My European Journey
(or How I learned to love America)
-A fortnight in search of motels, junk food and English speakers-
Introduction
In the middle of April 2002, I had just left a position as political secretary in the local government in Oslo, a job demanding in both time and effort. In addition I was thoroughly fed up with Norway (a not entirely uncommon phenomenon amongst Norwegians with triple digit IQs) and feeling generally restless. I just wanted to get away from it all for a while and besides see a little of Europe after five years of taking my holidays in the US.
Apart from a few minor visits to Denmark and a few hours in Germany, I hadn't really been to western & central Europe since I drove to Bosnia and back in '93. Sure, I'd been to Poland, Russia and Estonia since then, but those were (especially at the time) fringe countries in my mental map of Europe. I had an urge to see if things had changed in the past ten years and also to compare the experience of traveling in Europe to that of traveling in America.
I didn't have any very clear notions of where I wanted to go, except that I had an invitation to stay with my uncle & aunt in Bratislava, and that I had heard very good things about Spain. I was especially urged to go to the south of Spain and do a 1-day ferry & bus trip to Morocco. Being violently anglophile I also had some vague, yet strangely pleasing dream of standing on top of the cliffs of Gibraltar, mooning the Spanish mainland.
Thus it was that I set off for the European continent in my battered old Subaru station wagon one sunny Thursday in April. I was armed with a suitcase, my visa card, a Spanish pocket parlor, a Danish guidebook for Slovakia and a Michelin tourist and motoring atlas for Europe. In retrospect, I should probably have packed a flame-thrower too, but you can't think of every little detail, can you?
Introduction
In the middle of April 2002, I had just left a position as political secretary in the local government in Oslo, a job demanding in both time and effort. In addition I was thoroughly fed up with Norway (a not entirely uncommon phenomenon amongst Norwegians with triple digit IQs) and feeling generally restless. I just wanted to get away from it all for a while and besides see a little of Europe after five years of taking my holidays in the US.
Apart from a few minor visits to Denmark and a few hours in Germany, I hadn't really been to western & central Europe since I drove to Bosnia and back in '93. Sure, I'd been to Poland, Russia and Estonia since then, but those were (especially at the time) fringe countries in my mental map of Europe. I had an urge to see if things had changed in the past ten years and also to compare the experience of traveling in Europe to that of traveling in America.
I didn't have any very clear notions of where I wanted to go, except that I had an invitation to stay with my uncle & aunt in Bratislava, and that I had heard very good things about Spain. I was especially urged to go to the south of Spain and do a 1-day ferry & bus trip to Morocco. Being violently anglophile I also had some vague, yet strangely pleasing dream of standing on top of the cliffs of Gibraltar, mooning the Spanish mainland.
Thus it was that I set off for the European continent in my battered old Subaru station wagon one sunny Thursday in April. I was armed with a suitcase, my visa card, a Spanish pocket parlor, a Danish guidebook for Slovakia and a Michelin tourist and motoring atlas for Europe. In retrospect, I should probably have packed a flame-thrower too, but you can't think of every little detail, can you?
posted by Ghost of Goldwater at 5:01 PM
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