I was set to leave London on Saturday and take the train to Manchester where I would meet Phil. On that Friday, my last day in London, Rebecca had the day off from work, so we went on a small cultural tour of the city.

My traveling philosophy is based around doing things that the majority of other travelers wouldn’t do. I don’t like group tours, sightseeing buses, or going to museums for the sake of going to museums. I like visiting quaint neighbourhoods (and their bakeries), neglected galleries and museums, or maybe just spending an afternoon eating lunch in a park.

I met Rebecca in a neighbourhood near the British Museum, and we went to a small used bookstore where Rebecca was searching for a Christmas present for her boyfriend. She told me it was arguably one of the best secondhand bookstores in the city. We found a beautiful print of The Jungle Book as well as one of Jane Eyre, a favorite of Nick’s. We browsed around the store for a while before walking towards the museum. I had no intention of spending any amount of time in the British Museum, but there was one thing I wanted to see. Fortunately, the museum is free, so I had the freedom to spend as much or as little time there as I wanted.

The Rosetta Stone. Just like the Code of Hammurabi, it was another one of those vestiges of my elementary schooling that always stuck in mind. The ancient key that unlocked a forgotten language. I had to see it.

So did, apparently, several large groups of school children and Asian tourists. I managed to get close to its glass housing and took a nice long look before moving on. They allowed photography in the museum, which I don’t really believe in when it comes to historic artifacts, so while I took the high road hoardes of Japanese amateur photographers took turns taking pictures of each other.

One large hall of the museum was dedicated to the famous Parthenon sculptures, better known as the Elgin Marbles. The story of these artifacts is actually quite interesting: The sculptures, inscriptions and architectural pieces that make up the set were originally part of the Parthenon and other Acropolis buildings. At the beginning of the 19th century, Lord Elgin, then Ambassador to the Ottoman court in Istanbul, convinced the Sultan to let him take these pieces back to London for his own collection. Labelled a theif, vandal and looter by many, the removal of such precious antiquities sparked serious debate in and out of the the British Parliament, until they eventually exonerated him of his actions. But the government then purchased the pieces from Lord Elgin and donated them to the Museum.

Having Rebecca around to explain all this to me, as well as point out interesting features of certain sculptures, and describe how they would’ve appeared on the actual buildings was invaluable. The passion and excitement that she conveyed was infectious; I can only strive to speak so fervently about what I love.

Although I said I wanted to high-tail it out of there after seeing the Rosetta Stone, there were a couple temporary exhibits that deserved a look. I spotted them while surveying the floor map of the Museum. The first was a — and this might sound like a joke, but it really isn’t — a 50kg, £1.5 million, gold statue of British model Kate Moss doing an ankles-behind-the-ears pose. Seriously. It kinda freaked us out.

I can almost see where the artist, Marc Quinn, was going with it. It’s the largest gold statue created in modern times, and it was placed in an area of the Museum dominated by works of Ancient Egypt and other decadent cultures. Old world artists created similar statues of their gods and idols, can you say Marc Quinn did anything different? If so, you’re not watching enough E! and MTV.

The second temporary exhibit was a piece by hyper-realist Ron Mueck. I can’t remember where I first read about his work, but I knew I wanted to see it in person. His specialty are mixed-media sculptures of things that look incredibly real, but are out-of-scale. Like a human foot the size of a sedan, or in this case, a very large head of a sleeping man (supposedly a recreation of Mueck’s own face).

It’s hard to show scale with the photograph, but the width of the face was probably 4 feet, the length around 7 feet. It was simply incredible.

Rebecca and I had a nice lunch at a small sandwich shop and took a break from the cold wind. By the time we finished eating, the skies had clouded over and it looked like it might drizzle. We were in the area of a museum Rebecca really wanted to see, a place she had been to as a child, but wanted to revisit with fresh perspective: Sir John Soane’s Museum.

This is another interesting story: John Soane was an architect who’s buildings often shaped the landscape of late 18th/early 19th century London. Towards the end of the 18th century, he purchased a house near Lincoln Fields which he used as an office, library and home. He was an avid collector and over the years amassed a treasure trove of artifacts, artwork and sculptures that rivalled the quality of those found in the British Museum. Many of the paintings were ones he did himself, of his own buildings. Towards the end of his life, he bought the building next door to his house to expand his collection. Finally, four years before his death, he succeeded in having the house and collection bequeathed to the country.

It was a cold, windy and wet day — not unheard of in London — and as we approached the museum we were greeted by a very friendly doorman … or gateman, he was standing at the end of a short walk away from the building. As I would soon find out, the museum is so cramped they have to meter the flow of people coming in and out. When Rebecca and I were finally let in, I had to check my bag at the door … not because I had anything scandalous  in it, or they were afraid I would steal something, but because the house was so small and the hallways so narrow that there was a danger of knocking something over.

It’s hard to describe the experience of the Soane Museum. It’s unlike any other museum you will ever see. I won’t go too much into it, but it’s 3 floors of narrow halls, and hidden walkways and stairs, every inch of which is covered with artwork, or a tribal mask, or a scarcophagus. One room had hinged panels built into the walls that could be opened and closed, which uncovered many of Soane’s paintings. The upper floors had been meticulously recreated to mirror the original decor.

Later that night I took Rebecca and Nick out to dinner in Chinatown. It was a busy restaurant, and after some terrible service from the maitre’d, we finally found a waitress who gave us the scoop on what to order that night.

It had been a whirlwind visit to London, but as I would soon discover, the small twister was evolving into a typhoon. I was headed to Manchester the next day to meet Phil, and he and I were going to do an impromptu road trip of the UK in less than a week.

While Nick and Rebecca were at work, I decided to do another tour of the city. After picking up a coffee at a great little Middle Eastern cafe down the street from Rebecca’s apartment I jumped on the tube and went to the Barbican.

The Barbican is an estate in the northern part of the city which encompasses about 40 acres and contains everything from schools to residences to a massive performing arts centre. After WWII that part of London was completed destroyed and much the population had been killed or driven away. The city chose an architectural firm to design and build a replacement. It’s a pretty eerie neighbourhood, in my opinion. London is such a mix of old and new, traditional and modern, that to see such uniform planning — especially in the style of the late 60s and early 70s — was interesting and surreal.

I walked to the Performing Arts Centre and took a look at a small exhibit featuring artwork rendered from images in the film Waltz With Bashir. I passed through the large concrete courtyard and tried to find my way back to the main street.

After the Barbican I headed into town and went to Chinatown. London’s Chinatown is much smaller than I thought it would be, only about 2 blocks, but it consists almost entirely of restaurants. I picked a dumpling house where the fare is hand made. After an order of dumplings and some mint bubble tea, I went up to the theatre/arts district of Soho.

I passed a small street market that was just about closing, through a short alley of strip clubs and peep shows, and then to the Piccadilly/Leicester area near the British Portrait Gallery. The museum was featuring an Annie Lebowitz collection of portraits, which I desperately wanted to see, but I didn’t have much time before it closed.

I walked down to the Thames and took some pictures of the Millenium Wheel and Bridge.

Then I swung back to Covent Garden and checked out the Apple Market, one of the oldest public markets. I wandered around the grounds until I heard from Rebecca. She and I met up with Nick and his brother at a bar, then we walked through London’s West End and saw the famous Christmas light decorations. Nick, Rebecca and I had a couple beers at a true English pub, then called it a night.

The next few posts will be general highlights from my time in London … in no specific order, but I’ll try to keep it chronological.

Rebecca lives in the neighbourhood of West Hampstead, which borders one side of the massive Hampstead Heath. “The Heath” is 790 acres of parkland, one of the highest points in the city and home to the Kenwood House estate. We started by walking through West Hampstead towards another small neighbourhood nearby (can’t remember the name). That area is incredible, with narrow cobblestone streets winding through expensive property. We stopped at an antique shop and browsed for a little while before having some lunch. After lunch Rebecca stopped at a princess store (I’m not sure how to describe it … it’s a store targeted at 12-year old girls — or girls who think they’re still 12 years old — filled with pink fluffy things and glitter), where Rebecca bought presents for a couple young girls she teaches.

We walked through the Heath towards the Kenwood House where we stopped to check out a garden sale of herbs and plants, seed books and things like that. Just outside the Heath, near the Kenwood estate is a small pub that was our ultimate destination. It was the English pub poster-child: low doorframes leading to dimly lit rooms, and all of it built with ancient wood. We had a couple ciders while admiring the decor and sheltering ourselves from the cold and wind outside.

By the time we walked back to Rebecca’s place, it was getting dark and there was an incredible sunset over West London. I tried to take some pictures, but without a tripod and sure footing they didn’t come out very well.

Previously, our intrepid hero had disembarked after a long journey from Amsterdam and found himself without a single farthing, standing in the pre-dawn, sickly flourescent glow of the Eurolines terminal near Victoria Station …

I needed cash, to begin with, but strangely, I wasn’t hungry. A bakery stand had just opened and a line had already formed for coffee, but though it carried a range of pastries, I usually try to avoid bakeries in dirty bus terminals. A man stopped me and asked me about where I was from, apparently I had a very interesting look about me. The bald head really throws people off.

The foreign exchange booth finally opened it’s shutters and I exchanged my Euros for quid. I left the bus station and walked a block down the street to the Victoria train station. I wasn’t about to spend a day in London lugging my giant backpack around with me, so I needed to find baggage lockers. Unfortunately, by the time I finally found them at the train station, it wasn’t even open yet. I sat on a chair nearby and thumbed through my LP.

Victoria Station is situated west of the city center. In fact, a walk towards the city takes you by Buckingham Palace, Parliament and Westminster. I came up with a general outline of things I wanted to see that day and mapped out my approach.

After leaving my large backpack, I set out from the station towards St James Park and the Palace. The very same way Britain tends to greet all of it’s citizens each every morning, it greeted me: there was considerable fog and a light sprinkling of rain. The grounds of Buckingham Palace were understandably empty, the Yeoman Warders themselves wouldn’t be caught dead at this hour. Apparently the changing of the guards occurs at 11 AM every other day, and even if I was there on the right day, I wasn’t about to wait around for it.

A walk along the border of St James Park brought me to the Parliament buildings and Westminster Abbey. I continued on past Trafalgar Square and Charing Cross, then towards the Embankment. The plan was to walk by some of London’s more famous landmarks, then spend some time at the Tate Modern. The walk along the Thames was pleasant through the crisp and wet morning, but when I crossed the river and arrived at the famous museum, I realized I still had some time before it opened too. I found a diner nearby and ate an overpriced and overrepresented meal. Then I got a coffee at a cafe across the street from the museum with the hopes of surfing the web until I realized much to my dismay that I had forgotten my laptop charger.

Finally the museum was open, and I spent a couple hours wandering from floor to floor. The best part about the Tate Modern, more than it’s though-provoking exhibits and the care to which every object and every space is designed, is that it’s free.

Right next door is the original site of Shakespeare’s Globe theatre, or at least what’s left of it.

Further along the south bank of the Thames I passed the popular shopping/tourism/dining area near London Bridge, and further along was the even more popular Tower Bridge. Thankfully, the weather had begun to get better.

I crossed the bridge and ended up at the Tower of London. For just a second I contemplated going inside, but then recalled that I had been there many years ago and even though I didn’t remember a thing about it, it was good enough. Plus, I hate crowds.

That morning, while waiting for the bag check office to open, I read about the various public markets that are held around London. There was a popular one in Notting Hill called the Portobello Market, so with the time I had left before Rebecca finished work, I jumped on the tube and headed in that direction. Just outside the train station I saw a beautiful watch in the window of a pawn shop, of all places. I sat and stared at it for a couple minutes, then finally ducked inside. The owner was talking to a customer who was clearly a friend or a regular. I asked the guy behind the counter if I could see that watch. As I turned it over in my hands, remarking about how great it was, he smiled and said I could tell the owner myself, and pointed at the man he had been talking to. Then I made the mistake of asking how much it was. The answer was 600 pounds, somewhere in the neighbourhood of $900. I carefully gave it back, and told him I’d just step out to rob a couple banks and return for the watch.

Notting Hill is a really nice, upscale neighbourhood of quiet streets, beautiful and well-maintained houses and quaint shops. Portobello Road starts out with a few modest clothing shops and descends into a combination of food/produce stalls, arts and crafts and other merchandise, flanked by brick-and-mortar stores.

As I walked passed one of the clothing stores at the head of the street I spotted something that actually made me double back. No, not a pastry or pie … though what that would be doing in a clothing store I’m not so sure … it was a hat. To be precise, it was exactly the hat I was looking for, style, color and all. I tried them on and and found they fit better than any other hat I had tried so far. And remember that’s quite a statement: I had tried on nearly every kind of hat from Amsterdam to Geneva to Paris. It was breathable and stretchy, wool knit and conformed to my head perfectly (when you’re bald that really matters). It was more expensive than I wanted to spend on a hat (it certainly wasnt watch money), but as you can imagine from enduring my relentless recounting of how important one is, it’s well worth the investment. I ended up buying it, and it turned out to be a fantastic decision.

The market itself was on it’s last legs, so I didn’t get to see all of it. I walked down to the end of the road, pausing briefly at the stalls which remained open. At the end of the road was a small, empty pub, and I stopped there for a couple pints of Guinness. On my way back I picked up a chicken sandwich at a grill stand run by a very friendly and talkative German couple.

I met up with Rebecca at a Starbucks near Gloucester Road station. I hadn’t seen her in more than 1 1/2 years and in the middle of that crowd of strangers I put my pack down and gave her the biggest bear hug my tired and malnourished body could muster. We took the tube back to her place in West Hampstead and after I took a much-needed shower we met up with her boyfriend Nick (now fiancee, congrats Bec!) at a nearby restaurant. We spent a quiet night at her place, making up for lost time.

I prepared for the interview all morning, heading to the neighbourhood cafe De Balie, where free internet and great coffee abounds. The interview was in Katwijk (say Cat-vike), and by the time I took a train and bus out to the coastal town and got back, it was already late afternoon. I had bought a ticket on the overnight bus to London, via the ferry from Calais to Dover. I walked through the Albert Cuypmarket looking for something to take on the bus, but didn’t find any prepared foods that looked any good, except some fries which I ate on the walk back to the hostel.

Suddenly I passed a shop window and saw the familiar spread of rolls, pastries, cakes and breads. Bakery. I ducked in and bought an olliebollen, a Dutch donut widely considered to be the first version of the modern donut. They’re rounder and lack holes in the center, but they’re just as delicious.

I ended up taking the long way back, and by the time I got back to the familiar grounds of the Rijksmuseum, I spotted another olliebollen cart and had to try another one. Yup, still delicious, I was satisfied. In fact, the sugar high had made me a little sick. But I had just come out of a great interview so I felt the need to treat myself to the point of trauma.

With my bags in tow I finally said goodbye to Amsterdam and waited for the bus driver to open up the Eurolines coach at Amstel station. He seemed like a pretty interesting guy, but man was that an understatement …

A few minutes after we left the station, he came on the PA and made the usual announcements of where we were going, how long it would take, other stops we’d have to make, etc. Then he started talking about rules for riding in his bus. Rule number one: no chips. “No potato chips, no Bugles, no Pringles. Some people say they’re not chips, but if they’re not chips, then I don’t know what they are. To me, they are chips.”

Rule number two: “Gentlemen, please, don’t embarrass yourself. When you use the toilet, please sit down like a lady.” That’s right, he requested that all men sit on the toilet when peeing. All the passengers looked at each other confused and amused. “When you are peeing, you have your dickie in one hand and you are balancing with the other, what happens when I go heavy on my brake?”

He had a valid point, in that it’s difficult to really get your aim right on a moving vehicle, but it was funny that he was so passionate about it. The way he saw it, “The ladies don’t like it and I don’t like it because I have to clean this mess! And I  AM  NOT  A  SOCIAL  WORKER!”

The punishment for violation of any of these rules involved a choice: “You can either walk to England or swim.” Except he pronounced it “shwim.”

Both of these rules, along with some other equally strange ones, such as “Absolutely no kind of peanut,” were announced in complete seriousness over the PA every time a new set of people boarded the bus. So the travelers who had been on since Amsterdam got to hear this wonderful code of conduct about 4 times. By the 3rd time, people would react with cheers or jeers during the more scandalous parts.

When we finally got to the ferry terminal at Calais, and a set of customs and passport checks (one for the French side, one for the British side), the driver advised, “Show the [customs] card on the UK side. Don’t show your card to the French because they cannot read.”

Finally, at around 6AM, we arrived at Victoria Station. I’ll break here since my day actually continues in London. I was going to meet Rebecca that evening after she finished work, so I had to amuse myself in the city until then. Arguably, this was the longest day of all my travels. Now you could say I did sleep on the bus so it’s really two separate days, but as anyone who’s been on these trips knows, those 2 hour bursts of sleep before someone wakes you up to tell you to sit down while you pee can hardly be considered sleep. So far I had nailed a job interview, eaten myself into a donut-fueled sugar stroke, endured a long bus ride piloted by a comic book character, and now I had been dropped in the middle of London with nothing to do, nowhere to go and 12 hours to kill. Thankfully, sightseeing in London is a by-the-book, time-tested tradition.

I only had until about 9AM before I was supposed to be on a train to Clervaux. It was home to one of Western Europe’s largest and most famous photography collections, amassed by Edward Steichen. I figured I could spend a couple hours there before heading off to Amsterdam. It would involve careful choreography on my part, since I needed to be at the train station in Luxembourg by a certain time, out of the museum by a certain time, and in Amsterdam with enough time to get a good night’s sleep. Careful choreography, you know that’s what I’m all about.

I woke up especially early to get some time walking around town before I had to leave. I started at the hostel, which was buried in the valley. I walked through the small neighbourhood of Pfaffenthal and then up the side of the cliff to the old town. I took a wide loop around town, stopping every now and then to take pictures.

I picked up my bags at the hostel and headed for the train station. The ride to Clervaux was a short trip through the hills and countryside of Luxembourg, overshadowed by dark clouds. Indeed, by the time I got there, the clouds overhead had broken out in rain. I stood under the awning of an apartment building and considered my options: I could walk through the rain, up a hill to the museum, spend a couple hours there, then come all the way back … or I could just keep going to Amsterdam.

I decided to keep going, but the next train to Amsterdam (indirectly, I would have to connect in a couple places) wasn’t for another couple hours. Long enough that I had a very boring wait, but not long enough to justify heading to the museum. Trapped, I sat under an awning at the small, empty train station and waited.

Though about 45 minutes before the train to Liege would pick me up from Clervaux, another train came that was headed to the small town of Troisvierges. I had gotten restless and decided to at least go to Troisvierges and find something to eat. I wandered into town and … wait for it … grabbed a couple pastries and a coffee at a small bakery. As I was the only customer, I ate my brunch sitting in the deserted shop while the young cashier pretended to do work, all the while staring at me.

I finally got to Liege, and this is when things went wrong. I saw on the board that there was a train departing and arriving earlier than the one I had planned on taking. I believe the original plan was to go through Antwerpen, Rotterdam then Amsterdam, but this one took me through Maastricht, Eindhoven, Utrecht and then Amsterdam. Thankfully my ticket just said “Liege to Amsterdam,” and I was free to fill in the details any way I saw fit. I like to think I’m good at traveling: managing times and connections, optimizing the schedule, responding to changes and problems with effective workarounds. I was confident my new plan was sound.

When I was boarding the train to Amsterdam, I did a sanity check and asked the conductor if I was on the right train. He kinda bounced his head from side to side, smirked and said, yes, this goes to Amsterdam. It wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence. Without going into too much detail, he said that this train would get me there, but I would have to make some connections. We were minutes away from departing so he told me to get on and he’d confirm everything with me later. I kinda wish he had gone into the details.

It turns out that there was a service disruption between the stops of ’s Hertogenbosch and Utrecht (that’s not a typo, the name of the town is actually “’s Hertogenbosch,” or literally, “The Duke’s Forest.” Although it’s always referred to as Den Bosch). I had two options: change at Eindhoven to a train that gets to Amsterdam via Rotterdam and Den Haag, or stay on until Den Bosch, where I would have to take a bus to Utrecht, and then back on a train to finish up. Near Eindhoven I asked the conductor which he thought would be quickest. He said that the buses they had set up were running quickly and in his opinion it would be just as fast as taking the trains. He might’ve been right, I’ll never know, but I really wish I had taken the train.

At Den Bosch there was a mad dash from the platform to the shuttle stop once we collectively figured out where to go. Being a foreigner, I was at a disadvantage because the English version of any station announcements would come second, allowing natives to get the jump on me. Fortunately, over the past couple months, I had developed a unique ability to pick out common numbers and words in other languages and, frankly, “get the gist.” I was right in stride with the Dutch as we bolted up and down ramps and across platforms.

The line for the shuttle was long, but fortunately I was on a bus within 10 minutes. It took longer and the bus was crowded and stuffy, but we finally got to Utrecht just after sundown. I jumped on the next train to Amsterdam, and at long last, more than 8 hours after I left Luxembourg, through three countries and countless transfers, I had reached.

I was booked into a dorm at the Stayokay Vondelpark, but by the time I got there, the thought of sharing a room with three other people the night before an interview was not an attractive option. I managed to swap to a double room, where I was the only occupant. It had been a long, tiring day and I got some much-needed rest.

It was a short wait until the train departed and the ride was quick and uneventful. A day earlier, I had sketched a quick map of Luxembourg in my notebook, showing the streets I would have to take to get from the train station to the hostel. Luxembourg is pretty small, so I figured it would be enough. Just to give you an idea of how careless/confident I was, here’s that very map:

The asterisk on the left of the page (along those partial train tracks) is the train station, and the asterisk on the far right is the hostel. Do you see just how ridiculous that is? Well I didn’t, at least not until I reached the bridge. You see, Luxembourg is one of those old fortress cities, so it’s a mix of new town and old town, modern and historic. And, in this case, low and high.

So now, on top of deciphering the chicken scratch and fractal drawings of my makeshift map, I had to figure out if the hostel was in the valley or on the cliff. And if it was the former, how the hell do I get down there? The sun was setting and I didn’t have a whole lot of time to figure it out before things got more difficult.

Across the bridge which connects the old town with the CBD, I spotted a bus shelter. Bus shelters are great places to find maps of cities, even if it’s just a small slice of whatever route you’re on. Unfortunately, this one was more of a network map than an actual map so I was out of luck. I knew there was a bus you could take to get to the hostel, so I contemplated waiting for a bus to show up then asking the driver for help.

But that wouldn’t be very fun, now would it.

I kept walking in the direction I thought I had to go, and then I spotted a Japanese girl wheeling a suitcase behind her and staring at a guidebook. She too looked pretty confused so I approached her and asked if she was looking for a hostel. It turns out she was heading to the same YHA as me, so I shamefully put away my treasure map and we used her guidebook instead. But all the nooks and crannies of the city were still pretty confusing. We reached yet another bridge and according to both of our maps (and to be fair, mine was actually pretty accurate), we would have to launch ourselves off the side of the bridge to get to the hostel. I was right: the hostel was in the valley, and we had no idea how to get down there. It had gotten dark so it was difficult to see if there were any stairs or paths that went down from the bridge. An older couple behind us were having the same difficulty getting off this bridge. Finally, we saw the stairs that led down, and after following a couple switchback streets, we reached the hostel.

It was only when I walked into the lobby did it hit me that the couple on the bridge seemed a bit old to be looking for a youth hostel. Indeed, many of the other people hanging around the lobby were in the 35-50 age bracket, or they were families. Very strange.

I asked my new Japanese friend if she wanted to walk around town with me, and we agreed to meet in the lobby in 30 minutes. Well, I agreed to meet in the lobby. She gave no indication of understanding a word I said, so if she was there, great. If not, I’d understand.

The room was small for six people, but there were only 3 other occupants, and it was clean and new. One of my dormmates was an older Swedish man, who was wearing a suit when he walked in. Yet another out-of-place guest at a YHA. I put the sheets on the bed and unloaded my packs.

The Japanese girl was in fact waiting for me in the lobby, and we headed back up to the high town (that’s actually how they refer to it: high town and low town), which is Luxembourg’s medieval center. It turns out she had spent a few months working on farms in Sweden and Ireland, and was doing a quick tour of Western Europe before heading back to Japan. She was really nice, and despite being shy about her English, spoke it quite well. We wandered around the empty streets of the old town as she looked for something to eat and I just got a feel for the city. She asked if I liked baked goods and then we launched into a discussion about our favorites. She, like myself, had a sweet tooth.

I suggested a drink at a bar near the hostel, so we grabbed a corner booth in an empty pub and had a couple drinks. We talked about our travels, experiences along the way, and plans for when we get back. We even talked about single-serving friends: those people you meet on the road with whom you make no pretense about keeping in touch or meeting up. Travelers whose emails you’d never bother asking for, because their company and conversation at the time is all you’re going to get and all you really want. In fact, as we went to our respective rooms, something finally dawned on me. After saying goodnight I spun around and added, “By the way, my name is Bj.” She laughed and replied “I’m Yuri, it’s nice to meet you.”

The day before, I had stopped at one of the Paris train stations and bought a ticket to Luxembourg. Here was the plan:

I had a job interview in Amsterdam on Monday, so instead of waiting out the weekend in Paris, I thought I would work my way back up to Holland and visit some other cities. I noticed on the map that Luxembourg was nearby since, like most people, I had no idea where in Europe Luxembourg was to begin with. I bought a train ticket for Saturday afternoon to Luxembourg City.

That Saturday morning I hopped on the train to visit one last attraction in Paris. Keeping on my death-inspired tourism theme, I decided to go to the Pere Lachaise cemetery. Now I know what you’re thinking … ‘OK, I understand the Catacombs, that’s actually interesting and unusual, but a cemetery?!’ But it’s not just any cemetery, it’s one of the most famous burial sites in the world. Not because of it’s age, layout or locale, but because of it’s occupants. Many of France’s most celebrated leaders, thinkers, singers, poets and authors lie entombed on it’s expansive grounds, including one James Morrison, lead singer of the Doors. In fact, I heard that Morrison’s grave had become something of a Hippie Mecca. From Wikipedia:

American singer and songwriter with The Doors, author, and poet. Permanent crowds and occasional vandalism surrounding this tomb have caused tensions with the families of other, less famous, interred individuals. Many other parts of the cemetery have been defaced with arrows purporting to indicate the direction toward “Jim”, though even these defacements have in many cases been defaced themselves, resulting in arrows that point in two directions.

I just had to check it out.

At the entrance I found a map of all the tenants and their locations.

Remember that this is the largest cemetery in Paris, there’s a lot of dead people to cover. I jotted down a quick list of people I might like to pay my respects to and their lot numbers, like Corot (#61) the French landscape painter, Moliere (#58), Proust (#90), Wilde (#83) and of course, Morrison (#30).

Everyone was spread out all over the grounds, so I decided to just wander around, make a concerted effort to see some famous graves, then get back to the city.

It was an overcast morning, perfect for a visit to a graveyard. On top of that, it had rained that night and some of the water still hung in the air like a cool haze, which gave the whole experience an eerie feeling. I wandered around the area of section D6, keenly searching for Morrison’s grave. I heard that they erected a barrier around the grave to keep people away from the actual gravesite. When I got to the area where he was supposed to be, I saw this woman in a bright orange, semi-tie-dyed skirt/halter-top combo with a matching headband, skipping, dancing and moving around an area as she listened to an iPod. I must be close …

Part of my confusion was because I expected Jim Morrison’s grave to be litered with joints, beer cans, graffiti and flowers, so after wandering around the hippie woman’s turf for a few minutes, I was surprised to find the grave relatively untouched. There were a few flowers lying in front and on top of the headstone, and there was a low metal fence that surrounded it, but other than that it was pretty tame. Jim Morrison would’ve been ashamed.

Just as I approached, the hippie woman stopped dancing and playing with a stray cat who happened to also be holding a vigil for the dead icon (the cat might’ve been hers … if so, I bet it’s name was Jim). Then she suddenly hopped over the barrier, stood on top of the grave, clasped her hands in front of her chest and gave a quick half-bow namaste. Then she hopped back over. My hands weren’t quick enough to get a picture of it, but it was quite a sight.

The marker for the grave has it’s own history too:

The grave had no official marker until French officials placed a shield over it which was stolen in 1973. In 1981, Croatian sculptor Mladen Mikulin placed a bust of Morrison and the new gravestone with Morrison’s name at the grave to commemorate the 10th anniversary of his death; the bust was defaced through the years by cemetery vandals and later stolen in 1988. In the 1990s Morrison’s father, George Stephen Morrison, placed a flat stone on the grave. The stone bears the Greek inscription: ΚΑΤΑ ΤΟΝ ΔΑΙΜΟΝΑ ΕΑΥΤΟΥ, literally meaning “according to his own daimōn” and usually interpreted as “true to his own spirit”. Mikulin later made two more Morrison portraits in bronze but is awaiting the license to place a new sculpture on the tomb.

I wandered around the grounds some more while munching on a croissant aux amandes I picked up at a bakery on the Avenue de Flandre near the hostel. You could even hire a tour guide for the cemetary who will show you to the most famous tombs, without the hassle and phobia of getting lost in a graveyard.

As I got back to the city with plenty of time before my train. I thought I would take a walk to the Eiffel Tower to see it during the day, but got side-tracked by the Les Invalides and the Musee Rodin along the way. Les Invalides was originally a hospital and retirement home for war veterans, built in the last quarter of the 17th century. Now, it’s a military museum and most notably, the final resting place of Napoleon Bonaparte. I only took around the grounds, since buying a ticket would make much sense with only an hour or so to spare.

I did however buy a ticket for the gardens of the Musee Rodin. The gardens is a popular spot in summer for picnics and sunbathing, and pars of the gardens even have these cool wooden deck chairs set up. More than that, the grounds are decorated with replicas of Rodin’s most popular works, like the Thinker.

But by far one of the coolest things I saw at the Musee Rodin was on an electrical post on the sidewalk outside:

As people left the museum, they’d slap their entrance stickers onto this post, even going to the lengths of standing on the window sill of the building and reaching up as high as they can go, just so they could be the highest sticker on the pole (that, or many of the visitors are giants of freakish dimensions). Did I put mine up there? Of course.

I started walking to the Eiffel Tower, but was sidetracked yet again, but none other than an outdoor market (market!!). This one was pretty impressive, though it offered more prepared foods than things like fruit and veggies. But it also had farmhouse cheeses, fresh baked breads and delectable chocolates. I will certainly miss Paris …

I picked up a sandwich and a delicious baked goodie for the train ride, the continued walking. About a block later, I stopped and realized that I would have barely any time to take pictures at the Tower and even if I did, it was so overcast they wouldn’t come out very well anyway. I turned around and walked to the metro station.

When I left my bags in the storage locker at the hostel that morning, it was one of the only bags there. I placed it safely in the back. When I came to pick it up in the afternoon, a field of backpacks separated me from mine. I stumbled, stomped and side-stepped my way over each one, then had to do it all in reverse. Like a pack mule I trekked to the Gare de l’Est and got on my train to Luxembourg.

I was in Paris for two and a half days, and I had already exhausted the usual things to see: the Louvre, Musee d’Orsay, Eiffel Tower, Champs-Elysees, yeah, yeah, whatever.

I mean, I could always check out the Asian Table Tennis Championship being held at the two outdoor ping-pong tables down the street from the hostel, which I did, but I’m pretty sure I’d get bored, which I did.

And the action shot …

Winner! Note the solid plastic divider instead of a classic net, very clever.

Instead, I had something a little more interesting planned. I read about it in the LP, and it’s a little outside town, but I figured it’d be an interesting site: the Catacombs.

You see, sometime around the end of the 18th century, the French realized that they were running out of places to bury people. The cemeteries of the city were overcrowded to the point that the living who resided next to the poorly managed graveyards were getting sick because of all the decomposing matter.

The city decided to unearth the skeletal remains of several cemeteries and, to put it bluntly, chuck ‘em in a quarry. A series of abandoned quarries connected by tunnels outside the original Paris walls were used as a stockpile for the bones (so really they chucked them over the fence into the quarry).

Now I didn’t know what to expect. The description in the LP went something like “This is a cool, but kinda creepy place.” I got there just as they opened and entered a very nondescript, low-lying brick building. The “lobby” had enough room for a few peoply to stand single-file and buy their tickets from a window. You pass a standard, train-station turnstile and then embark on a 240-plus-stair descent into the quarries

If you needed to be told, here it is:

The beginning of the tunnel that takes you to the quarries began with a small historical record. It seems the Catacombs were used as a museum from as early as the late 19th century. The tunnel itself … well, it put the fear of God in you. What I’m about to do violates every impulse in my body and is truly unprecedented here in this blog: I’m going to post a terrible picture. It’s just awful. Bad lighting, wrong exposure, no tripod. But I’m keeping it — and posting it — for a reason. To show you just how dark and ominous the tunnel was.

Now imagine walking down that hallway without those handy wall lights. Imagine doing it with a single candle held in your trembling hand like it ’twas the friggin’ nightmare before Christmas.

After a set of confusing turns, we reached the carvings of one of the quarrymen. He had been imprisoned in an English prison, and while employed in the subterranean rock mines of Paris, carved into the soft stone a replica of what he saw from his prison window.

This was followed by more walking. I began to wonder if these narrow, barren walls were the Catacombs themselves. After all, it did vaguely resemble the hellscape to which my soul would be undoubtedly banished: uneven dirt floors, limestone walls that dripped water and oozed mold, and low ceilings that only imps and demons could navigate comfortably. The lights were bright enough just to let you know if you were going the right way. I would frequently turn the wrong direction only to be faced with a passage as black as the plague which killed most of these inhabitants, or one that was lighted only well enough to presumably lure you to where you could become the next permanent guest of the Catacombs.

Finally I passed through another door marked with an alarming phrase:

Halt! Here is the empire of the dead. OK that’s actually kinda cool.

It’s hard to really describe the feeling of what came next. I already didn’t quite know what to expect. I mean, how do YOU think you would turn a pile of skeletons into a museum? Would you lay each body out on top of each other? Would you group them by body party, like all the femurs on the left and the ulnas on the right? Maybe you would stack them in the creepiest way imaginable, then provide only enough light to scare the living daylights out of whomever is so brave to open their eyes? Yeah, let’s do that last one.

The funny thing is that a security guard warned us not to take pictures with the flash on. What, are you worried about damaging the decomposing organic matter? Running out of dead people to stash down there?

Can you believe how they arranged the bones? A wall of the longer bones, say the humerus, femur, tibia, fibia, maybe some ribs … they had all been laid flat, interspersed with skulls, to hold back a landfill of the rest of the bodyparts. Or for example the second picture above, where it’s almost architecturally sculpted like a fat, bulging pillar. I can imagine the conversation in Heaven: “So, what did your family do with your remains?” “Oh, they cremated me and scattered my ashes in the rivers, mountains and valleys of my ancestral lands.” “Wow, that’s beautiful.” “Yeah. What about you?” “Well my left arm and ear are going to be part of the renovation of the east wing, my head is on display at the entrance and my lower body is at the base of a load-bearing column.” “Hm.”

It is said that 5 to 6 million people are buried in the Catacombs. Truly, it is an incredible, creepy, and incredibly creepy place. Well worth the visit.

You know what else was worth the visit? A bakery across the street that had a line almost out the door. It was one of those neighbourhood joints that the same people went to every morning and afternoon to buy their daily fix. The “showcase” spanned yards and was filled with every kind of pastry, bread, cookie, tart and cake you could dream of, but I had only one thing on my mind. Croissant aux amandes. It was delicious. Almost as good as the one from the night before, except I think they overdid the croissant part. It probably stayed in the oven too long, but the filling was spot on. As Vivek so poetically described it: “That’s the closest to heaven I have been.” Croissants in France. Lord, I am ready.

That night I headed back to Montmartre and had some wine at a small bar just up the street from the Moulin Rouge.

Walking around the historic neighbourhood, it was interesting to see the dichotomy of tourist influence, represented by packed bars, cafes and galleries, alongside the true artist colony, manned by such painters finishing a particular work before the weekend:

I went back to the hostel and packed my things. I had spent a lot of time deciding where my next destination would be, debating between places like Northeast France, Amsterdam, and Luxembourg. Finally, before going to the Catacombs I made my decision and bought a train ticket for the following afternoon. You’ll have to keep reading to see where I go next, and why.

On Thursday morning I did an emergency wash at a laundromat just a few doors down the street from the hostel. While the machines ran I read my book and assisted a couple American girls who couldn’t get detergent out of the coin-operated dispenser. In the end I just gave them some of mine.

I picked up some bread, cheese, sliced turkey and fruit, and took the train to the neighbourhood of Les Halles. There’s an enormous shopping complex there, the Forum, and it’s is a maze of escalators, fast food stands, side exits, front exits, emergency exits and modern teenage fashion. I stumbled out somewhere near my intended destination, the Jardin du Forum des Halles, a small park near the shopping Forum. I sat at a bench and ate my lunch with a keen eye on the pigeons and crows that had their keen eyes trained on my lunch.

As I walked East towards the Centre National d’Art et de Culture Georges Pompidou (or Centre Georges Pompidou), I found the real flavor of the Les Halles area, where cafes, bakeries and restaurants coalesce with street vendors, street performers and merchandise shops. The large concrete courtyard in front of the Georges Pompidou was also a meeting place of it’s own, but mostly for teenagers with nothing else to do.

Depending on who you talk to, the Centre Georges Pompidou is either the most brilliant architectural masterpiece or an eyesore. It almost looks like the building was turned inside-out, putting the structural framework and walkways on the facade instead of hidden inside it’s walls. It’s most famous design points are the enclosed escalators that run up the front of the building.

I bought a ticket but even as I made my way up to the top floor, I wondered what kind of staying power I had for yet another museum visit. Even though I was incredibly excited to finally get to visit one of the most important art and cultural centers in Europe, having spent more than 10 hours in museums over the last couple days, I didn’t think my body had the strength. On top of that, it was a beautiful day and I didn’t want to spend it all indoors.

I chose the exhibits I most wanted to see and took them one at a time. There was a fascinating discussion on the progression from Post-Impressionism to Cubism and Futurism, including all of their smaller spin-offs. And even the permanent collection was extensive and no less impressive.

I quit after only a few hours and headed for the nearest train station. On my way I stopped at a bakery, of course, and picked up another loaf of bread. The problem with French bakeries is that they smell so goddamn delicious. Although I suppose that’s my problem with bakeries in general. It wasn’t very long before I caved, and even though it was late at night and supplies were running low, I found an interesting looking croissant labeled “croissant aux amandes,” or almond croissant. I even ordered in French, but the woman had to break into English when I couldn’t figure out that she was asking if I wanted the loaf sliced.

On my first step outside the shop, I tore off a piece of the croissant and allowed myself a taste. It was supposed to be dessert, and I didn’t want to spoil my appetite. When that first mouthful hit my tastebuds and the flaky, buttery, sugary delight dissolved into pure pleasure, I became a changed man. I had never tasted something that good. And that’s saying a lot. I vowed to keep eating croissants aux amandes until I became an obese diabetic.

I took the train to the Charles de Gaulle – Etoile stop. I walked around the Arc de Triomphe until I could find a view unobstructed by streelights and trees. The roundabout looked hellish, and it made me think of Clark Griswold trying to escape one in London.

I spied a group of people and what looked like a military band in the center, which is accessible via an underground tunnel. There’s a museum inside the Arc which houses some history of the monument, etc, etc, but I was only concerned with standing under it outside. Unfortunately, even to emerge from the tunnel to stand under the Arc you need to buy a museum ticket, so I balked.

The Etoile sits at one end of the famous Champs-Elysees. I didn’t do much more than window-shop at most of the high-end stores, but I did duck into one to examine some of their hats. I expected every shop to be of the Armani/Gucci/Versace brand and exorbitantly expensive (for example, in the window of the Mont Blanc store sat a $2,000 pen), but the street featured some pretty simple stuff too, like Adidas and Kangol.

I made it all the way down the Champs-Elysees until I reached the Petit Palais, which was featuring a special exhibit on the Impressionist Masters. I considered it for a moment, but for some reason all I could hear in my head was for god’s sake no more French Impressionism …

So I got on a train at the Champs-Elysees-Clemenceau station and went back to the hostel.