Advice from the other side of tragedy - 2025.08.09

Event: https://www.augustdriftanddribble.com/ (5 minute limit)

Reader: Michael Oort 

Title: Advice from the other side of tragedy 

< audibly breathe in for 1 second; breathe out for 2 seconds> 

The Navy Seals practice a breathing technique to curtail the feeling of panic. It is simple: breathe out twice as long as you breathe in. I use this often during the day and during the night to survive from the other side of tragedy and from the inside of deep grief. 

There is no way to sugar coat it, this is going to hurt… 

In the wee hours of Sunday, March 6, 2022 my 21 year old lovely daughter was murdered by someone she knew. She and her three roommates were asleep in their apartment, in one of the statistically safest countries in the world – the Netherlands, in an enchanting medieval town, and attending one of the most idyllic colleges imaginable. 

Recently, a friend told me: "You're the only person I know who has had a loved one murdered".

Inconceivable. Distant. Separate.

From the outside there is a sense of horror that introduces stigma, pity, and separation. 

From the inside there is deep grief and isolation. I now see the outside world through a veil; filtered through pain. Now that I have crossed the rubicon I have empathy for all the parents who have lost a child ... and yet do I have true empathy? Deep grief is a snowflake; unique and so multi-dimensional. A trigger lies in wait, ready to ambush. It could be an innocuous comment that springs as a viper as you let down your heavy armour during an afternoon stroll amongst friends. 

To start to understand the inner workings of tragedy and grief you must recognize how tragedy echoes forever in the souls of the connected. You need to understand, at the core, tragedy is defined by an irreconcilable personal loss that resulted from a fatal fall from the one sickly branch of a tree with a million healthy branches; each of which were begging you to listen to the rustle of the leaves, each offering their path to prevention.

So, how can we hope to protect our children at every transition, from crib to school and beyond? First, recognize that the tools change for every transition. We forget that our skills in sensing, intuiting, understanding, and action have taken years to grok and a lifetime to master. Keep conveying these skills through shared experiences with your children. Practice wisdom to avoid building walls of resistance to deep mutual understanding. Build presence beyond physical proximity but without the burden of control or guilt. Teach emotional and physical self defense. Learn to pry open the hidden dangers as your children develop but without imposition and without diminishing their agency. Practice when they are young and never stop, especially during those times they branch out and even reject you. Take note of the transitions in life and pay special attention. 

Why is this message important? It is because this experience is something you will not seek and likely never encounter. Why should you and your loved ones have this knowledge? The answer lies in a curious observation about learning. Recently, while training a neural network to recognize numbers from an image, I discovered that it could not learn certain patterns without negative feedback. This suggests that raising a child with only positive feedback will not prepare the young adult for learning certain patterns, like the negative patterns that signal danger. Find ways to teach awareness, wisdom, and action. 

Meanwhile, in the presence of a survivor, understand there is no script but start by replacing pity with emotional embrace, oblivion with selfless interaction, and apathy with timely action. Practice with anyone and especially with your children as they explore outside the nest. 

You're welcome. 

p.s. If you want to begin to know Mieke see https://mieke.one.

Remembering Mieke

Remembering Mieke Oort - the most beautiful inside and out.

May 20 2000 - March 6 2022.

There is no consolation; only grief, regret, and injustice.

Here is Mieke singing "The Call" (Regina Spektor) at the age of 12 accompanied by photos of her joy.

If only I could call.

Mieke Jasmine Oort Memorial

On March 6 2022 our beloved Mieke was killed. We are lost and broken.

Mieke Jasmine Oort Memorial website

The Joyful Elephant

Meet David, the one year old elephant, who was named after David Beckham. He has skills.

photo credit: Celine Oort

The morning started with smooth coffee in hand while drifting amongst the herd of eight elephants we had hugged, fed, bathed, and fed again the day before. Feeding meant going out to the banana grove and returning with a pickup truck full of pulpy banana trees or chopping up giant grass from the fields or handing out a bushel of bananas.  At this time, they were all contentedly squishing their banana stalks and stuffing their faces with this juicy favorite. We quickly got the understanding that they are very food oriented and food motivated.

We guests all sipped our coffee and soaked in the glorious morning with this enchanting combination of tribe and herd...as one family. So peaceful and serene.

photo credit: Michael Oort

It wasn't long before David bumped up the energy level. We stoked the fire and fanned the flames. At first, he started chasing one of the handlers. We passed him the rubber soccer ball and he lit up. Go, David go!, shouted Celine in growing elation. Game on.

What followed was like playing touch football against a steam roller. He delighted us fans with his ball handling. It seemed his favorite play was to hide the ball using the super squash. It was very effective.

All this was happening under the supervision of 7 full adult elephants who were distinctly nonplussed. No appearance of concern at the surface. They had seen all this before, I guess.

I am ashamed to say that I didn't notice if he worked up a sweat. To be fair, the signs are not obvious. We had learned the day before that they only sweat above their toenails. He didn't seem winded at all. At one point he did this curious roll on the ground during play. He was into it.

David's attention span was what you would expect of a toddler. After a few passes between us he would charge one of the mango trees or plow through a bamboo fence. It reminded me when we reved up our kids when they were young and they would fly over couches in the living room. It's all fun until the furniture gets trashed.

David was testing his limits and at one point knew he had everyone's attention and raced around a tree to knock over a motor scooter. We all yelled his name in repressed glee. The handlers ran over to pre-empt the strike but he was just too fast. All the time mommy and the seven other adult elephants were happily munching away on their banana trees. Not one concern was apparent.

We reintroduced the ball and the game continued. We also had a bamboo ball which we accidentally fumbled. It got the full squash treatment as David tried to get it out of the gutter. This was a super sized toddler -- a fact we forgot while we were in the moment; in the game.

This is one game I never imagined and will always cherish. This was the perfect experience joining my family and his for a brief moment in time. We are eagerly anticipating the birth of a new baby by the end of the year.

The Karen tribe is a collection of families in the hills north of Chiang Mai, Thailand, who decided a few years ago to bring their ancestral extended family back home and to dedicate themselves to care for these beautiful, sensitive, and vulnerable animals. This small community faces internal and external pressures and we acknowledge their dedication and love.

Go David, go!

photo credit: Celine Oort

The Big Blindspot - When Arithmetic Was Hard

Today, every elementary school student learns how to do basic arithmetic.

$$\begin{array}{r}5\\ +5\\ 10\end{array}$$
What's so hard? Ask any of the math geniuses of ancient Greece like Pythagoras, Euclid, Aristotle, Plato, or Archimedes. Ask the Romans.

How do you figure this?
$$\begin{array}{r}\mathrm{V}\\ +\mathrm{V}\\ \mathrm{X}\end{array}$$
To make things worse, how about?
$$\begin{array}{r}\mathrm{IV}\\ +\mathrm{VI}\\ \mathrm{X}\end{array}$$
What are we taking for granted, exactly? Why didn't the ancients figure this out? How close did they come? What were the tools of ancient times that were begging for this leap? How would the world be different today if they had this clarity? Here we will explore these questions and dip our toes in some answers.

Confusion of the Day

The lack of clarity about numbers was pervasive even way after the new numbers were introduced to Europe. Take a look at this:

Man against Machine: Modern math against the abacus!

Calculating-Table by Gregor Reisch: Margarita Philosophica, 1503. The woodcut shows Arithmetica instructing an algorist and an abacist (inaccurately represented as Boethius and Pythagoras). There was keen competition between the two from the introduction of the Algebra into Europe in the 12th century until its triumph in the 16th.

I'm no expert in antiquities but the first thing I notice is that the perspective of the sums are wrong. The slant of the sums should align with the slant of the table edge. To me, that says the math was added to the print by someone other than the artist. It tells me that the artist didn't know numbers and most likely the subjects in the print didn't either. The second thing is that I don't understand what is being added and what is the result. Is it me or is it totally wrong? Regardless, it doesn't have the clarity to earn you a passing grade in elementary school today.

What was missing from the early number systems?

The main missing feature was the concept of constant base. What does that mean? For example, 1, 10, 100, 1000 all leverage the power of 10. The second key missing feature was a "place" holder, which holds a place without a value. The final abstraction is zero as a stand alone number (known as the additive identity) to make math manipulations complete.
Here is the first known number using the modern number system with a zero place holder digit:

The number 605 in Khmer numerals, copied from the Sambor inscriptions in 683 AD. The earliest material use of zero.

What is fascinating was that many early number systems had some, but not all, of these features, and often the rules were not always applied consistently.

What does a place value number system give us?

It gives us a dense way to represent numbers to very large and very small scales and high precision using decimal places. Somewhat miraculously, there are simple rules to add, subtract, multiply and divide any number. This applies to super large numbers, super small numbers, negative numbers and more complex numbers. At a deeper level, it allows a linear combination of digits by place. In other words you can add or subtract digits and keep the remainder value in place. Any value higher than the base will add to the place above and any value less than zero will borrow from the place above. This is simply not possible with IV + VI = X.
From a math perspective an understanding of place value numbers with constant base sets a solid foundation and presents paths to quick advancement. For example, the simple and consistent rules begs us to imagine short cuts for large numbers.
$$\begin{array}{r}{\mathrm{10}}^2=100\end{array}$$ and small numbers: $$\begin{array}{r}{\mathrm{10}}^{-2}=0.01\end{array}$$
and then move on to non integer base and figure out compound interest for loans: $$\begin{array}{r}{e}^2=\mathrm{7.38905609893...}\end{array}$$
and then with some more imagination you are off to algebra: $$\begin{array}{r}{a}^2\end{array}$$
and then you get comfortable with abstractions:
$$\begin{array}{r}{\left(a+b\right)}^n\end{array}$$

Roman Numerals

Let's look at Roman numerals and do a comparison with modern decimal numbers. $$\begin{array}{rr}\mathrm{I}& \mathrm{II}\\ 1& 2\end{array}$$ What do we notice so far? Things start pretty much the same with I and 1 but then they start walking down different paths. The II uses two symbols whereas 2 uses a single, new symbol. We start to see a ray of sunshine. Let's move on. $$\begin{array}{rrr}\mathrm{III}& \mathrm{IV}& \mathrm{V}\\ 3& 4& 5\end{array}$$ III is just using the same rule as with II and I. Just add them up: I + I + I = 3. Now IV is something new. First, we understand V to mean 5. Next, we are introduced to a new rule: take away I from V or take away 1 from 5, which equals 4. This rule was not in the original Roman numbers. It was introduced to shorten the numbers, since IIII is harder to read and write than IV. This is another sign that things are not going so well. When adding or subtracting or any other operations it is best to convert to the longer original format. Next. $$\begin{array}{rrrr}\mathrm{VI}& \mathrm{VII}& \mathrm{VIII}& \mathrm{IX\; (VIIII)}\\ 6& 7& 8& 9\end{array}$$
More of the same. Add all of the symbol values up. As we mentioned earlier IX is really just VIIII. In fact 9 is really just IIIIIIIII. There is nothing new here except for the X which is the star of this show:
$$\begin{array}{r}\mathrm{X}\\ 10\end{array}$$ The new number system introduces a completely new concept that makes math much easier:

The placement of a digit determines its scale. The scale is a constant, like 10 for decimal.

This is one of the breakthroughs that took people thousands of years to invent.

The other key ingredient is what you don't see: zero. Early concepts of zero were invented by the Chinese and Indians but the use of zero as a number and place holder was either forgotten or not fully baked until after the Roman empire was in decay thousands of years later. A real example of the absence of 0: there is no Year 0 AD. The Common era started with 1 because there was no 0 in the Roman numerals. Want to find out more? See: 0 Year

To really understand what is going on here let's continue our analysis.

Tally Numbers

The Greek and Roman number system is just a Tally system with fancy symbols. It's just a bunch of sticks that can be added up.

$$\begin{array}{r}\mathrm{IIII}\\ +\mathrm{IIIIII}\\ \mathrm{IIIIIIIIII}\end{array}$$
$$\begin{array}{r}\end{array}$$Tally numbers are simple but cumbersome. In order to deal with large numbers we need a new concept. What is the problem with Roman numerals? A major problem is that the numbers count up too slowly. In our modern number system when adding a digit to the right of an integer makes the number ten times as big. This is a big deal. As an example, writing one million in the modern number system takes a couple of seconds: 1,000,000. In pure tally form it would take days to write out one million marks. In order to make numbers manageable the ancients came up with new symbols as shorthand. Unfortunately, this turned out to lead them down a dark path in terms of ease of use and understanding.

A path to the new number system

So, what was the breakthrough concept that shortened the number representation and at the same time made basic operations easy? Well, let's rewind to the tally system and take a step in a different direction.

Imagine a scale - A perfectly balanced bar on a pivot. Imagine that the bar doesn't have any weight to clutter up your imagination. Now, let's say you only have pennies to count with. We set some rules. On the right of the pivot you can only stack pennies. This represents pure tallies. On the left you cannot stack pennies. The bar has to balance evenly on the pivot to satisfy us that the numbers mean the same thing.

Now, let's imagine some new ways to count. Let's start counting!

The left side shows somewhat compressed numbers compared with the stacks of pennies on the right hand side of the pivot. This system works but it has some problems. One of the problems is starting to appear with 3 and is pretty clear with number 4. One problem is that 3 can be represented in two ways: 3 or 2+1. The number 4 can be also be represented in 2 ways: 4 or 3+1. Moving to bigger numbers the duplication increases. Why is this a problem? If there is more than one way to represent a number then all sorts of problems arise in math. Also, it makes us think that there must be a denser way to represent the number. So we explore other representations.

Let's say that the 3rd place cannot have a penny. That solves the duplication for numbers 3 and 4. It turns out that when we notice duplication then we exclude that place then we see the rest of the numbers on the right side of the drawing and get the binary numbers.

What are binary numbers? They have digits that only have two values: either 1 or 0; on or off. Notice how the representations use space. At first glance, the binary numbers seem to use more space since they appear more spread out. But, the contrary is true since we never have to fill the slots that are not used. This makes binary numbers more efficient than the two other representations discussed here.

What do we gain from this? Lots. With just 2 digits (1 and 0) we can represent any integer. 10 = 8 + 2. Really, we're saying 10 = 2*2*2 + 2. Or just 10 = 2^3 + 2^1. This is (number of allowed digit values)^(place). Why is this so much more powerful than the tally system. Since the number doubles with every new digit the number grows quickly with very few bits. For example, 32 bits can hold a number up to 4 billion. Try writing that in tally.

Wow, we've come a long way! But what's missing here? We need a way to tell which slot the penny is in. How to do that? We need something that doesn't add any weight. So we create zero. It took thousands of years to imagine nothing.

Modern Decimal Numbers

This binary number system is great but it can be made even more practical. How to make this more human? How about if we have 9 different coins with weight 1 through 9. This gives us 0 through 9 power or a total of 10 times the weight per slot.

Many things in life can be expressed as 10 or less. And now, we can easily grow the countable things by 10 times for every new digit added on the left! With this new power there is no need to add any new digits! The Roman number system needs a new symbol as numbers grow in order to write down large numbers efficiently.
$$\begin{array}{rrrr}\mathrm{I}& \mathrm{X}& \mathrm{C}& \mathrm{M}\\ 1& 10& 100& 1000\end{array}$$ Does anyone know the Roman numeral for 10 billion? The other awkwardness is demonstrated with one less than a big number. For example: 99 = XCIX and 999 = CMXCIX. Notice that the Roman numeral system has rules of placement but they are not simple and not powerful.

In the new number system, placement is more important to the final value than the digits themselves. Every movement in place multiplies or divides by 10. Off by one place and the number is either 10x bigger or 10x smaller. The benefits, however, are huge in terms of expression, comprehension, and math operations.

What about showing the number of atoms in the universe, you ask? Oh, about 10^80. All we need to do is add one new operator: the exponent. This is just another short hand to add a bunch of zeros to the right of the number 1. 10^0 = 1, 10^1 = 10, 10^2 = 100 and so forth.

Math Operations

When did you first realize that there aren't any zeros in Roman numerals? M = 1000, C = 100, X = 10. Without a zero it's hard to imagine place holders that work with arithmetic or other operations.
There is a sense of place in the Romain numerals but it's different than what we know as place. IX = 9, XI = 11. How about IC = 99? No, this is not allowed. 99 = XCIX.

Now try 1990 - 11 = 1979: $$\begin{array}{r}\mathrm{MCMXC}\\ -\mathrm{XI}\\ \mathrm{MCMLXXIX}\end{array}$$
Now imagine doing multiplication or division. That's hard.

Other Inventions making arithmetic easier

The + and - signs were invented in 1489. This was 2000 years after Pythagoras and his gang first developed geometry and arithmetic.

And that's not all, there's more. In the year 1492, the decimal point was first used. It turned out that this new decimal placeholder number system could represent partial numbers as well. To represent them you can add a decimal point and add digits to the right. Imagine that you can do this and still have all the math operations like addition, subtraction, multiplication, division continue to work properly without any changes. Was this luck or what?

The borrowing of digits for subtraction and carrying for addition is much cleaner with the modern decimal numbers. You only have to borrow or carry one digit instead of a bunch. The rules are simple and easy to explain and understand.

The one invention the Greeks and Romans employed was base 10 numbers. The Babylonians used base 60 numbers which can be evenly divided by 2,3,4,5,6,10,12,15, and 30 making it useful for many calculations. That's where we get 60 minutes per hour, 360 degrees in a circle, and 360 days in the year (just kidding -- it may be that 360 was adopted at least partially due to it's closeness to the days in a year).

The Blindspot

So, the question remains. How is it possible that the ancient Greek math geniuses didn't figure out what every child today learns in elementary school? These are the people who discovered Pi, proved that square root of 2 cannot be represented by dividing two integers, and accurately measured the circumference of the Earth (see: ). Imagine how the world would be different today if math was more accessible to people over a two thousand year period. It must be one of the biggest blindspots in math history so far.

But wait there's more... How close were the ancient societies to adopting the modern constant base numbers? How close was Archimedes? So close, it turns out! Stay tuned for more.

Some links

There are so many great writings on this subject. To explore more see the links below.

A Time-line for the History of Mathematics
History of mathematics
zerorigindia.org - will research ancient writings in India to attempt to find the true origin of zero as a digit.

Espresso at the bottom of the mountain.

A solo cycling adventure from London to Gibraltar before the dawn of the web.


Prologue

A mere 31 years ago there was a young adult who decided, on a whim, to cycle down western Europe. Now the older adult in me is re-counting the journey with just some Kodachrome slides and artifacts in a journal as a guide.

This all took place before the EU with its common currency and fluid borders. Before the era of the  ATM, cell phone, web, and non-smoking flight. It was a trip of uncertainty and yet without any doubt. Why no doubt? Youth and ignorance, I guess. It happened at a time when there was true adventure and unknown - no easy information lookup on your phone. To find the best nooks and crannies one relied on travel books, investigative discovery, and human interaction.

So, indulge me and yourself and come along for the ride.

The approximate route

Spring, 1985

Swish, swish, swish. Who brings old corduroy long pants on a bike trip? This blows. I don't care how cold the nights are, these are going into the first garbage bin I see. Luckily, the port town in northern France where I was, Cherbourg, has garbage cans. At first sight, in went two long pants and an assortment of other non-essentials. Who brings these things and doesn't bring a sleeping bag or tent? Well, in my defense, I did have a tarp, raincoat and a cork screw. Not sure if I had an extra tube but did have a patch kit and pump. Biking gloves? No. Helmet? No. That scares me till today.

The day started with a conspiracy that had been carefully conspired the night before with my hostel mates and executed at the break of dawn. The goal was to get me and my bicycle on the road before 7 am. The challenge was to do that before the massive wrought iron gates of youth hostel encapsulation would be swung open. We opened the large window and, to everyone's delight, I jumped. My bike and panniers quickly followed. I was off. Heading south I hit a 100 miles of up wind. But, even in second gear downhill, it didn’t bother me too much. I was enveloped in beautiful rolling fields all the way to my next sanctuary – the medieval castle and monastery town perched dramatically on a rock on the bay - Le Mont Saint Michel.

How did I get here?

The Beginning

The year is 1985. After sophomore year at CMU it was time to have an adventure. What was the plan, exactly? Well, I had $300 in traveler checks and a month of time in the budget. A steel Schwinn 10 speed bike would be my trusty steed that never complained one bit despite the rack full of panniers and backpack with clothes and who knows what else. My survival gear included a snorkeling mask and a Eurail pass voucher to only be considered as a last resort method of extraction.

I would travel ultra-lite, thinking that summer would provide protection against the elements. I had no tent or sleeping bag -- just a jacket, tarp, and cotton sleeping sack. With these essentials the plan was to cycle from London to Gibraltar through France and Spain. I knew little of many practical details other than a self-proposed route drawn on a map.

This was to be an adventure and I didn't want to over plan. Didn't want to plan anything, really.

Monday 5.20

My mom and dad were great enough to support this un-plan. My dad drove bicycle and me to Newark International Airport from central Jersey and we rolled to the People's Express checkin booth. This is one of the airlines that introduced ultra budget travel and cash payment for domestic flights on the plane. My $99 one-way booking had vanished! The first life lesson: a booking originating in Pittsburgh cannot be not picked up half way. Luckily, the flight wasn't pre-paid. After a little poking around we found a Virgin Atlantic flight to London for $129 on standby. Score.

Then we disassembled, boxed, and kissed my bike away.

In hindsight, I'm surprised that my mother and father were obliging in this seemingly reckless idea. I made two promises - 1: to send a telegram within two weeks and 2: to get my ass to Holland for a family reunion in June.

While thankful for the seat to London, I was placed on the last non-smoking seat in the airplane. Right behind me were about 10 rows of smokers. Large plumes of freshness overnight in my sleeplessness, mmm.

England

Tuesday 5.21

At the luggage claim I spotted the box and dragged it through customs. In the arrival hall I quickly decomposed the box and assembled my ride. I loaded the panniers and rolled down the corridors. Then the air opened into England. Cloudy and cool - perfect for riding. The next challenge? How to get away from the airport. This would be a recurring theme. How to get into and out of motor vehicle oriented centers?

Why all the honking? This road is busy and cars driving fast; little shoulder; and I'm riding on the right. Doh, yes, should be on the left. This left handed technique would only be required for a few days until the water crossing to the European mainland.

Shortly, I spotted a rural road down the embankment and I lost no time walking my bike down and, for the second time that day, I was free! Quickly, the green fields, trees, and quaint houses let me know that my adventure had started. It was surreal. Luckily, here shouldn't pose too much of a language barrier, which almost seemed like cheating. Not to worry, there would be plenty of challenges.

Before too long, another lone touring cyclist came into view. He and I stopped and conversed. This guy, John, was a Canadian about my age and was finishing his trip from Greece. His buddies had already left. He was on a mountain bike with somewhat knobby tires. That was something new and strange for me. I was on the same steel bike that I had in high school. The only thing that was new were the tires and tubes. Pretty basic stuff. He mentioned the flat tire count on his trip and I turned my inner gaze to my one patch kit and wondered how I'd make it.

John and I decided to cycle together. He introduced me to the 4 o'clock rule. That's when you start the cool down cycle and stop at the first pub you see. This would become a ritual during the trip when money and opportunity afforded. After a pint somewhere between Crawley and Billingsworth we set off again. I could get used to this! And then rain started spittling down; or "pissing" down in his vernacular.  I gathered that he had more of the elements in the early spring. Dusk was threatening and a car pulled over across the road. A lady asked if we needed a place to stay. £10 ($15) each. Ouch. Way over $10 daily budget but what to do? She explained how to find her Bed & Breakfast and told us to make ourselves at home - she would be back in an hour. I wondered why would anyone trust us at first sight. We parked our bikes in the barn and then went out for food and more hydration. I slept like a baby.

Wednesday 5.22

Breakfast was what I believe is a typical English fare of eggs, bacon, and toast. This was welcome fuel for the day ahead. On to Portsmouth for me. Solo again. Ready for the new day. A subtle rain again on and off. Every small village till Petworth was absolutely enchanting. Old stone walls and churches and story book houses. Approaching Portsmouth I appreciated the nice downhill into the navy port town. After some reconnaissance, my choice was the local YMCA. There was a common area with table tennis, games, and sleeping quarters filled with bunk beds. Comfortable enough.

Thursday 5.23

At 6:24 am I got a finger in my ear. I opened my eye and was amazed to witness this type of wake up call. This old man was on a mission to rub all the ears in the room. Effective it was. I wonder what HR would say about that today? By 8 am the bike and myself are on the ferry - over an hour early, I thought, giving plenty of time to grab something from the shore. Five minutes later the boat departed. Luckily, an attendant warned me so I didn't make a potentially trip-ending mistake.

France

A few hours later, the ferry arrived in Cherbourg, France. With barely a semester of French in my brain I had some trepidations about communication, I admit.

Once on land, I checked into the local youth hostel and decided to acclimate for the day. It was time to get familiar with the French and Franc. The hostel was 28.5 Francs, which amounted to less than $3. A night under budget, finally. That means I have some serious cash to play the local market and purchase some food.

Friday 5.24

This is an ambitious day. Almost 100 miles to Le Mont Saint Michel - a magical destination of a cathedral castle town on a rock in the sea, with tides reportedly moving along quicksand as fast as a galloping horse.

Passing through quaint towns

The wind was strong. It would have been great to have the prevailing winds with me. Downhill in second gear. Up and down long fields without break.

Finally, the prize in the distance

Somehow the miles dissolved by evening. Ass broken and legs quivering I rode along the raised road and entered the gates at 10:45 pm.

As darkness had tightened its cloak I was able to stow my bike under a small walkway bridge and went to celebrate. I had bought my first bottle of French wine, croissants, and sardines. With a giant pull of the survival corkscrew I had packed, the wooden handle crisply snapped off. Not to worry. I spotted some waiters smoking outside and they cheerily obliged and uncorked the bottle without a fee (thank you). Life was sweet. As I sat on a wall along the old street, every passing couple wished me bon appétit. Early to bed under the bridge. The only complication was a small yappy dog that had been let out, presumably to pee. Luckily, there was no escalation of incident and I was able to sleep through the chill of the night.

Saturday 5.25

It was the most enchanting wakeup call in the world. Church bells and singing echoing over the ramparts. In spite of the warming sounds I was very cold. Must move. Since the main gate to the inner monastery was still closed and, since it was low tide, I decided to walk around the city outer walls along the sand. Half way around the rocky mound there stood a small chapel facing the sea in total calmness and defiance. Magic all around. 

The sun coming up, glimmering on the sea. Then after a climb back to the ramparts I took in the sun in full glory, shimmering on the water and rooftops below.

At that point the center gates opened and I took a tour through the majestic cathedral and monastery. The tour starts at the top and as you deepen from floor to floor you travel through time. At the bottom you arrive at Roman and even older foundations.

Around lunch time I decided to move on south. Unlocking my bike, I rolled with a light heart down the ancient cobblestone streets and headed over the causeway back to the mainland.

"Do you want to have Dinar in Dinar"? Excuse me? Along the road a car full of four men smiled vigorously at me and asked where I was heading. I said south. They said west. Why in the world would I oblige? Well, it's hard to explain to 21st century people. This was a time of innocence. It was a time to discover and meet people. Intuition told me this was harmless and could be entertaining. I would not be disappointed. Besides, I wasn't in the mood to fight the wind today. On their recommendation I stopped and swam and tanned on the St Malo beach for an hour. Warm air and beautiful.

St Malo, I believe

In Dinard my new hosts once again drove by and they were all smiles again. A somewhat unlikely mix; a young Cambodian, a dance photographer, a Cannes shop owner, and the ring leader, who I found out soon enough, was a TV celebrity. We went to an awesome traditional crepe restaurant. All the while people stared and gossiped. I asked why and he explained. Nice to be a celebrity for a day.

Back at the hotel, they offered to buy me a room but I said I would be happy to crash on a mattress. They respected my space.

Sunday 5.26

After a wonderful breakfast, I heartily thanked my hosts. They were genuinely amused. They even gave me a contact in Madrid - a famous dancer, I was led to believe.

Another windy day.

One of the many wonderful scenes

How about a house on a tower? Sure, why not?

Back and butt broken I arrive in Redon at 9:30 pm. At this rate it will take five days to reach Spain. In spite of the record high dollar my $10 a day budget is not working so well. No inside bed tonight. I write in a bar and socialize with the locals as best I can. After a cozy stay I go out alone into the night and search for a quiet lodging place. Behind a warehouse I secure my bike and crash.

Not making everything rain proof is the first thing I remember when woken by the thunder, lightning and rain dumping out of the sky. Sleep was no use. Need to find shelter. I rolled my rig along the streets until passing an open portal with a roof. I rush in and crash again.

Monday 5.27

Shivering and damp I picked up my bags and creaked south. Finally, a friendly, but chilled, wind. I felt like I was floating down hill. About 10 pm I entered Chantonnay. This was to be my first hair prickly experience. What an eerie place. Nobody I crossed was friendly. I got nothing but strange stares except for this all too friendly person in a bistro. From his probing questions and pushy behavior, I soon became intensely aware that he was full of bad intentions - most likely a robbery about to happen. I hopped on my bike and vanished into a distant part of town and made myself into a shadow of the night. Luckily, no incident occurred and the next morning I departed without a second thought.

Tuesday 5.28

By 7:00 I'm on the road again and against all bodily hurts made it to Saint-Genis-de-Saintonge. What a journey. Between Saintes and Sugères only the sun guided me through endless fields and rolling hills.

Nice and flat here

The beast

At one point I stopped at a crossroad and scanned east, west, north, and south. Just endless rolling fields in all directions. It was so serene. I just soaked it in. Once again, in the absence of any signage, I let the sun be my guide and headed south.

Wednesday 5.29

Today it's a short ride to Bordeaux. I plan to stop by a wine dégustation station to find out what the buzz is all about.

Bordeaux country

Just cycling through the pain: knees, legs, butt and back. Up, down and around. Now sunburn. Once in Bordeaux finding a youth hostel was not hard. It was a typical social place. A Dutch man explained  me his pilgrimage from the Netherlands to Spain on foot where he would continue along the famous “Camino de Santiago”. Seven weeks of walking so far. I'd take a bike any day; but I guess that's not the point.

Among so many wonderful and interesting people, the hostel keeper turned out to be very unfriendly.  I had forgotten my towel upstairs on my departure and the hall was locked. I asked the keeper to let me in but he indignantly replied that it was locked! Clearly it was physically impossible for him to reach into his pocket for the key. Maybe it was just due to years of dealing with irresponsibles.

This is the day to fulfill my promise of the communication to my parents. I went to the post office and filled in a telegram. It was cheaper than a phone call but still cut into my per diem.

Thursday 5.30

The best intentions of tasting wine were for naught. South of Bordeaux the countryside flipped from vineyards to woods. It was a welcome change of scenery after a week of nothing but grassy, rolling hills. This was along the coast but you wouldn't know it by the high pines enclosing the road.

After a few hours, I ran into another cyclist who was en route to see his girlfriend in Pau. He had been cycling through France and loves to "make bicycle" every year. We laughed a lot and felt like old friends. We discussed the challenges of wind, mountains, traffic, and getting into and out of big cities. We swam at Mimizan Plage and setup "camping" on the beach in the open air.

Friday 5.31

After coffee and a croissant at a local bakery, my recent acquaintance and I set off. He continued to Pau and I to the border town of Biarritz. So exciting. Spain is so close! It was a cruise until Léon. That's when the huge pines with huge pine cones gave way to the foothills of the southwest Pyrenees. Beautiful landscape was replaced by congestion and the ugliest of buildings. My Shangri-la was shattered for the moment. Never mind. I had a job to do and was determined to reach the border by nightfall. Finally, after miles and miles I reached the border. I stopped for one last snack and then...

Spain!

After six years of high school Spanish I was eager to unleash my linguistic chops. It turned out that the little French I knew interfered tremendously that first day. It didn't help that the Basque region had their own language.

Northern Coast

I head to the closest albergue in Fuenterrabía. Pinched nerves in my hand and ass are hindering progress. Everyone was so nice and welcoming but they all stared as if I was from outer space.

Up one last hill to the hostel perched high up above the sea. Green everywhere and bamboo, chameleons, snakes, baby goats, and lots of German shepherds and Dobermans. It turns out that the youth hostel is more than just that - it seems to double up as home for pensioners and boarding school for kids. Time to crash.

Saturday 6.1

What a stellar view of the sea from room #43. A perfect bluebird day. Breakfast in the cafeteria was a welcome treat and well within budget at 125 pesetas ($0.70). Half way through breakfast, the entire middle school of kids attacked, firing questions a million miles a minute. ¿Como se llama usted? ¿De donde está?

After breakfast I decided to head into town. I was determined to send off some letters in progress. One country to write the contents, another to write the destination address, and another to buy stamps. Who knows how many more to send? I didn't even get to cross the front patio before being attacked again. These kids were so excited and invited me to accompany them on a walk over the hills to the Santuario de Guadalupe. As a new celebrity I couldn't refuse their exuberance. A million more questions about America. ¿Conoce Ronald Reagan? ¿Ha estado en un sumergible?

After a joyful yet exhausting morning I resumed my original plan and headed over to the town by the sea. I was on a mission to send those letters and treat myself to the famous Paella. Wow, I wasn't disappointed - yellow rice, shrimp, chicken, and mussels.

Sunday 6.2

Off to Durango. Along the coast progress was slow by mile count due to the mountains. The rocky shoreline hugs the sea.

Just another stunning Vista

San Sebastián, I believe

Since most people preferred “La Costa del Sol” on the Mediterranean, this coast was not overdeveloped. Just stunning. By 6:30 pm I arrived in Durango and contemplate the next move. A bunch of girls giggling endlessly at me. I gathered my language courage, rolled over, and smiled. Questions followed by more giggling. ¿Hay un lugar para comer aquí? I ask. They didn't even hesitate and drag me over to a local place. La dueña was so nice, which was consistent with my experience universally in Spain so far.

After a sturdy bocadillo and a glass of house wine, I said my goodbyes and headed toward the final mountain pass of the Pyrenees.  As promised by the locals, 5 km uphill delivered. I did get some cheers; even when there were moments of walking. I can't imagine what the Alps would be like.

Last gasp of the Pyrenees

Possibly the place I stayed in

Finally reaching the pass, I noticed some bad weather rolling in and I decided to stay at the nearest hotel. At 900 pesetas ($5) it’s a large portion of the daily budget but definitely worth it since seconds later the deluge of rain, thunder and lightning struck. Most days I actually preferred to sleep outside, especially since the nights were getting warmer as I progressed south and into the summer. But not today. Tonight I would enjoy a bit of warmth and comfort. Being young and carefree is a wonderful thing.

Monday 6.3

Down the mountain to Burgos.

The roofs are different in Spain

A village on the way

The first couple of kilometers were spectacular but then quaint old towns were replaced by modern smog and cities. I should have taken a different route, in hind sight. Vitoria-Gasteiz was a disaster for cycling. I actually got blown off the road by the passing wind of a massive truck at one point. Endless misery finally ended.

Once in Burgos I chatted with a local who recommended "Angelita's" as the cheapest hotel. It had classic old furniture and offered a clean shower. Life was good. I had my can of sardines to feast on. Did I feel lonely or homesick after quite a crappy ride? No. This evening I was alone but not lonely. Just happy to have the open road ahead full of potential. I was basking in the full sunshine of freedom to go anywhere and do anything - within budget, of course. Not knowing where, how, or whether the next meal or bed would materialize required attention to signals in order to survive and thrive. Pretty much guarantees an interesting time.

I spend the rest of the evening in deep contemplation.

Tuesday 6.4

More soul sapping, boring, crappy roads filled with trucks and dust. I need to have connection with people and I knew I wouldn't get it until I got off this road. Definitely regretting this route at this point. Contrary to best practices of staying alive, I resorted to listening to music and news on my tiny Aiwa FM radio.

The struggle paid off. I finally arrived at the next highlight destination: the ancient city of Valladolid. I wasn't disappointed. As I made my way toward the center, high rise apartments gave way to old, narrow streets and stone cathedrals.

Apartments enclosing the old city of Valladolid

Or is this Valladolid?

There's just one problem. I don't have any pesetas and the banks are closed, so there’s no hope of cashing any traveler checks. I hope to get a room on credit or something. At some point I must have looked very lost because a student asked if I was looking for the university. I said yes. Why not? The university square was bustling so there were plenty of people to ask about cheap accommodations.

One bubbly student, “Rosa”, said her grandma rented rooms. Amazingly, she loaned me 600 pesetas (a little over $3) and immediately followed with: "The money - it's yours, no?" I interpreted that it would be a permanent loan.

Rosa gave me a royal tour - Christopher Columbus' house and cathedrals, just marvelous. Then to a local bar for San Miguel beer and another for bocadillo. I dissolved myself in her speech. Dreamy. Comprehension stepped up another notch. Definitely a fun student town.

Wednesday 6.5

Once again, it's time to head out. This morning is the first time that I could have used a helmet. As I was cruising on the river road surrounding the old city I see something fly up from the other side and hear a bang high in the sky. Another celebration? There is always some festivity around here, it seems. Then smack and crack on my head. This rather large bottle rocket just bounced off my head. Ouch, that stung. I have to commend someone for great aim - regardless of intention.

It wasn't until noon that I realized that I had accidentally taken this huge old iron room key with me. Oops. Luckily, I knew enough information to make sure the key got back to it's owner. Another thing to mail once the post office opens again. 

These roads are beautiful and I am very thankful. Red flowers are everywhere. I'm excited that it’s only 50 km from Segovia, which is another must see scenic town before Madrid. In the far distance, I can make out the mountains that impose themselves in front of me. A few sprinkles of damp here and there. Overall, the last two weeks have been fantastic weather. But then came the wind, once again. Second gear downhill again, ugh. As fortune would have it, I drafted behind a local cyclist for a few kilometers and then behind a farm tractor for a few more. Man, I was so tempted to hold on but I didn't - that would have blemished the self-powered claim so far.

19 km before Segovia I was all out of steam so bocadillo time it was. Back on the bike, I started looking for a free place to stay for the night. Ah, some new construction, perfect. So, I locked my bike and walked back to town for some local interactions before calling it a night.

Thursday 6.6

Once again a cold morning. I left by 7 am and lazily made my way up and down rolling grass hills towards the misty mountains. No wind, yay. One more hill and ... "preciosa" - La cuidad de Segovia! It's only 8 am and the town still has that morning calm in the air. Entering the town center I am dwarfed by this double decker arched Roman aqueduct that spans from the hillside to the town. It is still original with large blocks of granite bound together without any mortar. That’s incredibly impressive.

I see this old lady who eagerly advertises her table cloth as "hecho a mano". It was a light lace, which wouldn't be too burdensome to carry and would make a nice gift for my mom, I thought. And at $7 it wouldn't break the bank. So I pulled the trigger and made the purchase. A while later I read in a travel guide to be wary of old ladies selling fake table clothes. No matter. It's a fine table cloth that surfaces for special occasions till today.

                                                     

It was time to call my uncle in Holland to check if I got the summer internship I had applied for. This is when I found that my hands couldn't hold coins. They kept on slipping out of my fingers and rolled under the door and out of the telephone booth. Not exactly convenient. Please deposit another additional bag of coins, the operator said. This is when I understood the benefit of cycling gloves to protect the nerves in the palm. Regardless, I was able to stuff enough coinage into the phone slot to connect the call and hooray! I got the job.

My uncle asked where in France I was. He was a little surprised that I was in Spain, and only one mountain pass from Madrid. That's when I found out that my telegram to my parents had not arrived. Doh!

After poking around the town a while, I decided to press on - the mountains were calling. Unfortunately, my under-nutrient intake was catching up to me and I was not up for the challenge. I stopped at a real restaurant to power up. Cow tongue. Not something I usually go for but it was cheap and full of energy. After that I was racing and finally made it to  base of the mountains. And then the rain started. I noticed a housing construction project and, once again, made “camp”. In other words, hid my bike out of view. I was always very sensitive to leave a camping site as clean and intact as I found it.

Before dark I headed into town to fraternize with the locals. These were good, honest, hard-working folks with heavily callused hands and a variety of thick accents that posed numerous challenges for my low dimensional language skills. They taught me this game being played all throughout Spain... but I have no recollection anymore of any details.

This was going to be a cold night. No blanket. The ground was cold and hard. But I was free, truly free.

Friday 6.8

At 6 am I'm frozen and must move. I load up the panniers, hop on the bike and head into the magical forest at the foot of the mountain. A nun I had met earlier described it as "preciosa" and I was not disappointed. High trees surrounded the country road on both sides. As I started to climb there were patches of lovely green grass and bubbling brooks among the dense forest.

Pine Forests Between Segovia and Madrid

Have you ever had the feeling that you were being watched? I look up the embankment in the trees to the right and see these huge eyes staring blankly at me about 20 feet away. Holy crap, eyes with horns. This was a massive black bull just eyeing me go by. I'm glad that my panniers were orange instead of red or it could have been an ugly scene, I'm sure. Then, there's an impasse. The largest bull I've ever seen is standing squarely in the middle of the road in front of me. It had the high ground so I had no chance. Since I was young and stupid I decided to proceed and then... nothing happened. Relief. Poor thing. It was actually a little freaked out by me and shuffled to the side. I wondered whether it was destined for a bull fight some day.

First gear, pushing and pulling the pedals. The cages holding in my sneakers creak with the effort. And then walk. Walk, ride, walk. Interval training, I guess. From 1200 meters to 1860 meters over 6 or 10 km. Pure grind and grit.

By 10 am I am standing at the Puerto de Navacerrada pass with snow fields in view on the left and the long valley toward Madrid to the south ahead. Accomplishment! For some crazy reason here is the only place I have a picture of myself that I asked a tourist to take. Still debating whether to post it.

Only two more mountain ranges till my final destination.

This is the second time I should have had a helmet. I cringe to think about this but I actually passed trucks on the way down. No brakes the whole time. I must have been going fast. I think it was another 60-70 km to Madrid and I made it there by 1:30 pm. What a stupid, crazy thrill.

Once in the greater Madrid area, I wandered around endlessly to find ingress and to find the address of the one contact I had. Found and lost -- he had moved out 8 years earlier. Not to be denied I managed to extract his new address and rolled on. This new place was a lavish house with a garage with rug floor and bull fighting murals covering everywhere. Alas, the caretaker explained that the owner was away... and, no, it was not acceptable for me to sleep in the garage.

Plan B was the youth hostel. I was asleep by 8 pm.

Saturday 6.8

Youth hostels are very social places. I meet two American engineering students, Suzie and Eileen. We have our 50 peseta ($0.28) breakfast and we decide to join forces and sight-see together. It was entertaining to hear them trying to communicate with los Madrileños. That's when I realized that I was actually doing pretty well language and culture-wise. I felt like I was re-entering the main stream - like emerging from the wilderness and discovering people had forgotten all about me. I call it decompression.

Sunday 6.9

Wash day. Hand washing clothes and drying in the sun. Then my thoughts turn, once again, to food. I can't bear another bread and water meal so I search for paella and... score! Yellow rice with soft shell crab, clams, and chicken. Now that's what I call a great lunch. No bocadillo with chorizo today.

Time to think about rolling again. The pure tourist experience is fun for a while but starting to wear thin. It's kind of like going to a fancy mall and having a good time but then feeling a certain stuffiness. Time to move on.

Monday 6.10

After some final errands I pack the panniers and head out of Madrid towards Toledo. After 2 1/2 hours of trying to find the adventure appropriate road, I finally find the path less travelled.

By early evening I'm in Toledo and roaming the streets. I say hello to an American tourist and next thing I know she's buying me a drink. Tasty nutrients and calories. She has a friend and they are keenly amused by my stories. Toledo is just another amazingly enchanting place - marvelous!

I press on. In “where-am-I?” Sonseca I ask this man for water. He converses and I pass some words back. He appreciates adventure and shakes my hand with an earnest gaze and wishes me good fortune. What an honest experience with honest people.

As I ride I feel strong but it's that time again to find a crash site. So far 13 nights on a proper bed and 8 nights not. Now that the nights are getting warmer I'll be able to conserve cash and sleep outside and even the score. Tonight, for some crazy reason, my bed is what appears like an old, abandoned cow watering bin. Seems clean enough and even cozy. No bull. Strange comfort in the night.

Tuesday 6.11

I awoke from a more or less comfortable sleep in the tin bin - insulated slightly inside my cloth cover, jacket and tarp. This day would be a long haul on the most isolated country roads so far. Hot, dry, sweat, and tears. At some point in the middle of the day I stopped for a break. I hadn't seen a single soul for hours and looking north and south all I see is potholes. As far as the eye can see in both directions. Bumpity, bump, bump. I start to wonder if my bike will survive this one. I don’t know why I wasn’t freaking out at that point. I don't remember worrying too much about anything.

By evening, I still hadn't seen a single house or person all day. Legs spasmic - painful to stand or sit. I tried sleeping under a bridge but late at night a four wheel drive vehicle nearly runs me over. I roll to an abandoned dirt road off to the side.

Wednesday 6.12

According to my trusty Timex watch, at 6 in the morning a 4x4 vehicle nearly runs me over - once again. I wonder if it's the same crew. Legs absolutely burnt out. I alternate walking and riding. The road is barely traversable. Now I understand why people advised me to go around this mountain range.

Finally, the first town in a day and a half, Fuencaliente, appears below.

I emerge from the desert with water deep in my mind. I imagine the image of my parched lips and dust encrusted face.  I feel like a lone cowboy strolling into a frontier town. Old ladies all dressed in black robes scurry around with wild stares at me. I find water.

This mountain town is simply stunning and preserved away from the prying eyes of tourists. Dry, parched hills up, down, and around everywhere. Cacti, big green lizards, and dead snakes were the dominant life that I noticed. Pressing on through Cardina to Montoro, which is an even more stunning white walled mountain town with a dryish river curling around the base. I have passed from Castile-la Mancha to Andalucía.

At the bottom of another mountain I stop and talk to a man a little older than myself walking along the road. This potentially-to-be-famous traveling poet was very enthusiastic. He was seeking inspiration in the hills of Andalucía.

Here is one of the poems he wrote in my journal:

"Nací muerto",

vivo sin mi...

"por ser tu exemplo."

Fernando B. P. M

(attribution unclear)

Self-proclaimed poet and philosopher, he started to explain how he recites poetry in the town squares and can earn 1500 pesetas (about $8) a day. That seemed like a lot of money to me. He and I were both thirsty so we climbed the road to the plaza mayor in town and got some lemonade. He obviously wasn't fazed by the heat of the sun because he just kept talking philosophy and stuff. He claimed not to drink, smoke, or litter. A man of principle it appeared.

Fernando had an old world war one era backpack, long black pants, long sleeve shirt, and most notably super shiny black boots. He explained the importance of shiny boots; you can have the most tattered clothes but the boots had to be buff and polished. I didn't really get it. My sneakers wouldn't stand up to a good buffing, I'm sure.

He explained that he was in search of a famed "crystal clear" stream of mystical purity. We strolled out of the town and after many questions and many dubious gazes from the locals, we found it, presumably. A little worse for wear, alas. Now it was a rather muddy river. This was not exactly what was advertised but clean enough for getting the sweat off.

After bathing we walked to the center of town again. By this time the sun had lowered and backed off its intensity and people were starting to gather. Fernando collected a bunch of kids and random townfolk and we all gathered around while he ramped up his poetry machine. All the crowd just had blank stares. I didn't understand anything either. I started laughing and pretty soon everyone was in hysterics. I realized that I hadn't laughed in several weeks. Definitely need to do something about that.

When darkness arrived we decided to keep company. He had a tent and I could sense that the situation was safe. Was I just lucky or good at reading people? Maybe when your life depends on the answer you can look deeply within a person and make the right call. Dumb luck, maybe. Things were fine and we slept through the night and I appreciated the warmth of the tent.

Thursday 6.13

I woke up relatively late because of the warmth of the cocoon. Next time, I'm definitely going to make a tent a top consideration. Fernando was planning to continue walking and poeticizing through Andalucía throughout the summer. After a sincere goodbye, I was off to Castro del Rio. Then the mountains loomed above.

This is where I discovered the title of this writing.

Once again, it was me and my baggage against the mountain. I needed help. I stopped by this cafe and bought a double espresso - the espresso at the bottom of the mountain.

That is the first espresso that I remember in my life. I flew up the mountains. Once again I was rewarded with a rush downhill to a beautiful town - this one was Cabra. Pressing on until darkness I finally collapse before a very old bridge and spend the night.

One of the old bridges

Friday 6.14

Woke up early on the hard gravel. I'm feeling older than my age but I'm determined to reach the coast near Malaga today. Pressing on, I finally see it: "la Costa del Sol". I must admit it was a bit anti-climactic. High rises all around. It was not the Spain I had grown to love. But the turquoise blue of the Mediterranean Sea soon cast its spell on me and I was taken.

Rolling along the Mediterranean Sea was like being with the best companion ever. Stunningly beautiful and comfortable. This is exactly where I wanted to be. By 2:30 pm I couldn't resist any more and rode into the sand of the beach and ran and jumped into the Mediterranean. Perfect coolness. For hours I lay on the beach getting way too much sun.

Gibraltar was only a day away. I spoke to a shop owner about my journey. I mentioned that I started in London and he said hmm. Then I said that I'm going to Gibraltar and his eyes grew wide – “So far!” he said. I guess the London bit got lost in translation.

As I moved along the coast it was clear that I was no longer in Spain. Brits everywhere. Even shop keepers were speaking English. Time to shift gears and start being a - somewhat reluctant and decidedly poor - tourist. I'm running low on funds and need to keep a careful tab on expenditures.

Just  before Marbella there is a beach filled with tents pitched by Spanish tourists, visiting for the weekend, I find out. The only issue I experienced was the ant invasion of my sleeping quarters during the night. I moved a little and continued sleeping again; this time ant free. Paradise lost and found.

Gibraltar

Saturday 6.15

In spite of the ant eater experience, I slept well and long. The ride to Gibraltar was leisurely. I stopped to treat myself to a bottle of Yoplait "para beber" - a reasonable breakfast, don't you think? More road winding along the coast. Then it hit me. The view opened and there it was - the Rock. White limestone cliffs in full glory. A most beautiful site. Stunning.

Finally, the Rock is within spitting distance. I've made it. A blessed trip. The first experience of total independence. What was I thinking, exactly? I never doubted making it but why did I think it was possible? I guess I didn't really think enough about it to have any doubts.

What? Why do these guards want to see my passport? I'm not going to Morocco. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Gibraltar is a British territory, which has has been a sore point with the Spanish since the 1700s. Anyway, I'm in without delay and then I stand in awe of the huge cliffs towering above. Skirting the west side is a cute town that is distinctly British.

It wasn't really intentional to cycle from Britain to Britain. Why Gibraltar? It seemed to be the farthest place I could ride in a couple of weeks without falling into the sea. Sure, Casablanca would have been really cool, but that would have been far too adventurous; as well as beyond the budget of time, money, and luck.

I met up with 4 funny German guys who also had been cycling all over. They bought me nutrients at a local cafe and I was grateful, especially after seeing the prices (in Gibraltar Pounds). Clearly, I couldn't stay. After doing a short self-guided tour around town I found a parking garage with an old Spaniard as attendant. He explained some of the history and his situation. He lived in La Línea, the town just across the border, and he walked through customs every day. He talked about finding old cannonballs in the ground surrounding the cliffs. He said that he would watch over my bike for the night. I trusted him. He was as genuine as the ground we stood on. Solid.

Right then and there I hatched a plan to sleep on the rock itself. So, I took a few things and headed up the winding road. Up and up. It was dusk and the sunlight was fading fast. Not a soul around that I can remember. Approaching the crest of the rock I can barely see anything in the no-light. I notice a shed on the side of the road and park myself to the leeward side. Since every evening south of Madrid was very pleasant it didn't occur to me that this would be different. And silly me I hadn't taken my jacket. I did have my one remaining long pants, short sleeve shirt and a map. The map was worn but provided some protection until my old friend 6 am shook me up.

I had to jump up and down and run around to warm up. Heading to the ridge above I detour here and there and finally make it to the top. Behold: The Sun cresting the surface of the ocean in bright pinks and reds!  I really wished I had someone to share that experience with. Stunning. I wandered around from peak to peak and stumbled upon what looked like an old bunker. I explored and there was a tunnel straight through. This opened to a windless, sun drenched scene - a crazy vertical cliff of pure white, chalky limestone. Total silence only broken by the laughing gulls in the sky. I was in some sort of channel with vertigo walls on both sides. Then I notice some steps disappearing below. Wow! Beautiful flowers and dry, yet green, shrubbery clinging to the cliffs and the deep blue Mediterranean beckoned from far, far below. Simply marvelous. Half way down I run into another morning appreciator coming up with a huge grin and hearty good day.

Attribution: https://pixabay.com/en/gibraltar-mountain-landscape-scenic-105751/

Attribution: https://pixabay.com/en/gibraltar-spain-mediterranean-rock-724345/

At the bottom I make my way to a local beach for some swimming and snorkeling. I've carried that snorkeling mask for over 2000 kilometers (more or less 1300 miles) and finally get to use it. I see sea urchins and spiny fish and underwater caves. So cool.

I went to Spain for food and returned to Britain to sleep. The rocks by the beach were perfect for a while until a rogue wave came by and drenched me in the middle of the night. It wasn't totally unpleasant since the temperature at sea level wasn't too bad.

Sunday 6.16

With four more days left, I decided to unwind with some serious R & R. Beach, swim, eat (in Spain). Rinse and repeat. After a few days my passport resembled a supermarket coupon book. The parking attendant in Gibraltar was so nice. After the first night he said in English: "For you, no pay." He spent most of his time shining this beautiful old car next to the booth. His pride and joy, he told me. He seemed to be a relic from the past, which was oddly comforting for me. I too, was a little off balance in this place, in spite of my daily enjoyments.

Monday 6.17 - Wednesday 6.19

I'm completely broke. No money for another roll of film. No photos of Gibraltar. No selfies. Just memories and my journal. I decided it would be a waste to use my emergency Eurail pass as a one-way trip. After investigating the train fare, I realized that I could get to Madrid if I squeezed every peseta to the limit. There was no money to go further. It's a long cycle from there to Holland and worse, there's no time. And then there's the calorie requirement. Not gonna happen. So I decide to swallow my pride and call my parents.

I insert some random coins and rotate the phone dial - endlessly waiting for each spin. An operator asks me to deposit more coinage and says I have 5 minutes to talk. It's the middle of the night (sorry) in the eastern U.S. and my brother, Pieter, answers. Where are you? What? Gibraltar? Cool. Being tight on coinage I quickly ask Pieter to have mom and dad kindly wire some money to Banco Central in Madrid. If that fails, then wire to the American Express office. He assured me that he would make it happen. The operator interrupts and kindly asks if I'm done. No, I'd like to talk some more... and she politely says ok and lets us talk for another 10 minutes before interrupting again in the nicest way imaginable.

I got accustomed to sitting in the square in La Línea munching on a trusty bocadillo. After a few sittings and watching people coming and going, a spirited young girl and boy stop by to ask me where I'm from. The girl’s parents stop by and they invite me for tea. Sure, why not?

The dad and I hit it off together. He was a "fitter" for the ships that get repairs while in port. I’ve always been fascinated by ships and such. He was currently annoyed with the American Navy, who left with his tools in the middle of the night. I'm sure it was super important and things would work out. They had another son, Andrew, and a baby daughter, Michele, who was just learning to talk and move. "Break dance, Michelle! Break dance!" And she would wiggle and move her pudgy arms in the most endearing and stylish fashion. To add to the awesomeness, they invited me to stay for three nights. Now I could augment my routine - eat, customs, beach, swim, customs, eat, and bed. Three days of perfection.

Decompression

Thursday 6.20

Last day at large. I wait as long as is responsible before departing - absorbing as much sun and relaxation as possible. At 6:30 pm, I bicycled to Algeciras to catch the train to Madrid. There was a slight problem. I could get on the train but my bike could not board the train due to a handler strike. This was the only train for the day and I was out of time. Somehow, the bike got on and we were off. Many hours now to chill.

Friday 6.21

Arriving to Madrid, I grab my bike from the freight car handler and head over to Banco Central. No money there. I head to the AmEx office. No money there. The AmEx staff were generous enough to let me call home and yes, they had sent the money. So, more digging and then... oh can you look under "D", and bingo! There it was. The double vowel just cannot exist in Spain. Have cash, will travel!

Bike and me back on train. Then I was rewarded with the company of a very nice girl to talk to for 16 hours. I could get used this. Back to English.

Saturday 6.22 - Monday 6.24

Having not slept a wink, I arrived in Paris dead tired. Grabbed a pain longue and sat in a lovely park for a while. I ended up wandering around Paris for a few days, looking up some friends and acquaintances and being a very content tourist.

Tuesday 6.25

It turns out that the Paris south station is miles away from the north station and I find out that my bike is somewhat trashed. Somewhere between Madrid and Paris the front fork got mangled. Someone must have really launched that thing into a wall or something because I couldn't mangle it in over a 1000 miles of riding. So I wobble and scrape my way to the north station and barely make the train. It didn’t help that I couldn’t get proper directions when I kept shouting “Où est la guerre nord?” (where is the north war?) instead of “Où est la gare nord?”.

Arriving in Den Haag, Holland I wobble the bike to my grandfather's house and ring the doorbell. Finally, home sweet home. A warm welcome. I put my bike inside and lean it against the wall with panniers still attached. I go to give and receive hugs and moments later we hear a crash. The bike had fallen over and was oozing the sweet, sticky anise liquor that I had bought in Spain as a present. Doh. The first crash in a month. That's what happens when you lower your guard, I guess.

So, in the end, I made it in time for the Oort family reunion with hours to spare. It was an incredibly gratifying trip. One big factor was the people I met and also the people I didn’t meet. Amazingly, by some grace and luck, I didn’t have any major problems. All that was required was some perseverance and decent state of mind and physique.  Although, I wouldn't recommend this exact style of trip in this era, I'd recommend making a healthy solo trip, even if for just a few days. It will alter your perspective, I’m sure.