Photo Credit: Aliza Scharf, UMBC

The people you meet while travelling have just as much place in your memory as the things/sites you see.So…who is the weirdest/most unique/craziest/interpret this how you want person you met on your travels?

When I was in Odesa, they at the hostel told me about this 33 year old Japanese man who after he left they discovered a pic of this naked woman in the safe he was using.

Then later that day some other people who were coming from Chisinau via Transdnister had also just traveled with him. I got to hear all the hype about him. Talks in his sleep, got 200 euro taken off him by the Transdnister border guards, all sorts of strange things. Didn’t think I’d ever meet the guy.

Well a few days later I went back to Lviv and the hostel owner told me a Japanese man had booked and the name sounded familiar. A few hours later he arrived. Yes granted he was a little strange but all and all a good guy. He didn’t speak much English and he spent most of his time on his laptop taling to himself but we did convince him to go to the Lychachiv cemetary with us. Very organized, had one of those huge timetable books.

Last I know he was headed to Krakow, so if anyone has met this guy let me know. He’s a legend!

In Lviv a guy who had 3 passports (Irish, British, USA) claimed he had…

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image credit: Triciaward 

So of all the fun cultural exploits to be had on my trip, a personal favourite was purchasing a wineskin (a fine 1-liter marked “Las Tres Z.Z.Z. Pamplona) while in San Sebastian. The day I bought it, I had it filled with a fine 5-euro bottle of Rioja (you’ll never find a good five-dollar bottle of wine in the states, I’ll wager; this stuff was unbelievable) for our day-trip to Pamplona.

That night, I get back without having had a decent chance to take a rip from the ’skin. I’m at a local bar/pub/cafe, and when I say local, I mean it was really for locals, when a friend reminds me of the skin.

So I take it out, hold it at arm’s length, and take one gigantic draw of some of the best wine I’ve ever tasted. A couple of passersby see me do this and laugh and applaud. This gets us all riled up to be hte cool, culturally open guys we are, taking drinks with the skin held out as far as possible.

Now, it goes without saying that guys are stupid, and that American high school guys in a country with a drinking age that was rarely enforced (and already lower than our own ages) are bound to be stupid. I’d had a fair bit to drink that night already. So I raise my arms, pose like the almighty Dionysius that I am, stretching my arms out for all they’re worth, and squeeze the skin with the grip of a young boy confident that his hubris will be repaid in full by the amazing accomplishment of being able to swallow liquid.

It goes everywhere except my mouth.My shirt was messed up, my contacts hurt like hell, I felt icky all over, and everybody who saw seemed to be laughing. Moral of the story: make sure you’ve got enough wine left in there to get a stream instead of a spray. Or maybe the moral of the story is that the Basques rule. In either case, hubris sucks.

I won’t tell you what you should do in Europe– like munching on mushrooms in the Swiss Alps– since that could get me in trouble. The last thing I need is your mother laying a lawsuit on me because little Karen ate some fungi and sprained an ankle during a heated croquet match with a playing card…Now, I never personally participated in the sport, but I must admit, I did bet on it once. So, in trying a responsible member of society (Christ, I’m almost thirty), I’ll tell you what you should not do when you finally decide to check your conformity bag at JFK and travel abroad.Yes, Europe’s been in decline for nearly twenty score, but one day, we will be them. It’s sort of like taking a gander at your girlfriend’s mom to gauge how savagely the vicious hand of time’ll spank her.

1. Don’t close your eyes in a Paris train station. Oh, you need to blink? Hmph. And I thought you left the comforts of America back in Willow’s Grove… I’ll have you know there are lizards out there that haven’t blinked since Watergate and they’re getting along just fine, thank you very much. But, if you have to indulge in compulsory bodily functions, have your bags spot-welded to your wrist. Yes, the French have their faults- too many to mention here- but I must say those fondue filching fops have the quickest fingers since that Thai girl at the messa– uh, sorry, different story… And should the unfortunate heist take place, please, don’t waste your time telling the police. You’ll get Clousteau pecking half a word a minute on a Vichy typewriter as you parley vouz ongley that fateful moment when you decided to sneak a glance at your watch. Besides, they’re snickering at you the whole time, and there’s nothing worse than being scoffed at by a petty public official, particularly one who knows the words to “La Marseillaise. But there is one fringe, or should I say, French benefit. When you’re a victim of such crimes, you do get a “curse-out-a-Frog-for-free” card. For me, this perk proved to be especially valuable since I was well versed in the gospel of George Carlin. Apparently, ’cocksucker is considered polite badinage in the land of voluntary surrender and moral ambivalence.

2. Don’t try to speak French. I know, I know. You heard Parisians appreciate it when Americans attempt to ask, “where‘s the nearest shitter?” in their native tongue (which, by the way, hardly sounds course at all in the Gaulic language). Well, let me tell you, that’s complete and utter imbuvable (see, isn’t that better than shit?). When I checked my wine stained backpack at the lobby of the Louvre– this is before it got stolen by the fop– I wanted to ask the attractive girl behind the counter which floor the Mona Lisa was located. The problem, was I didn’t know exactly how “Mona Lisa” translated, so I sheepishly inquired, “parley vouz ongley?” To which the employee turned to her friend “isn’t that cute? Parley vouz ongley?” She quickly shifted her cold, French dipped pupils towards me. “Yes, I speak English.” Now I know why they burned Joan of Arc… The point is, there’s absolutely no benefit in feigning to sound like them. It won’t get you better directions, it won’t get you a better table, and it sure as hell won‘t get you laid. Besides, who the hell wants to sound like Maurice Chevalier?

3a. Don’t eat at McDonalds. For God’s sakes, you’re not in Kansas anymore. Resist the temptation to order a Big Mac because you can fucking pronounce it. This is the type of unfettered jingoism that makes us the reigning scourge of the planet. Sure, it’s cheap and you know what you’re getting, but so is Renee on 54th and– oops, did it again… In lieu of the Golden Arches, I want you to go to that charming little cafe on the Champs D’Elysee that charges you 25 francs to breathe their rarefied air. And no, that leaf of parsley isn’t a garnish, Billy Bob, it’s the entree. Yes, you may starve, but at least you won’t go out a fat, dumb, happy American. And there’s no better place to rot away than the cruddy banks of the Seine. Hell, an auteur director might scoop you up, slap a beret on your scalp, and cast you in ‘Les Mis.

3b. Don’t eat in Switzerland. Unless you want to blow your entire nest egg on a sliver of Gouda, just skip food entirely. Don’t worry if you’re about to succumb to famine– there’s always a benevolent Saint Bernard with a ready barrel of moonshine roaming the countryside.


4. Don’t board with a heroin addict. This is sort of the adult version of ‘don’t take candy from a stranger. I understand it seems obvious enough to avoid this pratfall, but if you’re a free spirited soul and think reservations should be left to the Navajo, you just might find yourself on some sweltering afternoon trudging through Amsterdam with a 100 kilo North Face strapped over what used to be your shoulder. When this occurs, you essentially have two choices: get the hell outta Dodge or bunk with a convicted felon with a hankering for China Black. I know Frost suggests taking the path less traveled, but somehow I don’t think Bobby ever stayed up all night with an open Swiss knife at his side, ready to plunder the smacked up sonofabitch who charged him 20 guilders to bunk on the ratty floor of his Section 8 flop house… Or maybe he did, but it was definitely after that “Two Roads” yarn.

5. Don’t go to a porno theater in Amsterdam. Before you panic, let me stress something: I’m talking about theaters here, not the whores themselves. They’re not the problem. Frankly, from what I heard, you get reasonable portions at fair prices. Kinda like Denny’s. But the theaters? Hmph. You want to avoid them, like… well, like Denny’s. Now I had never been to a porno theater before. Titty bars, brothels, peep shows, the Oval Office, sure, but never a picture show… But there I was, in the red light district, browsing the lovely merchandise in the neon lit windows– who says guys don’t like to shop?– when I had a sudden urge to splurge. Instead of diving right in, though, I figured I’d whet my whistle at the local movie house– kind of like downing a few Jack and cokes at the homestead before hitting the bars. After plucking down seven and half hard guilders, I strolled through the seamy gates of Hell. Fearing the bodily fluids on the seats– and the distinct possibility of future ones– I choose to take in the cinematic treat standing up (what, you never saw Ben Hur on your feet?). Then, right in the middle of the pivotal chariot scene (it was a high budget porn), the hand of an elderly gent reached over and tried to grab my fanny pack. Like a Daisy air rifle, though, his shot fell a little short, hitting my half-erect penis instead. Now, either the guy was a thief or a pervert, but I wasn’t about to file an investigation. I immediately fled Gomorrah and proceeded to the nearest cafe, where I regained my masculinity by inhaling half an ounce of Saskatoon skunk. Lesson? Stick to the whores.

6. Don’t do laundry in Germany. And you thought that Econ final was tough? Try applying fabric softener in a Munich Maytag. Twain once remarked that German is a dead language. It’s a little known fact that he muttered these words while attempting to put his white suit on spin cycle… The worst thing is, no one’ll give you a hand. Even though most of these crew cut thespians speak English, “Allied” is still not a sanctioned word in the Germanic language. Don’t fret, though, you’ll fit right in with your stench-laden apparel. It just so happens that ‘Proletariat is the rage these days in the house that Marx built (Groucho gets most of the credit, but all the brothers pitched in… except Zeppo.)

7. Don’t mention Hitler in Munich. To Deutschlanders, this is the equivalent of screaming fire in an open theater. It’s not free speech and, yes, you will be punished. I learned this from chatting with the bike rental guy at the Munich train station. As I tackled a quart of Bavaria’s finest, I bantered with the American emigre, who spouted off the privileges of the European workforce. You know them bastards get 8 weeks of vacation a year? Imagine how good their cars would be if they wouldn’t knock off every Groundhog’s Day? Anyway, the conversation turned to Goethe, Bach, and that tennis chick who grunts every time her racket hits the ball. Then, I dropped the Fat Man. The nanosecond ‘Hitler spewed off my tongue, the pedestrians shrieked and hit the deck as if a Sherman was rumbling through the station. My eyes darted around, searching for the Gestapo who I was convinced was going to goose step over and ship me off on the nearest train to Dachau… The problem is the people of Munich have never gotten over the fact that the Fuhrer launched his World Tour here. They’ve actually been duped to think that the great beer putsch was really just an elaborate advertising campaign by Beck’s. Yes, they’re a little obtuse– Bavaria’s considered the Texas of the U.S.- but what do you expect from the people who brought us lederhosen?


8. Don’t ride on an overnight train with drunken Irishmen. Now I don’t mean to disparage the fine folks of Ireland. Heck, I admire them for their sustained lobbying efforts to brand Guinness the fifth and final food group. But when you want to catch a little shut eye, blimey, avoid them like lepers- er, leprechauns. Imagine this: you’ve spent a tiresome day in Amsterdam, roaming around, smoking weed, drinking Heiny’s, perusing at heinies, perhaps even grabbing a heiny, and now you’re bushed. You desperately need some sleep. You retire to your tiny Euro rail bed and shut the cabin door. Ahhhh. Peace at last, peace at last, lord almighty, peace at last. Then, as you’re about to fall into the deep comforts of REM, a gang of plastered Irishmen breaks out into a rousing rendition of “Danny Boy.” Of course, this is followed by a whole repertoire of lyrical hymns that have the depth of a Dice Clay monologue. You bury your head under your makeshift pillow and wish them damn fools would be just like their other countrymen and pass their time blowing up some abandoned Jaguar in Trafalgar Square.

9. Don’t get stoned and visit the Museum of Torture. Contrary to what you might think, there are actually some cultural exhibits in Amsterdam– they’re just hidden under that wafting cloud of bong smoke. Let’s see, uh.. Rembrandt was big here a few centuries ago… There was that little girl who hid in the attic… They’re the perennial host of the prestigious Cannabis Cup. Oh, and they’ve got the single greatest museum in the civilized world. The Museum of Torture. Sure, there’s the Louvre and the Met, but in all honesty, once you’ve glimpsed at one bowl of apples and oranges, you’ve pretty much seen them all. On the other hand, how many times have you viewed a wooden device that actually stretches your limbs until they snap off? It’d make a helluva infomercial… But, whatever you do, don’t sample the wares at the Grasshopper before you enter its hallowed halls. In a word, it’ll freak you the fuck out. Viewing these antiquated electric chairs with stony eyes will elicit feelings of pity and sorrow that were meant to be only experienced by victims of the Inquisition… or Boston Red Sox fans.

10. Don’t tell anybody you´re American. They hate you. It doesn’t matter that you just blew ten thousands lira on a genetically enhanced statue of David and that without your patronage their economy would strangely resemble Mozambique‘s, they loathe you. The one thing that unites Europe more than a David Hasselhoff convention is the common, deep-seated hatred for Uncle Sam. And since you are technically on their turf, it would be a fruitless task to defend Old Glory. (When they come here, though, feel free to kick their ass). So, you must do the next best thing: lie. More specifically, tell them you’re Canadian. Better yet, throw down a few Canadian dollars, buy a little maple leaf, and slap it on your rucksack. See, to a European, Canada’s the cute, cuddly teddy bear who, through no fault of their own, is forced to share a bed with a monstrous boar who stays up to the wee hours of the night, devouring Doritos, waiting for the next Baywatch episode (the only difference is, we watch it for Pam Anderson). Besides, lying is an essential part of the European trip. And I’m not talking about white lies. Oh, no. I’m referring to the deepest, blackest prevarications your soul can muster. I mean, who the hell’s gonna know that you’re not really the star of some WB sitcom ? And, you know, if they do happen to call you on it, scurry through the nearest exit. The last thing you want is to befriend someone who actually watches the WB.

- by Duke Snider

P.S. There is one last tip, and personally, I think it’s the most important. The fact is, there’s going to be a time when you’re alone. It’s inevitable.And since I assume you’re under the age of 86, odds are you’re going to be horny. Now, if you must satisfy your urge to dispense the raging monster within, please, clean your hands first. Because let me tell you, the last place you ever want to find yourself is mid-stroke with remnants of cayenne pepper on your fingers (that‘s another story for another time).

The point is, you may disregard numbers one through ten and that‘s fine, that‘s your inalienable right, but trust me on the cayenne pepper thing.
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I had planned on leaving Saturday, but the angry ghost of Christopher Columbus again made things difficult for me. America West cancelled our 1130 Chicago flight (the one I was going to leave on). Which meant we sent all our passengers over to Southwest (my backup) overselling them. Our next flight wasn’t until 4:30 pm, so since I had to transfer to O’Hare, I felt I wouldn’t make it in time for my Ireland flight.

So, I gave up, and went Sunday instead. No problem that day, and I landed late morning in Dublin. I took the bus downtown and decided I would head straight to Glendalough in the Wicklow Mountains. A light mist was falling — something I had better get used to, it turned out.

I arrived in Glendalough, a beautiful wooded valley with a couple lakes, around early afternoon. I found a B&B, checked in for two nights, and went to explore the valley. There is quite a scattering of monastic ruins in Glendalough — including a 120′ tower built in the 12th century, the fairly complete ruins of several churches, tall standing stone crosses, “beehive-type cells” the monks stayed in, etc.

The sun even came out for a couple hours while I was exploring the valley. Little did I know it, but it would prove to be my only glimpse of it during the trip. Anyway, it was a pleasant day — wonderful scenery, cool ruins, waterfalls, you name it. I ended the day with dinner and a Guiness Stout in one of the two local restaurants.

The next day was my major hiking day. I planned on hiking the Wicklow Way, which runs along the hilltops thoughout the region. I would go as far north as I could get, then take the bus back. It was a drizzly, misty day as I started tramping north. The trail was easy to follow, matching up exactly with my Ordnance Survey map I’d purchased.

The scenery was neat, but I figured my pictures would suffer from the omninpresent drizzle. As it turned out, it “rained” all day. I was never soaked — it was too light a fall. However, it was good “mood weather.” Some views that were nice would have been spectacular in the sun.

Just when I was getting to the steepest and most remote portion of the Way, I lost my way. I backtracked, doublechecked the map, but still couldn’t find my way back on the main path. Somehow, I’d missed a turnoff and was being led downhill and east instead of uphill and northeast. I wasn’t worried, though, I knew I’d end up on the road. Which I did. I think caught a ride down to the village of Roundhill, ate lunch and a Guiness in the pub, and decided my feet were sore enough for one day. I figured I hiked a good 15 miles that day. I caught a ride back to my B&B (yes, this was hitchhiking, something I hadn’t done since Scotland years and years ago). Despite the (still) rainy weather, it’d been a good (if tiring) day.

The third day I rode the early bus back to Dublin and then went to the town of Trim. There is another handful of medieval buildings there, including the largest castle in Ireland. It was drizzling again (and would prove to all day long). The castle was cool. It is the one that appears in Mel Gibson’s “Braveheart.” They used once face of it as York for the siege scene, another side as Edinburgh and still another as Longshank’s castle in London. They are restoring it, so you couldn’t go inside the main keep, but could walk around the outer walls. I saw the other various ruins of churches and nunneries in the area, ate lunch in a pub, and headed back to Dublin.

After finding a B&B and some gifts, the drizzle turned it up a notch. My explorations were cut short as the skies opened up for the first real hard rain I’d seen the whole trip. I took refuge in a pub (with a Guinness, of course) The next morning I returned home. No problems on any of my flights this time, and I spent that evening in my own bed. A short trip, but a good one. I now know there is a country on this planet where it rains more than it does in Scotland!

This article was was used by permission from Mike Demana. To read all of Mike’s adventures, please his website at- WorldWideMike.com

We come from all different places in the world, we are made up of people from different age groups, backgrounds, beliefs, and interests.

Judging from our Spartan-ish poll, there appears to be no gender differences when it comes to backpacking, and it is great to see that females are just as keen as their male counterparts when it comes to tappin’ into their wild side on their travels.

Backpackers get biz-nizzy.

Generally speaking, around 70% of the backpackers prefer to leave everything behind, opting to take nothing more than a fully loaded backpack and their instincts to guide them. With only around 10% of backpackers travel with their significant others, and the rest would prefer traveling with a buddy/family member/or relative to share their journey, it is little wonder why so many backpackers find themselves “get’n down in funkytown.”

To us, it’s a life with no strings attached, and all the delights and temptations of the big wide world out there, anything and everything goes for the existential TravelPUNK backpacker.

Add to the fact that just over half of all backpackers are 15-24 years of age, mostly students that have probably just finished high school or university, this is the age where the spirit of freedom and adventure takes precedence in life and “emotions over logic” is riding “shotgun.” Know what I’m talking about? You know those times when you are just totally in the moment and nothing else matters? That’s what I’m talk’n ’bout.

The 25-34 year bracket makes up another 30-40% of backpackers. These travelers are most likely in their early and mid stages of their careers, and have realized that there will be little chance for them to ”exit stage left” due to work, family and the gi-normous bills that seemed to accumulate out of nowhere and start to weigh them down.

You could say that these backpackers are enjoying the “Golden Age” of their life. It’s their turn on the “karaoke stage” of life. Hahahaa…A time to explore not only what they are truly made of, but also for discovering what’s on the other side of those musty coffee stained 1970’s beige-ish cubicle walls.

It’s time to start expanding the walls your comfort zone, folks. You MUST step out of your existential zone and make some changes. Take more risks. Live a little more.

“A man who risks nothing, gains nothing.”

If you want to see BIG changes in your life, you must take BIG action.

There are 2 things that are certain in life- death and taxes. Aside from that, life is what you make out of it.

Knowing that, IT IS your obligation to add some spice in your life…As far as TravelPUNK is concerned, that means to strap on a backpack and head overseas.

In addition to seeing and experiencing all of the benefits and rewards that come with traveling in and of itself, remember the minute you land your chances of joining the “60% club” just skyrocketed =)

Booyahkasha!