Portion One of the trip is just about over, and I'm not sure how two weeks flew so fast.

My backpacking time seemed, from Los Angeles, like it might feel endless and drawn-out. Two whole weeks! Alone! With a big bag! And few shirts! But instead I find that two weeks has only given me a taste for this. I feel like I am finally getting the hang of the backpacking thing, and I'm ready to go for longer and disappear into European cities large and small for at least another month, but alas, I can't. I have less than twelve hours until my night train zips out of Munich toward Rome, where my friend Amy and a suitcase of clean clothes await.

Variety of wardrobe is an exciting prospect. So is the villa and its large swimming pool. And constant good company, rather than the nightly crapshoot of, "Is Anyone Remotely Cool Staying In This Hostel?"

But it's been a marvelous time, and I suppose, as with most things, it's better to leave wanting more than wanting to tear out my hair and banish all backpack-shaped objects from a 500-mile radius.

I would like very much to thank my feet. They've done an admirable job carting me around for hours on end, and never complained, save for one blister in Vienna that disappeared almost as fast as it formed, leading me to believe it was just a quiet reminder from my feet that they deserve a little praise. The adidas sneakers made life difficult by bruising my right foot on that back-of-leg spot where the heel meets the ankle, and yet still I was comfortably mobile most of the time. I have never gotten a pedicure in my life, but when I get back to Los Angeles, I'm getting a nice long one as a present to the overworked oddly shaped masses of flesh and bone that have gotten me from A to B to Z. Thanks, feet.

I am rotating two pairs of jeans, with the occasional foray into shorts, and they've both been so comfortable. Despite their stretched, loose state, they have valiantly succeeded in not dropping off my body and leaving me without trou in a world that isn't ready for my ass. Pants, thank you for this. The denizens of every country I have visited share in my immense gratitude.

My bank card has cooperated mightily by working in every foreign ATM. I should possibly be worried that my bank has not grown concerned that someone stole it, but really, that point is more moot than Rick Springfield wanting to tell Jesse's girl he loves her. To my bank: Thanks, because it was me at all those machines, and I really needed the cash for that Belgian chocolate/wiener schnitzel/Coca-Cola Light/Dutch hooker.

The Germans are brilliant with barley and hops. Their skillful brewers helped me get through last night, during which I had to fend off the clumsy, drunk, and I think half-hearted advances of the two Brazilian guys in my hostel room. They passed out unfulfilled.

Lonely Planet puts together a great guidebook. The Western Europe tome has been the perfect accessory -- It's a book! It's a pillow! It's a skirt! It's a halter dress! -- and got me to some safe, clean hostels and good restaurants. Most of the other happy backpackers I've met have carried either this guide, their Europe On A Shoestring book, or city-specific volumes, and they have all sung their praises with angelic hallelujahs. I would heartily recommend this company's books over the ubiquitous but less useful Let's Go tomes -- or as Bill Bryson calls them, the Let's Go Get Another Guidebook series.

Finally, I would like to thank the skies of Munich for clearing up five minutes ago and leaving me with a good chance of enjoying my last day here outside in a beer garden, rather than indoors hiding in museums (which is fine) and Internet cafes (which is a bit sad) from the driving rain and lightning, typing ponderous and pathetic things into the Diaryland window.

Mother Nature is kind.

Someone got here by searching for: mime face paint Reading: My giant stack of New Yorker back issues -- I have only two left -- and Bill Bryson's Neither Here Nor There Eating: Deep fried food and pastries. It's the best way.