A couple more days at the squat in Leiden…. working the security-barricade door at a huge techno party; “Whaddya mean everyone has to have invitations? Nobody has an invitation!”…. an impromptu scavenger hunt, conceived on a whim, with our legs dangling over the canal: one broken inner tube, some cat hair, and a poster with Dutch written on it; one white flower, a high-pitched noise, and one shoestring; all found within 45 minutes on the brisk Spring streets of Leiden…. a speech, requested by our host after a Wednesday night eetcafe, about my trip and my philosophies…. one final, quiet dinner with Sandor – an oldschool squatter with the use of only one arm(still rides his bike – coaster brake – still rolls spliffs no problem and still cooks vegan gourmet deliciousness)…. some city sights we didn’t discover till our last day…. aah Leiden – one of the gems of Holland.

A couple more days in Amsterdam… to say goodbye I suppose, though it isn’t hard to find reasons to stay. I was just getting back to Casa Robino with a big load of dumpster dived vegetables as Lily and Mandi were coming out. And as we were dividing the goodies on the street, Robin just happened to return right at that moment from a big hitchhiking trip to Slovenia(the Casa operates just fine without him). He was shaven-headed now and wrote “HITCH HIKE” in huge chalk letters on the sidewalk, his whole body beaming with pure joy of life. Hitchhiking sounds like a lot of fun, in a serendipitous magic-of-people kinda way. Wish I could try it… but for now I am all bike.
I scored an interview with the Netherlands national press agency, the ANP. The kid said it was his third or fourth interview – I guess they don’t send heavy-hitter grizzled pro reporters to interview American bike bums. I told him, “That’s cool, I’m new at this too.” His Engels was, like most Dutch people’s, excellent. Coffee was on the agency and there was a photographer too. The next day, an article(in Dutch) about my tour and my principles was published in dozens of online and hardcopy papers. But of course, despite saying he would, he didn’t notify me when or where it would be published – those reporters, can I trust ‘em? – so it was only random chance I was able to get hold of a copy. “Ik ben tegen snelheid” : “I am against speed.”

Leaving Casa Robino – this time for real – was a slow process. Natural. The snail in me couldn’t bear to hurry, especially after such a momentous time there.
The scheduled day of departure didn’t feel quite right. The day after, it still felt rushed and I wanted to do a little more around the house. On day three, as the sun came up over Amsterdam, I was finally ready to leave. The time was right, and the way had opened itself. Having been out all night, I woke Lily with a kiss and a cup of tea. We said goodbye to Robin – all other nomads were asleep – and after a few final adjustments, we were on our way to Paris!
It reminded me of the day I left home, a little – low on sleep, emotionally taxed, but ecstatic to be on the road again. And not going to make it very far that first day – we stopped in Leiden for some more final goodbyes.
On my way to meet Josta, my first Dutch friend, I passed a group of squatters I knew, outside the local police precinct. They were exercising their rights, giving away free vegan dumpstered food(Food Not Bombs) and banging on djembes right there on the steps of the copshop; one of the crew was inside, in jail, and they were there for support. What a nice feeling it must be, to be sitting in jail, and every time the front door opens, you can hear your friends shouting and making music, just for you. Later the homie was released, and we all sat on the roof of “the Couch” drinking beer and getting the scoop. The cops had taken his fingerprints but still don’t know his name….

Next on our way was Delft, where we had some other friends to visit at another krakhuis. There I was contacted by a Dutch TV show requesting an interview – they had seen the ANP article somewhere – so we delayed for a day. We made vegan pizza from scratch – the secret is hummus in the sauce – and Lily screened her documentary for a house full of folks. I fixed a coffeetable. And there was this bike dude Jason, an American doing PhD work at the huge engineering school in Delft. “Bike handling” – what a program! Live in Holland, the center of the bicycle universe, and study bikes all day every day with other bike nerds. Wow. He has a totally bike-centro blog on http://www.moorebicycles.blogspot.com/

In the morning I went to the train station to meet the TV crew for the interview. My television debut, how exciting! While I was waiting, I spoke congenially with an elderly couple – seeing my loaded bike there had reminded them of their youth, and a few happy weeks touring across Europe on bikes. Then the charismatic producer appeared – I think he had been spying on me beforehand – and bought me coffee and food. A couple minutes later, a smooth TV personality in a black suit and red tie arrived with the camera guy, and we went out into the rain to do the interview. This slick fella, a Turkish-descent, well-manicured celebrity, standing with the coldsore on his lip away from the camera, was one of “De Jakhalzen” – a small, comedic relief portion of a show called De Wereld Draait Door – The World Keeps Spinning, Holland’s most popular primetime show. He offered me to stand under his umbrella with him – “Uhh, no thanks… when it rains, I just get wet.” And so he put up his umbrella and got wet too – probably his wettest interview ever =P
They put a mic and wireless battery thingy on me and began rolling. Within minutes I got the gist – they weren’t here to give me an opportunity to promote alternative methods of transportation; I was the opportunity. This wasn’t unbiased journalism, this was comedy television. He started asking me questions about Americans thinking they were heroes and leaving messes behind – read: US foreign policy – trying to get a rise out of me or hoping I’d slip up and say something they could shamelessly edit for millions of Dutch people to laugh at over their dinner ofstampot. I didn’t slip – I was actually surprised how cool I was on camera. He prodded me on my trust in humankind – “People LIE, man!” – and tried to get me to ridiculously ask people at the station if I could stay with them tonight. Then, as we’re talking about what I eat and what equipment I carry, he gestures behind him – “Your bike, I mean, it must weigh a lot… hey – where is your bike?”

Oh. My. God. My bike was gone.

Minutes earlier, out of the corner of my eye, I had seen someone move it, but I was almost positive it was the producer, and I just thought he was putting it somewhere better. I could tell it was a gag – no wonder the producer was dressed like a bike thief – and they had been planning it the whole time. The camera kept taping, but I don’t think I gave them the reaction they were hoping for; I told him to call his producer. “Oh he’s putting money in the meter, is he?” “If this isn’t a gimmick, then yes, I do want you to call the police.” The jackal tried to keep the joke going, but eventually the guy came back and we had a laugh. Dicks.
The only fun part was when they taped me riding, shadowing me in their car. They had already told me it was okay, even encouraged, to swear, so when there was another cyclist coming, I told them, with genuine rancor, to “Get the fu€k out of his way, give the man some room!” And they got some good shots of me saying, “I’m not in any hurry.”
In the end, they seemed like pretty cool guys, despite the whole rape-you-for-laughs veneer; I think they were actually feeling a little guilty when they left. And I learned an important lesson – a dubious prospect for promoting my message is not worth my integrity. I’ve got a good sense of humor, and my dignity isn’t much of a foundation for my ego, but still – the last thing I want is to make bicycle touring seem laughable.

Their bigwig emailed me and said they’d air it in one or two days. I wanted to see it, of course, but we decided to hit the road and just try and find a TV to watch it on wherever we happened to be. I picked up a little leather case from the squat’s free-shop, for my spice kit; we said goodbye, and pedalled off in the drizzle.
We passed through Den Haag and Rotterdam on our way to the coast, and followed the North Sea Southwards, battling the wind – it’s not a good sign when there’s a hundred huge wind turbines, all pointing in your direction and spinning like mad – and crossing the mighty dykes that hold back the sea. Fifty percent of the Netherlands(literally the “low land”) is below sea level, and much of the country’s land was actually manufactured – as in: erect a big wall, fill the sea with dirt, drain off any leftover water, and build houses. And somehow it works; they used to use old-tech windmill-driven pumps, but now it’s all electronic I guess. Hope global warming doesn’t wipe ‘em out!

First night out, we stopped in Renesse for water and to try to find a TV. Water was easy, but people weren’t offering their cozy sitting rooms to two dirty hobos. We did, however, get a lead on a Christian vicar whose home is an official stop for pilgrims on the famous Santiago de Campostela trail – which is actually in Spain, but people head there from much, much farther away. We found his house and his wife was appropriately welcoming. She invited us in, fed us coffee and biscuits, and spoke politely before going back to what she was doing. When Peter the Priest got home, he gave me the official Santiago de Campostela bike-pilgrim stamp and agreed to watch De Wereld Draait Door with us. And we were treated to a great family dinner! Their son said it was great to have guests – “Mom always cooks better food when there are guests.”
But my segment didn’t show, and after the credits rolled, sitting there a little embarrassed, Peter told us that he and his family “had their own program for the evening.” It was a polite eviction. We were more than a little surprised – what priest kicks out two poor travelers after dark, anyway? Maybe he thought we were just conning him for a meal and a place to stay…. But they had been more than hospitable already, and anyway, we had a tent. We found a sign out at some rural crossroads that said “Camping –> 2 km” and the grass under the sign was looking pretty lush… we pitched up right there in the ditch and laid in our winter hats and gloves, looking at the stars.

The next day we passed through Goes and stopped at the library to check on De Wereld Draait Door – the bigwig said she would email me – but the library was closed. There was an intercom though, and after I brazenly buzzed it, someone actually answered! After a quick explanation, she agreed to let me in and use the internet – in a closed library! I love public libraries, hot damn! But of course there was no info on my segment. Shyeh, media.
Next door at a cafe we decided to have a hot cup of tea – it wasn’t warm in the Netherlands, by any definition, in early March. We passed a pair of beer-bellied and bearded old codgers outside; they asked where we were from(America! No! Australia!) and I complimented one of them on his crystal pendants. Minutes later, he comes inside and approaches our table with almost zero English, proffers his card(Bert – he’s a drum-maker), gives Lily one of his pendants(!), a rose quartz, and intimates that if we ever come to Katendijk, he will find space for us. Nice! Thanks old dude! Now, where’s Katendijk….
We found it on the map and it really wasn’t too far out of our way. We figured this was a chance to hang out with some locals – Bert was true Dutch for sure – and maybe even have a warm place to sleep for a change. Lily, having grown up in Vanuatu and Australia, is accustomed to tropical paradise – her first time seeing snow was last winter – and despite a few tricks up my sleeve to keep her warm, she was hurtin’ in those frosty nights.
So we pedalled to Katendijk to look for Bert. It wasn’t a big town but we didn’t see the street, so we went back to the bar to ask for directions, and who’s there drinking beer but our friend Bert! Of course he’s in the pub!
Lily bought him a beer and we chatted, but soon our common language was exhausted, and an awkward silence settled over the afternoon village pub. It seemed Bert couldn’t put us up in his place – some big mess, I gathered – and his girlfriend was sick or something…. He made phone calls, he spoke to the other brooding clientele; he looked embarrassed, he looked apologetic; we tried to tell him that any dirty corner of the floor was more than enough, but by the end of the beer, it was obvious we’d be out in the cold again. Thanks anyway Bert!

We never did find a warm place to sleep in Zuidland, but we huddled close and kept the pedals pumpin’. And we never did see the segment on De Wereld Draait Door – maybe they decided I hadn’t acted enough of a fool to make anything out of it. Probably for the best.

We traveled. We smiled and joked and flirted and said “hoi dag” to everyone we passed. We met strangers and were given stroopwaffles and pannenkaken. A woman delivering mail said she’d invite us for coffee if she wasn’t working. There were no hills, just gloriously flat bike paths along the dykes, with Dutch village roofs sticking up over the ridge and a cramped Dutch countryside full of sheep and horses.

Nearing the Belgian border, we were confronted with the Westerschelde, the huge estuary that connects Antwerp with the North Sea. As far west as we were, there was only a ferry service… but with one look in my eyes, Lily agreed to cycle east and find a different way. Farther on, we found a tunnel that goes under it – you can take your bike, and it’s free, but you and your bike have to get on a bus… sorry Lil, I don’t take buses either. A bit inconvenient, perhaps, but this just meant that we had to cycle all the way to the bridge crossing over the River Schelde, and in lieu of visiting Brugge or Gent, to reach Brussels via Antwerp instead.

Shortly before this massive industrial port city, we came to the town of Putte – the border town. We weren’t sure if this was pronounced like “putin,” the French word for asshole, so to confirm I asked some random girl, “Excuse me, which village is this?” I caught up to Lily, reporting, “That girl just called me an asshole!” They speak French, as well as Dutch, in Belgium – maybe the town got its name from border arguments year after year… “Putin!” “Tu putin!” “Non, tu putin!” “Mais non, TU putin!”

We didn’t see any huge sign saying, “Welcome to Belgique,” so I asked another cyclist if we were in Belgium yet – oops, it was a quarter mile ago. We went back for photos – no Belgium sign, just the Antwerp Province sign, but we still took the obligatory border shots. As we were preparing to continue – Lily was actually in the Netherlands, and I was in Belgium – tons of police started arriving by car and van-load, Dutch and Belgian both…. at first I was confused, but then I remembered which border this was. “The Netherlands…. riiiight. They’re setting up a roadblock to check for drugs.” Most of the cops just eyed us with passing interest, but one young buck approached me, saying something in Dutch, then English: “Where are you coming from?” Uh oh.

What I said was “Madison, Wisconsin,” which, thankfully, confused him slightly and pointed him in a “Wow, a world-wide bike tour” direction instead of a “We’re going to search you” direction, which is probably the way it would’ve gone if I had answered with “Netherlands,” or worse, “Amsterdam.” And I think they wouldn’t have been too pleased with a couple of the particular Dutch souvenirs I had stowed away in my panniers…. close. Too close for comfort! But before things got too involved, we saddled up and took off, and the Belgian police wished us a poorly translated “Good trip!”

Now why don’t they just say “bon voyage” like any other English speaker?

This revolution – it’s not in the history books yet, but we live in a momentous time. The world is changing faster than ever before, and we, the human race, are facing challenges the likes of which have never before threatened our survival. Global warming, peak oil – yes, these are the ones on our TV sets, but there are other ecological issues, as well as socio-political crises. Make no mistake, “the turn of the millenium” will be a hot coin-phrase in the anthropology journals of 2222.
I was inspired there, in that mythical city once called Amsteldam. Challenge; anarchy; responsibility, awareness and sustainability – these were my growth, my mirror and my prism. I have never been much of an activist, and I still prefer providing a passive example to shouting and marching; but at Casa Robino, surrounded by the warm, organic flow of illuminating perspectives between those humble walls, I changed.

Don’t worry – I’m still a dirty vagabond, I still love beer, and I will still never turn down free food. But now I feel like I really own my opinions. My confidence, when say, discussing car culture, for example, has solidified into something more educated, more righteous, yet still even more humble. My choice to travel by bicycle now seems even more significant; for my own internal pilgrimage, and for my external impact on the world. The range of social responsibility and ecological awareness with which I live my life has been broadened substantially.

I continued to grow after A’dam of course, and in no small part because of Lily.
We were a dynamic duo, in a literal sense; always challenging each other, always thinking on the edge, eager and energetic to save the world, one pedal stroke at a time. It was a time to be alive; headed to Paris, la ville d’amour, with fire in our bellies and wings on our hearts. Choice by choice, we made our difference, and it truly felt like living history in the making. We were part of “The Great R-love-ution of ’09,” inspiring others through being ourselves, and seeking our own inspirations in the dusky cobbled streets and earthy hidden dens of Europe. We depended on luck, or call it the generosity of strangers, or the dumpster fairy, or cosmic serendipity, keeping our faith in ourselves and in each other, and tuned our harmony to the Universe.

The Earth, somewhere along with Love, was at the forefront of our agenda.

We questioned every decision we made, and though we didn’t of course achieve 100% sustainability, we lived with awareness, and thought for ourselves, instead of succumbing to the ease and convenience of following society down destructive paths.

Citizens of the world, think for yourselves.

“Yay Bikes!”
Ours was of course a “Vélo-rution” — by bike, always by bike. Bikes can heal the planet, and all we have to do is saddle up. Bikes represent a perspective of temperance and compassion in a savage world of violent road rage and automatic car door locks. Bikes are human speed to put you at ease. Bikes are simple and efficient technology, and bikes don’t pollute. Bikes rock, bikes roll. Bikes are healthy and fun!

Lily and I became the core recruiters of a traveling pan-European bike gang without even trying. (Yes we made a bike gang, this is easy to do, it’s a happy non-violent dumpster-diving bike gang, no we didn’t ever name it, but yes we have a special handshake.) You see, riding bikes is contagious — the closer people get to understanding bikes and bikers, the more they seem to want to push down on pedals. When you yourselves are saying, “Nah thanks, we don’t need a ride, our bikes are right outside!” or “I can teach you how to fix that, no problem!” – you tend to attract more bikes. You can see lights come on in people’s heads, and soon they’re eager leave the car at home and join you. Suddenly bikes are coming out of closets evoking a “I didn’t know you had a bike in there!” from roommates. They emerge from the garage, covered in dust, reminding people how easy it is to use an air pump, and that it’s cooler in the heat with bike-breeze in their hair, or warmer in the cold with bike-blood in their veins. Bikes come ingrained with muscle memory and pleasant childhood memories. They come home from the rummage sales or rental shop, they come on loan from the neighbors’ house. They come for the workout, they come for the free repair, they come for the freedom.
Bikes – the principal weapons of this peaceful revolution. There is simply no better way to go – even if you’re blind, or filthy rich, or missing both your legs – bicycles are the best. Think about it!

Food was our fuel, and freedom was everywhere. We were part of the traffic, not against it, though we never took a bus or a taxi or a ride from a friend. We inspired a lot of people, I think. Sometimes there was someone who just needed a little push over the verge into biking. Sometimes they were just curious; sometimes they wanted to argue about the feasibility of bikes. But people took notice, everywhere we went. This choice we made for transport, travel’s number one vote, was the most powerful action we made. This was our foundation, a base of sustainability that branched upwards into all aspects of life.
“More methane, less smog!”
The need to eat is one of those happy side-effects of riding bikes, a pleasure to endure. Especially in Europe. It wasn’t always easy to obtain food that was produced sustainably, but we never went hungry, I can tell you that. We ate a lot, we had to; mountains of carbohydrates and huge stews of vegetables and sauces disappeared every day, and consuming this energy put a smile on our faces. It’s all good: food happens to be a renewable resource. But only if you do it right.

I learned a lot from Lily about food. I really started to think about things for the first time, and at her side was a great place to practice. Years ago, Lily became a vegan(excuse the label Lil), as a step toward the rainbow of 100% sustainable living, and it’s true: the food we eat is also an important choice. From where/when/who/what how does our food come? Think about it.

So we chose to avoid chain supermarkets and irresponsible producers. Coke products were like poison. We avoided mysterious additives and overly processed, overly packaged crap. Foreign language food labels were closely examined. We avoided restaurants, for the price and the slim vegetarian(zero vegan) selection. I really only ate meat when it was a gift, and though I didn’t make a full veg-conversion, it was a rare grocery stop when I even bought animal products, like cheese or milk chocolate.
More than a protest of animal rights or agri-politics, it’s a matter of energy: the caloric energy we need to survive, balanced against the least possible amount of energy needed to get this food to our mouths. Of course the optimal situation would be a vegetable patch out back, to grow your own food; but it’s a different thing altogether when you’re traveling. When you’re always on the move, when you don’t know where to find the local organic shop, or you arrive too late for the local produce market, or the only restaurant in town bases all its recipes on cheese and meat… it’s much harder to keep the costs down, financially of course, but also ecologically. For example, if an avocado came from more than two countries away, we didn’t buy it. A bit of kale or corn when passing the farmer’s field is okay, but garlic from China? We don’t need garlic that bad…. And oh, bananas! What could be more innocent than the banana, which is worshipped as premium bike tourist food around the world? Well listen — if it comes on huge trucks and freighters all the way from Costa Rica, the cost of that banana in oil and tears is pretty steep. Thank god there’s always local beer.
This is why the label “vegan” doesn’t exactly fit Lily — she really cares about food(one of the biggest human-race-connecting issues on the planet), cares enough to have thought a lot about it, critically and imaginatively, and she has arrived at her own conclusions about what’s okay to eat and what isn’t. To me that is way cooler than simply claiming vegan, and I was inspired. Now I might buy some cheese or some butter now and then, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to buy meat, much less remember how to cook it. I haven’t given up powdered milk for my tea, either, but every time I buy it, I am aware: this milk doesn’t come from a supermarket shelf, it comes from a cow.
“Home is the place where you hang your hat.”
Mostly of course, we stayed in a tent. Low-impact self-sustained camping, wherever we could find a spot at the end of the day. Not a drop of water wasted, as small a footprint as possible. How much damage does a campfire actually do…? We always took everything with us when we left, often including other people’s trash. I’m sure it’s a strange request at the tourist information office to ask “Could you direct me to the nearest recycling point?” Camping rough is really low on energy consumption – no shower, no electricity, just a little cookfire and a few liters of water we carried ourselves. We slept on the ground, and the woods was our toilet. Our hair was nappy and gnarled, my beard wild. We were two grubby smiles caked with sweat, our clothes patched and stained; but the only ones to be bothered by us out there, was us. And we were quite the opposite of bothered.
As much fun as we had together at camp, it was nice to reach a town and meet some people. It’s great to see a foreign country rolling by bike, but the real way to experience a travel, a tour, a vacation, or a wander, is through the friends you make. Can’t really camp in a city anyway, so when we passed through a place we wanted to check out, we usually signed on to CouchSurfing.com, and searched for people in the network we would jive with. Keyword “B-I-K-E.” Keyword “vegan.” Keywords “hitchhiking,” “filmmaking,” “sustainability,” “harmonica,” “fire poi.” The CS community is pretty amazing; it’s not just a million-member, world-wide exchange of accomodation, it’s an exchange of hospitality, of cooking and language, of culture. It’s an exchange of perspective. (It’s also a great source of information and contacts.) We stayed with locals, and enjoyed a genuine point of view from the place we were staying; stories and lives that no hotel concierge or tour guide is likely to impart. And we didn’t have to stay in any sterile motels or overpriced B&Bs either. Why does this industry exist when there is actually plenty of space for everyone? Think about it. Do we really need our own room when there are houses, already heated, all around? Do we really need the fear?
We understood that community can happen anywhere; and as long as we connected with the people around us, and kept their happiness in mind, then we were adding to the world. And having a blast in Europe at the same time!
“Have love, will travel”

We had food and water, we had shelter. We had transportation. What more could a human need in this world, save love?
Our love was perhaps the most inspiring thing about us. Not only were we out there livin’ it, but we were livin’ it together, lookin’ good and feeling like we could touch the sky. People would look at me or look at her, okay, that’s admirable, ecology blah blah… but when they realized we were doing it as a team, in love and getting lovlier, they went home dreaming.
Of course our love wasn’t there to be pimped for the environment, or to make a good story. For now, suffice to say that our bodies, minds, and spirits mixed, at times melted, together… sliding smokey smooth or igniting with blazing sparks… always dancing in the truest colors. I draw a breath and feel her in my lungs… I blink and see her behind my eyelids… I get up and sing, I give in and fall.
It just happened, and we ran with it. Or rather, we biked with it. Happy!

Life began to sparkle and shine like never before.

She was introduced to me as a freight-train-hopping expert, hobo-hitchhiker film-maker extraordinaire. So yeah, she’s pretty damn cool. But it’s her principles that really impress me; she doesn’t participate in animal-farm industry, she doesn’t take airplanes or own a car… she wouldn’t even send a letter in the post, because they would put it on a plane! We had to compromise on the whole hand-written letter thing(I could never boycott the mail!) so at the Casa we developed and implemented something called Lightfoot Sustainable Post, an alternative to the modern system.

http://casarobino.org/content/lightfoot-sustainable-post-sweeping-globe

Inspiration flew when we were together.

Lily was working on a documentary when I met her. It’s about food waste and people who dumpster dive for ecological reasons. The first time I did it – the first time I dug through the trash can for food – at the Tenkatemarkt in Amsterdam, it was an eye-opening experience. The first reaction people usually have when you tell them “Yeah this meal came from the trash,” is, predictably, disgust. But that’s just societal conditioning. Some of the best food I’ve ever eaten has come from the garbage; sure it’s a little dirty when you pull it out of the bin, but you clean it off and you can see for yourself that it’s still edible food. They only throw it away because it’s not sellable, not because it’s truly rotten. With so many people starving in the world, and with Western society gobbling up as much as we can and wasting so damn much, well, living off of waste sounds pretty good to me. At the Casa they created a website for dumpster diving which has been rapidly growing, wiki-style: www.trashwiki.org. There’s even an international organization whose all-volunteer chapters make delicious, healthy, dumpster-dived meals and give them away for free – it’s called Food Not Bombs: http://www.foodnotbombs.net/story.html.

There really is enough food in the world for everyone.

“Kraken Gaat Door” – Squatting Continues

In the Netherlands there’s another way to live off of waste: squatting. In Dutch it’s called “kraken” – named for the sound of a door or window of an abandoned building cracking open. As far as Dutch law is concerned, if you can find a legal way inside a building that’s been in disuse for more than one year, and stay for 24 hours with at least one table, one chair, and one matress, then you are legally allowed to live there, and the owner can’t charge rent. In fact, to evict you after this initial squatting day, the resposibility is left with them to prove they are going to use the space – otherwise the cops, the law, is on the squatters’ side. They even get official letters from the police, ordering the water and electric company to turn on the juice! Squats can be found all over the world, but in Holland it’s easier than anywhere else. It’s so common that there’s even an anti-squat organization, where landlords can register their unused residences against squatting and provide inexpensive accomodation.
The usual thing may indeed be to break in to the abandoned building; but beyond that the squatters don’t really deserve a reputation for criminality or violence. Normally they are peaceful, welcoming, and compassionate, and provide unique benefits for the community – free grafitti walls, second-hand clothing and goods “freeshops,” free workshops for various crafts and skills, public “eetcafes”(veggie/vegan gourmet dinners for super cheap!), dumpster dived donations to homeless shelters, bicycle workspace, and other volunteer outreach programs.

I went and stayed with Lily at a “krakhuis” in Leiden, where she was living in half a room in the rafters of a squatted pub, and finishing the editing process on her documentary. Inside a squat, it’s is usually a little bit run-down, a little bit dirty, but it is an abandoned building, after all. I’m not bothered by a little dirt. Quite the opposite, actually, and I really fit in well with the hippie-punk squatter scene in Holland. Especially with my new boots!
There was no ladder to Lily’s loft, only a rickety bedframe that wouldn’t support my weight. I had to build a ladder the first day. There was a urinal installed in the shower, a relic left over from a techno party. And there wasn’t much sunlight, only a tiny bit reflecting down from a rooftop entryway. Lily buckled down and finished the documentary while I helped the fellas and enjoyed the low-amenity lifestyle. Really, for me, just having a toaster was amazing – not to mention warm water and a roof!
At the end of February the movie was done, and she held a screening party. I cooked vegan dumpster-dived food for everyone and some folks even cycled all the way from Amsterdam to see the film. It’s called Skipping Waste, and it went over spectacularly; there’s just nothing as shockingly inspiring as dumpster diving. It’s an amazing thing to see: I encourage you to watch it: http://trashwiki.org/en/Skipping_Waste.

We celebrated by packing up the bakfiets – the huge Dutch cargo bike – and taking a little adventure to the beach for the night. On the way there, Lily sat in the front, singing, eating, drinking, smiling and waving at passersby(even in Holland it must’ve been quite a sight to see), while I pedaled from the back. We parked by the sea, drank wine, and read chapters from our books to each other. And the next day, she pedaled, and I got to sit and relax the whole way! Yay bikes!

Lily and I spent a lot of time together, but we weren’t sick of each other. Not by far; in fact, when we realized our respective plans both went the same direction, I invited her to cycle South with me, and together we formed a killer plan….

Next : Amsterdam to Paris on bikes!

“Just open all the doors – you’ll find it,” was the simple reply.

No hand-holding, no directing; power and responsibility are refreshingly balanced in the Casa. Even Robin (especially Robin), who does actually own the place, and pays the bills – he makes it a point to refrain from telling people what to do and what not to do. He just plants the seeds and watches people grow – towards the light. Always towards the light. Sure, he’s well-educated in social dynamics and sustainable development, but really he’s just an amazing guy who wanted to open his house to travelers, and enjoy the colorful patterns that emerge.

It’s the closest thing to anarchy I’ve ever experienced, and it was, in a word, inspiring.

It’s a haven in Amsterdam for hitchhikers and hobos and other long-term travelers, probably best described as a “nomad base,” or maybe a “radical experiment in sustainable hospitality exchange”…. People from all over the world are always coming and going, whether it’s for the regular Thursday night dinner, for a work-week on a hitchhiking magazine, to drop off clothes for the freeshop, or just to visit. People are free to stay, as long as they can interact and manage to arrange sleeping places with the other guests. Then, as soon as someone stays the night one time, they become a host! And it’s very important to give the hosts a hug, every day – the carebear currency. In this way, and through something Robin calls “sharism,” it actually works – every day I was surrounded by love and joy, and peace; people working together for the betterment of the world.

There’s a focus on sustainability in the Casa. People are encouraged to think about their everyday decisions, such as where you purchase bread from, or which methods you use to travel. Which industries are you supporting? The food is nearly 100% vegan, and most of the fruit and vegetables are dumpster-dived. There is a fleet of bicycles for everyone to use (I did my best to fix them up and keep them organized), and the computers all run Linux-based open-source software. And there’s a “no-borders,” global citizen sort of vibe in the Casa; yes, it is located in Holland, but that’s where the nationalism ends. If you ask the question “Where are you from?” you’re likely to get a very entertaining answer – maybe even in Esperanto. “You can take Holland out of the Casa, but you can’t take the Casa out of Holland.” Or can you…?

“Think of others before you think of yourself.” The network of people and ideas that the Casa is a part of (the center of?) is an impressive thing. Need a place to stay in Istanbul? We know people that know people. Need to know where to go to hitchhike from Norway to Portugal? Check the wiki-page they created(www.hitchwiki.org). And not just with hospitality or travel – it’s sharism on a huge scale. Once, one of the hosts posted a message saying the Casa needed a scanner – an expensive piece of technology – and within 24 hours, someone delivered a brand new scanner directly to the door for us to keep. I was in awe. And the really crazy part is that that kind of thing happens all the time!

I stayed at Casa Robino for longer than I had planned – it’s the perfect place for a travel-worn bike tourist. It’s Amsterdam, mythical city of bicycles, so I wanted to make it a big stop-over for my tour. But far, far beyond that – the best part – was that the Casa was the first place since I left Madison that really felt like home to me. I was actually able to host people, to say “Welcome,” and offer new people a cup of tea, without feeling like I was stepping on any toes. Robin and I became great friends over the couple months or so that I stayed – also quite a rare thing, whether you’re always on the move or not, really… I truly feel lucky.

I spent my time fixing things around the house and doing projects, permanently installing coathangers, hand-crafting a new book for Casa contacts; art, utility, and impromptu fun. I spent my time fixing bikes and exploring the city; getting lost turned out to be a great way to see the town. And of course there were parties and dancing as well. We bought fresh bread from the local Turkish and Moroccan shops every morning; there was a gorgeous Turkish prince of a cat named Pasha who chills on the check-out counter. Robin and I took a long bike ride to the sea, to send a message in a bottle to a friend whose boat sank in the Mediterranean. Robin and I took a long bike ride to his hometown, a beautiful quaint little village – I was treated to a tour of the countryside and some of mom’s cooking.
I provided a low-tech influence to the many labtop-centro people around me; after I posted a piece entitled “Why letters are better than email,” everyone assumed I was completely anti-technology(even though I did post it on the internet) and started calling me “the Caveman.” My huge beard helped too I guess, and I was staying in a room called “the Cave,” so I let the nickname live. I don’t hate technology, but I do think we need to keep it balanced in this day and age. Do you know how your computer works? I don’t, and it makes me a bit uncomfortable….
I met loads of interesting international travelers, including a guy who went around the entire world by hitchhiking, and also the only other person I’ve met face-to-face who has “hitched a boat” across the ocean. I learned some vegan tricks from Amylin, a vegan chef Thai masseuse artist dynamo who hitchiked from China. I learned to make banane flambé(a Carribbean recipe) from René, a very ticklish guy who uses Irish expressions in a French accent and rides his bike everywhere. Too many great folks to mention here, really, so I’ll just say that the sharing of inspirations was stupendous!

Thanks Casa!
www.casarobino.org