Sailing for two months from the Caribbean to England, the temperature of the air and water decline ever so gradually, day by day, a natural change that is unnoticable except in hindsight.
Approaching the border of a different country, one can detect shifts of dialect in the simple words of neighbors, like a bleeding language buffer on either side of the invisible line – especially in Belgium, where both Dutch and French are official languages of the state.
Geography follows this gentle course as well. When we left behind those level Dutch horizons, where you can pick out all the villages within fifty kilometers by their church steeples, there were finally hills again! Just a few enjoyable rollers at first, enough to remind me that variety can be more fulfilling that an easy ride. I began to feel sorry for Dutch roadies – they don’t have any hills to train on! I was reminded of Ranulf back at Budget Bikes, taking his lunch break to ride his single-speed on the wickedest hill in the hood. The best you could hope for in the Netherlands is a big bridge.
Lily did well – I only mention it because she was riding a single-speed bicycle…! Even in this tall beach-cruising gear, even loaded down – and with nowhere near the cycling prowess of Papa Ranulf – she was a champion on the hills. I actually felt a bit guilty whenever I shifted to an easier gear, and eventually I started matching her ratio over the hills, just to make sure I could do it. Good perspective!

Antwerp was first… we only passed through. Just a big gray port city, just an hour and a half of urban navigation, just a check on some list somewhere. Sorry Antwerp.

Brussels, capitol of Belgium and executive center of the European Union – now this was a city we had to check out. Lily had been there before, but on a bike now, the city easily mapped itself around us in organic, natural fashion. I imagine the underground metro teleporting my confused subconscious onto a spinning compass-bearing, leaving me upside-down somewhere on a Google printout… bikes are way better!

We had a connection in town, and found our way to the meeting spot just before sunset. Dante, who we met at Casa Robino, is a multi-lingual hyper-network sweetie with a cute Belgian goatee who has been living for five years without an income. Not just without a job, but without an income… don’t ask me how he does it!
The first thing we did was eat French fries, which are of course originally a Belgian cuisine – if you can call greasy fried potatoes cuisine. I was giddy and joking with everyone in line at the little mobile fry-shack, which was a permanent landmark on the glitzy metropolitan corner, between the big be-statued plaza and the perfectly manicured park, right on a main thoroughfare. Belgian fries aren’t just for tourists – the queue was huge! Brazil sauce and mayonnaise was great, sauce Americaine was disgusting. The frites themselves were good – really good, after cycling all day – but I can’t say they were the best I’ve ever had. Only the most famous. We ate them on a bench, out of white paper trays with little multi-colored plastic shrimp forks, watching all the prim Belgians walk by and wrapping our tongues around the French language. Night fell over the park and friends popped by.
The next thing we did was find Belgian beer. The Belgians make some of the best beer in the world, and this was really a major accomplishment for me. We went to a bar that had hundreds of different beers; for my first beer in the country, I had a simple Duvel, the standard high-gravity blue-collar beer of Belgium(which compared to Pabst was like paté to popcorn). Lily had a kriek, cherry beer of some brand or another, a thick, fizzy, swirling-sweet alcoholic delicacy. Yumm!
Dante set us up to stay with some friends for a few days. Lily was confident she could find the place in the dark – I burped contentedly and uttered a wobbly “Allons-y.” We took our beer buzz and explored the night, up narrow streets crowded with cobblestones and compact cars, down broad boulevards banked by dizzying flood-lit buildings, surrounded by a city of ancient centuries masked in modern drag.

On to “La Maison à Dormir Debout” – “The House of Sleeping Standing Up.” We had fallen in with a small group of crafty folks that call themselves NOUR – NOmades URbaines. Henri and Alex were our gracious hosts; for their honeymoon they had walked around Europe for four months, relying on the hospitality of strangers almost every night for a dry place to sleep, AND they love to ride bikes, so they were happy to help us out with a bit of floor space. Merci mes amis!

Our first day in Bruxelles, we gathered at La Maison and headed into the city by bike.

Vinz, a rugged bike-traveler with a special pocket on his rucksack for a dijiridoo and a Rohloff 14-speed touring hub in his bike, zoomed down the hill in front of the European Union HQ building, middle finger in the air and shouting “EU Commission SUX!!!” They took us to an abandoned plaza surrounded by abandoned twenty-story office buildings, where weeds push up through cracks and old broken glass, and the towering degradation of the metropolis is inescapable. The view here of Bruxelles’ cramped city center is a jutting, variegated warren of charming stone chimneys, telephone wires, and TV antennae, rooftops and balconies like the sons of seeds scattered by a frivilous hand, no uniformity, architecture in every angle under the sun. And it isn’t only the thousands of offices in the massive corporate blocks that are in disuse, but also over 11.000 residences all across town – while squatting is against the law. But they tell me that trying to find a flat in Bruxelles is still a superhuman endeavor, not to mention insanely expensive….

After a small headset adjustment, we stopped at “La Maison du Vélo,” a touring-specific bike shop downtown. It was a wonderland of tough trekking bikes and sleeping bags, maps and tents and camping gear, with that satisfying rubber-and-grease aroma of a true workshop. When they saw me, the guys in the shop were like, “He tours with platform pedals and army boots?!? Quiet, here he comes!” The owner, Yves, couldn’t warranty my Brooks saddle, but he did hook me up with a couple metric bolts and some fresh Koolstops. Merci!

We went to a sprawling outdoor flea market, where crowds of people eddy and drift, browsing collections of pre-owned and re-used, knick-knacks and piles of random relics for sale. It’s the type of place where you might discover the perfect coffeetable for your apartment if you look long enough, a place where you can find postcard notes in 1940s Belgian cursive, a recurve bow on discount, strung backwards, a sterling gravy boat, neon bike accessories from the eighties…. I found it much more interesting to raise my eyes from the glittering treasure hoards on the ground and browse the people instead. Here’s a proud old ex-diva with a fresh red dye-job and stylish black sunglasses obscuring her crows’ feet; there’s a dad who hasn’t shaved since Friday morning with his daughter on his shoulders, her arms wrapped around his forehead; the comsopolitan fashion addict sluicing Belgian French into her cellphone and noncomittally glancing at all the junk; Moroccan friends lounging over an easy-afternoon conversation; a dark, well-trimmed Belgian goatee under a delicate Belgian visage….

We biked on to a different market, this time to free some food. We knew dumpster diving was illegal in Belgium – a Dutch activist friend of Lily’s was actually in jail for doing it in Brugge – but this we considered a perfect reason for civil disobedience. Henri and Vinz were a little freaked out at first, and not because of the cops. Once, Lily picked up a peach from the ground near a fruit stand – still good, it had only been “bounced” – and Vinz, confused, asked “Now what are you going to do with that peach?” We exchanged a quick smile and Lily replied, around a mouthful of peach juice, “Mais, le manger!” and handed me a bite. Henri also admitted that the idea was a bit disgusting to him, but he found enough vegetables and fruit to fill a bag all by himself, and he certainly ate plenty of the plum confiture I made later. At one point, our hands full of great trash food, Lily and I were approached by a security guard: “Pardon, madame et monsieur…” We quickly walked away with our booty, no worries, while he was saying something to the vendor, but I think he wanted to give us a ticket.

We went to a little side-street dinner party at another urban nomad’s place; there were two kung-fu naturopath couchsurfers from Germany and a cat that reminded me of Horatio – minus the collar. I picked up some tips on knife sharpening from Regis, observed some delicious culinary tricks in the kitchen, and diligently continued the French practice. Then we hit the streets to see Damien’s band play at the University, a happy gang of bike lovers in action. Regis was relatively new to cycling, but had that refreshing beginner’s enthusiasm. He took ten minutes gearing up in a full-on orange cycling-safety suit and had a bike so full of safety accessories he was like a flashing red-and-white reflective satellite, shouting “One hundred fifty euro fine for running a stop sign!!!” while everyone else cruised through the reds. “ONE HUNDRED FIFTY EUROS!!!” He’s funny.

We got directions from a dude on campus smoking a joint – apparently the students have free run to do what they want, illegal or no. The gig was already under way when we arrived, but Damien saw me in the back and called me up to the front. I took Lily’s hand and we snuck through the press of bodies to the floor right in front. We took off our shoes and started jammin’! It was a very special show; all acoustic instruments in an impressive variety; there was the quirky cute chic singing with guitar, tamborine, and mouth-harp; the sexy young drummer with a very slick goatee and a jazzy hat; the pregnant woman with bouncing curls, dancing and singing; a blonde stunner from Paris, sitting up straight and playing violin-fiddle-violin; and their wind-man, popping out behind us in the crowd with a dijiridoo, or soloing on the panpipes, or busting out his saxophone. All while waves of poetry washed over us: Damien, singing his heart out, eyes closed, wispy black hair in an oriental bun, soul just pulsing. Beautiful. He sang in English – he really respected the best of American music, as sort of a goal, apparently. So of course after the show, he was looking at me eagerly, as if I have some special secret in my ears. Man, sometimes I really feel weird, coming from the entertainment capitol of the world….

One day, in exchange for putting us up during our time in Bruxelles, Henri asked me to teach him how to make his bike last for the rest of his life. Quite an ask! We went out on the porch and began exchanging bicycle vocabulary. I did my succinct best, speaking on frame-saver and metal composition and enamel, praising the value of knowing one’s bike, and recommending frequent service. It was a bright French bike-rant soup with a single grain of salt – “If you really ride it, your bike just won’t last forever.”

I hadn’t used my own rear brake since arriving in the Netherlands on New Year’s Eve – it had been sticking and I just didn’t need it in flat, flat Holland, so I spent two months with it disconnected. Winter had taken its toll though, and one of the brake arms was rusted solid. Thankfully Henri had a bench vise in his basement – whoo hoo! I don’t often have a chance to work with the proper tools; most of the time I am improvising on the road. God I miss the bike shop…. I freed the brake arm and was tuning the rest when Vinz dropped by with an assortment of Belgian beer and helped out. Normally I wouldn’t let anyone work on my bike, but Vinz the Cyclo is a true nomad(and an experienced mechanic) living the freedom of bikes in a way I don’t often have the pleasure of sharing. I drank Chimay Bleu and wiped road gunk off my drive train while he drank Orval trappiste and overhauled my front brake. A proper session of beer and bikes, buzzed and covered in grease – thanks Vinz!

Lily and I lived and played for five days in Bruxelles, reveling, gathering inspiration, and making friends. We never did try any Brussels sprouts in Brussels, and we never found anyone who actually knows the name “Hercule Poirot”(Agatha Christie’s famous BELGIAN detective), but eventually we had to keep moving. Paris or Bust!

We left on a gorgeous March morning, and it was finally starting to feel like Spring! We celebrated the weather with t-shirts, and on our way out of town, we celebrated Bruxelles one last time, eating gourmet chocolate from Van Something, sitting on the sunny side of the street, feeding each other and moaning in pleasure. Whoo! Good stuff!

à é è

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?

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

SCOTLAND
The approach into Cairnryan brought on a familiar giddiness; another new land, full of new experiences, and inherently adventurous. The solid weight of my rig was eager to roll – zoom! – down the ferry ramp into Scotland! It was only nine a.m., since I made the seven o’clock voyage, and it wasn’t even raining on this side of the Irish Sea! I was laughin’!

CYCLING IN A CLOUD
I found my way onto a nice back road, and the elevation started to rise. Some downhills, but mostly ascent, up and up until I was in the blustery heights with the wind turbines. It wasn’t the Highlands, of course, but it sure felt like it. Crossing the Galloway and Border Hills, I climbed till dusk to reach the highest point, right up into the clouds. The sky actually touched the earth there, and the mists gently lay themselves directly upon the pastures, swirling thick; muting sounds and obscuring nearly everything. Every once in a while, cycling in a cloud, I experienced a strange phenomenon: I ran into a massive glob of precipitation, like a hanging shot glass was carefully emptied onto my cheek, my knee, or my head. It’s quite surreal – I had to make sure I wasn’t actually dreaming. I’ve often wondered what causes this(I experienced the same mystery on Faial’s clouded peaks, in the Acores), and I believe they’re progentior raindrops, the freshly condensed, that haven’t been slivered by the wind of falling. Whatever they are, what I learned was this: even if it isn’t raining, Scotland can still soak you.

CAMPING IN THE COLD
Camping up there wasn’t too bad; plenty of thick moss and dry wood, and wooded areas that were frequently enough flat and with decent access. I suppose I should say it wouldn’t be too bad, in summer… because it was freezing. Bone-chilling, sub-zero fridge-toes cold. Cycling is no problem – the most comfortable time of the day; if I stay moving, I stay warm(mostly). Cooking, reading, and writing are tolerable, within the globe of warmth from a campfire. But it’s bedtime out there that I dread. Even with all my layers, even with a bottle of boiling-hot(at least for half the night) water between my feet, even with my crinkly emergency foil blanket wrapped around me inside the sleeping bag, even with my long johns, my hat, my gloves… it’s hard to rest peacefully. And if I have to answer the call of nature in the dead of night, after the fire has died out and the moon has abandoned the sky, and step outside into the frigid winter breeze…. There’s an ominous, malicious weight out there in the darkness that seems to whisper, “Freeze to death… freeze to death…” as if it’s hungry, and it can’t eat you unless it turns you into an icicle first.

THE BILSTON PROTEST SITE
Outside of Edinburgh, just off the A701, there’s a group of activists camped in the valley, protesting the projected “A701 Re-Alignment,” which would redirect the already nice and straight road through the wooded Bilston valley. They’re successfully squatting in the way of progress, down there six years now, constructing as many domiciles up in the boughs of the trees as they can(a treehouse valley!), trash-picking all their food from local dumpsters, and living the simple, electricity-free life of the woods. Basically they’re trying to make it so expensive for the government to evict them that the road work becomes fiscally inviable. But the UK actually has a national eviction team, complete with brutal security guards and specialist climbers, so they’ve got their work cut out for them if they want to save the trees.
I wound my way down the muddy slopes and found the communal outdoor kitchen-campfire and introduced myself. I was expecting hard-to-understand Scottish accents, but the only guy there at first only spoke Spanish, so I was introduced and showed around the place without English – no problema! I chopped some wood, had some tea, and helped bring the latest scavenged food supplies down the muddy banks to the pantry-shack. There was another Spaniard with no pants on, a British girl that ignorantly compared me to Colin Powell when she learned I was from the States, a kid that had moved down to the site as soon as he was legally allowed, on his 16th birthday(his girlfriend climbed trees better than he did), a couple of rough-around-the-edges old Scots with a blind-n-deaf doggie, who was falling in the river and forgetting his tail in the fire, and a bunch of other crusty, low-tech Scottish hippie punks.
That night they put me in “the teepee,” which was disappointing to hear(I really wanted to sleep in a tree) until I realized the teepee was actually in a tree like all the other dwellings, on a platform and erected around the trunk. I love treehouses!

EDINBURGH
In the morning I had a delicious dumpster-dived breakfast of tea and dark rum, bread with organic Scottish cheese, and organic yogurt. I hefted my rig out of the muddy valley and out to the road, and I was on my way into Edinburgh.
I got a funny feeling, coming into the city. A feeling of familiarity. Funny enough, it was a parking lot that reminded me of home; it looked like the East Towne Target. Soon I was thinking, “I could see myself living in that flat,” or “I could be a student here; it’s just like the University of Wisconsin.”
Then I crested a hill, and saw a mountain, and the familiarity fled, replaced by medeival architecture and exotic earth-shapes that we just don’t have back home. The original Dùn Èideann, in all its gothic majesty. A dark tower spikes into the colorless sky – the Scott monument, dwarfing the glittering ferris wheel below. Calton Hill, and the towering cliffs of Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park, frame a bit of the bay: the Firth of Forth, leading to the North Sea. And across the center, Edinburgh Castle commands the skyline from a summit all its own.
I was stunned; with every turn I was brought deeper into a travelers’ high by the style of Edinburgh. I explored the city on my bike with a giddy grin and an enthusiastic greeting for every passerby. The place was all decked out for Christmas, happy thick Scottish accents in holiday-mode.
I met Shannon, my host in Edinburgh, who’s also from Wisconsin, and we shared the experience of celebrating the season in Scotland, both of us far from the comforts of home and family. We were invited to a traditional Scottish Christmas dinner, and though it was cooked by a New Zealander, there were locals there later(they had ordered Chinese take-away). Before dinner, on each placemat was a cardboard tube called a cracker, that pops when you and your neighbor pull it apart like a wishbone. Inside for the winner, there’s a paper crown(a very common sight out in the city that day), a useless bauble of some kind, and a terrible joke. The meal was a proper spread, and delicious all around… except for the haggis. That famous grain-and-pork thing they eat in Scotland – and this one was apparently from a very reputable butcher. It’s similair to blood pudding – an acquired taste – except bigger and more bloated. Yuck; but at least I tried it!

ON TO THE CONTINENT
Soon it was time to push on, to catch the Amsterdam ferry from Newcastle for New Year’s Eve. Normally I wouldn’t bother myself with an itinerary; I prefer to reserve the ability to go slow if I want to, to explore out of my way, to go where the wind blows me, and to stop for a while if the omens are good. But I already had a ticket on the King of Scandinavia, courtesy of the Royal Yachting Association of Northern Ireland. Those wonderful folks in Belfast couldn’t help me with a sailing passage to Scotland(right before Christmas isn’t exactly sailing season), so instead they sponsored me for the ferry rides. Thanks Lisa!
My first morning out, I visited the Roslyn Glen country park and Roslyn Chapel; the chapel was toursity and expensive, and no photos allowed, but the park along the river, running through the frozen valley, was gorgeous.
I passed a lot of folks riding horses on the back roads; I always love to see alternative transportation. A woman at a random house in a tiny village graciously refilled my water bottles – a credit to her country. I took short breaks out in the cold, eager to be working up some body heat on the bike, and actually hoping for uphills, to keep up my core temperature. I crossed the border into England at the top of another nice warm-making mountain, then descended into Northumberland, into the winter air with windchilled hands, frozen tears, and icy eyeballs.

After three final days exploring Britain, and three more beautiful but dangerously cold campsites, I arrived in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, and with time to spare.

NEWCASTLE
I ignored the glitzy city center shopping district, being reluctant to leave my bike alone at all, even to secure my accomodations in the Netherlands. I started meandering my way toward the international terminal, thinking I might find a library or something. In a seedy dockside district, with boarded-up buildings and a crazy shopping-cart lady, I found a pub instead, called The County, and decided to pull over and sample a pint of the local brown ale.
It was three in the afternoon, but I was delighted to find the place busy with local fellas getting drunk; the perfect venue to pass some time. The accents were somewhere between Scottish and English, and just as hard to understand as any new dialect. It’s always an adventure when you’re not quite sure what all those laughing mouths are saying. And besides, I don’t mind asking “What did you just say, sorry?” As much as it pains me to admit, I am, after all, a tourist… a poor, grubby, lunatic tourist, that goes into places that never see anyone from outside the borough.
They compelled me to bring my rig right inside the pub, for security, and then the beer was flowing. I finished one huge bottle with a thirsty gusto – Newcastle from Newcastle really does taste better, somehow. The next one I drank on a discount – all my remaining British coins. And before I was half-finished with the second, and definitely feeling the first, Tony behind the bar, in his Chicago t-shirt, hands me a third. I stayed an hour or so, amidst raucous laughter and rough verbal abuse; it’s the type of place where everybody sees everybody every day. I polished off the third bottle and had to be on my way before dark. Tony gave me a token for the road, a lapel pin, and I left my new friends with hearty thanks.

FINDING THE FERRY
That objective(“sampling” Newcastle beer) now complete, it still remained to make it to the ferry terminal eight miles away. (I decided to figure out Amsterdam when I got to Amsterdam, and concentrate on finding the Royal Quays.) A bit woozy now, and with the sun dropping below the skyline, I made my way East along the docks at Willington Quay. I connected with a very convenient bike path, which took me nice n’ easy most of the way into North Shields.
Then, through some inaccurate directions and a decidedly relaxed frame of mind, I was led to cross over to the South side of the river. The signs on the bike path were clear enough, and eventually they deposited me, pleasantly away from traffic, at the lift down to the tunnel. The deserted path ran around the pedestrian escalators, and abruptly ended in a dirty back corner, where a grafittied, slightly dilapidated brick shack surrounds the bicycle elevator. Next to the crooked, dented silver door, a dubious red light blinked “Lift Operational.” With a glance over my shoulder, I pressed the button.
The lift took ages to arrive, and groaned disconcertingly as it drew up to street level. Inside, it was just big enough for my loaded bike, with faded signage and old electronics in the panel. It descended with only a few startling shudders, and after an extended ride, opened into one of the creepiest tunnels I’ve ever had the excitement to traverse…. The floor was grey concrete, stained and cracked; the walls were of dirty tiles in sickly aqua-blue; and the cieling was whitewashed and lined with a track of eerily flickering fluorescent lights. It was completely empty, and there was a morbid sense of desolation down there; I could just feel how devoid of life it was. Except there were still noises – I swear I heard a puppy cry out in pain, from the darkness at the far end of the tunnel; and the rickety escalators rattled at intervals like the taut chains of a frustrated ghost. It was impossible to forget the river Tyne above, the crushing weight of its tons of water rushing to the sea, just a few yards over my head. I hustled through to the lift on the other side with a tickle of fear in my spine and an exhilerated grin on my face. Thankfully there were no British muggers or drug addicts hanging around the shady lift shack on the other side, but I soon realized I should actually not have crossed the river at all. Ah, so much for decision-making when you’re drunk!

After sobering up a bit, and some slightly more accurate directions, eventually I made the ferry terminal. I was directed into line with the cars, but when I pulled up in queue to wait, a customs official came out to greet me(by name!) and skipped me to the front. “I know you must be freezing.” There were no questions about why I don’t have a UK stamp in my passport; only questions about cycle-touring in the winter; how many miles do I cycle every day, where have I been, where am I going. He was cool and let me past with a “Good luck!”
And I was onboard. A worker on the semi-truck deck tossed me a strap to tie my bike to the bulkhead. I gathered a few items for the voyage, and secured the rig. Upstairs I had a little cabin to myself, and after depositing my things, I went to the observation deck to say another goodbye.

After six months of Great Britain and Ireland, I was finally taking the next step – venturing, by bicycle, not just into foreign countries, but also, now, into countries where English is not the primary language. Until Australia, then – goodbye, mother tongue.
After fifteen months of this bike tour, after a quarter of the world behind me, after many challenges, each bigger than the last; after seeing deeper inside myself than I ever had before, I could still feel my determination holding strong, my resolute passion just starting to heat up. I’m going places on this bike!
And, after a fifteen hour, overnight journey, it would be New Year’s Eve, and I’d finally be in on the Continent. The Netherlands, land of my anscestors, land of tulips and windmills; and O Amsterdam! The fabled city of bohemian freedoms and lusty vices. City of canals and bikes; city of my dreams.

TO BE CONTINUED….