So, want to swing this by you, just because its been on my mind and the ol´man just sung a lyric ´we’ve all been burnt before, we all know how it hurts, but if you hide, you´ll never make it out alive…’ or something… anyway
qu´elle est ton trajet? Which direction do you plan on heading in from mastricht? Only that we are not so far away from eachother, and i was looking at the map and thinking i could do a little round trip ride from frankfurt to the border or nearby, if you were heading south. I think the sense and sensibility thing to do would be to leave our chapter closed… but i dont much feel like being sensible, so if you somehow want to figure into a plan that figures me into it too… make love under a blanket of stars for one last time and dream together a little more… let me know. If not, i more than understand… just putting it out there. The idea of seeing you without a beard! Goodness gracious!
In my mind, as in my reply, there was really no question. As soon as I read it my imagination exploded and my heart started reaching. Paul regarded the news with a wise knowing grin – he had been a “follow the girl” advocate from the beginning. Little did I know just how drastically the “plan” would change.

Suddenly I was rushing again! But this time it was to meet the woman I was in love with – which makes it all okay. Right? Well I can’t think of a better justification, and, as it would turn out, I was only rushing to slow down….

I tried to use a super-detailed xerox map to get to Germany, but in the Netherlands it really isn’t necessary to try and avoid heavy traffic; there are separated bike paths everywhere. After following some gravel farm roads and dirt hiking trails, a pleasant waste of my afternoon, I jumped on the direct roadside bike route to Aachen and the border. I met three girls who had decided on a lark to go camping on their bikes – the type of thing seen only in the Netherlands.

My body, after a week or more hanging about eating and drinking, did not agree with rushing. After one particuarly long hill (a sign I was close to leaving the Netherlands) I overheated and was forced to take a break. But while I was laying there waiting for the hydration to kick in and the stomach to calm down, I noticed a poetic-looking abandoned train track leading into the wilderness, which of course reminded me of Lily. Back on the bike, boy!

The hills had come back into my life with a vengeance. By the time I reached the Rainbow Gathering, I knew it would be a close call to reach Lily by Friday at 3 pm.

I missed the sign for the Gathering but a nice fellow named Twin at the parking lot asked me, “Are you looking for Rainbow?” I said yes, and he gave me a big hug with the words, “Welcome Home.”

Welcome home?!? How could you be so insensitive! Don’t you realize I already have a home, and Imiss my home, and I can’t even imagine anywhere replacing my home???

I admit this line of thinking was an over-reaction, but suddenly I realized this Rainbow thing might not be for me. At least not right now…. I mean, I was really just being a tourist, stopping for one night. I wanted to check it out, I’ve heard a lot about the Gatherings — my sister met her husband at a Rainbow Gathering. And I love hippie stuff like that, hugs for strangers and everyone is welcome. But I wasn’t prepared for a serious experience; my mind was elsewhere. I guess this tinctured my reaction a bit — when dude said “welcome home” to me, I actually felt a little insulted. Gee, I guess I really do love Wisconsin!

The Rainbow Gathering was about how I pictured it – a gorgeous river valley setting, one huge circle of hippies holding hands and singing about love, a misty tent village with lanterns glowing amidst the silhouettes of pine trees, a woodfire-heated bathtub on the river bank, nudists chopping firewood in the rain, a massive music jam in the teepee with offerings of India chai and Dutch joints, and one crazy old German Rainbow dude, naked except for his huge white beard and his bronze tan, jumping over the bonfire and yelling what I assume were jokes at the top of his lungs. Yep, this was hippie heaven, just respect the natural spring source and Hey we need people to help carry ash to the shit-pit! I could totally see my sister falling in love at a place like this.
When I arrived, the dinner circle had already started, so with a wistful glance at the deserted welcome tent (I had some questions about the whole deal), I awkwardly joined the party at a random spot. As they came around with the big pot of soup I noticed they were being very careful about sanitary feeding procedures – good to know. I ate as much as they would give me, ravenous, eagerly hungry, raising my hand “yes I want a mandarin” until the buddhist guy switched to English and told me the fruit was for the children only. But I’m a kinder too! Thankfully my hunger impressed the people around me and they handed me a couple oranges.
After dinner I went back to the welcome tent. It was still empty, just a smouldering fire, a teapot, and a couple cushions under the sagging tarp. I sat down to wait for someone to come – I really wanted a welcome. I felt lost; the first question I had was “Is this anarchy?”
But nobody came to enlighten me. In fact the only people that passed by were newcomers, and after the first group returned my smile with extra warmth I realized they thought I was the welcomer! So I did my best to answer questions and make people feel welcome – though I didn’t say “welcome home.” I even got to be the first to welcome three people arriving by bicycle! Their flute player was really interested in the long pocket on my drive-side Arkel pannier.
Eventually one of the naked woodchoppers came over to put his clothes back on, but by then I had come to my own conclusions. Yeah the email said to leave your electronic devices at home, but people use flashlights. I could put my tent wherever there was space. It’s a hippie gathering, no need to wait for someone to tell me the rules!
The next morning I got to be a part of the whole food-circle phenomenon in full new-age spirit. It took about an hour for everyone, about a hundred people all told, to gather in the big open lawn around the main fire pit. We held hands and chanted love and peace for what seemed like a little too long – I was starving again – but I suppose it was like, “the song continues until the time is right.” I can dig that. Only the little kids and the crazy old man were doing their own thing, making faces at each other. When the time was right we moved to stage two, chanting with our hands over our heads, as a kiss on the cheek was passed around the circle a couple of times. When this petered out everyone bowed to the ground for a long time, offering thanks and respect to mother earth and her humans. Then, finally, everyone sat down on the damp grass and the hippie cafeteria vibe took hold. Another twenty minutes and the meusli was brought around, by which time I had mentioned how hungry I was enough times for my neighbors to have given me personal stocks of apples and chocolate. Thank you beautiful people!!!

I wrote in my journal and met some nice people, but I had to leave that day, with just enough time to meet Lily. Robin hadn’t showed up – I don’t blame him, he’s been on an intuitive slow-travel when-the-time-is-right tip for a long time – so I left my happy birthday wishes on the message board by the entrance and saddled up.

Up. The Gathering was located at the bottom of a valley, which meant a serious climb UP to continue on my way. No big deal, really… it’s not as if that was the last hill on this little adventure. In fact the roads in that part of Western Germany are all steep and winding like mountain passes, only not as long and more numerous. I tucked in and hustled as best I could.
I’m pretty sure I passed some beautiful views, but the mist was so thick those two days I couldn’t see the other side of the valleys. Anyway it was okay; I wouldn’t have seen them anyway – my only thought, every pedal stroke, every hasty food break, was Lily. Head down, push – I’m going to see Lily. Lily, Lily, Lily, up every slow hill, around every sweeping Spring curve. I’m going to see Lily! What will it be like? What will we do? Will it be like it was before? Will there be another first kiss? It would’ve been a great opportunity to practice being “uncomfortable with uncertainty,” if I had been capable of thinking of anything more profound than “Goodness gracious!”

We had made plans to meet in Koblenz – a city somewhere in Germany, a city neither of us had ever visited, never heard anything about, just a city halfway between us. Of course there’s always a public library, though, and about two thirty in the afternoon I was cruising down the last hill towards the riverside city center.
There was some sort of public holiday happening, and everyone I asked for directions told me the library was closed. “That doesn’t matter, I’m just meeting… someone… there.”

I came upon a crowded city square and saw an old feller with an upside-down three-speed bike fixing a flat tire. I knew the library, and Lily, was close – within one more time asking for directions – and this guy might need my help. And I always ask my directions from cyclists if I can help it.
I communicated that I wanted to help him fix the tire, despite not sharing English or German. He seemed glad to have a young guy helping him, though perfectly capable himself. He talked to me while I worked; about what, I wasn’t really sure except for the Catholic holiday, but when it came to the Dunlap valve in his tube, I tried a little harder to communicate and learned some tricks for my future of fixing German flat tires. I did the patch-and-pump work, and he installed the repaired wheel while I tried to ask about the library. He told me where to go, and then, just before we parted, I must have said “muy bien” or something, because he started speaking in Spanish! Suddenly the door of communication was opened, like a magic switch throwing wide the connection between us. (Always try all your languages before resorting to cherades!) I explained the romantic situation that was about to come to the verge, and he corroborated his directions in a language I could understand and wished me luck.
Smiling with serendipity, I turned to push my bike through the crowd… and there she was.

The verge, pushing her bike towards me, just around the corner from the public library.

I didn’t have to look around to know that she was the most beautiful woman in that crowded Koblenz square. That day I just knew, from the first moment our eyes met. The whole city washed away around us, and all we did was… reunite. Suddenly I was deeper in love with her than ever before, and I knew: I was past the verge now, I was in Lily-land. Floating along sublimely justgrinning.

* * *

Three days and three glorious nights found us at a crossroads. On the bank of the Rhein, just before the river Main splits off and goes back to Frankfurt. It was just a simple lunch break on a shady park bench, facing the water flowing past.
But something big was happening: we didn’t want to say goodbye.
We came to talk about it so naturally, I couldn’t even tell you who “brought it up first.”
These are the facts:

Lily would cycle East to join the bike path that runs along the Danube River, and follow it all theway to Budapest(that’s in Hungary, 1000 kilometers away), either alone, or with me.
My mother would be coming to Budapest in a couple months — her plan was to fly to Madrid afterwards to see me.
I was in no hurry to get to Madrid, and
I was absolutely in love with her.

I’m afraid I flinched at the immensity of this idea. I couldn’t even mention it directly. My first answer was “I’m going to go to Madrid.” It had to be okay, but it wasn’t — with either of us. Lily cut her finger opening an avocado after I said it, and as I helped her patch it up, I realized I wasn’t being true to either of us. I wanted to go with her, plain and simple. What else really compares to that? I was nearly totally one hundred percent completely positively convinced that it was just fear preventing me from doing it, but I wasn’t quite sure either. I took a walk.

Let’s see… Danube to Budapest, it’s supposed to be flat the whole way. [go] Nice river views. Get to see more of Europe – what’s that, Austria and Hungary on the list of countries? Go with her. Maybe Italy on the way back? Doesn’t sound too bad. Mom’s gonna be [go] there, less travelling for her… hey, [go] she won’t have to take an extra Go With Her! airplane to see me, nice. Madrid can wait, I’m already too late [go] to attend the Criticona. Everything seems fine. Say Yes!But wait — this doesn’t feel like my tour, it feels like her tour. I mean, what are people going to think when I tell them I detoured my “solo” world tour just because a beautiful woman [go] wanted me to bike with her… across Europe… hey, wait a minute. That actually sounds really good. In fact, hey hold on — wouldn’t I be a complete fool, not to go? We could make it our tour…. go go go go go GO GO GOGOGOOOOO FOOOR IIIIIT

Lily was laying in a sunny patch of grass when I got back, watching the water flowing past.

After, all I remember is her smiling face, above me, silhouetted by the blue sky.

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

You breathe a deep sigh of contentment, and feel the muscles in your legs working, the wind in your hair… the quiet hum of the chain pushing you onward….
You cross over on the bike path, changing lanes where your view widens out considerably, and another bike path joins it, and several different paths all leave the car traffic behind. And as you smile and wave to a fella parking his bike by a pole, he smiles back, and greets you with “Fietsen! It’s the only way!”

* * *

I arrived on the morning of New Year’s Eve, bundled against the cold and ready to ride. I had a couple of plans, heaps of enthusiasm, and eight hours of daylight. At the terminal I queued politely behind a few cars, but was soon motioned around by the customs official. I thought he might want to see my passport, or at least ask me something, but he was busy checking in motorists, ignoring me. So I kept pushing on past, behind the office….
Walking by a couple of cig-smoking customs guys, I nodded, and their conversation(in Dutch) didn’t even stop. I passed through the gate as easy as a breeze.

And then,

I was in Holland.
IJmuiden, Noord-Holland, Nederlands.

It was 25 winter kilometers from IJmuiden(“aymowden”) to Amsterdam, through the thick mist and dusty snow. “They drive on the right side here!” I often had to remind myself that first day; and several times, nearby random pedestrians shouted something to me in Dutch, directing me off of the street(where I am accustomed to riding), and onto the bike path… which is everywhere!
I had a little map to the city center, and I didn’t even use it. There were bicycle signs at every corner, separate from the roadsigns, and of course people on bikes to ask for directions. I passed a cold couple of fellas on the way, one pedaling and the other sitting side-saddle on the rear cargo rack of his old Dutch bike, holding his mittens over his ears. Through his scarf, he said to keep cycling, keep cycling and I left him with an amused “Only in Holland!”

Downtown Amsterdam was bustling with trams and cars and bikes and tourists. The Station Centraal was teeming with travelers coming and going, waiting, or rushing to catch a train. I went there hoping to find a tourist info office and a free map of the city, but it was so hectic there, I was momentarily paralyzed, overwhelmed by all the sheer busy-ness. It’s Amsterdam, where the city posts “Beware of pickpockets” signs and hundreds of thousands of bikes are stolen each year; and not only that, but it’s the train station – generally the riskiest crowd to be in, no matter which city it’s in. There was no way I was going to leave my bike and gear alone, my first day in the city, among who knows how many bike thieves; even for a second, even to have a map. I’d just have to wing it.
So much for a map then; on to the next priority. I found the coffeeshop I was looking for, Homegrown Fantasies, and ducked in for a quick purchase before heading South to Leiden. It was a nice atmosphere in there, with a deliciously intoxicating aroma and a gregarious cashier behind the menu, rolling joints and shouting at tourists.
“It’s okay to roll tobacco in it,” and “Don’t leave, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to sell you drugs!”
I wanted to be impressed with the cannabis expertise in downtown Amsterdam, but when I asked him to recommend something that would chill me out, versus send me flying, his response was disappointing. He didn’t even really know which ones were Indica and which were Sativa. In the end I chose two grams(12 euros) of something called Euphoria, and I sat outside on the cold patio seating, next to my rig, and had my first smoke in Amsterdam. Not your average pre-rolled, walk-outside-in-a-haze Amsterdam coffeeshop tourist experience; it was more of a new take on an old hobby. Bike tour style – after finishing my doobie, I faced to the South, and with a deep breath, started riding. Down broad boulevards seething with big-city activity, through narrow criss-crossing alleyways, over canal bridges, and out of the city, using only my compass and those handy bikepath signs.
Fourty kilometers of car-free fietspad(bikepath) without a map, sailing past sunset in a foreign land… with the Homegrown attitude adjustment, it was one of the most entertaining rides I think I’ve ever done.

And then there was Capers! Capers with a song on her lips, Capers with that bounce in her step. It was as if Fate had decreed that we should meet with success, and had carefully watched over our every step and pedal stroke, guiding us inexorably together.
The air vibrated as we hugged; cats purred on plush cushions around the world and luscious fruits dropped ripe from their branches. The ink of a thousand poems in a hundred languages finally dried at that moment, their pages fluttering under the eager breath of cloud-chasing romantics and giggling children.
Like we were in a moonlit dream, we struck out into the night. With Josta, our gracious host in Leiden, we skipped down to the Turfmarkt in the center of town for the fireworks. We were like a couple of little kids, laughing and jumping about, celebrating everything. Imagine Capers on my shoulders as we play beside the canal, pyrotechnics blazing in the sky and reflecting in the water, the old windmill silhouetted against the fiery night. Sparkler-trail vision streaks in circles, thousand-string bangers unleash in deafening staccato. The smoke from a fresh spliff in the winter air, and a cold bottle of champagne to ring in the new year… it was pure magic.

The fairy tale continued as we explored the town and Dutch culture over the following days. Josta took us for drinks and authentic Dutch cuisine, and cooked the best “stampot”(they love to mash everything together over here) I’ve had this whole time, with language lessons and quirky side-notes sprinkled throughout. We meandered over the old cobblestones of Leiden, soaking in the history and the happiness. We visited the public library, we sat on the sidewalk and photographed people on bikes. We wandered and wondered, taking it free and easy.
Josta rented a bicycle for Capers, a classic Dutch single-speed coaster, and we took a trip back to Amsterdam. I couldn’t follow the route I took the first time, so we adventured onward with my compass, following perfectly flat bike paths toward the horizon along arrow-straight canals, detouring through quaint little villages, taking breaks, sharing fruits, and discovering life together.

In Amsterdam once again, this time I had a destination. Capers had set up a place for us to stay for a couple nights before we returned to Leiden(nice to let someone else worry about the accomodations for once!); a kind of dumpster-diving hitchhiker nomad base – more on Casa Robino later.

I asked if anyone had any recommendations down in the center of town, but all I got was “Get lost.” As in, ‘Getting lost is a great way to see the city.’ That fit snug with Capers and I, both being very try-it-and-see, faceful-of-optimism, adventure-around-every-corner livers of life; so off we went to see what all the hype was about.
It was a Saturday night, the perfect setting to witness Amsterdam’s world famous Red Light District. It was easy to find; it’s even shaded in and clearly marked on the free maps the police provide. We walked along that oh-so-famous strip full of neon sex shops and brothels, where scantily dressed, perfectly manicured prostitutes lay on their beds with their legs open and on display, or stare through the glass alluringly at the passersby. The aroma of marijuana could often be caught on the breeze from the coffeeshops and street corners, and lecherous drunks stumbled to and fro, wondering if they’ve got enough money left to get laid. On one particularly shady avenue, a small dark man dressed in black weaved through the crowd, subtly whispering “Coca?” to anyone that might be interested, and other rough-looking characters whistled from doorways and alley mouths to get your attention. I was of course targeted by the hoodlum type of drug dealers(I ignored them like a good tourist) but Capers, with her vibrant smile and her blonde dreadlocks, was approached by a bouncy dready hippie chic saying, “You’re not from here, are you? I was just wondering if you’d be interested in some LSD.” When Capers declined, she smiled and waved, and with a “No worries, have a nice day!” she disappeared. I guess Amsterdam has every kind….
It wasn’t long before we had had enough – the place is actually rather disturbing; even just window-shopping, we were rather disgusted by the sex industry(apparently most prostitutes are still working against their will) and certainly not interested in backdoor white powder. We split a paper cone full of fries and decided to call it a night.
We weren’t actually lost at first, but before long we realized we were a little underprepared to find our way back. We were 80% sure we had the street name and number right, but it’s a tiny street, and we hadn’t memorized any nearby landmarks. We didn’t have a cellphone, nor even the phone number. We had no map, no money, and no motor vehicles, just each other and a strong determination bred from principle – can’t give up just because the going gets a little rough. It was late, and the only people out were drunks; no one knew where Callenburgstraat was. And after an hour of wandering around trying to find something that triggered our memory, even the drunks were gone, and the streets were empty. Eventually Capers did flag a taxi, but only to ask for directions, and after another round-about detour, we stumbled upon a street corner we recognized. Hooray! We celebrated in relief with a big hug. Back inside, after a hot cup of tea, we slept with the sublime contentment of an adventure accomplished.

We returned to Leiden for the last few days of Capers’ stay. After meeting up with Josta, we took the rental back to the bike shop that’s attached to the train station. We’d be one less bike on the way back, so we rode Dutch-style, with me pedalling the rental and Capers sitting side-saddle on the rear rack – an experience I will never forget. It’s one thing to have a girl on the back of your bike(classic Dutch romance), but when Capers slid her arm around my waist to hold on, it felt so good I couldn’t stop the joy that bubbled up and burst forth in blissful laughter. What fun, cycling in Holland!
Josta’s kitty-cats finally got used to me the day before I left; silly scaredy cats – don’t they recognize one of their own? Then for our last night in town, we stayed with a guy named Niels who inspired me to build a bike-generator-powered battery charger from scratch. Still workin’ on that one….

And then I was walking with Capers for the last time, to the train station. We navigated the way effortlessly, with all the mystery and truth of the cosmos bouying our steps, and made it to the platform just in time. With a hug and a kiss and a toast to the future, we said fare-thee-well, and the marvelous fairy tale of Capers and Charlie in Holland came gently to an end.

And they lived happily ever after, surrounded by vibrant memories of inspiration, love, and joy.

Until we meet again….