Casa Robino

(This is the second post in my attempt to represent Anton Krotov's thought to an English-speaking audience by translating his LiveJournal posts.)

Krotov often adopts faux-legal style in setting down guidelines for his domy dlja vsex, or "homes for everyone". The following (Russian original here) emphasizes the responsibility of each inhabitant of the house to ensure an uninterrupted food supply.

REGULATION ON ESSENTIAL ITEMS

In order to prevent famine and other deficiencies in the Houses of the Academy of Free Travel, it is established:

to approve the list of essential items and materials, who must be in the AVP House at all times:

Until some days ago, Tamara and I were vagabonding around Galicia, with no clear plans but to go somewhere East one day soon. After "rescuing" Robin in Oporto and leaving him with Valentina, direction South, we decided to follow Robin's steps backwards into Viana do Castelo and Galicia, and let us inspire by the wonderful people that took such good care of him in the previous days.

Viana was not as nice as we expected though, the festivity was loud and full of gross churrascos. A huge line of stands occupied the whole coastline at the docks, with people selling all sort of crap. A caravan bearing the header Pop Musik was playing loud, fake music while a surreal crowd of people of all ages and sexes stared stupefied in the blinding spotlights at two screens that showed scenes of drunk girls at some mass concert showing their breasts on camera. Tamara asked for leftovers and we dined on free rice, chicken and olives. That night, I left my phone in the car that brought us there from Oporto, but I didn't care. Exceptionally, it was legal to camp inside the city, so we found a nice park next to the river beach and crashed there. When we woke up he next morning, we were hungry. Suddenly, a huge bus with dozens of passengers all wearing the same t-shirt arrived, and they set up a huge camp kitchen, a beer tab, and started eating copiously. While I was staring at them, Tamara got up and introduced herself to her with a big smile. They looked at her with suspicion, but eventually she came back with a plate full of deep-fried crab claws and other things. We still had some bread we got for free the previous night, and olives. That was probably the best breakfast we'd had in a long time.

We hadn't really clicked with Viana and its people, and the beach was too windy, rocky and cold. Leftover fruit and greens at the market were not great. So the next day we set off shortly before sunset. We hadn't really agreed on a destination, but it was clear that eventually we would have had to cross the border somehow, so I just wrote Vigo on the sign and nobody complained. We walked up the hill into the setting sun, wondering if we'd have ever got anywhere that night. I caught up speed, reached the designated gas station, and put down my sailor sack to wait for Tamara to reach me. The sack was leaning against a street light pole, and the sign with it, so Vigo was basically almost completely hidden by the pole... so I started jumping like a monkey, with my t-shirt over my head, to cheer up my travel buddy, when suddenly a car pulls over, and stopped right next to my sack, without driving further into the gas station. A guy came out, smiling, saying, in Spanish with a French accent, something like I have to move some things to the trunk, you guys can sit in the back. I stared at him astonished, and Tamara, that was still many meters away, probably too. It was very unlikely that anyone would read the sign, since it was half hidden, but not only did they see it, they also stopped while we were not hitchhiking (and I was jumping like a drunk monkey)! We jumped in. His Galician girlfriend was driving, and they met while he was hitchhiking to a festival in Andalucia; I always pick up hitchhikers, she said proudly, and he said that that was the first time he picked up people rather than being picked up himself, and passed us a joint. I love this kind of rides, karma, connection. They knew exactly where we could spend the night in Vigo, and dropped us off at a huge park in the centre.

Still, we were hungry. So we walked into town looking for dumpsters. We checked some, and a pizzeria for mistake pizzas and such, but we could find nothing. It was 11 p.m., cold and the city was desert. We sat around for a while around the entrance of an underground mall, until we heard some voices. A couple with dreadlocks and a dog were working on a dumpster just down the huge stairway, where we hadn't been. I went down and went like hola! hay algo de interesante aquí?, that was immediately counteracted by the girl with a stupefying sei italiano?, which sounded a lot more like a statement than a question. She told me she had a van and was going to drive to Italy soon. I started fantasizing about getting a 2000km ride from there to Milan, and parted from them with a bag full of packaged tuna sandwiches fresh from the day, perfect apples, and orange juice. We ate and crashed in a corner of the park that looked like a huge bed of fallen leaves, where we slept like babies.

The next day, we ate some more sandwiches and hitched to the beach with a guy that lived most of his life in Argentina, Calabria and India. He was a fisherman there, a boat mechanic here, and a drummer in India. One of those short encounters that can inspire you for weeks. The sea was as clear as spring water, the sand was white. A lady from a frutería gave us a big bag of ripen fruit. We ate some more tuna sandwiches, met the rasta couple again, I was not going to get a ride to Italy, alas. We crashed again in the park.

Some days later, after mixing with pilgrims in Santiago de Compostela, after getting introduced to a whole village during a Queimada in the middle of nowhere, and meeting with Ana, my former flatmate in Reykjavík, and her Icelandic boyfriend Óttar, and receiving outstanding hospitality from her and her family, we ended up at a road restaurant outside Foz. Hitching was slow and boring, and it was already quite late in the day, after long time waiting in the morning to get out of the middle of nowhere where we were. We found a ride for one on a truck to Oviedo, Tamara went. I was alone, somewhere in Northern Spain, and little traffic. I walked to the highway and found another hitchhiker, a local, that was going to Basque Country to look for a job. He offered me to hitch with him, which would have been fun, but I decided to go back to the restaurant and ask more people. Almost immediately, I asked a couple for a ride to Oviedo. The lady threw me a glance that I really liked - she then threw the same glance to her husband, who consented. She crawled in the back seat and fell asleep, while I was condemned to an endless conversation spacing from travelling, cold vs. hot countries, politics, health, psychedelic mushrooms, alternative agriculture and ethnobotany, all the way to Bilbao. I got off the car that I was completely exhausted, but also happy about the 400km ride. I tried to hitch a ride to Vitoria-Gasteiz, without success, try to find a place to sleep in a thorny orchard where there was no flat ground, and eventually fell asleep somewhere quiet, until the rain woke me up at maybe 5 am.

The plan was to find a ride to Barcelona, and either spend there one night or take the ferry to Italy, that was leaving that same day at midnight. The ferry was expensive though (50€), impossible to hitch, and I knew quite well that I would've never made it to be back on time in Amsterdam if I had gone via Italy. I tried from 7 in the morning until 2 in the afternoon, from multiple spots, always with a sign and my thumb, to hitch a ride to Miranda de Ebro. I could find none. I grew very tired and demotivated. When I reached my last hitching spot, a gas station in Etxebarri, I realized I had to accept my fate, instead of fighting it, and give up my plans about Italy. After 20 min from this realization, I asked a car that was indeed going to Catalunya. It was 3 in the afternoon, I could have made it to the ferry. That was a big temptation, but I didn't betray what I had just realized, so I turned down the ride. The next people I asked were a nice old French couple and they gave me a stupendous 150km ride into France, until the perfect service area. It was there that, while I was looking around, my ride arrived and parked right in front of me. It was a Belgian van bearing the weird xerography L'origine du prénom du nom de familie. I walked to meet the driver. He was alone, the van was really full, but I saw there was some space in the front. I opened my arms wide, with my last forces I exhibited the best trustworthy smile I was able of, and said bonsoir monsieur! vous allez en diréction de Bordeaux?

We talked and drove for long hours, in my broken French, and then in English, until we stopped at a cold service area before Paris, and slept until 7:30 the next morning. I didn't want to cross France again, that's why I preferred going to Italy instead, but fate provided me with an amazing ride across all of it. The driver and I connected very well, and the next afternoon I was in Bruxelles. Two more rides, the last one with a crazy Indian driver that checked my passport and asked what was in my bag before taking me, and I was in Amsterdam. I still couldn't believe it. My crazy driver drove me to a coffieshop to celebrate with me my fortunate and unexpected comeback, and got me incredibly stoned. All this had to be.

Until some days ago, Tamara and I were vagabonding around Galicia, with no clear plans but to go somewhere East one day soon. After "rescuing" Robin in Oporto and leaving him with Valentina, direction South, we decided to follow Robin's steps backwards into Viana do Castelo and Galicia, and let us inspire by the wonderful people that took such good care of him in the previous days.

Viana was not as nice as we expected though, the festivity was loud and full of gross churrascos. A huge line of stands occupied the whole coastline at the docks, with people selling all sort of crap. A caravan bearing the header Pop Musik was playing loud, fake music while a surreal crowd of people of all ages and sexes stared stupefied in the blinding spotlights at two screens that showed scenes of drunk girls at some mass concert showing their breasts on camera. Tamara asked for leftovers and we dined on free rice, chicken and olives. That night, I left my phone in the car that brought us there from Oporto, but I didn't care. Exceptionally, it was legal to camp inside the city, so we found a nice park next to the river beach and crashed there. When we woke up he next morning, we were hungry. Suddenly, a huge bus with dozens of passengers all wearing the same t-shirt arrived, and they set up a huge camp kitchen, a beer tab, and started eating copiously. While I was staring at them, Tamara got up and introduced herself to her with a big smile. They looked at her with suspicion, but eventually she came back with a plate full of deep-fried crab claws and other things. We still had some bread we got for free the previous night, and olives. That was probably the best breakfast we'd had in a long time.

We hadn't really clicked with Viana and its people, and the beach was too windy, rocky and cold. Leftover fruit and greens at the market were not great. So the next day we set off shortly before sunset. We hadn't really agreed on a destination, but it was clear that eventually we would have had to cross the border somehow, so I just wrote Vigo on the sign and nobody complained. We walked up the hill into the setting sun, wondering if we'd have ever got anywhere that night. I caught up speed, reached the designated gas station, and put down my sailor sack to wait for Tamara to reach me. The sack was leaning against a street light pole, and the sign with it, so Vigo was basically almost completely hidden by the pole... so I started jumping like a monkey, with my t-shirt over my head, to cheer up my travel buddy, when suddenly a car pulls over, and stopped right next to my sack, without driving further into the gas station. A guy came out, smiling, saying, in Spanish with a French accent, something like I have to move some things to the trunk, you guys can sit in the back. I stared at him astonished, and Tamara, that was still many meters away, probably too. It was very unlikely that anyone would read the sign, since it was half hidden, but not only did they see it, they also stopped while we were not hitchhiking (and I was jumping like a drunk monkey)! We jumped in. His Galician girlfriend was driving, and they met while he was hitchhiking to a festival in Andalucia; I always pick up hitchhikers, she said proudly, and he said that that was the first time he picked up people rather than being picked up himself, and passed us a joint. I love this kind of rides, karma, connection. They knew exactly where we could spend the night in Vigo, and dropped us off at a huge park in the centre.

Still, we were hungry. So we walked into town looking for dumpsters. We checked some, and a pizzeria for mistake pizzas and such, but we could find nothing. It was 11 p.m., cold and the city was desert. We sat around for a while around the entrance of an underground mall, until we heard some voices. A couple with dreadlocks and a dog were working on a dumpster just down the huge stairway, where we hadn't been. I went down and went like hola! hay algo de interesante aquí?, that was immediately counteracted by the girl with a stupefying sei italiano?, which sounded a lot more like a statement than a question. She told me she had a van and was going to drive to Italy soon. I started fantasizing about getting a 2000km ride from there to Milan, and parted from them with a bag full of packaged tuna sandwiches fresh from the day, perfect apples, and orange juice. We ate and crashed in a corner of the park that looked like a huge bed of fallen leaves, where we slept like babies.

The next day, we ate some more sandwiches and hitched to the beach with a guy that lived most of his life in Argentina, Calabria and India. He was a fisherman there, a boat mechanic here, and a drummer in India. One of those short encounters that can inspire you for weeks. The sea was as clear as spring water, the sand was white. A lady from a frutería gave us a big bag of ripen fruit. We ate some more tuna sandwiches, met the rasta couple again, I was not going to get a ride to Italy, alas. We crashed again in the park.

Some days later, after mixing with pilgrims in Santiago de Compostela, after getting introduced to a whole village during a Queimada in the middle of nowhere, and meeting with Ana, my former flatmate in Reykjavík, and her Icelandic boyfriend Óttar, and receiving outstanding hospitality from her and her family, we ended up at a road restaurant outside Foz. Hitching was slow and boring, and it was already quite late in the day, after long time waiting in the morning to get out of the middle of nowhere where we were. We found a ride for one on a truck to Oviedo, Tamara went. I was alone, somewhere in Northern Spain, and little traffic. I walked to the highway and found another hitchhiker, a local, that was going to Basque Country to look for a job. He offered me to hitch with him, which would have been fun, but I decided to go back to the restaurant and ask more people. Almost immediately, I asked a couple for a ride to Oviedo. The lady threw me a glance that I really liked - she then threw the same glance to her husband, who consented. She crawled in the back seat and fell asleep, while I was condemned to an endless conversation spacing from travelling, cold vs. hot countries, politics, health, psychedelic mushrooms, alternative agriculture and ethnobotany, all the way to Bilbao. I got off the car that I was completely exhausted, but also happy about the 400km ride. I tried to hitch a ride to Vitoria-Gasteiz, without success, try to find a place to sleep in a thorny orchard where there was no flat ground, and eventually fell asleep somewhere quiet, until the rain woke me up at maybe 5 am.

The plan was to find a ride to Barcelona, and either spend there one night or take the ferry to Italy, that was leaving that same day at midnight. The ferry was expensive though (50€), impossible to hitch, and I knew quite well that I would've never made it to be back on time in Amsterdam if I had gone via Italy. I tried from 7 in the morning until 2 in the afternoon, from multiple spots, always with a sign and my thumb, to hitch a ride to Miranda de Ebro. I could find none. I grew very tired and demotivated. When I reached my last hitching spot, a gas station in Etxebarri, I realized I had to accept my fate, instead of fighting it, and give up my plans about Italy. After 20 min from this realization, I asked a car that was indeed going to Catalunya. It was 3 in the afternoon, I could have made it to the ferry. That was a big temptation, but I didn't betray what I had just realized, so I turned down the ride. The next people I asked were a nice old French couple and they gave me a stupendous 150km ride into France, until the perfect service area. It was there that, while I was looking around, my ride arrived and parked right in front of me. It was a Belgian van bearing the weird xerography L'origine du prénom du nom de familie. I walked to meet the driver. He was alone, the van was really full, but I saw there was some space in the front. I opened my arms wide, with my last forces I exhibited the best trustworthy smile I was able of, and said bonsoir monsieur! vous allez en diréction de Bordeaux?

We talked and drove for long hours, in my broken French, and then in English, until we stopped at a cold service area before Paris, and slept until 7:30 the next morning. I didn't want to cross France again, that's why I preferred going to Italy instead, but fate provided me with an amazing ride across all of it. The driver and I connected very well, and the next afternoon I was in Bruxelles. Two more rides, the last one with a crazy Indian driver that checked my passport and asked what was in my bag before taking me, and I was in Amsterdam. I still couldn't believe it. My crazy driver drove me to a coffieshop to celebrate with me my fortunate and unexpected comeback, and got me incredibly stoned. All this had to be.

[I keep secret in myself an Egypt
that doesn't exist.
Is that good or bad? I don't know]
-Rumi

Every time I read these lines something is pulled inside of me, a string with a little man attached. He is the caretaker of all my dreams; hopes, mysteries, madness, poetry, creativity, words, wanderlust, ideas of friendships, instinct, magic, intuition and love.
For if it didn't exist, my life would be nothing.
I would cease to exist.
I fear, sometimes, more than sometimes, that I give so much meaning and worth to everything, and there is an unbalance with those around me. Oh, help me.
But what difference does it make? Meaning is everything, why must others have the same intensity? Afraid to be terribly, utterly alone with this knowing, snuffkin?

yes.

But there are words, husky and willful that mutter in my ear,
This we have now
is not imagination

I cling to these words as if they were the last left on earth.

A letter for Guisepi going to San Juan Island, United States.

A letter for Davide going to San Diego, United States.

A letter for Mila going to Nantes, France.

A letter for Sara going to Bromma, Sweden.

A letter for Stefanie going to Napels, Italy.

A letter for Emre going to Istanbul, Turkey.

A letter for Darka going to Komen, Slovenia.

A letter for Valentina going to New York, United States.

A letter for Diane going to Northshore City, New Zealand.

A letter for Ania going to Groningen, Netherlands.

part of a mail I sent to a friend :

strongly feel I want to accelerate the current networking of brothers and sisters wanting to manifest intention in an emergent way.

Starting by staying open to recognize each other.

Connecting with cultural creative memetics is not too difficult, as many (bourgeois and non bourgeois bohemians) already seem to converge in certain places. (Some neighbourhoods in big cosmopolitan cities such as Berlin,Brussels,etc)

But finding connection while listening,learning together,overcoming fear,being playful,
While staying together, is less easy to find,share,and then build on long term.

Somehow,I feel my close friends either move a lot,either are spread.

(Places / temporary autonomous zones like ecotopia are great to converge and reconnect)

Finding people searching for meditative peace,within cultural creatives,is accessible,

But finding individuals with whom to maintain this inner presence and peace in every moment,while moving into shared intention,through chaos of unknown, collaboratively,sharing evolving meaning, is not easy to find or maintain within current systems.

So somehow I am focusing on the development of tools that could make collaborative intentional individualist shared dynamics easier,
enabling certain flows.

Emergent flow is already there,
Yet I am interested in having a better overview through tools,as to further empower its distributedness into all aspects of life,beyond artificial bottlenecks from artificial scarcities.

This feels clear,and much of the other parts of my life get organized around such meta manifestation,
even though it may be difficult for many to recognize or identify with.

A challenge is to create easily understandable and identifiable chunks which may corresponds to needs at a material realm level, creating an entry point that converges people and resources from there on, liberating further potential for cultural experimentation,
and the individual spiritual perceptions such cultural space may accept or facilitate.

—

Other then that, staying in Brussels as it currently seems easier to access resources here,
but still wanting to open up to several places.

I feel happy when friends meet me.
I want to live with people I feel I share love with.

I can not live in a flat alone,as in the past half year. I also do not want to return to a free fall Nomad life without place to feel home and return to.

I also want such living convergence space for our brothers and sisters that meet with each other and share resonnance.

A non collectivist space.
A cheap place ( central bank money wise),where I feel I can listen to myself and others more easily,share,co create,and welcome new creative influences and initiatives,

In a festivalist shared lifestyle:

http://p2pfoundation.net/Festivalism

Some places in Europe where this happens, but not as much at post industrial,post capitalist, urban or semi urban approach.

It’s networked.
I like to expand and empower the festivalist memes further

Green,yellow,turquoise… to refer to spiral dynamics and integral “theory”.
(sending you links on next message)

I also want to consider going back “on tour”, but after already having prototypes… (?)

–

How are you and how do you sense your experience?

Section 6 Criminal Law Act 1977, as amended by Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994 (United Kingdom, applies to England and Wales)

Take notice

• That we live in this property, it is our home and we intend to stay here.
• That at all times there is at least one person in this property.
• That any entry or attempt to enter into this property without our permission is a criminal offence as any one of us who is in physical possession is opposed to entry without our permission.
• That if you attempt to enter by violence or by threatening violence we will prosecute you. You may receive a sentence of up to six months imprisonment and/or a fine of up to £5,000.
• That if you want to get us out you will have to issue a claim in the County Court or in the High Court, or produce to us a written statement or certificate in terms of S.12A Criminal Law Act, 1977 (as inserted by Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, 1994).
• That it is an offence under S.12A (8) Criminal Law Act 1977 (as amended) to knowingly make a false statement to obtain a written statement for the purposes of S. 12A. A person guilty of such an offence may receive a sentence of up to six months imprisonment and/or a fine of up to £5,000.

Signed

The Occupiers

(To be posted at the entrance of a squatted property, also valid if not signed by name)

This states the current squatter’s rights in England and Wales and basically means that the owner or landlady/landlord of a property can not evict you from your squat without going through court, proving that they have plans to actually use the property again. Court procedures usually take weeks or months, so once you are in you will have a home for a while. If they try to evict illegally they can end up in prison for 6 months and having to pay £5,000 (currently around €6000) in fines. This makes squatting more or less legal in England and Wales. Sweet.

We have an upcoming court case for one flat in our squat on 3 September 2010. Visiting the Advisory Service For Squatters (ASS) office at Whitechapel today should allow us to get a good defense going. We suspect that the owner (council) wants to save some paperwork by getting an eviction warrant for one flat and evict the other flat while they are at it on eviction day. Which, of course, is not legal..

Until then we will continue to take good care of the building: keep it clean, fix little damages, trim plants in the garden, prevent decay and be good neighbours – while enjoying a free home with a garden in Brixton. :)

This is a long list. Let it stand as an answer to the question I’m so often asked: “Did you run into any trouble?” The road will always provide, and people always seem to be there when you need them most. Thank you so so much, from the core of my being, for all of your love, help, and selflessness – I couldn’t have cycled a continent without you.

For their hospitality, a vital ingredient:

• Recycle-a-Bicycle – Dan and Patrick – for having Juno and making her into the best bike she could be!
• Brad in NYC for a comfy couch
• James in Nyack, for a warm shower when it was truly needed, and an even warmer welcome in Vancouver.
• Albany Abe and his vegan baking housemate Ashley
• Chris and Emma in Ithaca for taking me in off the street and for all the Bike/Madison geeking.
• Marvin in Ithaca for a delicious meal and a happy roof
• Joe in Ithaca for the vegan carrot cake!
• To all at Plankton in Buffalo for showing me the beauty of a depressed city.
• Steve in Niagara
• Ruben and family in Hamilton
• All at the S.H.A.H for just existing so awesomely
• Jackie and Tom in Ontario for giving 2 strangers everything they could need, and for hunting with a bow and arrow!
• Troy, Dayna and Porter in Sarnia.
• Handsome Mike and Pickleball Sally for restoring faith in Michigan
• Scott in Grand Rapids for the beer, the laughs, the couch
• Nathaniel and Sean in Milwaukee
• Doug in Chicago for a last minute couch and a long lasting story
• Pam, for more than I could say. For the first home in a long time, for the mothering and the friendship
• Johanna and Raven for all the knowledge and lightness
• Charley III for loving me already and for the photography inspiration
• Jim and Maxine for the house, the interview, the garden
• Megan in Winona
• Everyone at the Crockhouse, especially Will and Alicia for so much space to recuperate, and for all the laughs.
• To the family on the Missippi who took us in – I lost Luke’s address and feel terrible! Please send it to me again!?
• Gerardo in Fargo for taking us in at the last minute and being super chill
• Kate and Lisa in Minot
• Tracey and Donovan in Poplar for proving there are good people even in “StabCity”
• The two hikers who gave us their camping spot in Glacier
• Tyson in Bonner’s Ferry for the lawn
• Dollores and Jack Fountain in Locke for being grandparents for a night and all the lost stories
• The Bicycle Camping Barn for existing and the couple I interviewed there for their energy (please contact me!)
• To Beth, Guisepi’s mother, for being the end I so needed, for the great conversations and delicious meals.

For the Company and Love:

• Jon in Albany for being my first bad-ass bike company
• Jon Watts the Quaker for inspiring in so many different ways, for the love, the bikes, the faith
• Leon for being the best Irishman ever, and providing motivation to pedal on - then, now, always.
• Lalo and Emily in Toronto for living and breathing wanderlust
• The Madison Bicycle Caravan who I met on the bike path for spreading such joy
• Alan for picking mulberries and for a day’s company
• Paul for all the High-line Bicycle Gang laughs and staying true to his dreams
• Stephanie for being another solo rider with zest, and humbly living dreams
• Oak for inspiring and pushing me when I most needed it, and for being the damn coolest bike brother ever. Oh and for the morning wake up songs.
• Kristy- my moldy sweat back sister – for just being so fucking awesome, for riding her bike and pushing herself
• Matt for the laughs and the best bike gang ever
• Reinhard for being so well-rounded, sensible and silly
• Christian and Caleb for sharing stories and creating that special day in the park
• The 3 dutch guys, Han, Hans and Robert for living their 30yr old dream and for the ice-cream!

For help on the Road:

• The lovely co-op worker in Milwaukee who bought me free food, just because
• Day, for her welcoming postcard and unwavering love and concern
• Derek and Machinery Row for the bike work and free stuff
• John Statz for the incredible music
• Tim in Wisconsin who rescued me when I needed to be rescued
• Noel, for riding a long way and for the honest chat
• The three cyclists in West Salem for the pizza and reminding me to follow my heart, not my ego
• Josh Ritter and Management for the free ticket and amazing show!
• Jay in Devil’s Lake for the swim and best buffet meal ever
• All at the Fargo Bike Co-op for their admirable energy

For Lightfoot:

• To Amanda in NYC for encouragment and documentation
• Emma for writing and supporting
• Dan for the “Sketch” box and actively participating
• Angel for instantly dropping and writing a letter – spontaneous instant participation!
• George, who wrote just to write, and brightened my mailbox
• John and Mother Fools Coffee House for such energetic support and the box space
• The Crockhouse for the box and being in on the project
• All those lovelies who wrote/shared/delivered – thanks for the ACTION – it’s the only way to change the world!

And finally – special heartfelt thanks so my steadfast support crew, who’s thought and words echo through every mile, and who will always allow me to be myself, be strong and to be true:

• Charlie
• Mum
• Ella
• Ange
• Rosie

Two weeks after the Hitchgathering in Sines, what is left of it? We have been hitching, hiking, waiting, waving, running, crying, laughing, singing, strumming, sunburnt, windswept, hungry, sleepless. And we made it, about 80 people from all over Europe and beyond, some of us meeting along the way on random roads, to the designated location in Sines. Some of us thought it was not possible, but it was. Some others didn't make it, and stuck to the motto "somewhere (else) in Portugal". Some got to Sines in two days from Holland, some took several weeks.

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this post is just a placeholder for the time being. I made it to Paris, am staying with Nessa and Jerome, visiting friends and unwinding after a LOT of adventure. I'll write more later, but for now, I'm alive, well, and in good company. Things are good.