This Is What a Travel Journal Looks Like

I have heard from a couple of people, most notably and persistently my mother, that she figured that this blog would be more of a journal about traveling. It has become something very different from that: right now, it isn't much more than a portfolio. So, for the six people who have ever read this blog, and principally for my mother:

Alright, already. Here it is. Dublin, Amsterdam, and Marseille.

My City Tour

Dublin Blues

I have always had reservations about caring for people, or maybe ‘difficulty’ is a better word for it. It seems to me that some folks just flatly do not appeal to me, or that maybe I am acting in self-interest in not expanding myself too broadly. I have always been better at keeping a close group of friends who are very dear to me, and quite a bit worse at keeping up very many relationships at once. Maybe a part of it is, I feel like I am able to be more of a part of my family if it is relatively small.

I care for cities in sort of the same way. Whenever I travel anywhere, I sort of identify with some part of the city I visit which is in a small way the same as I come to love a friend. Dublin is one of the chief representatives of the group of places for which I care very deeply, at it has been for several years, since the epic union. There is something about the way that the roads there are built, that the people cover up with their collars, that the bars push out string music. Dublin has a unique quality for me, which combines the fantastic and modern with a quaint and noble past. I wince when I think about the way in which cities in the States could never be this way, and moreover how the people are just not designed for it to carry the kind of charm that pulses in Ireland. The sadness here, which I cannot separate from even my fondest thoughts of a nation, is that sometimes the city that you love rips into you in the same way that a person can.

The latest round of political action in Ireland is largely divisive and tremendously violent. Several of the splinters of the Irish Republican Army have taken responsibility for shootings which have rippled through the country over the past couple of months. These attacks, which take place largely in Protestant communities, are being forged against the members of opposing religious factions, and especially against members of the garda or other representatives of the state.

I can understand the appeal of rebellion and of uprising, and even of widespread and enduring angst. I very often fell the desire to react in a more extreme manner towards an opposition which seems to me to be domineering and mislead, including having my interests far from its focus. I cannot tell how often I have my most extreme emotional reactions to these very relationships: it is rage, and frustration, and restlessness, and contempt, and it has to burn itself out every time I get to thinking. In all cases, it seems to me that the problems that I face, when laid against the problems which brew between Irish factions, are not close in duration or in degree. However, I do identify with the climate and the emotion, and my complaint is this: why is war your solution, my rebel brothers? I cannot imagine a world in which one group can strong arm another and produce a better world as a result.

Now, I can conceive that a person or a group could be a rightful or desired winner, and that that group can dispatch an evil or maleficent one. Surely this must be the case, from time to time, or even very often. But the strain which is persistent is the foolish and dangerous axiom that violence solves problems, and any instance in which this is true simply propagates a world in which the eil group continues to persist, and for the very reason that others were defeated. Groups which lose wars of ideology do not go away when they are put down. Indeed they are emboldened by the idea that they might have success the next time if only they can be even more lethal, and how can this breed a better people?

This taste for distaste is a terrible thing, and the worst bit of it, philosophically speaking, is that it works if you look only at each case individually: you see a victory and a loss, and this is a normal thing in any contest. In the loss, of course, you can see shame, or guilt, or anger, and there is a regrouping effect after it. In the victor, you see thrill or relief, ego, and sometimes you are thankful for that party who fought and who succeeded. But you never hear the airy peal of the violins. You see the bundled up street crowds glance away from each other, and the stones in the cobbled streets look just a little more cracked, dirty, and farther apart.

I Amsterdam

We all know the exploits of the political scene in Amsterdam. The social allowances, lets say, such as the government sanctioned sex trade and the relaxed rules on drug enforcement. These and other norms are famous among travelers my age, and are indeed most of the reason that anyone I've met along my way is interested in visiting the city. And fine: it seems that the Red Light and the coffee shops are tremendously popular for the locals just as well as the tourists, very likely for the reason that there is no great hang-up about either of those earthly delights. Both of these practices are freely viewed and, in fact, smelled. Actually, it is marginally difficult for an unfamiliar wanderer of the city to choose just a regular coffee shop instead of one which purveys drugs, and in some districts, the windows go dresses-dresses-shoes-chicks-purses.

At home, you get two kinds of people, basically. One sort will call himself "morally and ethically opposed"--whatever that means--about the sorts of liberties that Amsterdam boasts. The other is into both of of those trades, and is in favor of them really because he'd like it to be easier for him to have access to sex and drugs. I find it difficult to blame the second guy. But there is a better reason to support such liberalism: the city works perfectly. The violent crime rate is extraordinarily low, especially compared to our land of the self-proclaimed free. It is wonderfully clean, and more than that, it is beautiful and manicured with rolling hills and lawns. The people are friendly, giant, extremely well-educated, and distractingly good looking. There are more bikes in Amsterdam than prayers in the Vatican, and the whole nation is one of the world leaders of the environmentally conscious movement. The public transit is safe, and logical, and efficient--look, the whole place is pristine. Every adult is allowed to behave as if he were an adult, and they do with a much higher frequency than they do in the Silicon Valley. The economy also benefits tremendously, as does the populace, I would imagine, from the industries which are strictly maligned in the States. But why are they? They clearly do not hurt the morale or the general spirit: everyone here is extremely gracious and openly welcoming. The quality of the education and the intellect of the average Dane are certainly not lacking: everyone I have met speaks Dutch and perfect English, and very frequently either German or French or both. Interestingly, the most notable negative wave I am aware of in Amsterdam is one that is made possible by their overarching principle of understanding: religious fundamentalism, which indeed conflicts with and forbids the famed practices of the city, is certainly the leading cause of violent crime in the region.

The only regrettable facet of the culture which I have internalized is, how terrifically impossible it would be for our nation to adopt anything like this. The amount and persuasion of tolerance that the States offers is absolutely absurd: it is the truest definition of an illusion to announce that we are founded upon an emphasis on civil rights and liberties and that we live up to this credo. Each European city I have been in, including Amsterdam, has been an occasion for a conversation about the invasive extent of the American legal system. Is that not shocking enough? Students from other countries are aware of and concerned by the degree to which the United States restrict practices and views which they commonly view to be inalienable, or the way in which it similarly mandates things which are so obviously inane and unnecessarily complicated. We permit very little, I have come to realize; we are decades behind many countries' efforts to extend rights to citizens and, notably, their environmental practices. We are laden with war and fundamentalism, shouting and emotional outbursts, celebrity gossip rags and dating trivia. The daft is the easy, is the accepted, is the appreciated. This unfortunate link makes progressive liberty not only absent, it makes it impossible.

Marseille

This place sparkles like San Francisco, and it smells pretty similar too. I can never quite find my way around by way of actual street familiarity, as I am eventually able to do even in towns which are short-lived. Instead, in Marseille as in San Francisco, I generally point myself in the direction of the thing I am looking for, and move that way until I find a landmark or, better, a sign. The streets are polka-dotted with gum and cigarettes, and the homeless population is as abundant, aggressive, and aimlessly talkative. The attitude in the street here is much the same as in The City. There is a sort of funky vibe to the younger Marseillais, but mixed with a feeling like they or their fathers are very reliably in the fishing trade. There are lots of knit, handmade-looking clothes here. Wide-cable knit sweaters, scarves, ill-fitting dresses which look trendy or messy depending on how cute the girl is. It's the sort of place where there are tons of shops, but not many stores. Everything looks to be makeshift and humble, as if the actual buildings are hand-me-downs.

The harbor beams. It is packed with boats which are worked on and loaded and cleaned and inspected every day, while the gulls oversee the activity. The city appears to have two suns; one of them lives under the ocean and blasts through the surface of the water as long as his skyward brother keeps him company. Cafes and boutiques are everywhere, so there is a lot of plate clinking and soft paper flitting. The breeze rips everyone in the city and pushes them through the hilly streets and along the winding coastline.