Train Rider

Welcome to my travel blog.

The following entires were written during the three months I spent backpacking solo across Europe. I visited London, Manchester, Birmingham, Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, Berlin, Amsterdam, Prague, Vienna, Venice, Florence, Rome, Cinque Terre, Naples, Sorrento, Nice, Monaco, Hamburg, and Frankfurt. I stayed in youth hostels and crashed on the couches of friends I made along the way. Clutching my Eurailpass, I took trains from country to country and spent the majority of my days on foot, exploring cities with nothing more than a free map and a couple of travel guides.

My life changed over the course of my three months abroad. I started my trip full of anxiety and fear. I'd never left America before. Never been on a train. Never had to speak a foreign language. Never been alone for three months. It was overwhelming, to say the least. But over time, I grew to love the freedom that comes with traveling. I fell in love with the people, the land, and the culture. I felt like life had been holding out on me; a veil had been lifted and the entire world came into focus, if only for a brief moment.

To read my story from the beginning, click on March 2006 in the Archives and start reading from the bottom of the page. Feel free to leave a comment if anything I've written strikes a chord. I must warn you that some entries contain unnecessary cursing, cheesy romance and crybaby self-pitying. But without all of that it wouldn't have been nearly as fun.

Pleasant insomnia

Sometimes, late at night when the house is quiet and I can’t sleep, memories of Europe float into my mind. I close my eyes and relax, allowing myself to be carried away by sounds, visions and feelings. Even though it’s 3:00 a.m. and I need to get some rest, I stay awake remembering, because I know that these memories won’t stay fresh forever and I want to make them last. So I live them out in my sleepy mind over and over again, like scenes from a drive-in movie theater playing on the back of my eyelids.


I remember sitting next to Carol, my Brazilian friend, on a ledge bordering a canal that spilled out into the Mediterranean Sea. We were on an island named Burano, just outside of Venice, known for its vibrant, colorful houses. The sun soothed our arms like a warm washcloth as a cool breeze picked up our hair and tangled it in our faces. My iPod lay on the ledge between us with one bud in my right ear and the other in her left. We listened to Sea Jorge, the only Portuguese music I own, as Carol smiled and hummed along. “Yes, more please,” she said as each song came to a close. The island was busy, bustling with tourists and locals, but we’d found an empty part off by the sea, and watched while two men unloaded boats and smoked cigarettes that they flicked into the swirling green water.


I remember climbing up hundreds of steep, stone stairs in La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. I was all by myself that day as I made my way to the top of the tightly coiled staircase. Dark and bumpy grey like dinosaur skin, the walls surrounded me on all sides. I stared at the graffiti that had accumulated over the years. There were windows every ten steps or so that lit the way as I huffed and puffed and they made the writing on the stone look like one long, sprawling, Sharpie mural. Stopping for a break, I paused to read a bit of the doodles that were undoubtedly the work of travelers like myself, and my eye caught a little illuminated section. Next to garish block letters proclaiming “Pedro was here” and crude drawings of arrow-studded hearts and custom signature tags were four simple, carefully printed words: “I love your skin.”


I remember walking gingerly down uneven stone steps to a pebble beach along the side of a mountain in Cinque Terre. It was 1:00 a.m. and I had to use the light from my cell phone to guide my way. There were no handrails and the path was only a few feet wide so any loss of balance would’ve resulted in a bloody mess on the rocks down below. We arrived at the beach and sat down, picking up smooth pebbles and rubbing them between our fingers before throwing them in the crashing waves, wondering if they skipped along the dark surface of the Mediterranean. Off in the distance a searchlight bounced across the rumpled water. I leaned back on my elbows and stared at the speckled black sky, soothed by the constant rush and hiss of the sea. The air felt cool and clean in my lungs and I ruined it by smoking a cigarette that I’d rolled for myself back at the bar. Suddenly someone spoke: “Hey you guys, look!” We turned around and gazed up at the mountain. Hundreds of fireflies twinkled in the trees, swirling around, glittering like shattered minerals. They flew in frantic circles and mazes, tiny white jumping beans bouncing in the air. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen and I haven’t been able to write about it until now, two months later in my bed in Minnesota.

Double-sided Euro coin

I’m finally starting to experience Europe withdrawal.

It’s been five days of non-stop partying with my Minneapolis friends: loud concerts, late-night parties, meandering car rides, shopping all day, dining out too much, reuniting with everyone I’ve ever known, liked and missed. I haven’t had a spare moment to sit down and really realize what’s happening and to be honest, I haven’t really wanted to.

But then this evening as I lazed around in my pajamas and flipped on my iTunes in an attempt to stifle the silence that filled the house, I got an email from Philipp just as one of the songs that I’d listened to on so many cross-country train rides came on and suddenly my throat tightened up and my eyes crinkled and I started doing that weird thing where you’re laughing and crying all at the same time.

I miss my friends. I miss that feeling that I used to get on the way to visit Junior or Philipp. I miss the flutters deep down in the pit of my stomach as the train rumbled underneath my feet and Europe whirled by outside the window. Excitement, exhilaration, elation. I don’t know how to recreate that here.

I read his email over and over again and I want to go back. What am I doing here? Why am I here?

Junior called from Madrid yesterday. It was really nice to hear his voice. My Spanish has already gotten rusty. I keep going back and forth in my mind as to whether or not I should visit him in Brazil this winter. My friends don’t trust him and think that he’s going to lock me in a box covered in cryptic Portuguese words and sell me to the Sao Paolo mafia. I think that the worst that’ll happen is he’ll try to marry me. Either way, I’ve got a little bit of time left to decide and if there’s one thing I learned in Europe, it’s that time will answer every question. Not sure why or how I learned that, but I did.

This afternoon I spent a half an hour showing my 92-year-old grandma how to use the Internet. We refreshed Google News over and over and she was amazed at how quickly the stories updated. She pointed out a headline that read: Earth's Eye in the Sky Goes Out and said, “What does that mean?” so I clicked on it and a new page opened up, taking us to the full story. She looked at me and laughed, “I asked and it gave me an answer!” I showed her my Flickr photos and she asked me to explain how I get the photos from my camera onto the computer. I showed her the cord and the camera and where I put each plug. She recognized the picture of my friend Sarah and laughed at the picture of Jennifer choking on spicy food. Then I took her to a celebrity blog and showed her some pictures of movie stars and she said, “What’s the benefit of looking at this?” I paused for a second and said, “Well, I suppose for entertainment.”

I have no reason for writing that last paragraph other than wanting to remember it. But memory preservation seems to be all I’ve really done these past three months anyway, so why not write about Grandma.

It’s been an emotional day.

Back home

Have you ever flown halfway across the world and decided to go out partying afterward? Here are some things that you can expect to occur:

1. Your friends' faces will start to look like smeary blurs.
2. You'll sit at the table and smile at a coaster because it's the only thing that isn't moving.
3. You'll try to talk but your tongue feels like a snail and the only thing your brain can come up with is "Uhhhhuhuhhhh."
4. You'll drive home and swerve your car to avoid hitting imaginary people who appear to be playing in the middle of the street at 1:00 a.m. Fortunately the street is empty and you've driven it so many times that being half-asleep doesn't have too great an effect on your navigation skills.
5. You'll stand in the entrance to your house for several minutes wondering why you're there and who you are and what happened and if you're really awake right now.
6. You'll spend the next ten minutes doing a thorough spider check in your room, killing two daddy-long-legs and being attacked by one, but it's okay because you're too tired to be scared.

Aside from all that, I had a great evening. About a dozen of my favorite people showed up at Grumpy's and it felt wonderful to hug them all again. I got kicked out of the bar within five minutes because I lost my driver's license and didn't bring my passport along and apparently I look like I'm twelve, but I'm happy to be in Minneapolis again, home of the aggressive i.d. checker.

Now I'm lazing around in bed, eating Pringles and enjoying the free Internet. Everything is the same here, just as I'd expected. My room is still cluttered and my clothes are still disappointing and stained but at least I have a room of my own and I'm not rotating the same three outfits anymore. My TV won't turn on and there are way too many spiders occupying the corners, but at least they're not centipedes and I'm used to not watching TV everyday anyway. I'm looking forward to seeing the rest of my friends and eagerly await phone calls from you, the person who is reading this right now. Except if you're a creepy guy from Georgia who's sitting in Superman underwear in his mom's basement and came across this blog entry while doing a google search for the word "Uhhhhuhuhhhh." I don't really want to talk to you. But the rest of you, feel free to give me a call. I'll answer the phone in my best British accent.

Four hours left

I miss everyone. I miss the people back home and the new friends I’ve made in Europe. My mind is in a constant battle between wishing I was in Illinois with my sister and wishing I was in Madrid with Junior. Minnesota with my mom. Frankfurt with Philipp. Everywhere with everyone, all the time, missing. I want to gather them up and wrap my arms around their necks, mashing our cheeks together, squeezing our waists belly-to-belly, ribs clattering like xylophones.

I’m responsible for remembering all this. I came out here alone and experienced these three months with a camera and my brain as the only way to make it last. The people … they were incredible. Maybe it’s because I’m a solo woman traveler or because I tried to smile a lot at all the strange faces, but everyone was so nice to me. They offered up their beds and bought me dinner and gave me directions. I did nothing to deserve any of it. I’m just a 24-year-old ignorant American girl who quit her job and packed a bag full of clothes, ready to see the world. When I stepped off that plane and bought my first train ride into the city, I had no idea what was about to happen. Who can predict the amount of growth that will occur when you’ve got nothing to lose but everything to gain?

Arash, the hostel worker in Rome, he wrote in my journal as we sat in a crowded, smoky bar:

This is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends. Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life!

Despite all the hash that he smokes, Arash is a wise man. He sees oodles of backpackers every single day and knows exactly what’s going through all of their minds: “Am I really doing this? How can this be my life?”

It helps that I stayed for three months. One month wouldn’t have been enough and six might’ve felt too long. I’ll never forget the feeling I felt only ninety days ago as I laid on my bed in a London hostel, crying as I clutched my cell phone and called my dad. “Hey Dad,” I warbled, hoping my voice wouldn’t break and cause my fears to spill out into the airwaves. “I don’t know what to do right now.”

The fear lasted about three weeks, which was a bit longer than I’d been warned it might take to get into the “travel mode.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t know what I was doing. How does one go about filling an entire day in a foreign country? How do you make friends? What should I eat? How do I get around? Everything was confusing, terrifying, and overwhelming. I’d never felt so alone. My cell phone lay quiet in my purse with no one to come to my rescue and every face I saw was new, strange and scary.

But then one day something changed. It started to become fun. It started to feel like a fantastic, dizzying adventure in which I was the star of my own personal documentary with my iPod as the soundtrack and my journal as the screenplay. I discovered that everyone at the hostels shared my fears and wanted friends just as much as I did. They fretted over train schedules and read tourist books like bibles and laughed at mediocre jokes just because it felt good to be silly. They too wanted a partner for the day and someone to hang with at the bar, but most of all they just wanted someone to talk to. Someone to tell about the job they hope to get in Italy or the boyfriend they’re missing back home. A person who would listen to their worries and plans, ideas and theories.

I stopped missing home and started missing countries. I planned my trip like a kid in a candy store, with spontaneity and novelty my favorite flavors. It became exciting to hop on a train and switch languages and cultures in a matter of hours. I got bored if I stayed in one place too long and developed a routine for taking care of mundane details like washing clothes and making train reservations.

And then miracles happened. I fell in love. Twice. I made friends around the world and discovered a hidden ability to speak Spanish. I saw land and people who were more beautiful than anything I’d ever imagined. I developed a sense of self-confidence that I’ve never known before and smiled when I looked in the mirror because I liked who I’d become. My mind was blown time and time again. It never got old.

And now that I’m in London and the hours are winding down like a time bomb set to warp me back to my old life, I find myself feeling the exact same way I felt days before I got on that plane three months ago: Am I really doing this? Is this really happening? I can’t believe that I’m going back home. No more train rides, no more new faces, no more Italian, French, or German. It’s time to wake up from my long, crazy dream, rub my tired eyes, and head back into reality.

My friend TJ from Minneapolis is also in London at the moment and we’re on the same flight home. Hanging out with him has helped to ease me back into feeling like a Minnesotan again. He made fun of the English lilt I’ve developed and told me stories about First Avenue and meeting girls at restaurants on Hennepin and Franklin. I feel okay about going back. All of my perpetual missing will happen no matter where I am and it’s about time that I took a proper shower and hung my clothes up in a closet.

One, two, three, wake up. Click my heels together and open my eyes. Spin around three time and presto, I’m home. The start of a new era. The post-Europe days. I’m a new person now and it’s time for introductions. Nice to meet you. My name is Mary.

Getting short

Tuesday 20 June 2006

DEPART: London Heathrow 12:55 p.m.

ARRIVE: Minneapolis/St. Paul 7:33 p.m.

I was thinking copious amounts of tator tots at Grumpy's ... anyone interested?

Homeward bound, I wish I was

I'm in London with a tube pass in my hand and a handful of pounds in my pocket but I don't really feel like doing anything. I think I'm all toured out. I tried sight-seeing yesterday but all I ended up doing was wandering around the Tate Modern for a few hours then going back to my hostel to eat shitty spaghetti and drink warm water.

I'm tired. I sleep in late but it doesn't feel like enough. When I wake up, I spend ten minutes staring at my bag as a slideshow of Philipp memories play in my mind: walking by the river, cheering at football games, waking up to warm smiles and sleepy hugs.

Junior's been emailing me, wondering if I've bought my plane ticket to Brazil. I really want to visit him this winter, but part of me wonders if it's a very good idea. What if I've got a boyfriend in January or a job that won't give me time off? What if I move somewhere and I'm happy and don't feel like going to Brazil for ten days? I suppose if this Europe trip has taught me anything, it's that I can make decisions like this and just weave them into my life, solidifying a small part of my future.

When I left Minnesota I was worried about feeling lonely as I traveled from country to country. And there were definitely a few moments when I'd wished someone was around, but by and large, I've been surrounded by people the entire three months. Privacy doesn't exist in hostels. Sometimes you wake up in the morning and want to stretch and groan and fart but there's a couple sharing a bed below you and some dude just walked in the room with nothing but a towel around his waist. I'm finally starting to value what everyone else has already known: being alone can be really nice. I want to take a shower on Saturday morning and sit half naked on my bed, surfing the Internet until I dry off and then I want to do laundry as I fix myself a lunch and shuffle through the mail, looking for a magazine to read. After that I'll stand in front of my closet for five minutes and frown at all of my clothes, before putting on a wrinkled t-shirt and the smoky jeans I wore last night. I'll grab my bike and ride for an hour then come home and finish my laundry before heading to a coffeeshop to get some writing done. When evening hits and the Minnesota skies turn purple and deep magenta, I'll find my way home and eat a quick dinner then watch whatever Netflix left in the mail.

None of this is possible over here. There are moments, usually when I'm staring out the window of a train listening to Sigur Ros on my iPod, when everything feels kind of peaceful and I don't mind that I haven't got a home and the bag at my feet contains all of my worldly possessions. I'm glad I've be able to experience that. But nothing beats going home to the same place each night and sleeping in a familiar bed with your stuff all around, unpacked and splayed out on the floor. Nothing beats phone calls from your friends and dinner with your family and holding your grandma's hand as she does the Charleston with her wobbly, 92-year-old legs.

I miss you guys and I know I can't stay here forever. Maybe I'd be singing a different tune if I had more Junior or Philipp time to look forward to, but right now my love affairs have run dry and reality is tugging on my shirtsleeves like an annoying, impatient toddler. Fine I'll come home and fine I'll get a job but dammit you can't have my soul. I'm leaving it here in Europe, buried under the sand in Barcelona, in the ghastly catacombs of Paris, at the bottom of an empty beer cup in Frankfurt, under the seat on a train in Southern Italy. I'll see you again in a bar back home and maybe I'll let you buy me some tator tots. We'll have a lot of things to talk about. I'm excited to hear your stories.