The Eat-ternal City

My guidebook describes Rome as a city that “Rather than bowing to its tourists, nods its head in recognition of them and marches on its way.”

That statement got me pretty jacked. I was ready for a city to be reckoned with. I had spent enough time previously bathing in slow-paced Greek island dreamlands and in the walled Old City that I was ready to start feeling small in a place where I’d take the role of, for the most part, an observer of the life and rich history around me.

And an avid, exhausted observer I was. Thanks to Eve Smith, the mother of two guys that have been involved in our Young Life club in Fayetteville, I was armed with a Let’s Go city guide to Rome that would eventually be riddled with espresso stains, pizza crust crumbs and dried palm sweat. Fact: A good guidebook is worth it’s weight in diamonds. I had been to Rome before with my folks and had seen most of the major must-sees (and eaten very well on their tab), so this time around I was looking forward to traveling through mostly backdoors.

The Tuesday afternoon that I arrived I spent wandering from my hostel near the train station to the Colosseum, and eventually hopped onto a free walking tour to get my self accustomed to the Eternal City. On the tour I made friends with two young ladies named Katie and Danielle who had recently graduated from OSU, and after some brief conversation, discovered a handful of mutual friends. After the tour I joined them for dinner at a spaghetteria recommended by our free tour guide where the menu resembled more of a yellowpages for pasta than a menu. I picked one that looked funky enough for my tastebuds, and enjoyed the best meal I had in Rome.

Wednesday was dedicated to following a walking tour from my bestfriend/Let’s Go guidebook. The tour, estimated to take three to four hours, took me six. I strolled past the Colosseum, the Forum, a Jesuit church named Il Gesu, down to the Tiber and across the river via an island named Isola Tiberina, into a gorgeous section of town called Trastevere (tras-TEV-eh-ray), through a museum in an old castle/prison/fort/hideout for the Pope known as Castel Sant’Angelo, and finished by sitting in St. Peter’s and trying not to cry from the overwhelming size and beauty of the place… and because I was so beat. I snagged a slice of pizza with some fellow hostelers from Miami and called it a night.

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Thursday was dedicated to the Vatican. I was accompanied by some roommates in the hostel from Kentucky and Peru, and we hit the museum together. Four hours later, I had seen enough art and nude sculptures for eight lifetimes, and returned back to the beautifully authentic section of town, Trastevere. I enjoyed a self-guided Let’s Go walking tour of the place, and I was able to walk inside and below a church dedicated to St. Cecilia, a Christian martyr who’s story is unbelievable.

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After not sitting since breakfast, I caught a bus/sauna-on-wheels back to the hostel. I must say, it was the first time I had ever stepped on a bus that was so full, I probably could have lifted my feet off the ground and continued to remain vertical from being pinched like the creme in an Oreo between the sweaty bodies behind me and the fogging glass smushed against my face. I joined a group of nine other hostelers for some dinner across town, and laid my weary head to rest.

My final full day began with a quick stroll by the Circus Maximus and a visit to the Baths of Caracalla. “Hey Carlyle, what’s so cool about a bath?” The ruins of the Baths of Caracalla were once public baths that could house up to 2000 people at any given time. The Baths not only had pools of cold, moderate, and hot temperatures, but gymnasiums for exercise and expansive gardens for socializing. The walls that still stood and the mosaics on the floor reminded me of an ancient version Globo Gym from the movie Dodgeball. It was astounding, and gave me an even deeper understanding of how well-developed the Roman society was.

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I ended with yet another visit to St. Peter’s, the Jerryworld of basilicas. I paid a few extra euros and climbed the billion or so steps that led me to the top of the “cupola” near the tip-top of the church where I got a panoramic view of Rome.

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I trekked down to the bottom and I sat in St. Peter’s and sang hymns to myself while I just looked at the bigness of the place.

I had time to rest and think. I thought a lot about the history of my faith, and about people like St. Cecilia. I also thought a lot about the uneasy feeling I got from the commercialization of Christianity that I’d seen heavily in Israel as well as Rome. I thought about fastening together a whip of cords and flipping over the tables of local vendors, but I figured an overseas prison sentence would put a real damper on my plans in Fayetteville for this Fall, so I just kept sitting and soaking in St. Peter’s.

I scarfed a quick bite from the three euro buffet at my hostel (can you say “quality?”) and jumped on my night bike tour that traveled around “Unusual Rome.”

That’s it for my itinerary. I know this is a travel blog, not a pedestal, but I’ll end with an observation.

As we gazed upon a view of the ancient forum of Rome on my night bike tour, my guide reminded me that the population of Rome at it’s height was roughly 1.5 million people. My guide in Israel told me that at the time of the Roman Empire, the height of a major town in the middle east was roughly 2000 people. The state of wealth and power that Rome was in at it’s height is equivalent to where the United States in currently, give or take. An informational sign at the Circus Maximus said that at the time of the Circus Maximus, the time of the Roman Empire’s height, there were mainly two things that the people wanted: Food and Games. In other words, consumption and amusement.

I can only imagine how invincible the Roman population felt, when at a time before electricity they had baths built for 2000 that look more like cathedrals than recreational facilities.

Then they fell, and fell hard.

My observation is this: “Food and Games” sounds dangerously too familiar. Nutrition and entertainment are necessary, of course. But we’re going deeper here. I’m not predicting the fall of an entire nation, but this is meant for more personal reflection. As long as constant consumption and unending amusement encompass who we are as people, we’ve got a one-way ticket to imminent destruction (Think of the Disney’s Wall-E).

I’ve hit a “travel wall” now. I’m exhausted. Rome wore me the heck out, and I’m even feeling a little under the weather. I went long and hard every day and I’m feeling it now. My overnight in Assisi is going to be for rest, peace and recooperation. Kinda what that St. Francis guy talked a lot about.

Signing off for now,

Carlyle

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Israel Is Real

Disclosure: My previous blog posts have consisted of two days of travel or less each. This post accounts for my stay in Israel in it’s entirety – four days. I was a little too consumed with inhaling “falafel in pita” and daydreaming over four millennia of history that I postponed documenting it all until I finished.

Visiting the Holy Land is like trying to explain the color green to someone who was born blind. An imagination can only take someone so far. Seeing and experiencing the sites has forever colored in the lines of scripture for me. I’ll go day by day, “falafel in pita” by “falafel in pita,” and do by best to recall my adventures in the Holy Land.

Arrival:
I walked through the Jaffa Gate and into the Old City, checked into my room at Christ Church Guest House, and spent some time wandering before sunset and thus began my enslavement to the wonders of “falafel in pita.”

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Day One:
I began my expedition through the Old City with the City of David. Located just outside the city gates, the City of David is the original Canaanite city that David conquered with his troops and established as capital of the new kingdom.

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I knew I was going to be learning a bit more history on this trip than I already knew, but I didn’t expect that I’d eventually just be opening my mouth over the gushing fire hydrant of history, trying to drink in as much as I could retain without my eyes popping out of my head. There were excavation sites that showed structures dating back to the original city, and I got to stand on top of the hill that the city was built on and get an irreplaceable view of the geography of the place, and why location was as ideal as it was.

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Then I took off my socks, bought a cheap five shekel keychain light, and descended into Hezekiah’s Tunnel, fed by the Gihon Spring. The Gihon Spring was the city’s supply of a constant source of fresh water. So when King Hezekiah was under the threat of Assyrian attack, he (well, probably not the king himself, but slaves with pick axes and the strength of a John Deere) chiseled an underground tunnel that channeled the water into the city walls. The Jews survived the Assyrian attack, and water and hoards of tourists still flow through the 5ft. by 2 1/2 ft. tunnel to this day. Chisel marks are still visible, many of which left their mark on my skull as I continually tried to stand up straight and stretch.The tunnel is a few hundred meters took about 20 minutes to hike the entire thing.

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Near the end of the trek through the C.O.D, I continued aimlessly through another underground tunnel that I paid a few extra shekels for, and eavesdropped enough on the tour guide in front of me to realize that I was standing beneath the Western Wall. Be-neath the Wes-tern Wall. For a few minutes, I had the corridor to myself and enjoyed my one-on-one time with the wall, even though I knew there were roughly a kajillion people four meters above touching the wall as well.

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After ascending from the depths of the first century into the sizzling Israeli sun, I realized I was in the middle of the Ophel Archaeological Park, and with my repulsion toward a set itinerary on this trip, I wandered among the Second Temple (Jesus’ stompin’ grounds) ruins for a bit, and spent some time observing a Friday afternoon at the Western Wall while feeling like Bok Choy in a wok at P.F. Chang’s under the Israeli sun.

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I felt like I could hear the bartering of shopkeepers and the sizzling of falafel in the Muslim Quarter, so I meandered my way over to see what my guidebook raved about. I dodged a few dozen street kitties, and wandered through the quarter and out the Damascus Gate, but not without snagging some dates, figs and mixed nuts from one of the many vendors selling goods out of a shop about the size of a walk-in closet. I also fed my “falafel in pita” addiction. Duh.

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I ended the night early because I was going have an early morning…

Day Two:
… but I didn’t. You know that feeling when you’ve forgotten or missed something and your heart instantly turns into a bowling ball and feels like it crushes a strike on the rest of your internal organs? Well I woke up at 7:00 for my 6:00am tour that I’d scheduled a month in advance to Nazareth and Galilee (northern Israel) with nothing on the to-do list for the day. I shot a quick email to the tour group, with my fingers crossed that I could hop on the Monday tour. And so I bit off the unplanned piece of daily bread that the Lord had for me, ate my weight in the free breakfast from the church, took the morning fairly slowly, laced up my Merrels and headed out to Mount Zion.

Mount Zion is where the slightly well-known events of the Last Supper and the Descent of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost took place. Before the rush of tour groups, I was able to sit with a few others in silence in the upper room and just sit. I didn’t necessarily start doing backflips and speaking in tongues, nor did I really feel any type of overwhelming emotion. The others and I just peacefully sat in the place that the tradition of communion began and where the Lord gave his Spirit to believers on Earth.

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Then I smelled flaf n’ pete (I acquired a nickname basis with the food) and scurried out.

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I figured the Mount of Olives would be pretty sweet, so I weaved through the city, fending off overly-aggressive shopkeepers and ended up being seduced by some orange-lookin’ dessert from the Muslim Quarter.

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I arrived breathing heavily and ringing the sweat out of my shirt at the top of the Mount of Olives (across the Kidron Valley from the Old City), and began my multi-stationed tour of the mountain at the Church of Christ’s Ascension, where, of course, Christ ascended into Heaven. The small dome, built in the 11th century, was no larger than the size of my bedroom I grew up in. It was quaint and quiet, and after a few minutes, I chunked my deuces to the sky and kept walking.

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My next stop was the Church of Pater Noster, the place where Jesus is said to have foretold the sacking of Jerusalem by the Romans and his own Second Coming. The church, meaning “Our Father” in Latin, had a garden as well as a collection of the Lord’s Prayer written in over 140 languages all over the church.

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I then stepped off the curb wrong, rolled my ankle, yelled a few words I shouldn’t have, and limped over to the Sanctuary of Dominus Flevit. “Dominus Flevit” translates literally as “the Lord wept.” The quaint chapel, shaped itself like tear drop, commemorates where Jesus wept over Jerusalem.

Lastly, I ended at the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus prayed over the “cup” He was to receive from His Father the following day. I cooled off in the Church of All Nations next door, then headed back to see the garden. I strolled along the fence and hummed one of my favorite hymns, “I Stand Amazed (In the Presence),” and stood still next to the enormous olive trees that are said to have been live witnesses to Jesus as he “shed no tear for His own griefs, but sweat drops of blood for mine.”

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I walked off the soreness in my tender left ankle up and around the city to the Jaffa gate where I was going to call it a day, but not before I snagged the last ticket for sale to the 9:00pm showing of the pictorial history of Jerusalem projected onto the walls of the Tower of David. ‘Twas entertaining.

Day Three:
Sunday morning I attended the church service at Christ Church (my residence for 5 nights) and ended up engaging in such rich conversation with a couple from Illinois, that they treated me and another friend to lunch. I strolled through the Tower of David museum later on in the afternoon where I once again had so much Israeli history shoved in my mouth at once that I could barely chew it all.

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I had planned on also walking the Stations of the Cross, but I got lost and went straight to the Garden Tomb which ended up being closed for the day.

Although slightly disappointed, I ended up chuckling myself to sleep over the three words: He. Is. Risen. We don’t need no stinkin’ Garden Tomb! So I chowed a Flafn’Pete and crashed.

Day Four:
The tour company let me jump on the Monday tour. Score. I set three, count ’em, one-two-three alarms to ensure my getting up at 5:00am for my tour to Nazareth and Galilee. My tour consisted of an intimate group of a guide, five others from around the world, and me. My fingers are getting tired from typing, so here’s a summary of the day:
– Nazareth. Jesus’ hood. Was a small town where He carpentered stuff, now a bustling city.
– Church of Annunciation. Where Gabriel came down to Mary and said “Wussup girl, you’re giving birth to the Messiah, coo?

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– Saw the mountain that the Transfiguration took place on.
– Went to the place-ish where Jesus was like “Yo, can you give me that bread and those fish, these peeps are starvin’.” And he fed them.
– Went to Simon Peter’s house and the town where many of the apostles are from where the group of guys dug a hole in the roof to lower down their friend for Jesus to touch and heal. That was powerful.

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– Ate a fish. Splashed my face with some Galilean water.

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– Splashed my face with some Jordan River. Pretended I was John the Baptist minus the whole eating locus and wearing animal skins part.
– Took a picture of a camel with ugly teeth.
– Savored my last F-n’-P.
– End the day with a conversation with a young lady on staff with Campus Crusade at my hotel who lived in Fayetteville, in the same house that I’m living in this semester. Small world.

All of that being said, I’m never going to read Scripture the same. I got to see where Jesus wept for Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives. I got to see the hills that David and his soldiers snuck up in the night to conquer his future capital city. I learned a lot about human nature through the rich history of Jerusalem, one of the only cities on earth to be constantly inhabited for over 4,000 years.

I’d love to go back someday.

I’m sitting in the bar on the bottom floor of my hostel in Rome, Italy now. For the past few weeks, I’ve felt it was possible to “conquer” the towns I’ve been in and for the most part, do just about everything. Not in Rome. I’m ready though. We’ll see where a good pair of Merrels and dose of curiosity take me.

In the words of Ron Burgundy, “When in Rome.”

Carlyle

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The School of Hard Naxos

Life is slow on the Greek islands (at least while the sun is up). I’m convinced that there’s some type of magical magnetic field one enters into on the Greek islands where the second hand of the clock simply ticks slower.

I can’t tell you how many back porches I’ve strolled by with one person sitting with minimal clothing on, cigarette slowly burning, apparently just watching their clothes dry.

One of the things I’ve loved most about the Greek islands is what I get to see when I wander outside of the hustle n’ bustle of the tourist crowds. I love seeing the local shopkeepers softly singing in Greek while sweeping up bits of debris off of the who-knows-how-old narrow passageways in whatever town I wander my way into.

I sat next to an English woman on the bus who had been contracted down to Greece for some type of art exhibit thing (she was a ceramic artist), and she said that the hardest adjustment to make was the adjustment to the Greek concept of time and getting tasks knocked out.

But I like it. It’s one of the things I was looking forward to before I left. Trust me, I love knocking out tasks, because without it I’d be without the job I love and probably wouldn’t be anywhere near graduating college. But I feel that I need to be Greek’d for some period of time every day in my life, so I can stop and smell the roses (or ouzo and cigarette smoke if you’re in Santorini). Not to mention that intentional rest and peace is biblical. Cigarettes and Ouzo? Eh, I think it’s somewhere in there…

My ferry pulled into Naxos late Sunday afternoon. I spent the evening just sitting on the edge of the beach, just… sitting and watching the sun sink into the sea.

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My first full day was quiet, slow-paced, and peaceful. I dedicated the day to checking out the inland towns of Halki, Moni, and Filoti. When I rented my moped, I didn’t expect to be as blown away as I was 10 minutes into my ride. After driving over the crest of the small mountain behind Naxos Town (where I stayed), the expanse of the island floored me (inwardly, of course. Being floored on a moped would not be safe). The only thing I can compare it to is Colorado. Except crank the heat, lower the elevation, take out all the trees, and surround it all with the Mediterranean Sea. “Greece? Like Colorado? Say what, Carlyle?” Yes. The mountains were enormous and astounding.

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I took a 2-minute tour of the two-roomed citron distillery in Halki. Citron is a liquer made in Naxos from the Citron fruit. I looks like a over-sized lime, but exotic and mysterious because it’s on a Greek island.

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Soaking in Santorini

A 13 hour sleep seems to take care of jet lag just fine.

Friday was my first full day in Santorini, and island of Greece where clouds, sadness, and the word “ugly” are banned. My hostel was in Perissa, a town known for it’s 9 km black sand beach and assortment of traditional Greek restaurants lining the coast.

Before I ouzo’d and beach-bummed on the scorching black sand beaches, I decided to work up a sweat and hike to the top of the smaller of the two mountains (more like gigantic hills) on Santorini to see the remains of Ancient Thira, the ancient city dating back to centuries BC, and that which the current capitol is named after.

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I spent an hour oogling at the ancient remains, reading the descriptions, and pausing every few minutes to look at the panorama of Santorini around me. That is, until I saw the next mountain that stood slightly higher than the one I was standing on. I had plenty of snacks and water, so I hiked down from the ruins and up to Profitis Ilias Monastery, a monastery built in 1711 that also shares its site with a radar tower installed by the Greek military. The top of the mountain was gorgeous, with another panoramic view of the island.

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The opposite side of the mountain looked a lot less appealing after two strenuous hikes, so I snagged a ride with two friendly Australians who dropped me off in the next town down the mountain. But not before an ATV ran into us. Don’t worry, insurance took care of it all. I apologized for being a bad luck charm, and jumped out to explore the town of Pyrgos.

I knew as much about Pyrgos as my guidebook did – two sentences. I saw a neat-looking, cobblestone, curvy road, bought a bottle of water, and went wandering. Upon wandering, I discovered a quaint, beautiful hidden gem-of-a-town. Every roadway was narrow and for foot-traffic only. I was encased by high white walls, shops with hand-made art and cafes with blue roofs. I found a cafe near the top of the town’s main hill, and stopped to enjoy a Greek salad and the view.

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I wandered the town for a bit longer, got lost, and finally found a bus to take me back to Perissa where I soaked my tired legs in the warm black sand and cool blue waves of the Mediterranean. I dined on the beach and ended the night with conversation over some ouzo with a group of English, Canadian and Australian bunkmates from the hostel.

Saturday I rented a cheap moped and hit the dangerous, rustic roads of the island to explore the nooks and crannies that I knew existed if I only just looked. I started by bumming on the beach of Vlychada where the white pumice cliffs meet the beach and make it feel like you’re in outer space… kinda… except there’s beautiful water and half naked people running around.

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When I had my fair-share of the beach from outer space, I tried scoot-scoot on over to the ancient ruins of Akrotiri, but was blessed with the experience of getting lost and having one of the best afternoons in my 22 years of existence. I cruised on old winding roads down the southwest coast of the island, with the two major towns of Thira and Oia in visibility a few kilometers across the glimmering blue sea. As soon I saw the sign in the middle of no man’s land that said “Restaurant.. fish caught by family boats,” I knew it was time to hit the pause button. I took the waitress’ (the fisherman’s daughter) recommendation and for an hour enjoyed my Greek salad with a slab of feta weighing roughly 9 kilos, fried fish, and some type of cinnamon Greek dessert. My server taught me how to eat the fish correctly after I told her that I simply had never eaten entire fish that had literally been taken out of the net, battered and deep fried.

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After a hand shake a “efharisto,” I scoot-scooted a few hundred meters to the southern most point of the island that houses a lighthouse and a beautiful rustic cliffside. Receiving a few odd looks, I climbed out onto the furthest cliff I could, and sat alone while listening to the battle between the waves and the bottom of the cliff I was sitting on. Pure, exhilarating peace.

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The sun floated on the water for just long enough for me to reach the Red Beach in time to bum for half an hour before heading back to Perissa.

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I headed back to the hostel, showered, and got some Banana and Nutella waffles on the beach with some more Canadian backpackers.

This morning I said my goodbyes to Santorini and boarded a ferry to Naxos.

I don’t know much about Naxos, but that’s nothing Let’s Go: Greece and an ATV rental can’t handle.

Peace, Love, Feta, Ouzo, Sunlight and Happiness,

Carlyle

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Hectic in Heathrow

I arrived in London from Chicago at 10:30 p.m.ish and had about 8 hours to kill before my next flight at 6:30 a.m. I tried to snag some Z’s in the terminal I was in, but soon discovered that tile floor is not a friend to exposed joints such as the elbow and the kneecap. After surfing the net and pretending to nap, I tried to print out my boarding pass when the desks all opened up at 4:00 a.m. I was told that I was in the wrong terminal, and that I’d “betta huhrry up, chap” so I could reach the next terminal in enough time to check in with some breathing room.

I briskly walked to the train that would take me to Terminal 5, only to find out that the train wouldn’t come for another 45 minutes. So I tried the bus, and upon arriving at the busses, was told by an employee that the train would actually be quicker. So I even briskly-er walked to the train again, found out it was going to be even later than expected, so I ran back up to the busses and paced back and forth in the chilly drizzle of London in anticipation of the bus that didn’t end up arriving until 5:35. My check-in was to be no later than 5:45. I squeezed my standing-room handle on the bus tightly (as if it would make it go any faster) and arrived at Terminal 5 at exactly 5:44. When the doors skooshed open I took off sprinting to British Airways’ check in desk, dodging Englishmen left and right, and arrived in enough time for the guy at the counter to tell me I was too late and had to catch the next flight. Apparently he felt sorry for me when he saw that I was sweating and panting, and gave me one of those “I know I shouldn’t do this, but I’m letting you slide” kind of looks and said “Gate B, chap. RUN.” So I ran. Buzzed through security. Arrived at the train that was to take me to my gate. And sprinted to my gate only to arrive at 6:08 (boarding closed at 6:10) and realized that boarding was delayed due to a malfunctioning door on the aircraft. I sat down, shared my sweat with the seatback behind me, and took a few long breaths of relaxation. Being alone in a tense situation in an unfamiliar area is a unique experience.

And so I arrived in Santorini, where they don’t believe in clouds. I wandered around the town of Perissa for about an hour looking for my room, and ate a stuffed calamari for a peaceful sunset dinner on the beach (no, not fried baby squids, but a foot-long, grilled, full-size squid stuffed with feta cheese and herbs).

Next post: My days in Santorini.

Soaking in Santorini,

Carlyle

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Adventure Awaits

I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Mostly because I soaked in every last minute I could with Nellie (my female love interest, for those unfamiliar), and partly because my pits were sweating profusely out of nervous excitement. I currently have the same excitement/giddy-ness/ eery peace that I’ve only felt once before – that time when I hopped on the bus to go to Young Life camp in 2007 with nothing but the clothes on my back, a tooth brush, and twenty bucks.

I’m embarking on an adventure that I’ve realized is as memorable and as once-in-a-lifetime as being born, getting married (ideally), and eating your first raw oyster.

Over the next seven(ish) weeks I’ll be backpacking anywhere that the wind blows and my Eurail Pass allows between Israel and London. For those I haven’t schpeeled to yet, I’m taking a graduation trip that kinda makes my head want to explode. My grandfather left me a chunk of cash in stock that was still glowing even after my “graduation” (I still have nine hours left…yea, about that). My mother, who backpacked for six months herself in her younger years, tossed out (well, more like shoved in my face) the idea of backpacking with the money I have left.

I examined my circumstance and this is what I realized: A) This my last Summer ever (like, forever-ever) that I’ll have seven weeks open with no job obligation and no wife and family to love and feed. 2) I’m only 22 years old, mobile, hostile, and agile once in my life. And D) There’s that chunk of change afloat in the stock market with my name on it.

The planets had never been so aligned, and never would be so for the rest of my life here on Planet Earth. So I called the broker, yanked the dough, bought my ticks (“tickets” abbreviated), a backpack, fancy Exofficio backpacking undies that can go weeks without a wash, and decided to make this trip my own and take advantage of this opportunity that is as once-in-a-lifetime as one’s first cigarette, first-born child, and going to Young Life camp with the clothes on one’s back.

I’m sitting in the London right now, awaiting my flight to Athens.

I do actually have some goals on this trip. 1) Pretend I work for the Travel Channel and the Food Network at the same time and eat and drink accordingly. B) Hitchhike more than once. And 4) Trust the Lord day by day to bring exhilarating situations, spontaneity, excitement, and “life to the full” that only comes on the other side of faith and risk. I would be lying if I didn’t say I feel slightly nervous and inadequate right now. But faith wouldn’t be faith without faith itself, right?

I’ll keep updating my blog on a somewhat-regular basis for all five or six of you that’ll keep up with this thing.

Adventure awaits,

Carlyle

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