Author: tobycode

Good old Beantown. I have never met anyone who has had a bad word to say about Boston. I mean, how could you. It’s the closest thing to a European city in the US and many of us need to visit Boston at least once to get a feel of what it was like back in the old days, when the redcoats were hanging around and most people walked to where they were going. Boston has always been a truly pedestrian town. Throw in some history, the Old North Church, some great old buildings and a fabulous river down the middle, and you’ve got your self a very cool atmosphere.

I mean this is where it all started, it was the cradle of democracy in those early years, with everyone from Washington to Adams to Hancock to Revere, all spending some time in Boston during the Revolutionary Era. It’s not too big and it’s not too small. Boston is just right, with just the right mix of people. You have the intellectuals across the river in Cambridge and you have the Irish in Southie and the Italians in the North End. In between, you have the most colleges in one city, thriving Chinese and Brazilian populations, all the blue-collar workers you could imagine and a strong gay population to boot. To the north, you have the beautiful White Mountains, Green Mountains, Maine Coastline and Canada. To the South, you have the Cape, the Islands, Casinos, and NYC. You are only a 5-hour flight to Dublin and a 2-hour flight to Bermuda. Drive 3 hours west and you are making a bet at Saratoga. Many people call Boston the “Hub of the Universe” and to me that is exactly what it is. At least that is what I thought when I moved up here in ’94.

After attending my brother’s wedding and selling all of my possessions, including my bed, in a garage sale, I loaded up the Supra and moved to Boston. My final destination was Allston St in Allston, MA. My roommates for the Summer of ’94 happened to be 6 lovely Irish women with me being the man of the house. Talk about landing on your feet. Through a few of my Irish friends I ended up living with my 18 year old Irish girlfriend and 5 other Irish beauties, one being my future wife.

The summer was a blast. I soon had plenty of guy friends sniffing around the apartment for dates with the girls. We would have a party every night with headstand keg drinking, nakedness running around and late night runs to the local pizza joint. It truly was a summer to remember. Nobody had a care in the world and whatever happened tomorrow, happened.

It was a very hot day. But I didn’t give a damn. I was delighted to finally be in the city of Caesar. Here I was, at last standing where the gods of ancient Rome once stood. As the train rolled into the station, I could only imagine what the Roman streets had in store for me. My first stop was Mickey D’s to pick up a map. As a now seasoned traveler, I knew that the best (and free) maps were to found at good old McDonald’s. Yes indeed, American capitalism had tapped into another excellent marketing resource –the far from home American backpacker. After a Big Mac and getting my hands on the map, I made my way to the nearest hostel, which happened to be outside of the center of town, by the Olympic stadium. When one gets off the sweaty train, one always heads to the hostel to get washed up and to get some general bearings (unless you are in Amsterdam, there you go straight to the Cafe).

I was cruising on my own and knew that I could probably hook up with some cool shits down at the hostel. The hostel is always the meeting place for single travelers like myself. I made my way through the front door bureaucracy and was able to find an open bed in the communal room of sleep. Just at that moment, people were congregating around the center row of bunk beds and were talking about what to do that evening. I overheard the word “Coliseum” and knew that a journey was in the making. I soon found my way into the group and got myself signed up to venture out with this band of Canadians, Americans and Australians. It was easy to tag along and I did. After chow, we were all going to meet up outside the hostel and then begin our journey to the sacred bowl. This was a chance of a lifetime. This was a moment of opportunity, one that would only come once and one that would only come by chance. The timing of my arrival had been perfect. Here was a group of trekkers on their way to sneak into one of the most revered and sacred places on earth and I was there to tag along. We cruised into the city center, the town was buzzing on this hot July night. We finally made our way through the center of town and soon could see the night-lights encircling the beautiful oval shape. This structure had been standing since 80 AD. It had been through countless wars and battles. It had weathered the test of time. Now I would walk in the footsteps of Caesar.

The leader of our group was a tall Canadian guy with a goatee. He had gone on this journey before. Only he knew how to guide us to the inner sanctum of the Coliseum. We would not merely slip through the gates where the public walked in the daytime. We would go over several tall iron gates that would lead us deep into the heart of this beast. We would go where the lions and Christians were kept before their fateful meetings. We would go into the pits where men would contemplate their fate. The average tourist would only be able to look over the edge and see down into the pits. We would go into the pits and look up at the sky and see things that only archaeologists and Romans would see. Everyone was excited when we reached the first gate. The gates were very high and took a great deal of effort to overcome. Yet, slowly and surely, each of us made our way over each gate. After finally making it over one gate, there would be another one waiting for us to take it on. We helped each other as much we could, but ultimately each of us was involved in his or her own struggle. This was a small price to pay to set foot on sacred ground. This was indeed an opportunity of a lifetime and each of us knew the significance of the moment.

Finally, we made it to the pits, to the very heart of this wonderful place. Once there, we looked around at each other and smiled with glee. We had done it. We had crept into the bowels of “The” Coliseum. This was a story for the ages and for the party scene back home. This would be my lead into countless drunken conversations, knowing that no one listening could say, “me too”. Yet, to bring us down to earth and to let us know that we hadn’t just step foot on the top of Everest, we were met by several locals sitting just above us. This was their local hangout. It was cool to think that this significant landmark was their Saturday night hangout place. We looked at this place as sacred, whereas they merely saw it as a local place to have a few beers. That thought suddenly put everything in perspective for me. I now saw myself hanging out in my local historical site back home, drinking a few beers with my buddies. This scene before me in the Coliseum was no different. When the locals saw us emerge on the floor of the great structure, they made whistling sounds to say in their own way, “Bravo, you made it!” This made us feel welcome and somewhat at ease in these awe-struck surroundings.

We proceeded to go off in our own little groups to explore the history of this place. Every corner seemed to tell another story. In one area you could envision the lions and tigers chained up, ready to be released on the helpless Christians. In another area, you could see benches in rooms that must have been where the victims said their final prayers before the slaughter. The experience was truly amazing. We were walking in the footsteps of men and women from almost 2000 years ago. No ordinary tourist would ever see what we were seeing. The moment I walked into that hostel, my destiny was written. I was destined to sneak into the Coliseum and walk in the path of history. When I looked up into the starlight sky, I could see myself at that moment as one very lucky traveler who had landed a spot on the most exclusive tour in all of Rome. And it didn’t even cost me a dime; only a few scraps and bruises.

After an hour or so, we went back the way we came, leaving everything the way we found it. To disrupt even the slightest pebble would have been sacrilegious. We knew that preserving the moment in our minds was good enough. To celebrate our victorious journey, we opened a few beers back at the hostel. As we toasted the rest of the night away, we listened to each other’s experience from the trip. It was clear that this had been a special night for all. The next morning I bid my farewell to the group and set out to explore the rest of the city on my own. One stop I made was the Coliseum. I wanted to see how lucky we were and how unlucky the rest of the tourists were. In an organized visit to this awesome place, one must stay within certain boundaries. Going down into the pits, as we had done, was out of the question. Even to go up a few levels, you had to pay a few extra bob. When I managed to get to the edge and look down to where we had ventured, I pointed down and said to the guy standing next to me; “I was down there last night.” With a face of disbelief, he looked at me and laughed. I knew he would never believe me. I didn’t expect him to. I had my moment and that is all I needed. I walked away thinking about what my next adventure was going to be. Topping this one would be a thrill and a challenge. But I was prepared.

We had finished our tour of Italy and were worn out from all of the clubbing. We needed to focus on something else besides women and boozing. Getting on the train in Rome, we set our sights on Switzerland. Our goal was to make a quick stopover to take on some adrenaline-pumping activities in the great outdoors. We had heard of this mystical thing called “summer skiing” and we were determined to check it out. Imagine throwing on some skis and hitting the slopes in the middle of July. This I had to experience. We also heard that one could attempt the highest bungee jump in the world. The drop was 600 feet and there was no looking back. The skiing was at the top of our agenda and if we got the nerve, we would also go for the jump.

Our first stop was a place called Zermatt. It was in this beautiful little Swiss hamlet where the skiing took place. The skiing wasn’t next to just some mountain. We would be cruising down the slopes next to the Matterhorn. Yes, the same Matterhorn that Teddy Roosevelt climbed to the top. This was definitely a cool place to check out. We arrived at the train station in Zermatt very early in the morning. In fact, it was still dark and nothing was going on. There was no way we could mosey down the street and find an open hostel. Our choices were limited and my buddy Khan and I decided to crash on the platform of the train station. This is a common occurrence in the backpacking world. Nobody ever seems to mind too much. Even though it was in the middle of summer, there was still quite a chill in the air. After all, we were at the base of an enormous glacier. So, needless to say, it was a damn cold morning sleeping on that concrete platform.

Not really getting too much shut-eye, we awoke very early, eager to get to a ski shop and then hit the slopes. One of the keys to summer skiing is getting out early. The window of opportunity for good snow only lasts until about 2 in the afternoon. After 2, the snow starts to resemble snow cone slush consistency. We found the nearest ski shop and soon emerged with all the gear to tackle the mountain. Next, we had to find our way to the base of the mountain. This was not like skiing on the East coast at Killington or something. To reach the top of this mountain, you needed to board a very large tram and take a 15-minute journey to the skiing area. The only way to ski in the summer is to ski on top of a glacier at a very high altitude. And the only way to reach that height is to take this tram ride. Also, we were not all bundled up from the cold. We didn’t even have any gloves on. The temperature was quite nice and all that was required was a long sleeved shirt with a turtleneck underneath.

Once we reached the top of the mountain, we were literally up in the clouds. Next to us was the majestic profile of the Matterhorn. It was a thrilling moment to look around and realize that you were near the top of the world, admiring one of its most famous mountaintops. Damn, what a thrill. I can still feel the exhilaration running through my body on that day. It was definitely a moment to pause and feel the power of nature all around you. After taking a few photos, we proceeded to ski our asses off over the next few hours. The skiing was excellent. For lunch, we cruised over to a lovely mountaintop restaurant that just so happened to be situated right across the Swiss line in Italy. Yes, that is right. We skied in Switzerland next to the Matterhorn and then dined in Italy for lunch. The journey from one country to the next was a mere 2-minute jaunt across the lower slope. Taking this fact in was pretty cool.

By 2pm, the snow was turning to slush. It was time to head back down. I mean the fact that we are even skiing at all in July is a bloody miracle. So quitting at 2 was fine with me. We had skied at the height of summer next to the Matterhorn. Enough said. Once we got down to the fairy tale town of Zermatt, we caught the next train to Interlaken. This is a must stop for all who enter Switzerland. It is smack dab in the middle of the Alps and just screams out breathtaking beauty. This was also the place where we were going to attempt the highest bungee jump in the world. In Interlaken, there is only one place to hang your hat for a few days. That place is Balmers. Balmers seems to be the only hostel around. If you don’t stay there, you’re not really staying in Interlaken. It is a very well organized place, with activities galore. If you want to go bungee jumping, hiking, or canyoning, you can sign up at Balmers. They have got the market covered. The only down side is that there are too many yanks staying there, almost to the point of a frat party breaking out. Hey, but if this is your thing, embrace it. You just might find your future spouse in one of the hammocks.

Our mission was clear: Wake up the next day and scare the shit out of ourselves. We decided to double our trouble with a warm-up run of canyoning. This activity is illegal in the States due to insurance reasons. The attire is a helmet and a protective life vest. You follow your guide down a series of canyons, cliffs, ravines and waterfalls. It is pretty fun when you are sliding down a natural waterway or repelling down a steep cliff into a waiting pool of refreshing water. You do have to exert a bit of muscle to make it through all of the obstacles, but the adrenaline rush can’t be beat. There is a dangerous side to this thing and it’s called drowning. If a flash flood comes down from the mountains, there is nowhere to run. When the water comes down, you drown. I didn’t know about this risk at the time. I later read an article in People magazine about 19 or so people who last their lives doing this same activity in basically the same area. That makes you think twice, but, hey, we were ignorant at the time.

After the morning rush, we had a quick lunch and then headed to the bungee area. Driving up to the scene, the emotions started to kick in. I could see the tram on the wire, set against a beautiful backdrop of cliffs and a magnificent waterfall. I think it was the highest waterfall in Europe. I couldn’t believe that we were going to ride that tram to 600 feet and jump. But that is just what we did. We boarded the tram with about 7 others and started our ascent to 600 feet. There were 2 jumps, one at 300 and one at 600. We stopped at 300 and half the group jumped. If 300 looked pretty damn high, how was the 600 mark going to look? We were about to find out. On our way from 300 to 600, the Tom Petty tune, “Free Falling” was playing in the background. These Swiss knew what they were doing. My emotions were reeling. I was up and down like a roller coaster. I wanted to jump one minute and then not the next.

We finally reached the magic number. The key was to just run out of the tram without stopping or looking down. The first guy, a Japanese tourist, ran to the edge of the door and then stopped suddenly. This was not the way to do it. He finally went out screaming. Khan went next and then I was set to go after him. The Swiss got me ready with the cord and the words “check, check and check” to make sure all was secure. I held my breath and jumped. I was screaming like a girl all the way with my eyes barely open. At the beginning of the fall, I noticed that my right arm felt tangled in the cord. In a split second, I maneuvered my arm to a more natural position. I would soon find out that this move made all the difference in the world. I bounced back up a couple of times and then was lowered down to the ground. That was certainly one rush I would never forget. Once down on the ground, people started pointing to my right arm. When I took a look, there was a terrific rope burn running from my elbow to my shoulder. I quickly ascertained that if I had not moved my arm, I would be writing with my left hand today. I believe that my arm was tangled and that I had freed it during that split second maneuver. The result of my movement was the burn. The Swiss handlers couldn’t believe it. They had never seen anything like it. The crowd boarding the next tram got a bit of a fright. That was pretty funny. Khan and I headed for the train station and our next adventure. I doubted that we would top these last 2 days anytime soon.

I was upside down, thinking “wow, I could die, but maybe not” and then the car landed on all fours. Here I was coming back from BCM on Majorca. It was around 6am, me and Khan, enjoying life, sweating the summer away on the dance floors of Europe, and always looking for action. It was decadence at it’s finest, almost getting killed for the third time on this trip. That was it, putting yourself on the edge of life, tempting fate, winning and making it through your 20’s. Khan and I had been backpacking all over southern Europe for the last 2 months with the primary goal of hitting dance club after dance club until we reached the point of exhaustion. We had become vampires of the dance floor, in search of good times and beautiful women. On top of the club circuit pinnacle was BCM on the big island of Majorca.

BCM was a massive club situated smack dab in the middle of the British overrun town of Magaluf. Everywhere you looked you saw the British flag flying and the British accent flowing through the air. Once inside, your eyes were filled with fascinating laser-light shows and the awe of 3 stories rocking back and forth. Our mission was to booze up on the way there and then dance all night with women from all over Europe. The music was fantastic and the good times were there for the taking. By 5am, we had sweated out our last cocktail and were out of luck on the lady ticket. Though obviously not a completely successful night, we ventured back out into the morning twilight, with visions of sleep time in our heads.

We almost made it back to the condo, when our rental car decided to take a wrong turn. Actually, I was the one behind the wheel and in retrospect, the corner didn’t seem that bad at all. In fact, it was a simple curve, but my mind was still on the dance floor and not on the road. The funny thing is that I can remember every moment of the crash. I can remember missing the corner and then putting my foot on the brake just before we barreled into a very large tree. So the braking saved us from the tree, but then caused the car to go into a roll. Yet, it seemed like a very delicate roll and the car appeared to glide over the bushes on the side of the road. The great thing was that the rolling stopped after one roll and we landed on all four tires. The only downside was that the windshield popped out from the force of my buddy’s head slamming in to it. Once the car stopped, I looked around and realized that at first glance all was still intact. Khan had a slight bump on his head and his knee was a bit scraped up. Other than that we were good. We jumped out of the car and started doing a dance around the car. We had tested the odds and won. We then proceeded to grab 2 beers out of the dumped cooler and made the toast of our life. Little did we know that a farmer in the distance was watching our every move.

After toasting to our new lease on life, we climbed back into the car and passed out. There was no way to drive away from the scene. Next thing we know, 2 Spanish police officers are knocking on the roof of the car, trying to wake us up or trying to determine if we had expired. One awake, we tried to explain to them that the turn was very sharp and we had misjudged it. They looked around for any evidence of alcohol and then took us down to the local station. In our previous moment of triumph, I had decided that stashing any evidence of booze was probably in our best interest. With this thought in mind, I quickly collected all beer cans and the cooler and stashed them under a large rock. Thus our butts were saved for the time being.
Once at the police station, they proceeded to mildly interrogate us about the details of the incident. We pleaded to being guilty of bad driving only. The subject of alcohol was quickly passed over. With no reason to hold us, we were sent on our merry way. Yet the story doesn’t end here. In order to stay out of trouble, we had to go on a recon mission. Our goal was to go back to the scene of the crime and get our cooler. If the damn thing were found, it would unravel our whole story to the local police. So later that day we headed back to the spot. This time we were in our new rental and as we pulled up, we saw the old car being towed away. That was pretty weird. We managed to dig up the cooler without being spotted by anyone. The farmer must have been on his lunch break or enjoying siesta, for we did not see him spying on us. Apparently he also had talked to the police and had told them that we were drinking beers right after the crash. This is the main reason why we had to go on this reconnaissance mission. If the cooler was found, our story would lose out against his and we would be up the creek without a new rental. The mission was successful and we did go on our merry way this time.
Over the next few days, we would pass that fateful spot and think about how lucky we had been that night. The fact is we were damn lucky. We could have easily rammed right into that very large tree on the side of the road. Then I wouldn’t be here to write this story. I wouldn’t be here to meet my future wife. I wouldn’t be here to do anything worthwhile. I had once again escaped the dangers of my 20’s, the dangers of my youth. If you can make it through your 20’s, you have a good shot of making it the rest of the way. These are the tricky times. It is great to live life to the fullest, but sometimes the fullest can catch up with you and catch you when you least expect it. I didn’t expect to roll the car that night, but it happened. It happened because I was out there experiencing Europe, experiencing life. These are the chances we must take to live life without regrets. Luckily, there were no regrets that day.

I had arrived in my furthest destination east – Budapest. Here I was at the crossroads between the West and the East. You could see examples of both worlds all over the place. Once off the train, I made my way over to the old-city side of tow, better known as Buda. This was a fact that quickly caught my attention. The city was divided by name and by the magnificent Danube. The Danube was at its full strength as it moved its way through the middle of town. Budapest was made of 2 sides. One was Buda, where the old city dominated the landscape. The other was Pest, where the lights and buildings of a new era were sprouting up everywhere. I was soon to discover the two personalities that shaped theses two distinct sides of the city.

One side was for the daytime. During the day, you would wander around the ancient streets of Buda, admiring the castles and churches. You could climb up a tower and upon reaching the top, you could see all across the city. You could see the Danube and you could see Pest. In the tower, there was also a guy shuffling cards and trying to tempt you to make a bet to keep up with the Queen. I fell for this trick and soon found myself short a few bucks. No worries, I moved on, thinking that this was my fee for being able to see such a great city. The other side was for the night. This was Pest, full of night-lights, full of fun. At night, you would wander across the bridge from your hostel and find your way to the bars. The nightlife was calling your name. One bar in particular, the Irish Cat, was calling my name. Here I found a thriving group of drinkers, from all over the world. I also found good local music and pretty Hungarian women. One local girl caught my eye and I soon found myself walking her to the bus stop. Before the bus arrived, I managed to sneak in a kiss under the streetlights. It was cool; it was romantic. I was in Budapest, kissing a girl. I never saw her again, but the moment has always stayed with me.

I soon started comparing Buda and Pest to the analogy of Jekyll and Hyde. Buda was Dr. Jekyll, a mild mannered town during the daytime. Pest was Mr. Hyde, a nighttime indulgence of secrets and fulfilled fantasies. You must go to Hyde at night, it called your name to enjoy your youth and revel in the moment. By day, you must look around Jekyll and understand the significance of the past. One place on the Buda side that screamed out from the past was the Rudas Baths. This was 500-year-old Turkish bath, obviously created by the Turks when they ruled over this land. By my second day in the hostel, I had hooked up with a mixed gang of Americans and Europeans from all walks of life. The girls of the group went off to wander the streets of Buda and I convinced the guys to go with me to the Rudas.

The place was a relic of a building with the words Rudas across the entrance. This was a famous bathhouse and I was eager to step into the past. Once inside the door, we were told that the entrance fee was around 1 buck. That suited us just fine and we all realized that a bargain was in the making. After paying, we were led back into the locker rooms. We still had no idea how all this was going to play out. The attendant soon cleared that issue up for us when he handed each one of us a small loincloth that only covered your front area. Once you put this thing on, your ass was hanging in the breeze. We all tried not look down too much. The goal was to get in the baths and experience this ancient water treatment. This bath was pretty legit, with no hanky-panky going on. Which was cool with all of us. So here we were –6 guys who had just met a few hours ago, walking into a 500 year old Turkish bath with our asses hanging out. What a trip!

We soon entered the bath area. It was like stepping back into time. Everything was as it stood 500 years ago. We saw what the Turks saw. We felt what the Turks felt. The ceiling was a dome with 70 small circular skylights. The effect of the light beams shooting down through the steam was mystifying. In the middle of the room was a central bath with water fountains pouring in. Around this circular pool was a separate bath in each corner of the room. All around the pools were old Hungarian men lying on the red marble slabs just like they might have posed long ago. Some were conversing with each other, while others read the paper. This was a social club for them. I imagined they came here every week to gossip and talk of old times. They barely glanced in our direction. They were consumed with the moment.

We hit the center pool first. The water was warm and inviting. The 4 other pools each maintained a different temperature. One was extremely hot and another was extremely cold. The temps of the other 2 fell somewhere in the middle. So, in essence, all 5 pools covered the gamut of temps for the body to experience. And this is exactly what we did. We went from one pool to the other, getting a thrill from the temperature changes. The greatest shock occurred when you went from extreme hot to extreme cold. When you did this, you experienced a tremendous rush. In fact, it was an addicting feeling. There was one guy, a local, who kept going back and forth. He was an addict.

After getting the maximum effect from the pools, we moved into the steam room. This was no ordinary steam room. There were no regulations for temp control as you might find in the States. Therefore it was damn hot and the slightest breathing literally took your breath away, making your chest feel extremely tight. However, once you got used to the hot steam, it was heaven. From this room, you had the option of getting a massage. We glanced in the massage rooms and saw big harry men rubbing down the patrons. We decided to skip this part of the experience. Know what I mean. Once outside, our heads were light. We felt relaxed and refreshed. It had been a good experience and a cheap one too.

Over the next few days, we became a tight group. It was if we were destined to spend these 5 days together, enjoying each other’s company and enjoying Budapest. Every day we would head off to explore everything the city had to offer. I was good with a map, so I led the way. Many in the group didn’t have a clue how to get where we were going. They relied on me. As a result they started calling me “chief”. I thought it was cool. I could walk away from the group at any moment and they would be totally lost on how to get back to the hostel. They just said, “just follow chief, he knows where we are going.”On the final day before everyone took off his or her separate way, we gathered for a group picture. There we were – young, carefree, and eager to learn from our experiences. Looking at the picture you could see the delight in each of our eyes. We were doing what we wanted to do. There were no timelines, there were no schedules, and there was no stress. We would soon go our own ways, only looking back occasionally to remember those 5 days we spent together.