Wanlin, Belgium

Malkovich. Malkovich! Malkovich!!

A brief entry, as I obtain fleeting and coveted net access in the Schiphol airport.

Exploring Belgium has been a joy. Everything is immaculately green, blanketed in wildflowers, and has names that I can pronounce. A sharp contrast from my meanderings through The Netherlands, I seem to be instantly back to my Icelandic (and San Franciscan) tendencies of correctly assuming direction in this country. While my previous posting stops me from genuinely complaining about that permanent state of disorientation, it's nice to be back on track.

I'm not sure what's up with The Netherlands though. It's like the entire country has an inner-ear infection and can't make directional sense. It can't just be me.



I'm loving Belgium. I was a little sad to depart Brugge after such a brief stay, but my continued travels have been wonderful in their own right. There is a density to everything here - a solidity in the very surroundings, and a weight to every stone in every ancient structure. This only further pronounces my desire to explore as much of it as possible. I kinda want to touch everything too.



Well, here it is. Around the time I began orchestrating this trip, my sister discovered a tiny Belgian town bearing our last name - its exploration seemed a unique and worthwhile goal. Not sure when I'll be back in southeast Belgium again. Set deep in the countryside of the country's French half, it took some logistical coordination to actually find the place...



This is Wanlin's downtown, in as much as it has one. I encountered three humans, six dogs, lots of horses and one seemingly wayward sheep. Aside from a few dozen residences and a crumbling church, I found one closed grocer and one bar - which was seemingly shut down, with someone snoring loudly in a small trailer parked out front.

Oh, and a vending machine just outside the church that apparently dispenses selected agonies for pocket change:



I departed the little town with few questions answered, but filled with a sense of satisfaction. Imagine my compounded joy when, ten minutes drive towards Luxembourg, I encountered the following:



Friends, until you have witnessed your own surname lettered gargantually alongside an equally massive corporate logo, you have not known true glory.

In these lands, I am King.

Brugge, Belgium

On Wandering

As should be expected from my present scenario, many of my recent stray thoughts have turned toward the subject of wandering. Most of these considerations have risen specifically during times of overtly directionless wandering, which I feel only further strengthens my belief that such activity is occasionally beneficial, if not extremely important.

This entry isn't really going to be about anywhere.



I haven't planned much for this trip. The few things I did try to plan have either been completely scrapped and remapped, or presented themselves as unfortunately rigid self-imposed obstacles that had to be overcome.

What I have consciously realized is the following: If I walk, a path will present itself.

Be it through intervention and suggestion of the people I meet on my way, or simple internal inclination towards a particular direction, a route is always formed. Truly, not a day has passed that I didn't at least have some sense of where I was likely to head next, while absolving considerations of any destinations beyond the immediate.

I'm going on my first month like this. It really seems to work.



Two points beyond that. First point - it works on any scale. Choosing which country to place next on the itinerary functions the same as deciding whether to take a left or a right while strolling a nameless avenue that didn't make the map. If knowledge has been acquired, consider it. Then move in the direction that feels best, regardless of anything else. If this changes established plans, welcome the change.

Second point - it works better than anything else. As I mentioned, the plans I tried to make ended up just getting in the way. Trying to anticipate the future never works, and only prevents me from getting the most out of the current moment.

The further benefits of this methodology are probably obvious - really noticing details because of sufficient time, never getting bored because leaving is always an option, resolving stress when it appears, and most importantly - discovering secrets. I could spend an entire entry on how aimless wandering has bettered my trip thus far... but I don't feel like going in that direction right now.



There's more to consider on the subject, but there's my current mental state.

The universe itself is already perfect. As one diminishes personal 'doing', one diminishes all those actions committed against that natural harmony which lead us away from clarity and peace.

Ha look, now I'm a Taoist.



Oh yeah, Brugge was totally awesome. My favorite city since I left Iceland (sigh). And it was real pretty, just like in that movie - Ocean's Ten, right?

Den Haag & vicinity, The Netherlands

"There is no blue without yellow and without orange."

I am presently sipping some strange flowery tea in a rooftop garden, overlooking the mess of canals that composes the Utrecht city center. The Dom Tower stands imposingly against a cloudless cerulean sky, the gentle air is cool and smells faintly of coffee from the café below. It's 2:30pm on a Thursday, and things are quite good.



Den Haag has been my home for the last few days, but it's not a particularly interesting one. I've come to realize a (perhaps obvious) peculiarity of my wanderings - most places are just places. Most parts of most cities are there to provide mundane services to residents who pass by them every day, and hold very little for someone like me. These places are certainly not without their own character or charms, but there is far less interest or photographic opportunity in these concrete canals than what Amsterdam presented me.

Fortunately, the train system around here is even more comprehensive and affordable than I'd expected, so I've spent my days exploring the nearby cities of Leiden, Lisse and Utrecht, returning in the evening for the blandly seedy nightlife of The Hague.



So I wanted to see tulips. Lots of tulips. After a bit of research, I decided to go to Keukenhof Park, a huge botanical garden said to provide a high percentage of the region's available flowers - a flower farm, basically.

Now, don't get me wrong. It was pretty. Kind of like Disneyland, really - except all the rides are flower arrangements and all the kids are in their 70s. I enjoyed it for a brief time, and then realized that this was all I was getting. No expansive fields of flowers, no infinity of tulips. Just one delicately arranged floral presentation after another, and lots of slow-moving tourists.

Now, I'm not dumb - these flowers gotta come from somewhere nearby, I say to myself. Following that thought, I did what Americans do best. I broke the rules and took what I wanted.

A few kilometers down an unmarked dirt road outside the park led me to a sheltered plantation. There were no signs (that I could read) telling me not to enter, so I ventured farther and suddenly found myself standing amidst a rainbowed vista of fields. In every direction were huge rectangles of color, which only registered as flowers when I really looked closely. It was like standing on an artist's palette, surrounded by endless color. Smelled nice too.

I got exactly what I wanted - something I had never seen before, and an entire card of great photos. Again, wandering off the common path has served me well. I've been thinking about that quite a lot lately. So far all I can formulate is "wandering: good".



I've been following the footsteps of the local artists as best I can. Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Ruisdael, Vermeer - I'd like to think I have begun to glimpse what they might have seen and used for inspiration in these places.

There is a unique quality and characteristic to the light around here. I first noticed it in Leiden, and then continuously ever since. The best means by which I can describe it is that all things seems to play in the sunlight; everything reflects everything else, and the results are these amazing shimmering patterns of light that spread across the entire city, appearing and vanishing as the day changes. From the canals to the high windows to the light-painted walls, and even the stonework - there are caustics and obscured light casts everywhere.

Often reflected multiple times off varied surfaces, they become abstract shapes and strange swirls of color, their origins left enigmatic or completely obscured. Be it brilliant urban planning or proximity to Icelandic magic, I can't say - but I begin to imagine what those artists may have seen and considered while living here. It becomes easy to imagine how someone like Rembrandt would quickly become obsessed with dynamic lighting and reflection in this place. I'm certainly enjoying it from a photographic standpoint.



Utrecht's highlight was certainly the Museum van Speelklok tot Pierement - a museum dedicated to automatically playing mechanical musical instruments. Carillon clocks, musical boxes, pianolas, belly organs, orchestrions, and magnificent full-size mechanical organs. Completely automated like clockwork, the big ones play a complete orchestrated song, putting out the sound of a full band.

I was absolutely captivated by the workings of these machines - the intricacies of their design are a clear predecessor to punchcard computers and programming. Listening to them perform is a treat, as well - the gentleman in the above image spent the duration of my visit moving from one to the next, sitting down each time and enjoying a show.

Beyond the machine's decorated facade, there is nothing to visually witness. Still, it's quite an experience - I joined him for a romping rendition of "Old McDonald Had A Farm."

Ee eye ee eye oh.



My tea is done, and there is more here to see. Think I'll get some Dutch ice cream on the way, to balance things out.

It's so good, so cheap, and so available everywhere.

Amsterdam, The Netherlands

In The Garden Of Lavender, The Tulip Becomes A Weed

Heineken tastes exactly the same off the tap as it does from the bottle. This is not the strangest part of Amsterdam.

I haven't been able to walk two blocks in this city without getting lost. This works out well for me, as I rarely have somewhere to be, but it's occasionally frustrating. I'm quite good with maps, and found myself very quickly at home in Reykjavik - things are very different here. Fortunately, everything is rather stunning, and the kilometers I've spent wandering have certainly not been for the worse.

Despite the innate beauty of this city, I haven't really taken to much photography here - I'll be back next week for Queen's Day, and anticipate getting my fill then. I think I've been a bit overwhelmed at my introduction to a true European city. Charming Reykjavik is just cute by comparison.

It's pleasantly slow-paced. Despite being a major metropolitan area, nobody seems in too much of a hurry to do anything... or to be going anywhere at all. There are no highrises or roaring interstates. Plenty of time and space has been dedicated to aesthetic, even to the detriment of function. The bike traffic here is phenomenal - I can't imagine trying to drive a car on these roads that were clearly never meant for such vehicles. This must be what the San Francisco bike coalition wishes it could do. I'm amazed.



Moreso, I've come to a significant realization of erroneous past assumptions. For reasons unknown, I have so far in life worked under the assumption that European nations had benevolently donated their finest artistic works to American museums for me to personally witness. Naturally, there would be a few masterpieces left here, but I've seen the majority of the good stuff already.

So yeah - I'm learning a lot about how I don't know anything. European art museums are an entirely different experience from any fine art museum I've ever visited - rather than archetypal period art, they present a fuller array, fleshing out every aspect of an artistic era, and providing a multifaceted view that cannot be accomplished with a few select works. It's an unexpected treat to see so many new pieces by some of my longtime favorites, and further, to learn of the artists they taught and inspired.

Plus, much of this art is delightfully gruesome! Glorious depictions of terrible ship battles, amidst storms and sea monsters. Gory depictions of disemboweled martyrs hung by their ankles. You know, proper art. I guess American censorship is present in many unexpected places. This all bodes very well for my continued European art tour.



I've spent most of my time here in Amsterdam wandering along shimmering canals and through sunlit park expanses - my warmest Icelandic day still felt better with a wool hat, and this is a energizing change. While relaxing and comfortable, I don't feel much compulsion to stay here - it seems that there are important things to see outside this concentrically canaled and eerily homogeneous utopia. Plus the hostel facility sucks, despite providing some good nightlife companions.

So I will soon depart, taking with me the new goal of exploring the places where these aforementioned artists spent their lives. I want to find out if there is anything left in those places that so motivated them to create, and whether or not I myself can see it.

Southeastern Wilds, Iceland

Things Found In The Wild

Emerging from the wilderness of Iceland's southeast seems as close a terrestrial homecoming as one can get without departing the planet - until the moment fades and the country's more typical surroundings regain their own bizarre status. I've spent the last few days trekking all across the wilds of this otherworldly terrain, constantly amazed and bewildered by what I discovered.



Acquiring a car added a serious sense of surrealism, as Iceland's vistas change suddenly and drastically even on foot. Cruising along at 90 km/ hour, they transform in the blink of an eye from something you never expected to see to something you never thought existed. I went from stretching desolate plains to winding snowy mountaintops to sparkling blacksand beaches to muddy marshes to rolling grassy fields to weird green lumpy expanses to lava rock plateaus, all over the course of a couple hours. Each section seemed to vanish into forever, but was so quickly replaced that it was startling.

I spent one day exploring the majority of Skaftafell National Park - home to some amazing waterfalls, as well as access to the largest glacier outside of the Arctic. Walking on a glacier is itself an otherwordly experience - from below me and for great distances around was nothing but silence, except for the occasional deep snap or rumble as something really big breaks somewhere, and the climate shifts just a tiny bit more.



After a long day of trail hiking, I retired to a hostel in the "town" of Hvoll, which is basically just the hostel, where I had the entirety of the 40-room place to myself. Spring brings later sunsets, and I found an ideal spot to enjoy that fact - out back I lay in the green grass beneath a spotted blue sunny sky, sheltered by a large boulder from the cooling winds. In the distance I could hear the occasional squawking of puffins, and nearby the constant murmur of streams that continued out across seemingly infinite gray plains to a distant sea, appearing as a mere glistening sliver on the horizon. A few degrees warmer and I may have spent the night there. A few more degrees and it might have consumed my week. It's a place I hope to see again - a rare perfect spot.



The rest of my time was spent in constant adventure and exploration. I've found the hostel attendants to be invaluable fonts of information regarding local wandering, and this proved no exception. I wandered the length of a basalt column beach, discovering a seemingly inhabited shed several kilometers from anything. Whoever lived there definitely appreciated their wine. I climbed a trail marked "Impassable" just to prove a point, and discovered a derelict lighthouse, too far from the water to be of any use. I found an unmarked waterfall that I could walk behind, and stood so that all my senses were overwhelmed by it - the watery roar of absolute oblivion. It was awesome, in the biblical sense.



I did find a number of friends in the small places of those quiet expanses. My day of beach trekking was accompanied by two of the nearby town's playful puppies that looked identical to every other dog in the entire country. I named them Indigo and Beryl. Here is the latter trying very hard to figure out what to do with my lunch. He eventually solved the problem - turns out the answer was in biting.



And here is a fellow explorer, posing blasé before one of the more spectacular natural wonders she and I discovered. Iceland has park benches absolutely everywhere, and they are consistently pointed in the one direction where there is nothing to see. While perplexing, it's actually quite an impressive feat, as there are very few things to not see here. Hmm... I wonder if that sentence means anything at all.

I soon depart Iceland with some heartache at wonders left undiscovered, but excited with both the knowledge that I will surely one day return, and that I now continue my strange sojourn.

Vík, Iceland

Gray Solace

Population has decreased exponentially again, as temperature increases by a comparable degree. Vík is a cozy 300-person village, nestled at the foot of Iceland's largest glacier, which itself rests atop the country's largest active (and overdue) volcano, Katla. Everyone here seems a little concerned about that.

I'm hoping to spend the next few days wilderness-wandering, but that may depend on the weather's increased cooperation. It also may not - my camera is allegedly waterproof, and I know I am. Spring is far more apparent on this edge of the country - green grasses are everywhere, and tiny flowers have begun to appear. I want to go exploring.



The last couple days have been riddled with adventure and misadventure. Highlights include:

• Getting my Land Rover stuck in a huge snow bank (It was bound to happen)
  
• Losing my critically warm wool hat somewhere in a frighteningly featureless 6km tunnel, and then finding it hours later on my return trip, just as I realized it was missing (I really need that hat - this is Iceland)
  
• Driving 200km around the Icelandic countryside (Driving in Iceland is so easy - there's really just one big road with lots of little offshoots)
  
• Stood at the northernmost point in the northernmost town of this northernmost country (It's kind of just an empty road, but still...)
  
• Discovering an enormous active geyser (By accident...)
  
• Taking a wrong turn in the fjords, and as a result being treated to the most breathtaking views I have ever witnessed in my life (Seriously - pictures can never do it justice)
  
• Watching Crank: High Voltage in Icelandic with no subtitles (You know, I could still follow the plot really well...)
  

Today I am relaxing with my book and my paints, and very much looking forward to dinner - I once again have a kitchen at my disposal, and intend to take full advantage of that fact. The grocery store here had some vegetables that I'd never seen before - I'm betting they're yummy with a little olive oil and garlic over rice.

I'm very much enjoying my small-town homes - it's nice to get a taste of life in these places I'll never actually live. I can go anywhere I please here, and there's no rush because it can all easily be taken in over a day. I think my challenge will be balancing these places with the larger cities, which have their own draw, but take more of a toll on my energy levels.

For the moment, things are quiet and gray. I think Katla snores...

Ísafjörður, Iceland

Putting the ice back in Iceland

My most second transition has proven to be as drastic as the first. Both sunlight and English have become equally scarce, and Reykjavik's distantly scenic snowy views have been brought directly underfoot in my new digs. Nothing like the crunch of fresh snow beneath your step and the subzero air in your lungs to make you appreciate 40-degree weather.

Isafjordur is the capital of the Western Fjords, and home to Aldrei fór ég suður (I never went south), the country's largest annual music festival. Bear that in mind when I say that the shows take place in a concrete warehouse decorated in christmas lights and located along the otherwise empty road that runs from the airport to the cozy town of 3000 people.



The fjord town is bordered closely on three sides by towering snow-covered mountains, and by the Arctic Ocean on the fourth. Flying in requires a steep bank across the fjord's opening, and then a truly dramatic low approach over the town's rooftops, skimming along the sheer mountainsides through this narrow passageway and eliciting plenty of oohs and ahhs even from people who have done this far more often than I.

There's not much to officially do or see here, especially in these off-season months, but fortunately I've only seen snow a handful of times in my life, so I'm thoroughly occupied. Funny to note that I was consistently mistaken for a native Icelander until I came here - I guess my utter fascination with icicles, and my frozen sidewalk slipsliding much more clearly identify me as a Californian. Everyone else has the sense to go inside when the snow really picks up - I'm fully willing to lose a few capillaries for the sake of exploration.

The musical event itself hosts a few dozen bands, half of them locals, and all of them at least pretty good. Icelandic music, while mysteriously distinct in sound, is difficult to categorize - so far I've seen a surprisingly full gamut of styles. This is easily a small enough event that it feels like a local variety show - everyone seems to know one another, and most of the attendants are with their families, including lots of young children. I've been told that cursing in English, which several of the bands do prolifically, is not considered vulgar to Icelanders or at all inappropriate for children.



I can't imagine how one quiet little Arctic fishing village produces such talent and musical artistry - even their convenience store carries very nice instruments and guitar strings alongside its sandwiches and popsicles. Somehow this place inspires brilliance - I stood mesmerized for nearly five hours the first night as band after band simply dazzled the stage, always to casual applause. I'm by far the most impressed member of the audience. I am so very impressed.

And seriously, popsicles! Explain to me why the hell anyone in this town would buy a popsicle! I think that's the far stranger enigma.

Reykjavik, Iceland

Simply Fallegt

The moment I set foot in Reykjavik, I was farther from home than I had ever been in my life. Funny thing is, that sentiment never had a chance to sink in before the city became familiar and entirely welcoming.

Hopping from the capital of New York to the capital of Iceland is a preposterous transition - their similarities instantly cease in that common title. Reykjavik is small. No, Reykjavik is tiny. The "bustling" downtown area is contained across a half dozen shop-dotted streets, and between a pair of single-lane roads, each of which is lined with traffic patterns akin to a funeral procession. While I still cannot pronounce most of the street names (I've mentally renamed them all to their first four letters), it took little more than a day to familiarize myself with the city's layout. From that point, wandering was easy.

I've been fortunate enough to drop into Reykjavik in the midst of Blúsfélag Reykjavíkur, their annual blues festival. Icelandic blues are funny because they're fairly happy and whimsical. The second set was performed, interestingly enough, by the musician who established the festival I'm about to attend in the Western Fjords (reportedly the "cold" part of Iceland), and also the brother of one of my hostel attendants. We went out for drinks, and now I have an all-access festival pass from the immensely talented guy who put together Iceland's largest annual music event. Should make for a fun weekend.

Thanks to the death of Our Lord Jesus, last night was my first taste of Reykjavik nightlife (Icelanders only party on weekends, and Easter is for some reason a week-long weekend). Needless to say, today has been slow in recovery. More on that another time.



So how do you define the soul of a place through photography? It's something that is obviously reflected in a city's architecture, its urban layout, and most certainly its people. Yet, these things are so often interchangeable - as much as what I see feels distinctly Icelandic to me, the world isn't so big a place as to deny cultural overlap.

I suppose it's all in the details. A unique gathering of individuals. The graffiti on a bus stop. The character form of a skyline. The discarded pieces of life. If only I could so easily capture the bizarrely ephemeral music that occasionally drifts out apartment windows and through the air, the steady pulsing beat from deep within the many cafe-turned-nightclubs downtown, or the salty scents that fill the streets closest to the waterfront. The flute-like language of the conversing locals and the soft breeze that continually bites through your warmest clothing, reminding you that it's seen far colder places than you. If I could do these things, I could put Reykjavik inside a frame, and consider my photo to be perfect. Until then, I will have to continue hunting for those little details.

For now, I'm going to go find out what blue whale tastes like.

Reykjavik, Iceland

Reykjavik...

Oh.

My goodness.

New York, U.S.A.

Mirror Glass

Manhattan isn't like anywhere at all.

This city makes me feel physically smaller. The environs are not unfamiliar, but the scale is all off. It's just totally foreign - streets feel absurdly wide, blocks too long. Even the people feel too tall. I'd never felt short in my entire life until I first came to New York.

This place is fun, but I can't wait to leave.

I went out for epic sushi in the West Village, for a point of comparison. Baby eel isn't as good as unagi, but it's got that yummy baby-flavor to it.

...Icelanders must like sushi, right?

Washington D.C., U.S.A.

Capital G

Nobody told me that D.C. was such a... city! I guess I always assumed it to be more of a political Disneyland than a bustling metropolitan area. It strikes me as strange to live here if you aren't working in or at least obsessed with politics, but I suppose doing so would certainly lend unique perspective on the gears that grind our system.

It's a tough city in which to shoot... what can you do when every possible photograph has already been taken there? There really aren't many new subjects or angles to be discovered here. I did my best and got a few good shots, particularly playing around with subway time-lapse. It will be nice to go somewhere I can't even envision yet - the total opposite.

The other thing I hadn't realized was how massively massive this place is. A block in Washington isn't like a normal city block... deceptive to say the least. I wonder why the founding daddies planned a city with such vast empty spaces. Mile-long fields and enormous reflecting pools, all in the midst of what is obviously a fully functioning city.

Maybe they hoped their citizens would have time to think as they went about their business. Too bad cars got invented.

Chicago, U.S.A.

Monochromolithic

Chicago was the final major American metropolitan city I had never properly visited. I guess I've completed the set.

It's almost jarringly iconic. Massive bleak structures huddled over wide, traffic-inundated avenues. The rattling, deafening, somewhat terrifying doppler of the L, screaming past overhead. The fact that everyone really is wearing trenchcoats. It got me thinking on how to approach the idea of capturing a city's soul in pictures. How do you define a place with a handful of sights? I'd like to become more adept in that - thankfully I'll have lots of practice time coming up.

I've enjoyed every minute of my brief time here, and look forward to spending more than a rushed day exploring these streets. Mostly, it's been nice to have more than two train cars in which to walk. And walk I have. And walk I shall.

Denver, U.S.A.

The Cold Rails

And still, not nearly as cold as I'll be in a week's time.

Tomorrow evening I arrive in Chicago to friends, proper food and drink, and (most importantly) a long-overdue shower.

Then, exploration really begins.