Hamberg, Germany

This story begins with a word: a word to the mother. . . "Madonna". The train left Copenhagen bound for Amsterdam around 9 o' clock and we were set to arrive in the Netherlands the next day just at mid-morning.

Sweden had been brillant, but the the price was steep. At a last attempt to salvage what was left of my travelling expense for Scandanavia, I passed on the sleeping berth and bought a night train ticket, a single seat. And in the cabinette were two dark haired people each with small frames. There were two university aged girls. I could feel anticipation but whom it was coming from I hadn't known. The girls were speaking German softly and then, the dark haired people stood up, and left. They didn't come back. Outside was so cold. Though my own company I cannot do without, I longed for someone else. And that was real, but it was just fire added to something I already waited for. It was general warmth and bit of sadness and all and all I was comforted knowing that this my own experiment and experience.

The two girls looked over at me and they had a single-way proposition. "Our friend," one began, "has been split up and she is in the cabin next door. Would you trade seats with her."

There was no reason to say no and so, I collected my things and moved next door. There the third friend of four was doing the same, preparing to swtich seats. "Have a nice journey," she said the man sitting in the cabin.

The train was making its way across Denmark and to paint a picture would only pale in the beauty of the green and blue and white all set against a still and perfect palette. The man, I don't remember his name, was Norweigen I thought his English was just fine, however, I could not understand much of what he was saying. I smiled. We talked for maybe 15 minutes and he asked if he could let the window down. Well, of course. Though it had been maybe 18 or so degrees already. And, he reached for the window coughing. I don't remember his name because now I remember, I never asked.

Well, about his family I donn't know either, becuase the conversation was small talk, I was sleepy and thinking about some method to pass 10 late hours with barely enough room to stretch and no room to recline. And so, I simply rested my head on my shoulder supported by a folded up scarf.

And, then, I heard an intense snore and woke up to see the man sitting on my side of the cabin one seat over.

"Do you have enough space, sir?" I asked out of genuine concern and genuine discomfort. He mumbled, yes, and said something, which I assumed was the desire to not ride opposite the way of the train. I walked out the cabin to look through the large windows in the passage way.

Everything was beautiful. I looked out wishing it was possible to absorb the entire moment. This was Denmark melting into Germany and if I had an imaginery spoon I would dip it into the landscape and taste the atmosphere. The water was so deep dark blue it was refreshing and thrist provoking at the same time. I had a bottle of water in my bag, in the cabin.

In the cabin the man remained in his new seat and sat slumped over the chair. Some Italians next door were rubbing tomato over baguettes and I could smell tuna. They moved from one cabin to another because the whole group had taken up at least 7 or 8 seats. One of them had cut fruit and I could smell the fructose. It must have been strong as I can hardly smell.

I walked back to my seat and started to study Italian some more.

A lady walked in. She spoke neither Dutch nor German nor English and only her husband said anything. The train conductor came though checking tickets and assisting passengers.

"Sir," he hadn't heard me.

I waited for him to return and help the couple then said a bit more boldy, "sir, I'm concerned about this man, he doesn't seem to be moving."

And the story could go on. But the man was pronounced dead, so I'll stop writing there. But, what, what was the last word I had said to him? Becuase my voice was the last he'd heard.

Assisi, Italy

Transcendentalism was around the sharpest turn of the hill, because I had seen it from the back seat of Christina's hatchback. It was something to share a view like this. Christina was Italian by birth American by right, Brooklyn, who had moved back sometime time to Umbria when she had fallen in love. I looked at camera phone pictures of her grandson and listened to her love stories for the child as we wound up the hill to the church of Saint Chiara. And then, my breath was taken away by what my eyes had seen, a panaramic view of Umbria, more beautiful than the time I have to desribe it, and more beautiful than I would have ever assumed or imagined.

Skip forward to that night, or maybe the next, I don't remember, Martina had taken me out to meet her friends and boyfriend. When I had first met her, I initially wondered, is this person a product of her surroundings or a outlying difference, would they be as kind and welcoming as she? They were - so kind and, this is what I hoped for my travels . . . memories taken not at the foot of the coloseum or the shopping district in Milan, but around a backyard grill of Italians laughing and talking (or were they arguing?) around a well spread dinner table.

Martina introduced me to her friends some of which were students, others working, some from this region and the next, all welcoming me in English as they bounced their language back and forth amongst themselves. Cool kids, they were cool kids. The food smelled amazing and there was plenty. I had doubted that they would actually eat as much as prepared because the Italians are not big people. And, from curiosity I watched, watched to see if they would eat the mass of food that had been placed on the table. . . they did, and capped it with that oh so famous gelato. I wondered why I had put on so much weight and they ate and laughed and ate some more and not one of them seemed unfit. Well, if I could just keep still and inherit that good fortune, that would be the best thing I could take from Italy.

We laughed and talked. Now, there was one there, whom I thought was so attractive, perhaps it was his eyes or his smile, or maybe it was his thick accent. Whatever it was he sat there beside me and I smiled back, squinting as we talked partly because I could not fully understand him and partly because of his eyes: so stricking that a conversation was more like a glaring seduction. He had long legs that were leaning against mine. I hadn't bothered to move, nor had he.

It was time to go, it was late, early morning rather and I did have work. But, despite any ridiculous cab driver, any short-tempered clerk, any annoying thing that could happen between Italy and America, it would be ok, because I had met people whom I will consider friends for many months and years to come.

Stockholm, Sweden

I had slept for about two and a half hours when I started dreaming about talking fish. There were prints of colorful fish on the hotel's walls, and until I woke up, it had seemed this was the cause of the dream. The little window of TAP Portugal had tiny ice-crystals making bb gun prints below the plastic shade. After the skinny fish, this was the first thing I saw. And then, the man beside me, who had began a delicate process of unpacking and preparing his airplane meal. I gathered from this that he had traveled a similar course several times before, it was as if he had sat down at the table, waiting for his wife to bring a glass of water, no, something warm, like kaffe latte and join the meal. It explained the fishy smell. I wondered where his wife was and I had the urge to say, "Marco" because I imagined his name was Marco. The most was happening at the moment, fish, ice crystals, and some man, perhaps named Marco, were all swirling around me from the dizziness of compressed oxygen and jet speed travel. A hostess smiled and said, "don't you want your food?" I smiled and she pushed the attention button. The dark -haired lady motioned to one in the back who brought a hot plastic covered tray of fish, mushrooms, salad and bread. There was dessert and salad sauce, or written the Portuguese way, sauce salad, as well as keeping with the European tradition, a miniature cup for espresso.

The man beside me began a conversation. He was quite nice. For sake of reference, he will be Marco. Marco was Portuguese, who'd fallen in love with a Swedish lady. And yes, I like the hybridity of everything, and doubt I could have had a better welcome to Sweden. I ate a bit of the meal and we talked about things until the plane flew over Paris, I believe, that's when I began to dream again.

The plane landed and there waiting at the airport (the little tunnel connecting the terminal to the plane) were police in all black with boots and German Shepherds. Something about the whole thing was ease-putting and it was nice the see both the police and the dogs.

I waited a while for my luggage. Not thinking about much. Just waiting. When it arrived I changed 50 euro and began to walk. A blonde haired man, I suppose he was in his late or earlies, with high top boots had seen me arranging my luggage and smiled. It was a friendly smile. For sure I smiled back, however, it was a reference smile, a return smile, pleasant, but distant. I needed to figure things out.

I walked through the airport to catch a bus to Centraal Station. It seemed as if no one was bothered by helping. They pulled out GPS, they walked me to the correct place, they turned to their friends and said something in Swedish and then gave me directions Can you imagine? I was hesitant to believe this was something cultural, I assumed it was influx with the transience of the airport and the giant welcome sign I'd been so happy to see. These, I thought, were just residual bits of kindness.

I took the bus into the city. Judging from the highway, Audi and Volvo's are the cars of choice. Something about sedans was so refreshing, it felt like home.

Time had passed trying to find my room. The hotel. Quite obviously it was not the Ritz Carlton though, the address had lead me to a building that would have sufficiently housed one. I stepped in, wondering how less than 150 euro a night had bought a share in this building. There was no hotel sign on the elevator markee, a man, he had black skin, fitted pants, and a Swedish accent stepped in and said, "hey, hey" which in Swedish, is "Hello."

"I see" he said, when I explained that I needed help. He asked if I had a number, which I had, and called the hotel. The conversation was in English and when it was finished he told me to come back if I was lost and someone in the office would help.

When I arrived, I set my things down and rested on the bed, sitting up and looking forward. I found myself in Stockholm. The weather was mild to cold. The time had switched back and hour and Fashion Week was posted all up and down the shopping district. I wanted to explore, but, I wanted to relax. I did not want to be left to my thoughts, no one knows where they would lead. I don't believe every moment in solitude is meant for deep or retrospective thought, so, I washed my hands and face and went to buy a ticket from Stockholm to Copenhagen for the coming days and, to see the city.

Stockholm is amazing. It seemed as though there was a different breed. The masses were so well dressed and outfitted with such style, I, one, two, checked myself. Everyone whether black, brown, white, or beige seemed beautiful. What is this place I wondered? The adventure had then begun.

I met a homie from California: a photographer, a student, a writer. I could dig it. And when the Nigerian footballer, whom we'd both met, had asked if I would come with him to his county, the homie from California was like a confidant. Was I going to his country, of course not, but delgado had told me to take the compliment, why wasn't I deserving of admiration "what is there not to like?" he had said. The lesson had come. And, when I thought about the pasta al forno, the tira misu, the stuffed croissants, and pizza that had deposited extra weight on my hips and thighs in Italy, it was ok. No, not, the weight, but the compliments, and acceptance, the dare to know nothing is wrong and in fact, everything is ok. Everything is amazing. Tomorrow, when I run, or sit under some sunset with my red writing book, or walk along new places thinking of ways I will teach my children self-reliance, it will be more than just fine, it will be- beautiful.

Tell me something. Tell me anything. First, tell me your name. Your favorite color, your favorite city, your dream. Tell me how to say hello in your language and you have taught me something worthwhile.

I spent the morning in the Dance museum and decided to take a boat along the Swedish archipelago. I spent six hours going along the Baltic Sea, staring from the water at Stockholm, which is something like Ivy Road stretched across 14 islands. I thanked God for everything. It was about 9 and the sun had not boiled into the sea, it was quite cold. I headed back.

What is there to do in Stockholm? Well, what is there not to do. It seemed like a haven for the subtle maverick. No muzzle, no brand, just cuffed pants and red RL frames.

Hej fred. [hey fred] That means, "hello, peace" in Swedish