gegen futter und alk in ner bar/restaurant und kann von meinem zimmer aus direkt in den see springen. Geiler platz hier…

  

@ all english speakers: I am on the way to build an english version of this website. Sorry for the german stuff here.

@ Anki: Danke fuer den Tip. Eine woche fieber okay… geht ja noch

@ Map: Berge sind schon fiese gebilde. Die lassen einen einfach nicht weiterziehen. Ich kenn das. Viel spass noch da oben

@ Johannes: Du gibst mir’n bier aus? Wo, wann? Hehe… siehst ja auf meiner page immer wo ich bin. Sobald du in der naehe bist: Meld dich. Kippen gehen dann auf meine rechnung (sind meist billiger *gg*)

@ Mark: Also du denkst dran in metten zu unterrichten? Geil… an den alpen. Da hast du sicher deinen spass

@ Map: is kostenlos, aber die wollen natuerlich trinkgeld. Kacken hab ich mich danach nicht getraut ^^

@ Muskva: I bought a "new" second hand lens in Singapore. I think it’s just more fun with a Sigma zoomlense

    

Off the plain, onto a trane. After half a year in the South, people's blue eyes mesmerize me. I sit and stare. I am under light shock. The marvelous little apparatus radiate. They gleam like the wavy blue insides of polished little marbles. Shiny and reflective they throw the light back like the surface of the sea at the cote d'Azure. Even adults have them.

These are the Netherlands, where people are as tall as trees, and houses small and rattly like shoe-boxes kicked about by kids. Where push bikes flit and whir through the narrow streets like metal insects on an automatic electric mobilé. The Netherlands, where peoples' skins are near translucent and blue veins pulsate their way from cheek to eye.

I'm on my way to Valkenburg near Maastricht. My friend Lynda from there is a singer. We've been friends for four years, since she picked me up hitchhiking one winter and subsequently invited me to one hell of a New Year's Eve party that her housemates still talk about to this day. I remember that it involved people getting all splatter-filmy-ish by engaging in a macaroni-and-ketchup fight, a girl burning her dress at midnight while wearing only high-heels and a slip, and a very memorable morning-after which I had written a story about at the time. It started off like this: "It was half past eight in the morning and I was still rushing along on that comet's tail of the speed spiked drinks I had had. The music was off and most of the drunken people had turned into alcohol corpses sprinkled over all the usual corners of the house, sofas and bathtubs and the like. Our after-party gathered on the first floor around the battlefield sight of a table crowded with dead souls (empty beer bottles), with everyone tapping their foot over some morning rhum and coke and looking out for that spliff to come their way..."

Anyway, back to present times. Maastricht hasn't moved. It still sits on a narrow lapel of land called Limburg, which is a Southern extension of the Netherlands. With the French highspeed train TGV having yet become faster, Paris is now "nearer" than the North of the country from here. Limburg's people are very multi-lingual and even multi-cultural, I daresay. On open mike night in the café down the road songs are performed in four main languages; French, English, German and Dutch; with the last one being the least represented in the two hours that I am present to take the statistics. But the one or other song in Italian or Spanish is also thrown in.

The next day we hop across the border for a gig. Insiduously, almost imperceptibly, the architecture becomes a little charmless, all the while building materials stay the same (dark brown baked brick, white mortar). Street signs change. Apparently, Germany started just after that round-about before the garage we stopped at for Bifi sausages and Milka chocolate.

My friends are playing at a wedding party in a Greek restaurant. After having spent forty years together the couple decided to tie the knot officially. The crowd is good, starts to cheer straight after the first song. "Dutch crowds are lamer", Lynda says in the break.
I am having a good time, enjoying the music and the free alcohol at the bar. I offered to pay at the beginning of the evening, but the hosts just waved their hand and said "Don't you know the German saying that on every wedding at least one stranger should be invited?!". The kindness of strangers.
In any case after plenty of beer and a shot or three of ouzo, I start having heated case conversations with complete strangers. One of them, exhibiting typical German modesty, tells me the following: "I am from Cologne, but I live in Aachen." (These two towns are less than 80 km apart.) "I live here, and I do my best to integrate: I try to speak the local dialect, I even do without my Kölsch and drink the local beer." When I say I just flew in from Turkey he comments on Turkish immigrants: "It's not only a case of demanding them to integrate, but of us being receptive to being integrated!"
I hear that and think of how much more instantly at home I can feel in this country, after the many conversations I had in the South with people bringing forth the be-all, end-all argument to really anything you say, "Biz Türküz".

p.s
who could know that a man aiding consumerism could touch such a strong vein?
well, soon off to lands where snowmans exist..
surely snowmen don't buy as much as we do?
wrong!
what now when you can't even believe in snowmen? oh scandanevia..

Longe das estradas... Aqui estou eu no meu primeiro dia de trabalho. Ainda em Salvador, resolvi demorar um pouco mais aqui e trabalhar. O trabalho parece interessante, e é temporário. A idéia de contratar um viajante foi aceita com simpatia. O pessoal aqui é total alto-astral e agora são leitores do blog também! Hoje no primeiro dia fui surpreendido com um aniversariante com direito a bolo de aniversário!