cheeseskipping is moving to Wordpress

I'm moving this blog to Wordpress for now. If for no other reason than the editing app is allowing me to center my photos.

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Paris: ici c'est doux!

loop de loop

Despite my affinity for driving, especially long-distance, there are two types of junctions that cause me some degree of apprehension - unprotected left turns, and roundabouts. I think the apprehension about roundabouts simply comes from the fact that there don't seem to be too many in the United States, at least not in my patch of ground, therefore I have limited experience navigating them. I did get a roundabout crash-course during my trips to Iceland; unlike an unprotected left, they are impossible to avoid by simply taking the long way around the block, and after the first ten or so, I realized they weren't all that scary.

However, I can say that I was really happy to not be the one behind the wheel going though the magic roundabout in Hemel Hempstead, which is six roundabouts feeding either out and away, or into each other.

This experience prompted me to do a spot of research on roundabouts, and why they are better at controlling the flow of traffic than intersections with lights. One of the arguments seems to be that, because traffic is forced to slow to a crawl, collisions causing serious damage are rare. I do see the sense in this, since high-speed broadside collisions in traditional intersections are not only common, but can have devastating results. But navigating one of this nature, including understanding the right-of-way rules once inside, wasn't terribly intuitive, and it wasn't just me. When I expressed some confusion on how exactly one gets from one side to the other, my British friend who was driving declared that she was just going to follow the car in front of us, hoping it would get us to the correct exit. Which, thankfully, it did, and we weren't doomed to hours of driving in one slow circle after another until we managed to break free of the traffic vortex.

a tiny touring machine

I'm home now. After crossing back into Washington, I took state highway 20 east over the Cascades to catch Highway 97, where oppressive temperatures approaching Hell's Furnace and hazy air from wildfires made me not want to stop anywhere for long, least of all to blog. After Crater Lake, I worked my way down to Weaverville, then west along 36 until I once again reached Highway 101 on the California coast.

I was going to do a little write-up of the scooter en route, but that obviously didn't happen. Still, it's worth a few words to review its capacity as a touring machine. It's a 2009 Aprilia SportCity 250 that I picked up off craigslist, second-hand but virtually brand new. It had only 228 miles on it when I bought it, and I put on another 500 around town before leaving on this trip. According to my odometer, I covered 5350 miles. That seems a little suspect to me, but I wasn't carrying a GPS, so have no other means of measurement.

The Good
~80 miles a gallon.
No mechanical problems whatsoever. I took it in for a minor service when I reached Victoria, to make sure all was in tiptop shape for the return trip. The last note of the completed checklist read: Test Ride - Good Ride!!
So that's only two items in the Good column, but when it comes to motor vehicles, it doesn't really get much better than that.

The Could Be Better When Used For Touring
A sidestand, more under-seat storage, and possibly a windshield would all have been nice.
The dashboard is poorly designed, and is illegible under certain circumstances. Admittedly, my farsightedness is partially at fault here, but a font and color scheme that is small, light gray numbers on a dark gray background is just crappy design.
The second odometer only goes up to 999.9 before resetting to zero. I don't know if this means that Aprilia didn't anticipate riders taking this for 1000+ mile trips.
And the kicker - the gas cap is located under the seat. This meant that every time I gassed up, I had to unbungee four bungee cords and unload my luggage from the back seat. Motorcycle-specific luggage instead of a backpack would no doubt have helped, but still, would have been nice to not deal with luggage at all until the end of the day.

I dare say this little scooter held up better than I did on some days. Whether I was tired, hungry, kinda lost, a little frustrated, white knuckling through windy and rainy stretches, try to pass or being passed by big rigs on the highway, it always got me somewhere safe at the end of the day.

There are two items I wish I had taken on this trip - a helmet cam, and a gel seat. Lessons for next time.

cool weather at Mount Baker

bearish, Canada version

America's Pacific Northwest, British Columbia, and US 101 all rank high in the Stunning Scenery category. Gobs of people visit for good reason, I feel lucky to have seen a good chunk of it with my vision impeded by nothing more than a bug-spattered visor. But as I gazed over the wondrous west coast of Vancouver Island from Tofino's South Beach, the hot pebbles scorching the bottom of my feet, I couldn't help but realize that I've reached my limit on the Appreciation of Nature. It's like eating your favorite meal twice daily for three weeks straight; it ceases being delicious, and simply becomes fuel. I'm pretty close to my planned turnaround point anyways (Campbell River), and I'm looking forward to seeing the Cascades and Crater Lake on the way home, but stopping to take little beach and forest hikes is done. I was actively thinking this thought as I headed back down the 800 meter path to the Visitor Center when someone on the path in front of me told me there was a bear directly ahead. Nature always has an ace up her sleeve.

There was indeed a bear right off the path. Two bears, mama and baby, and a real baby this time. On the way to the beach I had seen some scat on the boardwalk and thought, Wonder if that came from a bear, and kept going. That'll teach me to ignore the signs. I'd probably be toast in no time had I lived in frontier times. Little clogs of tourists were backing up on either side of where the bears were. I hung out with a friendly family from Holland, who had an absolutely petrified red-headed kid. I tried to cheer her up - "It's wild America!" (I forgot we were in Canada) - and let her use my binoculars, but she was so terrified that she was in tears. The bears had scaled a tree right next to the boardwalk, maybe two stories up, and were just sitting there, but the scene on the ground with the humans was becoming a bit of a circus. I wanted to get away, and I'm sure the bears wanted everyone to leave as well. Eventually I joined forced with the Dutch and we walked past. On my way past I flicked a glance up and Mama Bear was looking straight down on the boardwalk. If I had realized she was that close, I probably wouldn't have walked past. In retrospect, it was a dumb thing to do. She was huge. But check out how colossally stupid people are. I passed a guy with a fancy zoom lens. This was the conversation.

Me: I bet you can get a really good picture with that.

Him: But you can't see anything from here.

Me: If you walk fifty feet up, Mama Bear is staring straight down.

Him: Oh, really? (Starts walking forward)

Me: Ummm...

Jesus people. There are signs all over the entire area with advice on what do to when faced with a bear (or wolf, or cougar), and take their picture isn't on the list. It was truly a buffet down there. Lots of little kids, and one dude who claimed to live near bears stood right under the tree to take photos. I went back to the visitor center to make sure a warden was on the way, and continued to the Bog loop hike to search for ferocious carnivores of a different kind, miniature sundews.

Oh Canada! On the 4th of July

On the 4th of July I caught the ferry from Port Angeles, WA to Victoria, Vancouver Island, BC. I arrived at the port extra early for two reasons; firstly to escape the, what I can only describe as a clan with no collective clue on campground etiquette and the concept of quiet time, who overtook two pitches next to me at 10pm the preceding night in Elwah Valley. They are all going to burn in hell. Nothing fills me with dread more than the sight of a gang of small children on a campground. It never adds up to any good. Secondly, I didn't have a ferry reservation. So I had a couple of hours to kick around Port Angeles. My healthy breakfast of instant oatmeal and a grapefruit having long worn off, I went to Safeway for something cheap. Since the something cheap turned out to be two donuts for $1, I'm not really in a position to judge the purchase of the woman in front of me, but here it is anyways. Remember, it's Independence Day.

one dozen donuts

a case of Coors

a bottle of Jaegermeister

a pack of paper plates

a bottle of Tums

a bag of baby carrots

America knows how to celebrate! Although the baby carrots confound me. I can only assume there's a pet bunny at home.

Nutty Narrows

I always appreciate an oddball attraction, and Longview, WA delivers with Nutty Narrows - perhaps the world's only squirrel bridge, rigged high between two trees, and allowing safe passage over Olympia Way for the small and furry. Unfortunately, it was not in use when I was there. I rode back to Longview all the way from Castle Rock to see it, and it was totally worth it. 

bearish

I was pootling through Washington's Leadbetter State Park in the evening, and a bear loped across the road right in front of me. I couldn't have been more surprised. The excitement at seeing it was tempered by the terror that Mama Bear was possibly not very far away; perhaps just on the other side of the trees and bushes lining the road, and so thick they were impossible to see through. It wasn't a cub, but I don't think it was an adult either. In fact, it looked sort of about the same size as the scooter, maybe a touch bigger. I stopped a few hundred yards down the road, just sitting on the scooter with the engine still running, and saw it wander back across the road and disappear into the woods. I had to return down the same road in order to leave the park, and was both hoping that I would see it again, and not. Oddly - perhaps ominously? - there was one shoe in the middle of the road not far from the sighting, but no sign of the foot it belonged to. 

the small and the mighty

I thought I was sort of a badass. Here I am, riding a relatively small scooter on America's fast and furious freeways. I have a proper topbox, which was conveniently included when I bought the scooter, but other than that, my backpack is simply attached to the back seat with some strategically oriented bungee cords. Another day bag is resting on the floorboard between my feet, sort of secured to the bag hook. So, tiny transport in a big country, with a little bit of down and dirty thrown in. Then I met these guys, and consider myself out-badassed. 

They are riding three rattletrap Honda Trail 90's around the entire United States. I met them on the third day of my trip, also the third day of their trip, in the Safeway parking lot in Florence, Oregon, where we were all in search of budget vittles (also, Safeway has free wifi). We swapped travel stories, and I spent a lot of time admiring their entire get-up, and the number of things bungeed to various points. These bikes seem a perfect method of travel along roads like 101; they are too small to legally be ridden in traffic, so they can simply tootle along off to the side in the bicycle lane, at a leisurely pace, but can also cover more ground than a bicycle. 

Meeting these guys made me really happy. Three adventurous souls who were undertaking something a little crazy, partially prepared, partially winging it, with a dash of haphazard, and a lot of style. During my four months sitting at home I was sinking into complacency; always thinking a little about traveling again, but not doing anything about it. Being wrapped in my apartment was just too comfy. Now that I'm on the road again, and meeting interesting and friendly folk, I'm feeling rejuvenated and excited about travel. I was hoping to see them again, but they continued north while I detoured inland to Eugene for a day, and at this point have outpaced me up the coast.

bite-sized

big blue and little blue

Scooting North

After almost ten months on the road, I've now been home for just over four months. Much time has been spent binge-watching television, stocking the fridge with groceries, and channeling my inner sloth. But too much unstructured free time is not good for me, so I bought a scooter and am starting a little road trip to see how far I can get. It's all sort of an experiment. I've never done a self-supported two-wheel tour of any kind. I'm minimally prepared. I figure that after learning to navigate the controlled chaos of Tbilisi's Didube Bus Station last year, worrying about directions in my native land and tongue doesn't seem all that necessary. And I like to dabble with a little spontaneity, as it goes against my nature. The only goal right now is to get on 1 North, and see where it takes me. I don't have any schedule to keep, so getting a little lost at times isn't a concern. My limiting wander factor is a 2.4 gallon gas tank. More info on the scooter in another post. I'll be keeping an eye out for free wifi as I go.

two tales from Georgia

I keep meaning to post something about Georgia, even though I left more than two and a half months ago. Part of the problem is that I was there for about thirty days, which is too long to distill into a blog post. I thought I'd limit it to a couple of short paragraphs about two episodes that stick foremost in my brain, and even that ended up being a bit lengthy. Here it is, anyways.

Ushguli

Ushguli is a cluster of four tiny villages up in the mountains. A characteristic of towns in this area are Svan towers, which are tall, stone defensive towers that date back to medieval times. Some are still in use today, and some are in ruins. Since all of the other buildings are of a more modest height, and because the town sits on various hills and slopes, some of these towers have quite a commanding presence. The rest of the buildings seem like they were built and repaired anytime between aforementioned medieval times and this year, but if you look at Ushguli, or certain parts of it, from just the right angle, I think it looks exactly as it must have looked centuries ago. 

It's only about 46 kilometers from Mestia, which is sort of the main town in the area, but the road between them is in such bad shape, it takes about three hours to crawl there in a car. For some reason, lots of people choose to visit Ushguli on a day trip. The scenic drive notwithstanding, this isn't a particularly smart use of time, because more time is spent commuting there and back than in town. The sadder thing about this is, there's really no commerce except for a couple of cafes and small souvenir shop, so most day visitors don't contribute anything to town welfare. At least, that was my impression. The only person I could communicate with was the teenage daughter of the homestay I ended up in, and even then I didn't feel comfortable asking prying questions about town and family lifestyle. Some people seemed okay with the tourists, others not so much. One man who ran a guesthouse was super friendly, even after I established that I was already lodging elsewhere. I bumped into him a couple of times during my wanderings around town, including the morning after the first snowfall of the season (it was September), when he was standing in the road with a small herd of befuddled cows who clearly hadn't expected to find their breakfast buried under snow and ice, and didn't quite know what to do about it. I also ran into him again later that evening as said cows were being milked (by hand). One charming result of the lanuage barrier is that some conversations were limited to simply establishing where I come from, and I was dubbed thereafter on more than one occasion as "California." "Hello California!" Another resident wasn't so pleased to see me after I turned into what I guess was her courtyard, thinking it was a street; the organic layout of town sometimes made it hard to tell what was what. I heard a rap on a window and turned to face a woman who was gesturing at me to go back the way I came. I can understand. It's got to be annoying when your daily existence includes being regarded as a curiosity by a steady stream of gawking, camera-toting tourists. And daily existence in Ushguli looks to be kind of hard. I was invited into one other house other than my homestay that was just one big room for everybody and everything, with a rickety outhouse precariously situated over small waterway running through town. Fortunately I didn't have to use it and put my balancing skills to the test, or expose myself to the chilly breezes blowing through the slats. Lots of folk keep livestock, some of whom wander around the streets during the day, but one morning I found a dead pig in the river. I have no idea how it got there. Maybe it just dropped dead from the cold. At any rate, someone was down one valuable pig that morning, and there was probably no chance of salvaging it at that point.

I ended up lodging with a private family for four nights. The mother showed up when the van arrived to pick up a young German couple who had arranged to stay with her, and scooped me up as a bonus lodger. We followed her like a string of ducklings through muddy streets to their home next to a Svan tower used for storage. We had rooms in the upper level, which was so cold we could see our breath. The bathroom, family living quarters, and a long, low wood-burning stove were on the lower level, through a trap door and down a short flight of steps so steep they were really more a ladder; each step had a semicircle cut out on alternating sides to accommodate a leg. All the taps were left running to keep them from freezing, and we lost power for a good chunk of a night and a day; I figured that out after creeping down the ladder one more morning to use the toilet, and encountered my hostess lighting the stove in the dark - she gave me a smile and handed me a flashlight. Humble abode notwithstanding, she served us two enormous, multi-dish meals twice daily, everything cooked on and in that stove alone. Georgia in general scores high on the Tastyfood-o-Meter, but Nani's meals always come to mind first when I think back on all that gastronomical goodness. 

 

ritual animal sacrifice 

Seeing this was a result of good timing and a bit of dumb luck. Getting around Georgia (and Armenia) on a budget involves lots of rides on marshrutky, which are minibuses that ply a set route on some sort of schedule. They are pretty easy to manage for longer-haul destinations, but trickier for the shorter, locals runs, especially if connections are involved; destination placards are almost always only in Georgian (or Armenian), no one seems to really know what the schedules are, and without knowing any Georgian or Russian, it's sort of hard to communicate with the drivers. My main impression of marshrutky drivers is that they are almost universally grouchy guys who smoke a lot. I had one completely wasted day in Yerevan because I couldn't figure out the marshrutky schedules and connections for a day trip that wasn't even that far out of town. Which is all to say that by the time I got to Telavi near the end of my time in Georgia, I decided that hiring a tour guide with a car for a day would be a more efficient use of time and money than wrangling marshrutky. The guy I called (David L.) already had a client (E) for the following day, but she was okay with another guest, so off we went the next morning. 

So part of the dumb luck was that it happened to be a Sunday during Alaverdoba. I don't entirely understand Alaverdoba; it's basically a harvest festival, centered around Alaverdi Cathedral, but I think its roots go way back to pre-Christian times. It's still celebrated today with an animal sacrifice. When David was a kid, the sacrifice could happen on church grounds, but that's no longer allowed. People can bring the animal to church to be blessed by a priest, but then need to leave church grounds in order to do the deed. Or have it done...as we visited the cathedral, David pointed out the butchers standing by the side of the road, waiting for trade to drive up. They all hold a big knife to advertise their services. One of them was a grizzled old guy in an apron who had been at his trade for so long that David remembered him from when he was a kid. We hung around a bit waiting for someone to make an offering, but it was too early in the day for much action. Even Butcher Man, with all his years of experience, couldn't predict what was going to happen. I was slightly relieved, and I think E was as well; we both kind of wanted to see it, but also kind of didn't want to see it. Eventually we continued on to our next destination, another church (not a cathedral). Arriving just after the service was finished, we were invited to have lunch with the priest and very tiny congregation in the garden. We even got blessed by the priest. It was a subtle blessing, just words and a toast at the lunch table. It really seems to have been given as a gesture of welcome and well-wishing to guests, more than anything else.

This church is fairly small, located up a hill in what amounted to the burbs, and was surrounded by fields full of walnut trees and grazing cows. And if I understand correctly, it's located on the site of what used to be a temple to the moon. This made the setting all the more appropriate as a family with a live sheep in tow showed up just as we were about to leave. So we had a front row seat to the whole thing. The sheep is led around the church, and blessed by the priest, who recites some words, lights a small candle, and presses it to the sheep's forehead. The family also brings offerings of homemade sweet cake and wine, which are given to the church. (Lunch had included meat, wine, and cake offerings). Then the sheep is slaughtered, butchered, cooked, and eaten, shared with family, friends, and the church, all in a picnic party setting right there by the church (or side of the road, well away from church grounds, in the case of Alaverdi Cathedral). As befits a sacrifice, all must be consumed or given away; the family isn't supposed to save any for later.

David had made sure it was okay for us to watch the whole thing, so we hung back a respectful distance to take it all in. Curiously, as the sheep was being blessed, on church grounds, right next to the church, there was a baptism going on inside the church; I was standing outside but near the door, so I could see and hear one, and hear the other as well. It was simultaneously incongruous, and not. The sacrifice itself was pretty business-like; it wasn't as gruesome as I thought it would be, but it's not something I need to see again. The guy who brought in the sheep simply took a knife, held it down, and sawed its head off. It didn't struggle or make a peep. According to David, this is normal with sheep. I'm just going to have to take his word for that. We left as the sheep was being butchered and preparations for a cook fire were being made, but before we could take off and leave the family to its party, we had to hold up our end of the deal for being allowed to watch - eat some bread and drink homemade wine, both offered from the trunk of the car.

Bedouin girls + tourist + pan of henna =

Svaneti snowballs

cows, crosses, Ladas

It might be a little hard to see, but this cow has a cross on a chain draped over her horns.

There are three things in abundance in the Caucasus - monasteries, cows standing right in the road, and Ladas. I think there were more Ladas in Armenia than Georgia, but that's beside the point. Someone had a theory that the cows stand in the road so the passing cars will whisk away all the flies. They really couldn't care less about the cars. Most of the time they don't bother moving, causing everyone to honk (it doesn't make a difference) and swerve around them. And when they do move, it's never quickly; they just lumber off in their own sweet time.

I returned to Georgia from Stepanavan, Armenia. The bus station is right next to a roundabout, and as I was waiting for the marshrutka to leave, I watched a farmer herd a bull, a cow, and a calf down the street, going against traffic. They went through the roundabout, and started up another road, still going against traffic, but slowly heading into the other lane. A Lada Niva 1600 4x4* was coming down the road a little too quickly, and put on the brakes sorta late, resulting in a fast approach to our bovine family. Too fast. For just one second, the bull charged the Lada. In one smooth move, he turned left, lowered his head, and took a couple of quick steps right towards the car. And then it was over. The car slowed, the bull evidently decided it was no longer worth his time, and the family continued across the street. Hard to say what would have resulted, had the charge continued. Judging by the state of many of the Ladas chugging down the roads here, they are built to take a substantial amount of abuse. Some might think their longevity may have something to do with the amount of religious images and crosses that adorn many a dashboard. I'm not inclined to believe this, but I am pleased that at least some of the cows are similarly arrayed.

* I really sort of covet one of these now. They have two of the attributes I respect the most - functionality combined with a completely outdated style.

Thumbs up Scotland

I camped in Scotland for about three weeks, mostly on Orkney, Skye, and Harris. Three weeks of rain, drizzle, damp, socks that just wouldn't dry out, and some fierce wind that at one point had me trapped in my tent for close to twelve hours. I spent the time swaddled in my sleeping bag watching Game of Thrones on my iPad and eating the only food I had available that didn't require the stove, caramel Hob Nobs. And the midges. They too had me trapped on more than one occasion, the worst being the first of two nights on Hoy (subsequently followed almost immediately by aforementioned wind storm). There were so many swarming the campsite, the only thing I could do was pitch my tent as fast as possible, and dive in, leaving everything else outside. It sounded like it was raining lightly as they converged on my tent, sniffing me out. More often than not I would unzip the flap in the morning to a small swarm bobbling around the entrance, and would scramble to get through the low flap to dash to the toilet blocks. Despite best efforts to keep the little buggers out of my tent, I think a couple got trapped in with me one night and had themselves a midnight snack. I had more bites on my face and neck than I could count. I started running my fingers over them, and soon gave up. Being one of those unfortunate souls who has strong reactions to bug bites, I didn't look very good for about a week. And if they weren't bad enough, I also has to contend with earwigs. After noticing them in more than one location, I started giving my rucksack a really good shaking out before packing up each day, but as I was packing up for the final time in Inverness, I discovered a number of earwigs had taken up residence in, of all places, my tent poles. I popped two sections apart, and out fell an earwig. I did it again, and out fell another earwig. They may be mostly harmless, but they have a really off-putting appearance, and an unpleasant tendency to appear exactly where they are not wanted. So I started checking each pole section. They were all vacant until the last (of course) - I peered down the pole, and there they were. Some of you may recall the scene from Aliens, where the diminished group of survivors has sealed the door against an approaching alien assault, but confusingly the motion detector indicates there is movement inside the perimeter, and finally someone thinks to peek up through the ceiling panels...oops, alien swarm. Like that, except in miniature. I dislodged them with a quick puff of air, tied up the pole bag tight, and shoved it into a friend's freezer. I figured that would kill off any remaining unwanted lodgers.

But lest that sound utterly dreary, there was also lots of sunny dry weather, luscious green scenery, bizarre scenery (Harris), Skara Brae, standing stones, Neolithic tombs, a wide variety of really pretty cattle, Highland games on Skye with more kilts and pipes than you can toss a caber at, fried meat, fried carbs, meat stuffed into carbs, and my cheapo camp version of a cream tea - a package of cheap scones, a container of clotted cream, and a basket of blueberries. And I tried haggis, but it was sort of a gourmet presentation of haggis, arriving with its traditional plate brethren, tatties and neeps, in a very tidy three-tiered tower in the middle of a puddle of gravy. Not really what I wanted. I was hoping for three discrete blobs of food. As it was, I couldn't really distinguish the taste and texture of the haggis from everything else on the plate. I guess it was tasty.

Public transit proved somewhat of a frustration, being both expensive and running on either a limited or non-existent schedule. There are no public buses at all on Skye and Harris on Sundays. Not wanting to be stuck in one place for the day, and after an assurance from a local that it was perfectly fine, I gave hitchhiking a whirl. Hitching goes against my nature, as I'm both shy and don't like asking people for help. I never felt completely at ease standing on the side of the road with my thumb out, but it turned out an overall very positive experience. Most of the lifts were from other holiday-makers. Some took me only a few miles, just as far as their next destination, and others let me tag along on driving tours. One couple bought me a lunch. One lift on Skye was from a local with a very playful dog in the backseat, who spent the entire nine mile drive offering me a soggy ball over my shoulder. One couple picked me up right after a downpour, even though I was wearing soaking wet waterproofs. And twice I netted rides in what I think was under one minute.

The best hitching was on Harris. Somehow, several random meetings in campsites and while hitching wove themselves into a thread that ran though the very few days I spent there.
On the day I arrived, I met a father-son duo at Horgabost campsite. I also exchanged silent greetings with a Swiss couple at the same site who were camped next to me.
This same Swiss couple picked me up the next day while I was hitching, and also offered to give me a lift to another campsite on the opposite side of the island the following day.
Later that day I was scooped up by a pair of sisters with an interest in blackhouses. Since my destination campsite had a blackhouse, and it was a short detour from their day drive, we all stopped by the campsite to check it out, and got a tour from one of the owners. Coincidentally, this campsite also has seasonal yurts, and one of the sisters had lived in a yurt, so naturally there was a yurt show-n-tell.
A couple of days later I took the bus to Scalpay for what turned out to be a soggy, boggy hike that was basically a Bad Idea. The trail was so wet and disintegrated I had trouble following it, zig-zagging all over the place, and it took me longer than expected to complete the circuit. Even the sheep were smart enough to avoid the worst parts, whereas I clearly was not. By the end I was tired and frustrated, had long missed the last bus to Tarbert, and it was too far to walk. I figured I would get across the bridge connecting Scalpay to Harris, and hope that at least a few cars would pass on an otherwise lightly trafficked road. In the middle of the bridge a car caught up to me, and lo and behold it was a father and son pair from the first campsite. "Hi, do you need a lift somewhere?" Talk about good timing.

I have to note that my hitching luck was only on the isles. Being relatively small, isolated land masses with narrow roads, they are the perfect hitching environment. The given population at any time is comprised of friendly locals and jolly tourists. I had no luck at all trying to catch a lift on the mainland out of Shiel Bridge to Inverness. I ended up gritting my teeth and popping for bus fare.

I did receive an unexpected cultural bonus on bus rides on Harris, where many of the older locals take the bus, and most, if not all, speak Gaelic. I had a couple of rides surrounded by Gaelic murmurings that I assumed were village gossip to which I was not at all privy.

I'm in Armenia!

And for the second time in less than one week, being befuddled by a somewhat baffling alphabet. Georgian and Armenian are simultaneously kinda similar and completely different, and trying to learn both concurrently might be scrambling my brain a little.

I'm in Yerevan earlier than expected. After chatting with the guy who runs the Tbilisi guesthouse, including a weather check, I decided at short notice (9:00 pm at night) to come to Armenia first (leaving at 8:00 in the morning) and to return to Georgia in a week or two. I've sort of been flying by the seat of my pants for the past few weeks. I have a general itinerary in mind, but the when, how, and even where are decided sometimes on a daily basis. The downsides - an occasional worry about finding accommodation, and at times paying premium prices for last minute tickets (I'm looking at you, British rail companies*) - are offset by the advantage of really having complete freedom to do whatever I want when I want, instead of being locked into a booked itinerary and route. It's also making me confront and challenge my inner control freak, and pushing me out of my comfort zones a bit, which I want to do. I relinquish control to transport timetables, weather, and whimsy.

Here's a little story from yesterday. It requires three introductory points.

1. I'm easily identifiable as a foreigner here. This despite efforts to wear understated and unbranded clothing, not having a camera dangling around my neck, not carrying a guidebook and map openly in my hand, and in general making a very conscious effort to not look lost even when I am. I don't know how they know. Possibly from some combination of footwear (unfashionable but functional), small backpack (ugly but a daily necessity), canteen (hydration is important, and it's approaching sultry temperatures here), and sun hat (it's also quite sunny). Or maybe it's just my looks.

2. People speak to me in Russian. I don't know if this is because they think I'm Russian, or because Russian is a common second language for many here, and therefore the default language with which to engage a foreigner. I think it's mostly the latter, especially with older folks.

3. Snacking on sunflower seeds is popular here, both in Tbilisi and Yerevan (I assume elsewhere as well). The sidewalks are lined with women (usually) who have a small table or crate with a selection of seeds, and small paper cones. Park benches as often as not have a spray of sunflower seed shells underneath them. Both of these cities have more park benches than I've seen anywhere else, and most of them are occupied most of the time. These people are highly advanced in the art of leisure.

So I'm sitting on a bench, discreetly referring to my Kindle e-book guide to figure out some eating options, and I realize there's a little old lady in front of me speaking some Russian words. At one point a couple of years ago I knew some emergency Russian, but time and German lessons have pushed that vocabulary deep into the dusty crevices of my brain. So I just smile at her, and maybe say something to the effect that I'm American. I don't really remember. She chatters on a bit and then reaches onto her bag and gives me a handful of sunflower seeds, says goodbye in Russian, and wanders on. I sit there eating my seeds and wishing that I'd  had the guts to ask if I could take her picture (taking photos of people is also out of my comfort zone), because she's a character. After a bit I move down the street, and there she is, sitting on a low wall. So I ask if I can take her picture, at first she demurs, but then relents, and here it is. I wish she had been smiling, because she had a great cheerful smile, with lots of gold teeth. But I think she also looks sort of distinguished, if serious, in this picture. I have no idea why she decided to talk to me and give me some sunflower seeds, but I'm glad she did.

A short write up of Scotland coming...at some point. Spoiler: it rained.

* And, British rail tip: The guy sitting next to me on the London to Inverness train fed me a useful tidbit of info. If one's train is 30 minutes late, one is entitled to a return of half the fare. If an hour late, one is entitled to a return of the entire fare (in the form of a voucher). Both my trains being on time, I did not get a chance to test this out. So, if you have an expensive rail ticket, hope that your train runs late.

Orkney Mainland