Sunday October 14th Amsterdam, NL – Teetering on the Brink

Sometimes I like being reminded that traveling alone isn’t all that bad. I’m sitting in the smoking room of the Flying Pig Uptown hostel and these three American guys have spent the last fifteen minutes bickering about their plans. I don’t have that problem. Well, I suppose I do, but arguing with myself is entirely different. My brother told me once that he strongly dislikes traveling with other people because he hates dealing with their bullshit and indecisiveness. Personally, I think it’s a matter of finding the right type of human being. One that compliments your own travel style and habits. There are a lot of people I would never ever choose as an accomplice, to be perfectly honest. But that doesn’t change the fact that there are so many moments when I desperately wish I wasn’t by myself. Like I mentioned in my previous entry, it’s that extra push from an outside force that gets you to do things you might not do when on your own.

Over the weekend I had to stay in another hostel on the other side of the city. I had to take a tram to get there, too. Which of course was the most harrowing experience (ha). I’m such a stubborn wuss at times. It’s laughable. Anyway, this castle of a hostel was in the middle of a more ethnic neighborhood. It felt even more European than being in the city center. It also forced me to explore other parts of Amsterdam I never would have seen otherwise. And by explore, I mean got hopelessly lost and was finally forced to use my map. But in the end it resulted in me feeling far more comfortable than I’ve been since I got here. That’s always the worst. Those creeping epiphanies that sneak up on you right before you leave a place. Right before you start imagining how easy it would be to find an apartment and get a job and build a new home. I could see myself living here. Really, I could see myself living anywhere. It’s simply a matter of perspective.

Yesterday it rained forever. The relentless drizzle a constant companion. I eventually found my way to The Hermitage Museum where the Van Gogh exhibit has relocated to while they do renovations in the original building. The line was quite long, but I wasn’t about to back out just because I had to wait. I’ve had a lifetime of experience with waiting. I used to feel like I was always waiting. Some people aren’t very adept at patience. It’s an important skill to learn, obviously. The exterior of the museum wasn’t anything special, but the interior was rather lovely. A perfect union of old and new. I admit that my expectations were sort of astronomical because the entry fee was 17.50 Euro. I can tell you with absolute confidence that it’s not worth the expense. Maybe I’ve been spoiled by The Art Institute of Chicago or by the plethora of other art exhibits I’ve seen all over the world. But even with the Impressionist gallery it was a bit of a disappointment. Whoever curated it though did a very nice job, the space itself was fantastic. My favorite part was the entry to the Impressionist wing. They’d blown up a painting, huge. I mean enormous. Bigger than wall-size. I stood there in awe and dreamed of diving inside the kaleidoscope of light and color for a solid half hour (not exaggerating, seriously). Overall I can’t really complain about the experience because I walked away with several new story ideas buzzing around in my brain.

The rest of the day I wandered around in the wet, the shroud of gray wrapped around Amsterdam contrasting with the bright, bubbly pop music blasting from my headphones. Life is always more bearable with music.

Today, Sunday, is my last day here. It’s still raining. I’m not sure I really want to go out and do anything though. The idea of bumming around the hostel bar all afternoon, writing and drinking coffee, sounds far more appealing. I’ve hardly written at all this week and it’s awful. Though the break was needed, I think. I have months and months of writing ahead of me. Stopping to take a few moments to marinate won’t kill me. Tomorrow morning I rise with the sun and take the final steps toward the next stage in my life. Tomorrow I say farewell to Autumn in Central Europe and traverse the ocean to greet the sun and the jungle and the annoying as hell howler monkeys down in Costa Rica. Tomorrow is the beginning of a brand new adventure. Here’s hoping I don’t fuck it up.

October 9th Amsterdam, NL – One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Being on my own again in a foreign country feels really strange. Being displaced, being lost and disconnected. Every city I’ve been in for the last five months there was someone to anchor me. A friend, a family member, a host. But now it’s just me. Alone. Granted it’s only for a week and most people in Amsterdam speak English. It’s still strange. I’m glad that I’ll have this experience once more. The process of learning as quickly as possible how to orient yourself, how to put yourself in a new context. Leaving the farm was bittersweet, but necessary. I was falling into new habits and taking my temporary permanence for granted. I’ve learned that I can create a bubble anywhere, a nest where I don’t have to challenge myself or be anxious and stressed. To be comfortable to the point of regressing, if that makes sense. I know that relocating to live in Costa Rica with my mother is a ballsy move. Ballsy because it’s where I plan to develop as a human being and as a writer. And ballsy because the potential to fail is too real. Knowing myself is dangerous because of what is possible and what is inevitable. I don’t want to fall victim to my own habits of self-sabotage. I’m too good at it. I feel like it would be easier, moving around like this, if I had someone with me. Someone to bounce off of when I am stationary for too long. Someone to share the anxiety with. My loneliness is acute. And it’s crippling.

As I wander around Amsterdam, I don’t know what to do with myself. I see everyone ambling along, arms laden with shopping bags, stopping to take pictures every five seconds. And I feel numb. I know this neighborhood perfectly now, know shortcuts and alleyways. It’s only been twenty-four hours. Though I am apprehensive to go elsewhere. To ride the tram. It’s completely ridiculous but I can’t muster the energy to give a shit. The city itself is beautiful, though. The most obviously European city I’ve been in since I got here. I like it. I just wish I had the money to experience it the way it deserves.

Last night I hung out in the smoking room in the bar of the hostel. Eventually, two very sweet Irish boys sat next to me and we got to chatting. It was nice, but felt hollow. A rerun of an episode of my life that’s already happened. They were generous with their weed, however, and I happily wallowed in the unique fuzziness that comes with being high and beer-buzzed. After we parted ways (a hug and a kiss on the cheek), I went for a walk. Left or right, it didn’t matter. I’ve been carrying a map with me but I never look at it. My visual memory is much better than any map. If I’ve walked it, I can always get there again. It helped that I got turned around on my way to the hostel yesterday. One must get lost before one can find their way. I just don’t think I’m the right flavor of “lost” right now. Or I just suck at this game.

The rest of the week stretches out before me and I wish it would disappear. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be daring and take a ride on one of the river boats instead of eating.

September 6th 12:54pm Rahden, NRW Germany – The Best Way Out Is Always Through

Having finally found a time and place to stop, to be and exist, my thoughts are free to unravel and spread out. In my experience, limited though it may be, it’s discovering what you don’t want that allows you to see more clearly the things you need. The things that might have been there all along but your perception was too clouded by the bullshit to recognize them for what they were. What they are.

I know that I started running at full speed without making sure that my shoes were tied first. And now that I’ve tripped, I can view the world from my new position face first on the ground. I don’t regret blindly stepping forward on a path that was unfamiliar or unknown. Because it has led me to this exact moment of absolute clarity. I do regret, however, not being able to see my initial idealistic fantasy come to fruition. To see the friends scattered across the globe that I so desperately love. They are the reason I even got this far. But I’ve left a trail behind me and I know that one day soon I will find my way back here once again.

I want to go home. I think, more than ever before, I want to stand in the place where I began and look at my life with these new eyes and these new thoughts and these new dreams swirling in my head. I need to go home.

This is not giving up. This is the start of something bigger than just myself. This is where I am.

August 26th 2:34PM NRW, Germany – Four months? Fuck, it feels like yesterday.

Apologies for the lack of updates. Since I arrived in Europe just over three weeks ago my life has been a bit hectic. I knew, going into this experience, that I wanted to avoid making solid plans. The opposite of what my time in Australia and New Zealand had been in 2009. But I think I’ve since learned that there is a difference between rolling with the punches and being an irresponsible idiot. Still, I don’t regret any of the choices I’ve made because I continue to move forward and I continue to collect valuable life lessons. I continue to learn about myself. I continue to live. Which is all I can really ask for. I’m not sure if I’ll actually be able to accomplish what I originally set out to do, but it isn’t going to stop me from trying. I’ve come to terms with the fact that going back to the states before the end of the year is a definite possibility. And that’s okay. The time I’ve spent traveling has been everything I needed it to be and more.

Today marks four months exactly since I left Chicago in April. Which is strange. I don’t keep track of the passing days much anymore, my everyday existence has become a comfortable routine of manual labor and a regulated sleep-schedule. The world narrowed down to a small village in Rahden, Germany. Or rather the farm house where I live and work. It’s simple. And predictable, up to a point. Breakfast at 8:30am. Coffee, toast with butter and jam, cigarette. Four hours of replanting herbs with Elke or watering the garden or helping Oliver with construction of the farm shop. Lunch around 1:00pm. Usually pasta with home-made sauce and home-grown vegetables, cloudy apple juice, cigarette. Break for an hour or less. Checking emails, catching up with friends, cigarette. Two or more hours of replanting herbs with Elke or watering the garden or helping Oliver with construction of the farm shop. Shower. Stare at my computer screen for an hour and a half. Dinner at 6:30pm. Home-made bread (by me), tomatoes, cheese, prosciutto, fresh salad from the garden, cloudy apple juice, cigarette. Sometimes more coffee. Four hours of free time. Bed at 11:30pm. Sunday is mine to do with as I please. Rinse and repeat.

I find that I enjoy this immensely. The exhaustion in my bones each evening feels deserved. Satisfying. Worthwhile. I wake up each morning with a purpose.

Elke struggles with her English, but her temperament is sweet and her humor warm. Oliver is a chatterbox with a penchant for over-explaining things, but he is intelligent and absent-minded and mildly awkward. I like them very much. We discuss politics. Oliver also plays the guitar.

My room is in the attic of the guest-house. At the moment I am the only WWOOFer, but I’ve been told there will be another sometime in September when Oliver begins cultivating his mushrooms again. My ceiling slants and the floor dips and groans in the middle when I walk over it. My bed is large and soft. It feels like home.

If I’m not in my room or sharing a meal with my hosts, I’m in the garden sitting in the old chair swing covered in ivy. Or at the table by the barn, staring up at the clouds until the light dies behind the house. There are two beautiful cats. Micky and I’ve forgotten the name of the other. They follow me around every morning and every evening, begging for nose-scratches and tummy rubs. Sometimes they visit me at night when I indulge in one last cigarette before sleep, meowing and nuzzling at my shins as I sit on the stoop outside my door.

For now, this is making me happy. I don’t know where I’m going after, or even how long I’m staying here. There are personal goals I must accomplish before that can be determined. Personal goals that used to stress me out. But with the security of food in my belly and a roof over my head, my future looks a lot more promising.

Sometimes it’s okay to ask for help….

So, a good friend prodded me into creating a page where I could collect donations to help keep me going on my travels. (Some of this is repeated on the website, but bear with me) I’m not usually one to ask for handouts, but my friend wasn’t the first to ask, nor was she the first to secretly slip me a small sum of cash. Therefore I think I need to swallow my pride and accept the fact that some people just wanna help. Something I’m used to giving rather than receiving, honestly.

I don’t want to use this as a crutch, because I am responsible for myself and my own actions and being broke and in the middle of Europe on my own isn’t something I was forced into. So, I kind of want to be able to give something back to people for their acts of kindness and generosity.

That being said, should you decide to make a donation of $20 or more, I, Samantha, will happily craft you a short-story on a subject of your choosing. It can be about anything you want. I’ll totally write it. Sky’s the fuckin’ limit. Seriously, go to town.

I can’t guarantee that your story will be delivered in a timely fashion, due to the nature of my current lifestyle (see: homeless). But I can certainly promise that it will be written. Eventually, haha.

Here’s the link: Save the Vagabond, Save the World

And if you, y’know, felt like spreading it around or somethin’…that would be great too ❤