As much as secrets imply a certain dishonesty, even a type of calculation, they are here to keep you safe from danger. Just as the American opossum, the real walking dead, which, when it feels a predator is near, lies on its back and plays dead to keep itself safe.
Not a millimeter of highway!
I left quickly, actually, the moment the opportunity arose. I felt restless for days before hitting the road. I love this state of mind: restlessness before a trip and the restlessness of a traveler.
I am probably an ordinary consumer, not much different from someone who will spend their extra cash to build an elegant tomb or a pyramid perhaps, instead of just spending it on traveling.
Everybody experiences this world in their own way. Traveling is just one of them, in no way more important than any other.
When you slide off Bologna Boulevard (the street in the outskirts of Zagreb) and start meandering through villages up to the Slovenian border and then through Slovenia and Austria, there is so much beauty and it fills your soul with such delight and while you are feeling it, nothing else is that important.
If a traveler opens their eyes a bit wider, they will find beauty even on a highway, among the nervous hustle and bustle of the masses. Each act of kindness that takes place there will add to that feeling. Yet, your eyes must really be wide open to be able to see the charm of the highway even when somebody is overtaking you and the headlights of a souped-up beast of a muscle car keep aiming at your stern until you surrender and let them pass.
That is why I decided, and because I had a few extra days for the journey, to arrive in Glasgow, Scotland by avoiding contact not only with highways, but also with all other multi-lane roads until I reached my destination. To go through with that decision, once you have set a course, it is enough to press a few buttons on your GPS and change the settings to exclude highways and multi-lane roads, and leave the option for, e.g. off-road ride.
That way you will pass through numerous ski destinations in Italy such as Innichen, Cortina and Brunico as well as small towns in the Bavarian Alps, each and every one of them pristine, like a carefully trimmed and manicured moustache.
Then you have Colmar in France and mass grave sites from World War I along the River Somme with occasional reminders of its horrific history.
Before boarding the ferry to England, the Burghers of Calais will escort you with their sad symbolism.
The beauty of simplicity in such a journey is irresistible. You don’t worry about anything; you always wear the same clothes, just like astronauts don’t worry about which space suit they will wear that day, you jump into your own and you are at ease; you don’t even worry what you will be doing that day; you simply travel from dawn till dusk and when there is still some visibility left, preferably, you find a place to sleep.
England is densely populated. In its automobile culture there is a constant need to alleviate the roads of heavy traffic. They do this by adding one or even two lanes to existing small country roads, even though we are not talking about a highway. All those roads connect cities the same way they do in Europe - each of them takes you straight to the town center, but, due to terribly congested traffic, taking these roads is not as nearly as romantic as on the continent. It takes a bit more planning to drive through this stunning English province.
Even Saint Augustine who was sent to what used to be called Anglia by Pope Gregory I to baptize the people strode through Kent. Before he shone forth with his theology, he wrote geeky letters to the Pope inquiring, among other things, if a woman could go to church if she had had sexual relations the night before. Gregory I responded wisely by saying that there was no obstacle to allow women to go to church, under the condition they wash beforehand. Bertrand Russell made no further mention of that correspondence, although a few more questions could be made regarding this particular topic.
The road took me through the small town of Reigate in Surrey where I was, in a unique way, by a Winston Churchill monument, reminded of our past. Will the followers of the Croatian iconoclasm become active again and take matters into their own hands?
Before going to sleep at a 16th century pub in Stourbridge, I had a pint of ale in a lopsided inn.
I dedicate this blog to a good man, father Ivan Cebulski, a missionary, who crossed over to the other side earlier this year. He was incredibly humorous. We had interesting conversations during which he showed me that it was possible to be cradled in an infinitely patient and consistent system while simultaneously keeping freedom of thought and healthy skepticism.
I spent ages in a hot shower trying to thaw my frozen body thinking whether Leibniz’s conclusion was incorrect. Isn’t the good in this world, including this wonderful shower, here only to emphasize the evil, sin and the ice cold winds that were blowing my head off, while we are under the control of an evil demiurge and that is why this is one of the worst possible worlds. In that Manichaeistic mood, filled with doubt and my head held low I walked to a pub for a pint of ale. I had a few of them and, interestingly, Leibniz’s logic revealed itself to me in all its iron-clad consistency. I chatted with the barman cheerfully feeling happy and sporting a smile on my face.
This interesting, deeply philosophical effect of beer made it self-explanatory why someone would convert a church into a pub which I saw on my way home. Was the decision about the conversion made by priests under the beneficial philosophical influence of beer during a theological discussion in a pub or church or after a seminar in a pub, it is unknown, but here it is nonetheless:
Friendship:
Due to the eastern wind which grew stronger at night the chances of returning to Glasgow by plane had drastically fallen. Since we, the day before, due to strong wind and low clouds, had had a couple of unsuccessful attempts at landing and the pilot had to, as it was his fourth attempt at landing, I think, grit his teeth and land at full throttle. The wings did not fall off, our hearts just started beating somewhat faster. That is why we decided to go to Glasgow by bicycles. Cool! You arrive by plane and return by bicycle.
Exhausted, but bathed and fed, I peacefully awaited the following day and the return to Zagreb by taking the quickest route on the highway. You shift into the “heavenly gear”, as my good deceased friend used to call it, and let the BMW devour the kilometers. All 2,500 of them! It should take two days if everything goes as planned.
I got on the highway, after disembarking the ship, with everything I think represents my character: strong individualism, independence, intuitiveness and self-consciousness. Yes, that’s me! Because of this, people’s astonishment on the eve of the journey when they were asking: “What? Why make the entire journey just to spend 48 hours in Glasgow?” only confirms the hypothesis of what I am like: authentic and true to myself! The Bowmore photo was taken with the ease of a free individual. I can do whatever I want!
About fifty kilometers from Zeebrugge towards the southeast, on the way home, there was a massive traffic jam. That is nothing to motorcyclists. You split lanes or use the highway emergency lane, obviously you ride more slowly, but you keep going. I had been splitting lanes through the long line of static vehicles. It was obvious that the traffic had stopped hours ago because some people had left their vehicles and were sitting on the asphalt, lying on their hoods, and truck drivers were sitting on their folding chairs in the shades of their trucks. I reached the front of the line of motionless vehicles. The highway was closed off with police tape and behind it there was a scene of a terrible collision between two semi-trailers. Sand, concrete, cases, everything was scattered on the highway. Cranes, firefighters, the police! You could immediately tell that the delay would last for many more hours. The highway was fenced off, so it was impossible to even ride on the side of the road. I found the nearest highway exit on the map which was approximately 7 kilometers away in the opposite direction. “What’s that got to do with anything, there is no traffic anyway, people are sitting on the road, I will manage to squeeze through somehow,” I thought to myself. I jumped on my bike again, I started it up and slowly turned in the opposite direction.
During that maneuver, one of the bikers I had exchanged a few words with a moment earlier, approached me. Belgian bikers also managed to pull through to the front of the line of vehicles.
He was asking me where I was heading to. I explained it to him that I was going back to the closest exit. “But that is in the opposite direction,” he said. “It is an extremely risky move,” he said clearly upset. “There is no traffic,” I tried to calm him down. “People are sitting on the asphalt. Nothing can go wrong.” “But that’s 7 kilometers,” the biker would not give up. A buddy of his who joined him just kept shaking his head. “Bat z polis mej cum, zej hev sajrens end evrising, zej vil get ju, its rong dajreksn,” finally said the guy who was shaking his head. We were approached by another guy and now all of them, I presumed, were discussing me and my plan in Flemish and naturally were shaking their heads and glancing at me from time to time. The third guy said: “You know, it’s your call. You know what you are doing.”
At that point, I slowly turned the key and shut off the engine trying to delay my self-confidence from draining away as much as possible. I sat on the fence, as weak as a fly, and on the brink of tears started to look at the tips of my boots. A conformist wretch. Three hours later nothing had changed. I was sitting on the fence, occasionally chatting with the Belgians.
A policeman on a motorbike approached us from the direction of the crash. Going in the opposite direction, of course. Someone attentively lifted the police tape, so he could go under it. He had to pass by me. With the remainder of my usually ever-present initiative, I got up and stood in front of the policeman. He stopped his motorbike. “Please, I am also a biker, would it be possible for me to drive between the line behind you until the exit?” I asked. “Of course, let’s go,” said the police officer. I whistled to the other bikers and all of us, guided by the police, accompanied with flashing lights and sirens, headed towards the exit.
Solomon Asch who was a pioneer in social psychology claimed that group pressure is in most cases stronger than the will of an individual. In the conflict with free will, conformism generally wins. Naturally, it does not always happen, but it happens more rarely that a charismatic individual dominates over a group of people. In Asch’s experiment, a few participants pretend they know nothing of the test and that they do not know each other. They enter an elevator in a multistory building after a man who knows nothing about the experiment. This man, after he pressed his floor button, normally faces the exit. However, one floor down one or two new passengers enter the elevator. They, after pressing their floor button, face backwards, where there is no door. On the next floor down a new passenger gets into the elevator. He also faces the side where there is no exit. After a few more participants who know that they have to face the other, illogical way get on the elevator, the conformist broken down by group pressure will turn around and face backwards, following the example of others.
