To the Bronfman Fellowship Israeli Community...

Dear Bogrim,

We are thinking of you. We are thinking about the members of our Bronfman community who are experiencing daily sirens and running to take cover in bomb shelters. We are thinking about the members of our Bronfman community who are in Gaza right now, fighting to preserve the safety of our Jewish homeland. We are thinking about one member of our community from 2005 whose home in Ashkelon was hit by a rocket. And we are thinking, and praying, for another member of our community from 2008 who is in intensive care undergoing surgeries after being injured during Operation Protective Edge.

Most of us don't know what it's like to live in an area that is threatened by a hostile neighbor. We don't know what it is like to put our lives in danger in defense of our values, our homeland, and our friends and family. But we are part of a community that is living this reality, and we draw upon our connection having lived in Israel for at least a summer when we were seventeen. We are profoundly affected by what is going on and want you to know that we love you, support you, and are thinking of you, everyday.

Next week, I land in Tel Aviv to join the final week of the summer BYFI program and to connect with as many of you as possible. Though this trip was planned months ago, I believe that my visit at this time is more important than ever. After Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel marched with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr for civil rights in the United States, he said "My feet were praying." So too are my feet praying as I make this journey to be with you.

B'shalom v'ahavah,

Danny Greene
BYFI 2000
President, BYFI North American Alumni Board

El Ladrón (The Thief)

The bus roared through the mountains, taking the turns, as sharp and as frequent as those on Pacific Coast Highway, at 30-50 miles an hour. They are called "chicken buses" for good reason. Like the yellow school bus you rode as a kid, these vehicles are designed to comfortably sit four children per row. However, in Guatemala they fit seven or eight: three adults per bench, one or two children on laps, plus at least one other adult standing between them. On a different ride from the one I describe here, I had to stand for almost two hours literally feeling pressure from four different directions, all the while holding the ceiling railings as we took the turns at unquestionably dangerous speeds.

On this very trip between Antigua and Chichicastenango, the chicken bus was crowded as always. When I sat down trying to juggle two carry-ons and a poster tube (my large backpack with the majority of my belongings was tied to the roof of the bus), I nearly smacked the guy sitting next to me in the face. Ducking the blow, the man in his mid-thirties smiled at me and laughed, appearing friendly and kind-hearted, beguiling his true nature. But more to come of our antagonist later...

I had come to Guatemala during the final week of my month-long vacation in Chiapas, southern Mexico. My friend Fernando had invited me to come down to experience and spiritually observe the end of the Mayan thirteen Baktun calendar-cycle occurring on December 21, 2012.  Contrary to the mass media’s perception of this event, the world was not scheduled for apocalypse.  Quite the opposite: we were transitioning into a new period of spiritual enlightenment.  If we prepare ourselves through healthy living, deep respect for the environment, and supreme gratitude for the myriad gifts surrounding us, a truly better world awaits. 

Our first night together, Fernando led me to the campfire for a sacred meditation ceremony. We were staying in a eco-community called El Jardín de Edén (The Garden of Eden), where ash took the place of soap when cleaning dishes, hugs lasted 20 seconds at a minimum, long ommmmm and Sanskrit chants initiated each communal meal, and occasionally clothing was optional.  Though the people living there don’t like to self-identify as hippies, it’s difficult to find another moniker that’s more apt.  As I sat down in front of the campfire and felt the red ants climbing up my ankles, I felt so awkward, uncomfortable, and out of place... quite a departure from business school.  And yet, it is amazing how quickly my perspective could change.

The ceremony involved rhythmic chanting, Hari Krishna style, sometimes in Spanish, sometimes English, Sanskrit, and even Hebrew. (Well, that was my addition.) I felt myself getting into a flow, a type of meditative trace, starring at the dancing fire, hearing the sound of the voices, drums and maracas, and joining in the repetitive chants. Within an hour or so, I started receiving strong messages. "It's about cooperation, not competition." "Your brother's marriage proposal is in total alignment with the heavens." "Remember the sacredness of place." And most importantly, "The world is perfect." This became a mantra in my head that I've since repeated many times per day.

By dawn the next morning, I was no longer scared of the usually long hugs, the nakedness, or the prayers before meals. I was embracing my inner hippie and all the peace and love that went along with it. Over the next three weeks, I relished the opportunity to stop eating meat, to focus on my inner spiritual life, engage in meditation, yoga, and more ommmmm’s. The results were tremendous. I felt light and free, alive to new experiences and relationships, totally comfortable in who I am, and passionate that the future is bright.  This is exactly what the Mayans predicted: a period of greater spiritual enlightenment, truth, and goodness. How exciting to be a part of it!

Which brings me back to that ride on the chicken bus, a few days into the new Baktun and not yet Christmas, a holy time as any. As we reached Chichicastenango, where I would have to transfer to a different bus, my smiling friend offered to let me pass in front of him. As we reached the door, the “ayudante,” the bus attendant who helps with your bags and collects money from the passengers, yelled something at me in Spanish, which I didn't understand. Then, the guy behind me pushed past me and started to run. "Corre! Corre!" Run, run! That I understood. So I started chasing the guy, shouting at him to stop, but still not understanding why I was running after him.

But when I got about a block away I stopped running, realizing that they could be working together in order to get me to ditch the bus long enough to steal my big backpack, which was still on the roof. I was about to switch directions and begin running back to the bus when I was joined by five, then ten, twenty, I swear no less than thirty young men who were also in pursuit. All of the “jóvenes” who sell soda, fried plantains, peanuts, etc to the bus travelers were also chasing the guy. At this point, I doubted that my big backpack was the issue at hand.

The jóvenes reached the guy before I did and threw him to the ground. They started punching and kicking him, ripping his bag apart. With thirty guys around, everyone wanted a piece of him. Blood was dripping from his face. I could see his look of fear and desperation.  And all the while I kept screaming, "¡No entiendo! ¡No entiendo!" "I don't understand!"

My screams stopped, however, when they reached into the guy’s pocket and pulled out my wallet.  Now it all made sense: the ladrón must have been watching closely when I had paid the ayundante and put my wallet back in my daypack.  However, with all of the pushing and shoving involved in disembarking the bus, I didn't feel or notice him take it.

Wallet in hand, my heart was still beating a million times per second. They told me to check if all my money was there. It wasn't. "¿Cuánto falta?" I could barely speak, but stammered, “siete… cientos.” About $100 worth of Quetzales. With enough people on the scene, someone thought to question a nearby rickshaw driver, while the rest of the group continued to harass the ladrón. Turns out, the ladrón had made a handoff to the driver, who was all too willing to not get his face kicked in.

My money was returned to me!

Now victorious, the jóvenes pushed the ladrón aside and started to celebrate, running down the street, hollering, jumping, and swinging on street signs. I thought I was watching a scene from West Side Story, expecting to see choreographed pirouettes at any second. Caught up in the excitement of the crowd, I kept yelling, "Muchas gracias! Muchas gracias!"

I walked with the ayudante, who had abandoned his post to help me, back to where the bus was waiting still with my big backpack on the roof. In thanks, I took off a woven bracelet that I was wearing and handed it to him. He seemed to appreciate the gesture.

Regaining emotional control, I walked back to the transfer point where all the jóvenes were waiting. They gave me a round of applause as I approached. In my fledgling Spanish, I tried to make a speech: "Gracias, gracias, a todo mis amigos aquí. De me corazón, con amor y paz, eran mi familia!" I then noticed a guy selling ice cream next to us: "Helado por todo!" (Twenty-five ice cream cones cost me less than seven dollars.)

Look, there are ladrones everywhere you go. And there is a lot that I could have done to prevent this from happening (not flashing my money on the bus, tying my bag tighter, keeping my wallet out of reach, etc.).  The last thing I want you to take away from this story is to be afraid to travel. Quite the opposite: People are amazing and come to your rescue in times of need. Having been living and preaching peace and love for the previous three weeks, I may have been a bit unsuspecting, and I definitely was reluctant to use violence myself. But, I was damn glad that I had friends willing to do it for me. Maybe this was a sign that we have entered the new era. Evil was defeated and the forces of good prevailed. Maybe if we all start with ourselves, our own spiritual health, we won't eliminate evil entirely, but we'll build a stronger and tighter community of people who look out for each other, who fight for each other, and who believe that this world could be a better place.

Namaste!

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

As I boarded the train from Berlin to Prague, I passed a young woman with flowing brown hair, striking blue eyes, a kind smile, and, to be honest, a perfect body. "Woah." I meant to say it in my head, but I think it was said out loud. I don't believe in love at first sight, but this was the kind of girl that makes you believe in things that are impossible and do things that are irrational. Instead of starting a conversation, I went to my assigned seat. Like going to the cathedrals, gardens, and castles around Europe, one appreciates seeing a thing of great beauty. It is pleasure enough to just be witness.

Toward the end of the ride, I went to get some food and passed the young woman in the dinning car eating a cheese plate and reading a novel. I ordered a salad, and sat at the adjacent table across the isle facing in the opposite direction. Being witness is far less fun than being a participant, so I threw out my best pick up line: "Do you speak English?"

She did, and quite well. Like me, she was American and traveling prior to starting a graduate program; though unlike me, she'll graduate with the title of Doctor. She explained that the book The Unbearable Lightness of Being was written by a Czech author, takes place in Prague, and inspired her to visit the city. She planned to leave it in a coffee shop or with someone who would find it as moving as she. Self deprecatingly, she said it was a silly reason to visit a city. I couldn't think of a better one. I tried my best to charm her between bites, reading about my adventures in Amsterdam and Berlin. She made me voice the characters, which I struggled to do with any authenticity. (Thank God there were no Australians in my stories. I find their accent impossible.) We spoke for the remaining hour of the ride, and as we pulled into the station I tried nonchalantly to suggest that we meet up while in Prague. She seemed interested, but the chances were slim. "We'll message each other on Facebook and see if we can work something out." I was skeptical that I was even going to get a friend request...

But the next day she friended me, and I decided at that moment that I was going to make every effort to see her again. It's not often that you meet a beautiful, adventurous, PhD student. The next two and a half days Jaclyn and I struggled to find a place and time that worked for two people who were living entirely in the moment. With each failed attempt, I became more committed to seeing her. I couldn't stop thinking about the encounter on the train, and took advantage of our Facebook friendship to peruse her photos, hoping for a glimpse those stunning blue eyes.

On Saturday, her last day in Prague, she gave me her travel buddy Liz's cell phone number as a last ditch effort to connect. But of course, a comedy of errors ensued whereby I wasn't able to get through, ran out of money on my SIM card, bought a faulty new one, tried calling on Skype... If it weren't for the generous efforts of two shady Bulgarians, who were inspired by my story of trying to meet up with the girl with the blue eyes and let me use their phone, the story would have ended here.

I finally met up with Jaclyn and her friend Liz at a restaurant in Old Town Square just before the trumpet player and astrological clock announced the arrival of the 9:00 hour. I ordered a drink, and the conversation flowed easily. Her dry wit and bitting sense of humor were particularly attractive, as she found a number of opportunities to poke fun at me. Like when they asked me to take a perfect photo of the two of them, and when I took a few pictures to make sure that one suited their standards, Jac gave me a hard time for exaggerating the imperfections in the first few.

As if I weren't intrigued enough with this fun loving and attractive woman (one of the Czech waiters clearly agreed and kept inviting her to take free tequila shots with him), Jaclyn dropped a bombshell: She is a diehard fan of Current TV, the original Current TV. She can recount the network's entire history and content (pod) library. She's able to recall Vanguard episodes with Christof (From Russia with Hate), her love for infoMania (which explains our mutual Facebook friend, Brett Erlich), and how lame it was when Max and Jason were hocking Axe Hair products. (I chose to omit that I wrote the script that she was railing against.) She then listened with rapture as I described what it was like from the inside when Laura Ling was captured in North Korea. The passion that I had felt for the original Current was clearly shared.

The rest of the evening was memorable and intimate, and I couldn't control the feeling that I was falling for this girl I had just met. At the end of the night, Jaclyn handed me the book that she had been reading on the train. "Maybe you're supposed to have it." I couldn't quite tell if she wanted to give me the book or felt like she was supposed to. But I knew that the book meant a lot to her, and that it was a profound gift.

We said goodbye; she and Liz took the train to Vienna, and I to Budapest. Our night together was as special as I had hoped it would be. That initial reaction that I had felt when seeing her on the train had grown so strong in such a short period of time; I felt consumed by it.

During the next few days, Jaclyn and I shared how the evening together had impacted us. I told her that what I would remember most was her inner confidence and sense of self. She wrote back, "Maybe it's the transient nature of traveling or maybe it's something all together different, but I know that you brought something out in me that felt beautiful and very much alive... I hope we meet again. I'll keep an eye out in every train's dinning car, just in case."

In my next email, I quoted a passage from the book: "Einmal ist keinmal, says Tomas to himself. What happens but once, says the German adage, might as well not have happened at all." I was missing someone I barely knew; I wanted to see her again. I asked what she was doing the following Sunday and Monday nights, barely a week after our night together in Prague. She responded that she was going to be in Paris and quoted a different passage from the book about the difference between fate and chance when it comes to love. Not exactly knowing what she intended by the passage, I suggested that I change my travel plans, at considerable expense, in order to join her in Paris for those two days, but only if "it really is something that you desire."

I received a response on Friday: "I would like nothing more than to spend two nights with you in Paris. But if it's impractical, please don't trouble yourself.... Were we destined to meet on that train? Maybe. And I like that possibility. But I love the possibility that out of every other connection a person can make, and out of all the infinite possibilities and decisions there are, you find each other by chance but can recognize the importance of it.... Nothing could be more romantic."

Her response left no doubt in my mind. Ignoring the cost, I immediately booked my flights, giddy with excitement that this romance was to have another chapter.

But my giddiness turned to anxiety as the trip to Paris got closer and I hadn't received a message from Jaclyn acknowledging my impending arrival. On Sunday, I headed to the airport not knowing how or where I was going to meet up with her, nor where I was going to sleep that night. Rather than fear the worst, I assumed that she hadn't gone online since Friday and therefore didn't know that I was literally on my way to see her. Nothing to do but keep moving forward.

I flew from Dubrovnik to Zagreb (within Croatia) and paid the fee to use the airport's Internet. Finally a response! She was staying in Montmartre and seeing Moulin Rouge at 11pm that night. She was excited to see me, and suggested that I meet her and Liz in front of the theater when the show got out at 1am. No mention of lodgings, but at least I knew how we were going to meet up. My anxiety began to subside and I booked a private room in a high rated hostel also in the Montmartre area.

My flight to Paris was a bit delayed, landing just before midnight at Charles de Gualle airport. Not wanting to be late, I split the cost of a taxi with a fellow passenger who was headed in the same direction, checked into the hostel and dropped off my bag, and jumped into another taxi. "Le Moulin Rouge, s'il vous plâit!" The giddiness was back, and I kept singing to myself the song Ewan McGregor sang in Baz Lerman's Moulin Rouge, "I hope you don't mind. I hope you don't mind. That I put down in words: How wonderful life is that you're in the world." I pulled up to the theater at 1am exactly. As I waited for Jaclyn to emerge, I purchased a white rose and stood off to the side in anticipation. I recalled what I had said to her in my email after buying the plane tickets: "I've never done anything this impulsive, and couldn't be more convinced that it's the right thing to do."

People began pouring out of the theater at about 1:15. I looked through the crowd, but didn't see her. 1:20... 1:30. No Jaclyn. With the crowd thinning out, the doormen began removing the street barriers in front of the theater and closing the front gate half way, signifying the end of the evening. 1:40 and now the can-can dancers are leaving the building. Still no sign of Jaclyn or Liz. The white rose sagged by my waist, feeling heavier than normal.

At 1:45, as I considered the possibility that I was going to spend the weekend alone, they emerged, staggering under the weight of their inebriation. I approached and mustered the courage to say, "Bonjour mademoiselle," handing Jaclyn the rose. Without acknowledgement, Liz ran off, apparently seeing something she was interested in. Jaclyn said, "Oh hi. Thanks," as she took the rose. "Can you wait right here? I gotta go get Liz. She's really drunk." "Sure," I said, trying not to sound dejected. What else was there to do?

About a minute later, they returned. Liz was really drunk. Jaclyn, far from sober, was confident she could get them back to their hotel. Together we walked the half mile. The girls were oblivious to the hungry stares of the sketchy men that sat on the benches lining Boulevard de Clichy. I felt glad to be there as a mitigating presence.

When we arrived, Jaclyn said that she was going to take Liz upstairs and would be right back. I sat down on the base of a statue and contemplated what I should say when she returned. But due to emotional and physical exhaustion or sheer confusion, I was unable to put my thoughts in order. She returned and tells me that Liz puked on the flower. "How was your evening?" She asked. "Um, I think I might have made a mistake by coming," I answer. This is as far as I had gotten in my head. I had no idea how to respond to her defensiveness at my statement, incredulous that she had done something wrong in trying to take care of her drunk friend. I tried to explain the considerable cost and effort of coming to Paris to see her, but was having a very difficult time articulating myself. This conversation was going no where good and was not the beginning a two day romance. "Let's start over," I tried. "I'm really excited to see you." I asked about her travels over the past week. She told me about the horrible sunburn she got in Italy. We were able to get past the rocky start, and before long embraced and kissed. "I'm sorry," she said. And tears began welling up in my eyes. Being that it was 3 in the morning, was it exhaustion that commanded my emotions or was that feeling of falling still so close to the surface? "Why are you crying?" she asked. "I just feel so feel so lucky," I said.

I invited her to come back with me to my hostel, but she insisted on staying with Liz. "She would be pissed if I were gone when she woke up. Plus, she cared for me when I got that bad sunburn." So we agreed that Jaclyn would text me at noon the next day, and said goodnight. I didn't realize that that was going to be the last time I saw her.

Text message conversation from the following day...

Danny, 11:13am: Phone is now working! Let me know when I should come meet you guys and we'll go out to brunch!

Danny, 12:45pm: Hey there. I think I am going to head to the Louvre.

Jaclyn, 1:16pm: Hey we just woke up

Danny, 1:40pm: Good morning! Hope Liz is feeling better. I'm about to make it into the museum. Do you want to meet me here?

Jaclyn, 1:43pm: Yeah I'll get there by 2:30. Want to meet me by the Pyramid in front?

Danny, 1:56pm: Great. Meet me at the information desk under the pyramid on the lower ground floor. I'm assuming 2:45 is more realistic.

Danny, 2:35pm: Progress update?

Jaclyn, 2:41pm: Shit sorry I didn't leave yet. Liz just woke up and she's really upset. I didn't realize last night why she got so drunk. She thinks she's breaking up with her bf.

Danny, 2:45pm: Okay. I'm going to do a 90 minute guided tour of the museum. Keep me updated about your plans.

Danny, 6:33pm: Jac, I don't mean to over interpret the silence, but I'm sorry if I freaked you out last night. I think I was really exhausted. I hope Liz is doing ok and that you've been able to make her feel a little bit better. We hanging tonight or should I make other plans?

Jaclyn, 6:48pm: Yeah I'm going to stay in with her, she's not up to dinner.

Danny, 7:03pm: Ok. I guess it was a mistake to come to Paris. Too bad. I still think you're great, and wish we would have gotten to know each other better. All the best.


That last message was hard to write. I was angry, confused, hurt... But I couldn't see how expressing any of these feelings would be helpful. In retrospect, I feel I could have said something to the effect of, "I guess you didn't feel the same way about me that I felt about you. I wish I would have known."

I'm left to analyze what went wrong. What did I miss? At what point did my passionate optimism cloud me from the truth? Here's my best guess:

From the beginning, I felt something stronger than she ever did. I'm sure that she enjoyed our night in Prague together and in theory would have liked a romantic weekend in Paris. However, she wasn't committed to it in the way that I was. How easy it could be to drink the champagne freely following at the Moulin Rouge, to get caught up in the experience with your friend, and to want to stay for every last second. I believe that she was excited to see me when I arrived in Paris, but wasn't into the heaviness of my questioning if it was worth the trip. And I think that my tears scared her. I'm guessing that looking back at that moment the next morning (or rather afternoon), she realized that we were on completely different planes, and that she should cut her losses. Did I deserve a more complete explanation? Who can say. Clearly she took the easy way out.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Perhaps it means that the easy path doesn't lead to sincere happiness. We may be compelled to pursue what is light, but that which is weighty brings us meaning. It might not be easy to take emotional risks and later to honor our commitments, but the rewards are vast. However, so often we are driven by something different...

"The goals we pursue are always veiled. A girl who longs for marriage longs for something she knows nothing about. The boy who hankers after fame has no idea what fame is. The thing that gives our every move meaning is always totally unknown to us. Sabrina was unaware of the goal that lay behind her longing to betray. The unbearable lightness of being--was that the goal?"

Berlin: Cold, Wet, and Rejected

The rain poured down as we decided what to do next. It was 3 in the morning and we had just been turned away from the biggest club in Berlin. A tragic, if not totally unexpected, ending.

Earlier in the evening, Ana and I had braved the July showers to go out to dinner at a well known Vietnamese restaurant, Monsieur Vuong. As we waited for our table, we struck up a conversation with six Americans--three guys, three gals--who were also on a trans Europe tour. They invited us to eat with them as we swapped travel stories and I explained how I had come to meet Ana.

We were both staying with a mutual German friend, Elina, who I had met two years prior in Israel.  Ana, who's from Costa Rica, and Elina were exchange students in the States together about ten years ago. Ironically, our plans to visit Elina in Berlin coincided with a trip that she had to take to Krakow, Poland. (Elina manages a band called Yemen Blues that was headlining at the Jewish Culture Festival, which my parents were attending. Small world, huh?) So, unintentional travel buddies Ana and I had become.

After dinner, I suggested that we head to this club in Friedrichshain East Berlin called Berghain/Panorama Bar. I had heard that if you wanted to see the best DJs in Berlin, this was the place to go. The crew was on board, but the girls said that they needed to go to the hotel to change. I think what you're wearing is fine for this club, I said. But they thoroughly disagreed.

So Ana and I headed to Panorama Bar to stand in line while our new friends freshened up. We took the U Bahn farther East than I had been, entering an area that didn't feel entirely safe. The graffiti, which is present on almost every Berlin building, intensified and covered all visible wall space. The club was a dark warehouse about five stories high in an industrial area with no houses or shops in sight. We stood in line in the cold taking a few steps forward through the rain soaked mud every few minutes. Occasionally, people would walk past us away from the club looking dejected. None of them were speaking German.

Behind us stood a young, eager Swiss boy who was probably about 19 or 20 years old. He told us that he had already gotten to the front of the line but had been turned away. This was his second attempt and he hoped that the bouncer wouldn't recognize him. Should I offer the bouncer a bribe? I asked. It's not that kind of club, said the Swiss boy.

As we got closer, I saw them. I'll admit, I've always been afraid of bouncers. But these guys terrified me. They looked exactly how I would imagine KGB agents to look. It probably had been years since they last smiled. I imagined how desperately they wanted someone to argue with their arbitrary rulings of who could stay and who could not. I will crush you, I could hear in my mind's ear.

With about four people ahead of us, the three girls from dinner came prancing to the front of the line in low cut cocktail dresses and 4 inch stilettos that keep getting stuck in the mud. They leaned over the railing toward the bouncers, showing off their goods, and asked innocently, Do we need tickets? The KGB agents didn't respond, but I did see the hint of a smirk cross one of their faces. Ah, now I understood their mirth: It was their job to say no to people who don't hear the word often enough. A few extra cover charges aren't necessary to keep this place in business, and high profit margins weren't the ultimate goal. No wonder these bouncers had so much power.

Clearly not getting the response they wanted, the girls (and guys who were standing a few feet behind them) spotted us practically at the front of the line and jumped in to join us. Great. When it was our turn for judgement day, the KGB agent didn't take more than two seconds to decide. Without a word, he motioned for us to step aside. We had been waiting in line for almost an hour and a half. Ana and I crossed our fingers, hoping that the young Swiss boy would have more luck. But as he was walked away, rejected a second time, I could see tears welling up in his eyes. For the KGB agents, it was a very successful night.

Amsterdam: Imran the Pakistani

Hotel Janson on the outer edge of Amsterdam is one of the dirtier and more run down establishments at which I've ever stayed. When I entered my two person shared dorm room (so excited that my €14 got me this luxury rather than the 8-10 person shared dorm rooms I'd been staying at in London and Paris), I thought that the pungent odor was emanating from my new Pakistani roommate, Imran. Turns out, it was just Hotel Janson.

Imran is a PhD mathematician who, though he lives in Lahore, Pakistan with his wife and two kids, spends much of his time in Italy and at the University of Minnesota on collaborative research projects. He has a large research grant, I believe funded by the Saudis, and therefore has traveled far more extensively than most of his fellow countrymen. When he's in Pakistan, he told me that he has a continuous stream of guests at his house. Distant relatives show up on his doorstep everyday expected to be taken in, given a place to sleep, given food to eat, and driven around town.  They come without any advance warning for anywhere from one to seven nights, and may bring with them their entire family of four. When I asked what they do to show their gratitude for Imram's hospitality, he said, They don't do anything! And blamed their lack of education on their rude manners.

Despite his extensive travel, Imran has been bound by the cultural norms of his upbringing and hasn't experienced the world the way you and I have. His extremely inquisitive mind is often masked by his timid and shy nature, but it was not long before he felt comfortable enough to begin asking questions about my culture, such as Where do the old people live in your country? Or better yet, What is marijuana? (We were in Amsterdam.)

We started our evening together by going to one of the many coffee shops in Amsterdam. Coffee shops, where you can buy and smoke (or eat) many different types of marijuana, are distinct from the more commonplace cafes, where you cannot. I bought a pre rolled joint for €4 and struck up a conversation with two attractive British girls. Imran sat next to me smoking cigarettes. After a while, I asked Imran if I seemed any different to him. Barely audible, he said, Yes, you are funnier.

I suggested that we leave the coffee shop and head to a club that we had passed on the walk over. As we walked in the direction of the club, Imran kept making fun of me, telling the girls that I had no idea where we were going. I was so proud to be witness to his first official act of flirting. (Did I mention that his marriage was arranged to a second cousin? Shannon and Ariel, now don't be getting any ideas...)

After standing in line for about twenty minutes, right when we're about to get in, the two British girls bounce. Why did they leave, Imran asked.  I donno, I said. They could be tired, bored, not want to dance, not like us... Who knows? Imran wasn't satisfied with any of my answers. At the front of the line, Imran paid the €8 entrance fee for me, saying how grateful he was that I was showing him this new experience. He had never been inside a dance club before.

The club Paradiso can hold about 1400 people between the ground floor and two balconies. This Wednesday night was on the slower side with probably 700-800 people all on the ground floor. When we arrived, there were two guys on stage trying really hard to get the audience into their not-so-great songs. The lead singer would actually teach the hook to the audience and then try to get everyone to sing the anthem together. This probably worked really well in a smaller venue, but not at Paradiso, where the strength of the music in addition to the strength of the singer's personality needs to capture the audience's attention. Not wanting Imran to think that the club was lame (which was impossible considering that he had nothing to compare it to), I decided that I was going to help the singer out.

I pushed my way to the front, jumped on stage, and starting pulling more and more people on to the stage with me. Suddenly, the entire stage is packed with people all struggling to sing that unmemorable hook that the singer had just taught us. The stage had effectively become the smaller venue that was the right size for this band.

Imran was in disbelief.  I bought two beers, but drank both of them because Imran is Muslim and doesn't drink alcohol. He then leaned over to me and said--and this is a direct quote--"I want to see how you trap a girl." I know it's what he said because I wrote it down and showed it to him to make sure I had understood him correctly. Oh, Imran, you have so much left to learn....

After that, I never saw Imran again. I hit the dance floor Chien Fou style and ended up closing down the club at 4am. A group of super friendly Dutch kids invited me to go with them to the park to watch the sunrise. As we sat on the grass under a tree, watching mist roll off the pond and the ducks take their early morning bath, feeling the first rays of sunshine, and (I'm not joking) hearing Hotel California playing off in the distance, I felt so happy to be alive and have the opportunity to be on this trip. When I got back to Hotel Janson, Imran had already check out in order to catch his flight back to Italy for his research. I didn't get to hear his impressions of the evening, but I'm hoping it was as memorable for him as it was for me.

London & Paris: The Adventures of Chien Fou

The elderly couple sitting in front of me weren't even going to try to make the connection. There was no chance that they would be able to cross LAX in the 15 minutes that we had before the Air New Zealand flight took off for London Heathrow. The three hour delay leaving San Francisco was proving to be the first adventure of my 7 week journey across Europe and Morocco.

I sprinted out of the plane wearing my camping backpack behind me and daypack in front. Had I checked in my bag, I would have gone at least a week without it. I left terminal 2, crossed the central parking lot, and made my way back through security in terminal 7 stopping every few minutes to catch my breath and readjust my bags.  I pulled up to the gate five minutes after our departure time and raised my arms in victory realizing that the flight was still boarding. Success. 

Now, it's nine days later and I've concluded the London and Paris portions of my trip. I write this on my first of many train rides. Outside my window I see the Brussels skyline as we make our way to Amsterdam. Then it's off to Berlin, Prague, Budapest, Croatia, Barcelona (via Italy), Madrid, Morocco, Cordoba, and Sevilla. I don't know how often I'm going to be able to write. At least I hope to capture a few of the stories, thoughts, feelings, impressions, challenges, and transcendent moments for you.

London was tough. In my patently naive and optimistic way, I did very little advance planning prior to the trip. I had a pretty good idea of where I wanted to go but hadn't booked any hostels or trains. I'll figure it out when I get there, I thought. Easier said then done when you're traveling at the absolute busiest time of year. Even the crappy hostels, let alone the really great ones (and believe me, there is a HUGE variance), were totally booked. Each morning in London I woke up hoping that someone who made a reservation wasn't going to show up. Luckily, it worked out, and my worst fear of having to sleep on a bench in Hyde Park never realized. Tip for all you future backpackers: At the very least, book yourself a bed for your first week on the road. It will save you a lot of anxiety.

Maybe it was this stress of not knowing where I was going to sleep or maybe just the transitionary shock of being on the road, but London didn't really do it for me. I know that a lot of you have lived there and swear by it. Who am I to criticize?  I was only there for three days, hardly enough time to make an educated opinion. Don't expect those from this travel log. 

A funny moment which may or may not represent my disconnection was during a stand up comedy show when a Brit admitted that he was 3 months sober. When the audience didn't react he said, "If I were to say that in the States I would have gotten a round of applause. Here you all are thinking, QUITER!" In fact, I was going to applaud him prior to witnessing the audience's silence. I'm not saying that the Brits are wrong, just that I had a hard time relating.

I admit, I did have an awesome time hanging out on Brick Lane in Shoreditch, which is kinda like the Mission District in San Francisco. At least from a bohemian hipster perspective. We went to a number of open art galleries that were serving free bear to entice potential buyers. I didn't buy anything, but I did appreciate their beer. This area also has some of the greatest street art (artistic graffiti) in the world. If you haven't seen the Oscar nominated documentary Exit Through the Gift Shop, immediately put it on your Netflix queue. It profiles the most famous street artists, many of which have their roots in London and Paris. Seeing the urban environment as their canvas, these artists go to great risk (doing dangerous and illegal things) to provide us with their inspiration. I plan to continue to explore this artistic medium throughout the trip. Expect a lot of photos.

Of course there is more that I could say about London (e.g. It was great to see an old friend from high school, Jon Kluger, and a new friend from the AIDS Lifecycle, Grahaeme Hesp), but let's move on to Paris!

Upon arrival, I absolutely fell in love with this city. It's odd: the streets smell like piss, the pretentious Parisians correct you when you ask them a question without saying bonjour, and I happened to be there during a heat wave that had temperatures soaring in the 90s with severe humidity.  And yet, the people are so unbelievably friendly, the city is stunning, the women are beautiful, and the culture and language are imbued with a rich passion. I climbed the Eiffel Tour, explored the Pantheon, went to mass at Notre Dame, and each experience brought tears to my eyes. (The hostel lifestyle must be catching up with me; I get emotional when I don't sleep.)

The most important takeaway from my time in Paris, however, is the generous hospitality shown by some of my future UCLA Anderson classmates who gave me a place to stay and took me out at night. I had only connected with Clement and Annabelle through the admitted students' online forum, and yet Clement hooked me up with his sister's apartment while she was out of town and Annabelle offered to sleep at a friend's place if I needed to crash in her studio. I don't know if their good nature and general coolness is more a reflection on them as Parisians or as Anderson students, but suffice to say I am so excited to spend the next few years with them!

On my first night in Paris, we went to a club called Wagg in Odeon.  This underground club looks like you're in Roman catacombs with chiseled brick walls.  Despite the fact I couldn't speak any French, I felt totally in my element talking and dancing with everyone who was willing. By the end of the night Clement had bestowed upon me a new nickname: Chien Fou, meaning Crazy Dog. It's a French expression for that person at the party who is really enthusiastic and energetic.  Yeah, I think it fits. 

Shall I continue or leave you wanting more? (I'm hoping that if you've actually read this far, you might be enjoying yourself.) This was just the first week and already I'm starting to get into a groove. Traveling is a skill that takes practice. It's more about what you do than what you see, and I know I have not yet fully achieved the balance that I'm looking for yet. At least I've used the past week to chart out most of the rest of my trip so that early anxiety won't cripple me in the future. Please write comments, tell your own stories, or ask questions. Thank you for joining me on this adventure!

Love,
Danny

AIDS Lifecycle Thank You Letter

Hi friends and supporters!

We did it! I am now back in the San Francisco Bay Area, having completed the 7-day, 545 mile bike ride to Los Angeles. What an amazing week!! I’ll do my best to capture the majesty of the California coast line, the sense of community among the riders and roadies, the challenge and accomplishment of camping each night and jumping back on your bike each morning, and the serious impact that this week had on my understanding of HIV/AIDS and, in some ways more profoundly, on the fight for full acceptance and integration of the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender) community in broader society.

But first, I want to thank you again for all of the support that you provided to make this adventure possible for me. Your donations totaled more than $4000 for the San Francisco AIDS Foundation, an important part of the $13 million that was raised through the AIDS Lifecycle. This is not only the most money ever raised in the history of this event, but also represents the single greatest fundraiser for HIV/AIDS throughout the world since the disease first appeared thirty years ago. Thank you for being part of the fight to eradicate this disease, help find a cure, and support those who are living with it today.

The AIDS Lifecycle is so much more than a really long bike ride. The week provided a chance for the creation of a mini-utopian society where everyone was fully accepted, supported, and loved for who they are. Traditionally, the majority of the participants are from the LGBT community, reflecting the demographics of those who have been affected by HIV/AIDS. In the last decade, as the disease has spread to straight and minority (primary Black and Latino) communities, the ride itself has become more diverse. This year, about 40-45% of the riders were straight. However, having never participated in an activity that was primarily comprised of those from the LGBT community, in many ways I felt like I was entering into a “foreign” culture with its own rites, rituals, expressions, salutations, history, humor, music, etc. For example, in many Latin American and European countries, friends kiss each other once or twice on the cheek as a form of greeting; gay men give each other a peck on the lips.

Each day and night of the ride, I learned a little more of the history of this culture, which is intimately tied to the devastating effects of HIV/AIDS. I was too young to remember the mid 80s, when the epidemic was the worst and many friends that I met on the ride (who have been living with HIV/AIDS for twenty to thirty years now) lost friend after friend after friend after friend, ultimately knowing dozens if not more than one hundred people who died within only a few years. The legacy of this deadly epidemic lives on in the minds and psyche of this community, and the fact that there are new cases of HIV/AIDS every day (2 people in San Francisco today alone, statistically speaking) prevents those who live with these memories to fully recover from the trauma. Rather, we’re compelled with a greater sense of urgency to make a difference and find a cure.

The true meaning and purpose of this ride goes beyond the fight against HIV/AIDS. This disease has always disproportionally affected homosexuals and therefore continues to be stigmatized as a gay disease. I now understand these issues as inexorably linked: the fight for a cure and the fight for full civil rights, full acceptance, and full integration of LGBT into the greater hetero-normative society. On the ride, we achieved this utopian vision of acceptance, friendship, and community. More than anything else, this is the memory that I will carry with me from AIDS Lifecycle and the frame by which I hope you understand the experience.

Now that I’ve gotten my preacher moment out of the way, I might as well tell you a bit about the ride itself! Here is a rundown of key highlights from each day:

Day 1 (June 5, 2011): San Francisco to Santa Cruz, 85.6 miles
At 5:00 am, 2,300 riders, 600 roadies (volunteers), and hundreds of family and friends gathered at the Cow Palace in Daly City for the opening ceremonies. This day commemorated the thirtieth anniversary of the first reported case of HIV/AIDS, adding special significance to the world record we had set for our fundraising. I felt excited and enthusiastic to begin the adventure as I scaled the first hills and made our way through Pacifica and Half Moon Bay down the coast. Unfortunately, the clear morning skies turned grey, cold, and windy in the afternoon. After lunch, we had a twenty-mile stretch with some serious headwinds blowing in our face. By the time I hit the rest stop at mile 65, I was shivering, achy, and exhausted. “How am I going to complete this ride?” I thought. “This is only Day 1!” Now as I look back on the week, that twenty-mile stretch was the worst it got. Even when we experienced crappy weather later in the week (it was cold and gloomy most days), I wasn’t as miserable as I was on that first day.

Day 2 (June 6, 2011): Santa Cruz to King City, 106.1 miles
After spending our first night in our transient tent city where large pop-up tents house a mess hall for 3000, medical services, chiropractors, physical therapists, massage therapists, bike repair services, administration, huge mobile shower trucks, and probably about 100 Porta-Potties, we inched our way through the Santa Cruz morning rush hour. (Throughout the Lifecycle, we are required to ride single file and without headphones for safety reasons.) Once we hit the open road, strong tailwinds pushed us along allowing me to keep a 20-25 mph pace. On one downhill, I hit 42.9 mph, my max speed to date. Completing my first century ride (albeit with a number of rest stops along the way) felt great.

Day 3 (June 7, 2011): King City to Paso Robles, 65.7 miles
This day, the weather was perfect with strong sunshine and good tailwinds. We hit the most difficult climb of the ride, appropriately titled Quadbuster. Then after a great downhill descent, we pulled into a small town in central California called Bradley. With only a few hundred people, this community has embraced the ride with open arms. Each year, they host a huge barbeque and bake sale, raising enough money from the riders to support all of the extra curricular activities for their K-8 elementary school. This year, they even tied red ribbons to each pillar on the bridge as you enter town to show their commitment to the cause and support of the riders. The AIDS Lifecycle strives to spread awareness in addition to raising money for HIV/AIDS. Seeing the flamboyance of the riders, we’re convinced that not one of the children in that town would feel ashamed to embrace their own sexuality.

Day 4 (June 8, 2011): Paso Robles to Santa Maria, 98.5 miles
Another long ride with great tailwinds. After a great climb, we reached the top of a mountain and the halfway point to Los Angeles, an accomplishment in and of itself that provided a great photo opportunity. For the past three and a half days, my feet had been feeling incredibly numb, which I attributed to the cold and gloomy weather. At last, someone suggested that I loosen my shoes… what a brilliant idea! I literally had been cutting off the circulation to my toes. The rest of the ride would prove to be much more comfortable. Toward the end of the day, we encountered my favorite rest stop. Each day, there were four rest stops (in addition to lunch) staffed by “roadie” volunteers. The team that staffed Rest Stop Four spent months in preparation, planning out the themes, costumes, and sets. This day, they re-created a life size version of the mobile game Angry Birds with elaborate costumes, a trampoline and slingshot, and a wall of cardboard boxes and green pig cutouts. It was hilarious.

Day 5 (June 9, 2011): Santa Maria to Lompoc, 40.2 miles
On day 5, the 2,300 riders symbolically created a giant red ribbon by all dressing in red… dresses. Yes, this entire day is a giant drag queen show. From flight attendants to Japanese schoolgirls, the effort and attention put into the costumes and outfits were unbelievable or, on the other hand, entirely expected. I also participated and wore a red dress provided by a friend but, unfortunately, no photos were taken. ;)

Day 6 (June 10, 2011): Lompoc to Ventura, 88.1 miles
By this point of the ride, I was in pain. Both of my knees were feeling the strain of the heavy riding and twisting to clip in and out of my pedals hundreds of times per day. That being said, the finish line was in sight and a little pain wasn’t going to slow me down. Back in camp that night, all of the riders and roadies participated in a candlelight vigil on the beach. In silence, we made a massive circle, each holding our own candle. In the darkness, the pinpoints of light represented all of those people who were no longer with us. We then walked toward the ocean and extinguished each flame. It was a powerful conclusion on our final night together.

Day 7 (June 11, 2011): Ventura to Los Angeles, 63.3 miles
With excitement running high, knowing that my parents had driven down from San Francisco to meet me at the finish line, I awoke on Saturday at 3:30 in the morning eager to get on my bike. After trying and failing to fall back asleep, packing up my tent, braving the chilly moisture in the air, and eating breakfast, I headed back out to the beach where we conducted the vigil the night before. From 6:00-7:00am, I participated in yoga stretching and mediation with Chokae, a fantastic instructor, whose sign read: “Yoga here! Namaste bitches!” About fifteen minutes into our stretching, wild dolphins started jumping out of the water about 200 yards off the beach right behind Chokae. If you know my history and spiritual connection with these amazing animals, you won’t find it at all surprising that I burst into tears feeling the full weight of the significance of the week. I fully felt the exhaustion that comes with waking up before 5:00am each morning after sleeping on the ground; the daily challenge of the bike ride; the meaningful connections that I had made with so many new friends; and the weight of the stories that they told me of loss, rejection, isolation, and yet the incredible feeling of hope and progress that we have gradually been achieving in terms of HIV/AIDS and LGBT civil rights over the past thirty years. On the final morning of the ride, the dancing dolphins brought this all home for me.


Thank you so much for joining me in this journey. I know that I have been incredibly enriched by the experience, and all the more so because it was something that I did with your help. Where do we go from here? Join the fight for civil rights for the LGBT community. Participate in the AIDS Lifecycle as a rider or roadie in the future, or simply continue to donate to this cause. Support the San Francisco AIDS Foundation and Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center. Continue to listen, do your best to understand those who are different than yourself, and love everyone who strives to be the truest version of him or her self. Together we will continue to make progress and create a far more just world. Maybe thirty years from now, will have achieved our goal and the AIDS Lifecycle won’t be necessary anymore.

With love,
Danny