I’m a year late at a true update. So, as 2007 comes to a close, it’s high time for a general update on my new scene – especially since I’ve not sent out holiday cards. Some of you have been following along here (thanks!), but most of you haven’t had the time, so here’s an abbreviation.

I exited fama PR last spring and spent the summer of ’06 in Boston enjoying sweet drinks, Atlantic sushi, the Big Dig and sunshine. I then went to Maine (home sweet home) for PopTech in October, and shipped all my stuff to California on a hunch. Then I wandered around Europe for a while: London, Brussels, Amsterdam, Budapest, Vienna, Bratislava, Paris… then, home to Maine again for holiday time with family and old friends (hard to believe it’s that time again). Then, I took the only material possession I had remaining on the east coast – my little Audi S4 monster – and spent a few months driving it around the lower 48, taking pictures and getting speeding tickets. I made extended stops in places like Austin and Tucson.

When bored, you can peek at some pictures I made along the way.

This past April, I landed in coastal Los Angeles – in Venice – a part of the world I really love. I signed a one-year lease on a neat loft space (which you can also see in the pictures above). Venice is funky and eclectic – showing scars from a much more difficult past and offering quite a neat mix: crack shacks, art galleries, celebrity homes and everything in between. My place is just a few blocks from the ocean and legendary Abbot Kinney Boulevard. The exterior design around here is bold and vibrant, and the architecture gracefully blends Gaia, humankind, lifestyle and technology. Venice has a zeitgeist of unapologetic live-and-let-live individuality – just the right blend of artists, old hippies, good food, music, young babes, technology, culture and creative expression. Besides, don’t you just have to love a place with street names like Zeno, Horizon, Ozone, Breeze and Clubhouse?

Yanks with the wrong idea of Los Angeles: you’ve got the wrong idea. I have hummingbirds, crisp clean air, and palm and citrus trees. I never deal with traffic unless I get the strange idea to drive into the city. I’m treated to hours of afternoon sun that coats everything with gold. The sunsets seem to linger all evening, and are so warm and comforting they could be baked into pies. They’re often followed by cool Pacific breezes that wrap around you like a sheet as you doze off to sleep. I already find myself hoping our fragile economy might be good enough to me that I could someday call both coasts home.

I have my own lemon tree inside. It will make striped lemons that are pink inside. They’ll probably make the best lemon drop cocktails within 100 miles.

I’ve already bought two bikes (one of which was stolen in Santa Monica last week; good story) and am biking a great deal. In Venice, it’s either a bike or a dog and I’m too selfish to want the latter. I can bike almost anywhere I need to go, and have access to dozens of miles of oceanfront bike trails that run from Torrance Beach north to the foot of Temescal Canyon.

I have a good batch of friends here – some from years past and some newly made – and am working on more. I’ve found some great restaurants, museums, hiding places, hiking trails, and miscellaneous other places that keep me discovering and feeling alive.

When I first did this – moved out here, that is – I felt pretty frightened. I’m a big risk taker but this nonetheless felt really scary. I spent a month or two with my head down making house and home and as things began to fall into place the fear subsided. I am so glad I did this – I feel really lucky and happy and alive.

I’ve been writing a lot, commentating, and making pictures. Professionally, I’ve been playing in the space where innovation and communication intersect and have also invested in a couple of young companies. I recently helped a friend with the public launch of an exciting company called EdgeCast. I plan to continue helping them, and will launch my own consultancy in the coming months to give me a corporate umbrella under which to operate all this stuff. At that point I’ll tell you about some of the other ideas brewing.

I’ve been volunteering as a mentor at the USC Stevens Institute for Innovation, helping young entrepreneurs move their ideas from dream stage to reality.

This will be my second winter outside New England, and I’ve acclimated (or de-acclimated) quite quickly. The cool, early-winter evenings here feel cold to me although they pale in comparison to a New England winter night. While I don’t miss the cold, I do miss the rich, light-painted sky of those New England nights. Even this far from the city, there’s still too much light pollution for me to get the gorgeous sky I’d see at home or out in the desert.

To all you east coasters – if you need a break from winter, I have a nice big guest room here that’s open for visitors (but booking fast!)

I hope you all had an enriching 2007. My best to you and yours for the holidays and 2008. I hope that if you haven’t been in touch, you will be soon.

Love and light
-a

• better language skills
• one of my prescription medications
• good international cell phone service (tip: bring an unlocked GSM phone and put a prepaid SIM card in it.)

There were moments when I wish I had…

• additional lenses for my camera (specifically a wide-angle and a telephoto.) But these are bulky, heavy and only occasionally useful. So, I’m glad I settled on my good-for-most-situations Nikkor 18-70.
• a tripod
• a comprehensive map of wi-fi spots in each city I visited.

I am glad I brought…

• my Doc Martens – comfortable for long walks, can pass for casual or dressy. These were the only shoes I wore – all day, every day. Highly recommended.
• my super-heavy, long Ralph Lauren leather jacket. I actually left this in my car as I departed for the airport and then went back for it. This was such a great move. My original concern was that it would be a useless heavy thing to carry, but I ended up wearing it almost every day (this was mid-Autumn.) It has a bunch of pockets (many that zip or snap closed,) and it turned out to be an ideal travel jacket. The added bonus is that it makes me look like a badass mofo when wandering lost and drunkenly through alleys in cities where I do not speak the language.
• three great pairs of jeans (remember: pack very light, do laundry)
• a Kensington All-In-One Travel Plug Adapter
• my Nikon D200
• my iPod
• my MacBook Pro
• USB cables to charge my cell phone, iPod and Jabra JX10 headset through my laptop (much lighter than AC chargers)
• Skype
• my manners and some extra humility
• DK Travel’s Eyewitness Travel Guide to Europe and their European Phrase Book (note to publisher – please offer an electronic version of these, especially the Travel Guide; wonderful but heavy books.)
• my Maine State Credit Union Visa (had to dust it off) and Fidelity Visa debit card – two rare pieces of plastic that don’t charge fat premiums for international transactions.

Knowing what I know now, I would not have…

• spent three (rainy) days in Budapest
• moved around so much. I loved the flexibility and mystery – but I did pay a price in efficiency and enjoyment. (Tip: consider picking a city as a travel hub and find a short-term apartment/room rental there.)
• brought a jacket and a few shirts that I never wore
• done the whole rail pass thing. If you’re a 20 year old student on a budget, fine. But if you’re a little older and have some money, I don’t care what they tell you about flexibility, first class travel, and the like – don’t bother. When you want to take a train somewhere (and I highly recommend it in many circumstances) just show up a little early and walk up and buy the ticket. Also, don’t rule out short-hop flights around Europe. They are often very reasonably priced, even without an advance purchase.

I’m also happy that I….

• traveled alone
• blogged a lot along the way
• made a lot of photographs
• connected with locals, through friends and through the ‘net, who were willing to meet me, show me around, and generally take me under their wing.
• stayed away from tourist areas as much as possible. I realize sometimes it’s almost unavoidable (Eiffel Tower, etc.) – but you will get zero sense of a regional culture by congregating where the traveling masses do. For example, I doubt you’re going to meet a single local within a half mile of Amsterdam’s Centraal Station – but many Americans I’ve spoken to who’ve been to Amsterdam never left that area (and still think they have experienced it and have a well-informed opinion of the place.)

My favorite places were…

• Amsterdam
• Bratislava
• Paris

I was also told numerous times that I did not “look like an American,” which I took as a compliment even prior to seeing what American tourists in Europe look and act like (sorta like they do at Disney World, only much more confused and exasperated – and if that doesn’t help you pick them out, just listen for loud people.)

Long and short of it: do it – go. Prepare, pack very light, open your eyes, go off the beaten path and be polite. You’ll be glad you did.

Anyway, I choose a smoking compartment because the non-smoking compartments are stuffed full, and I’m hoping to spread out and get some writing done. I am listening to my iPod as I settle in.

The smoker in my compartment, an older gentleman in a suit, faces me and will nurse a girlie cig every 45 minutes or so. His tie looks like one of those loaner clip-ons they give you at Sears Portrait Studio. His teeth are smoker teeth. He has a gold pinkie ring. He and the train attendant are some kind of buddies and laugh and exchange cracks in German as the attendant checks our tickets. The smoke from his girlie cigarette slowly drifts toward the window then gets caught up in the whirlwind from the wall-mounted vents, swirls quickly upward and disappears. I debate offering him one of my super-chic Nat Sherman cigs but think better of it – them’s for hot chicks (although I did make an exception and give one to Casey on the train to Vienna.) He reads a magazine, but the way his eyes cross it sort of looks as if he’s looking past the magazine and right at me. With his right eye, anyway. It becomes more than a little odd to look back at him while Eminem and Saint Dog rage into my ears….

I’m packin heat, I ain’t unprepared…

As I settle in and decide to do some writing, I notice that the outlet into which I’ve plugged my laptop is poorly grounded, so if i let my arm touch the steel frame of the compartment while I’m writing, I get a mild shock. Nice.

No more games… tear this motherfuckin’ roof off like two dogs caged…

The Austrian countryside is lovely. Uniquely-constructed homes make up small, cozy villages that hug the countryside. The homes are colorful and bright, but choose from the same limited palette. They are all laid-back colors, though – soft browns and beiges dance with the blues and yellows of an Easter basket. Resting against the gentle gray and blue of the sky, it all looks like it would be quite comfortable in the window of a Hallmark store.

More windmills – they seem to be synchronized to the music I’m listening to – and despite their steely look, they somehow fit – unlike the occasional industrial building that works about as well as a pimple on the face of a princess. Two small lakes whizz past, probably man made, almost as blue as the Easter-egg houses.

What really does look out of place are the high-tension power lines that stripe across the hillside. For some reason they bother me. Part of it is my photographer – they make almost any scene impossible to photograph well.

Then, as it has done so often during these past few weeks, it began to rain. We arrived in Munich shortly thereafter, and according to the schedule I had 9 minutes to reach my connecting train. However, my train was precisely 9 minutes late, and I was primed at the door to jump when we came to a halt. At that moment an old lady asked me to help her get her bag out of the train. I quickly grabbed her bag, lowered it to the platform, and ran for my train. Oddly enough, I made it.

For a while I had a compartment all to myself. But halfway through the journey a man in a plaid sportcoat and a woman in a black business suit joined me in my compartment. The woman almost immediately began talking on her cell phone and the plaid-coated man couldn’t have been more exasperated about it. He had some very old books and was trying to get some kind of writing done. He seemed to be practicing to give a speech, or was writing a song, or poem, or something – because his mannerisms were that of someone rehearsing. But, he did not like our seat-mate, Chatty Cathy. If dirty looks were currency, this was France’s richest man. He would occasionally look at me, curious either why I wasn’t equally upset or better yet, why I wasn’t doing anything about it. After her third conversation began, he got up in a huff, grabbed his things and disappeared just after flashing me a final look as if to say, good luck with this scene, man.

While we were in Germany, the announcements were made in German and English. Now that we’re in France, they are only made in French. I am fluent in NO foreign languages (although at this moment, French is not a foreign language, is it?) But I am OK with French, having spent a few years toying around with it in high school. I can dissect it when I hear it, I can do alright when I read it, and can even pull together a sentence or three. We’ll see how I do.

And after what seemed like forever, we roll to a stop in Paris. J’arrive!

Then a German woman walked up to me in a half-full car and informed me that I was in her seat (I was, but in fairness to me – I did not have an assigned seat for this segment of the trip.) Did she really need that seat? I apologized and picked up to move. She noted my laptop and asked me if there was internet access on the train and I replied, “no, I wish.” Then, a half hour later as I was prepping some images and listening to music, she worked real hard to get eye contact with me and then started talking to me again. I took out my earphones and she asked if there was Internet access on the train. Rather than asking her if I’d just stepped into some kind of time warp, I merely gave her the same answer I did the first time.

People started acting sketchy when they announced that it was the last stop in the Netherlands. Not sure why they were, but I would not find out; entrance into Germany was a breeze. I wandered around the Duisburg station for about half an hour – didn’t get to see much – then boarded a City Night Line train for the ride to Vienna. Oddly enough, the Vienna night train was also the Milan night train – make sure you get in the proper car, kids, because this train, somehow, splits in half along the way.

There are many pickpockets on this train, said the announcer. Many? If you know this, then do something about it. How does it work exactly? Do these pickpockets buy tickets and just hope to recoup their investment?

Rolling out of Duisburg, we passed right by an airport, and a plane came in for a landing immediately above us. Then the train cocked off to the side a bit – more than I was entirely comfortable with, especially since these things are not attached to their rails – and we stopped for about 10 minutes. Due to technical problems with the rail in front of us, our arrival in Dusseldorf will be delayed.

All along the side was a row of cold, stone apartment buildings. The haunting sound of those old two-tone sirens in the distance. Dusseldorf, Zoo, it said. It was hard to see as much as I wanted from the train – and not just because it was dark, but the interior lights of the train reflected off the glass.

The German magazine at my seat had a girl on the cover who looked like a porny version of Kirsten Dunst. She had removed her high heeled pumps and was hanging them off her fingers by their straps, as if that was sexy. The porny part was fine – it can get you through the night – but leave the shoes on. I mean, you can’t have it both ways. Porny requires footwear. Look, honey, once I’m done with you, maybe then you can let your hair down and go to the beach.

I had been dreading the CNL trip because there were no first class cars on this train – and it was an overnighter. I decided on a seat rather than a sleeper because I didn’t want to share sleepers with people. I’ve been open about meeting new people all along the way, but sleeping right next to them was a bit too cozy. The CNL cars were not crowded, and most people were able to spread out and secure a couple of seats for themselves. The German announcements were a bit hard to follow, since about the only thing I remember about German class was that time Fred Rummel brought a snake in and set it loose. I remained confident that would be all I’d need. If I had any trouble with German authorities, I could have Fred talk with them.

The CNL train was definitely not one of the fancy, high speed ones – but it wasn’t bad, either. It was a non-smoking train, I had a little extra room, and that was good enough for me. It seemed at the beginning we hardly ever got above 30 miles an hour. We stopped several times. Maybe this is why the train takes 16 hours to get to Vienna.

Some industrial buildings with windows way at the top, 30 or 40 feet up, so the sunlight shone in on their work, but prying eyes did not.

And then Bayer, with its giant lit up sign shaped like a pill. Bayer was the place that a German guy I met in Amsterdam claimed had commercialized LSD. I couldn’t help but let him know it was another German pharmaceutical, Sandoz, who deserved the credit. And now, there they were. Did anyone in there know about this new urban legend?

In Cologne, lots of modernish-but-dull looking condos along the tracks. I did notice the occasional effort to stand out of the housing crowd – a lone red electric star shone from one of the windows, a string of white lights decorated another. I wonder if they leave them on all night?

Lots of construction out there – scored by the constant grinding of the wheels and tracks as we navigated the track. Still moving pretty slowly. I wonder if it’s the Italians weighing us down? All those carbohydrates.

After Cologne, there was a new announcer. Female now. But not really gentler; to me, everything sounds harsh in German. An old lady walked through the car in pink flip-flops.

Many pickpockets on this train….

Then, finally, the moment we’d all been waiting for – bona fide German authorities. I’d heard things, seen movies. How bad could it be? There were two. A lead guy, and then a lieutenant, backup-type guy with a clipboard. English or German, asked lead guy, smelling like a cigarette. My first thought was that it might be good practice to answer “Deutsch” just to see how far I could get. I always had the Fred-Rummel backup plan. Neh.. English. “Passport and ticket please.” He spent a moment looking them over in silence, then said something to his wingman in German. As Wingman wrote some stuff down, lead-guy informed me that I should move to my proper seat. I didn’t even realize I had an assigned seat on this train. Ja, 53, he said. I apologized and he said “it’s OK” – but what he meant was not that, despite the half-empty car, that I could remain where I was. Nono, he just meant I wasn’t going to be in trouble for sitting in the wrong seat. I asked if I could stay where I was, knowing i was pushing my luck. His answer was a longer, more pedantic, half-smiling version of nein. I gathered up my things and relocated to seat 53, which, like many of the seats on the train, was broken. So I put my knapsack in 53, sat in 54, and hoped I wouldn’t end up in jail. Jesus, lead-guy, between you and stupid-internet-lady on the other train, it’s little fucking wonder you gave Hitler 90% of the vote.

One of the things about traveling alone that sucks is that you have to bring your bags everywhere… want to go to the bathroom? Haul them in. Want to go to the dining cart on the train? Many pickpockets … best to bring them along. So, instead of heading to the dining car (and also risking another encounter with lead-guy that might precipitate some kind of formal inquiry) the cereal bar that had been in my knapsack for a month would be dinner. Probably not a bad idea anyway – the way I’ve been eating on this trip is surely adding on the pounds.

Lady with pink flip flops again – this time with her hand covering her nose and mouth as if she were standing in the middle of a cesspool. She looked at me as if she couldn’t understand why I wasn’t doing the same thing.

I met a couple nice girls who boarded at Hamburg. Casey and Duckie with a little pink elephant named Ellie. The three of us made some smalltalk. Casey was kinda cute except for the three days without a shower and the quarter-sized cold sore on her lip. A bit later, Casey went off to smoke a cigarette, and was gone during our stop in Mannheim, which happened to be the stop where the train split in half. Duckie and I speculated as to whether Casey had gone too far down the train to smoke her cigarette and might be on her way to Milan. Ciao ciao!

But she returned, the lights were finally dimmed, and folks began to try to get some sleep. I could see outside much better. It was then treated to something wonderful. As we sped through the Black Forest, there was a thick white fog on the ground. You had to wonder, were it not for this railway, would this space see a human in a hundred years? But the stars and moon saw this space, and shone down on it like they had for a trillion nights. The train’s electric cables were creating eerie flashes of light that illuminated the forest around the train like a strobe. It was right out of a Grimm Brothers’ tale.

Then, we began to slow. What could be out here? In the dim, dark distance I saw humanoid figures, with big strange heads each emitting an odd bluish light. The headlines began popping into my head…

Cyclops Family Eats Train
American Snatched From Train by Alien Cyclopses

But as we closed in, it was clear the rail workers meant us no harm.

Knowing I’d get no sleep during the trip did not diminish the annoyance of one of the worst snorers ever. The guy one row behind me was engaged in the most guttural kind of snoring – and it was unpredictable, too, so it made it a lot harder to zone it out. Silence for a minute or so, then an explosive UGGGGH KUCK KUCK KUCK… I eventually found myself wishing for derailment. Not just any kind of derailment, either .. but one that could be unquestionably linked to his snoring. Then, as we stood together in the cold foggy forest, looking out over the fire and twisted metal and dying passengers, him still dazed and shoeless, I would look at him and say, Just look what you fucking did! Now are you happy, Mr. Obnoxious? You and your goddamned snoring!

Then, as if God had reached his own personal limit, SnoreMan’s cell phone rang. A cell phone call at 0330? Who could it be? My hero is who it is. The snoring never restarted. As we disembarked in Vienna, I wanted to ask – sir, who was it who called you? I might name a park after them or something.

She, who had somehow trained her girls to run, on cobblestone, in heels, and look great doing so. She, who brought a type of Scandic modernness together with a thousand years of history and made it look like it belonged together. She who, despite being a bit rough with me, had finally whispered – no, sung – into my ear what I’d been aching to hear: that I could stay as long as I wanted. But, she and I had to say good-bye.

It was a summer-vacation kind of love; you know, the love under whose light anything seems possible – infinity visible again in the everyday – even swirling around right there in your coffee cup. The kind that can take all the dreams that long ago rusted away under the rain of your own mediocrity and make them shine again. Or – was that just me, more awake?

And likewise, it was an end-of-summer-vacation good-bye; just like that girl who hugged me before she got into her parents’ station wagon to head home for school, I told her we’d see each other again soon. We’d stay in touch – somehow be together again, I said – and then felt the heartache as she faded off into a darkening sky. But later would come new friends, new adventures, and so on – and before you know it, that rain kicks in and you start to forget…

Now, before I get started, and all you high-society prostitution know-it-alls get up in my stuff with your snarky emails about how, nimrod, the way to get laid in Amsterdam, if you’re not a cheapskate, is by calling one of those sketchy Estonian modeling agencies and asking for Vlad, not by wandering around in the Red Light District – save your breath. I was just looking, and was doing it for you.

First, let me tell you, and I am telling you this because I love you .. and Amsterdam. The best that Amsterdam has to offer is not up in those windows, tapping back at me with acrylic nails and a painted-on smile. Nono, that’s more like a darker, 200 pound version of my old Algebra teacher. Eeeg. Shudder, walk quicker. The strategy was to move slow enough to check everything out, but fast enough not to get caught in any awkward conversations (with the ladies or with the occasional fruitcake who wanted to talk.)

But then, the speed bump that was baby-faced, blonde, and standing long and lean in her window. She wore a two piece purple sparkly thing that looked like it came out of an Austin Powers movie. Actually, she looked like she’d walked out of an Austin Powers movie. And gabbing on her cell phone, ignoring everyone. Slower now … stop. Oh, whoa, now she’s hot … holy fucking moly. Yep, definitely. Should I be staring like this? I guess she won’t mind, I mean, that’s why she’s standing there. Is she going to say something to me? I hope not, because then it would be rude to just leave. Oh, and the whole disinterested act she has going – sexy. A final glance, then onward, picking up the pace again.

I watched the clientele. Some nervous, some nonchalant. The occasional guy being challenged by his rowdy friends to go for it – as if a bachelor party sort of thing. Couples, too – more young and beautiful than I’d have guessed, a few middle-aged. Some clearly shopping for fun, others just passing through. A few boyfriends pulling their girlfriends through the district “just to look.” The gawking tourists with their giggling and occasional point of the finger. Tourists who’d taken a wrong turn and were clearly mortified. (Sir? Which way to Centraal Station? Tot ziens!)

The looks the prospective customers exchanged with the women; the unheard conversations and doorway bargaining; the mischievous, shameful expressions of prospects as they darted past for their second time, thinking, should I?

I’m not going to go down a socio-philosophical rathole on prostitution here… I mean, it’s not my thing, but some guys definitely dig this sort of transaction. Quick, cheap, to the point, no questions, as anonymous as you like. Doesn’t sound any more dysfunctional than many marriages, but I digress.

From a policy perspective, I think the way it’s handled here (like so-called “soft drugs”) is a whole lot smarter than how we handle it in the US. And prostitution has been around forever, but it’s just that the more subtle forms (you know, like waiting until the third date to put out) are far more socially acceptable than the blatant ones.

I am reminded of an ongoing conversation with a friend a long time ago – he had always carried on about how blondes were his thing – some of us sort of chuckled about it. Could it really matter that much? Then, one day, he fell for (and would later marry) this wonderful girl with dark hair. I said to him, “But, I thought you were all blonde, all the way?” He said, “fuck hair color, I’m in love, man!”

I’ve also noticed (since I pay attention to such things) the police profile here. They are very visible but not menacing. Because of my pet interest in the law of the land, I paid attention to their behavior a lot and their interactions with citizens. I saw warm, sensible, non-aggressive professionals helping citizens and visitors alike – and around their waists, stainless steel .380s and thick, aluminum handcuffs that looked like they came out of a James Bond film. The message seemed to be: follow my chill example and be a peaceful, open-minded person – or, pull a cock act and I’ll put a big hot cap in your ass. My inner libertine does not see this as schizophrenic.

Today – up early and hit a few museums. Too much, too fast – not enough time, at all, to do them justice. Van Gogh museum, Foam, Rijksmuseum, the Huis Marseille Museum for Photography.