"Geeze, how does he wash those dreads?"

You hear that often around campus.

The Deli, The Earth and the Cali coast aren't the only places you'll find alternative lifestylers. I found myself asking the same question in Europe this summer more frequently than I thought I would. I still don't know what the word for "dreads" is in Spanish, Italian or Czech, but I sure saw a lot of those mussy, glass-beaded medusa braids.

In parts of Euroland I visited, neo-hippies thrive beneath graffiti-tagged bridges, picnic in lush, sunken gardens, play hacky sack in plazas and skate infinity signs around tourist attractions.

As an American, where my national monuments are only a century old, I am still baffled by tag art on those famous Grecian statues of manly hunks and goddesses. How can you deface something so … well, old?

Now, I would never paint on the Statue of David, and I don't necessarily consider myself alternative. But, when comparing American and European youth, the niftiest thing I saw was how similar subcultures can be, even when strumming guitars in parks thousands of miles apart.

In Rome, a kid we stayed with showed us the other side of the Colosseum and the Spanish Steps.

"Come. We go now to … cool place."

He pulled his long braids in a ponytail, pulled a ratty band shirt over his new mushroom tattoo and led the way.

We wound through spray paint-speckled alleyways very similar to a Norman dumpster excursion and down a winding dirt path. Suddenly, an old vine-covered train hub jutted out of the ground. We wove through the dimly-lit tunnels and found a makeshift stage where local bands jam nearly every night of the week.

The place reminded me of Universe City, a local venue for concerts, open-mic poetry and stand up. I could just see familiar Norman flower children and band kids dancing around to an Italian bluegrass band (whatever that would sound like) in the middle of this permanent campsite/free-for-all brick canvas/never-ending hoola-hooping haven.

I nearly got lost in the psychedelic murals on the walls and soon found myself in a damp dungeon-turned-pub sipping cheap Italian beer.

Joes Taverna or Bills, anyone?

Considering some people never leave this place I asked about police.

"Eh ... the po-po. Not here. We agree do not bother each other," my Naples-born friend explained as he pulled up his scrappy jeans decorated with neon Sharpies. I looked at my own worn out sneakers, the pen doodles long faded from walking so far.

Those sneakers would later meet their maker in the Vltava river in Prague after an outdoor projector screening of Pink Floyd's The Wall and a night of quarters.

The rest of my European counter-culture adventure—one you'd never find in a guide book—brought me fire jugglers, endless gargantuous dogs, barefoot flower children knitting and djembe drum circles. I swore I'd never left the States and was actually camping outside The Firehouse Art Center.

My Milan host took us to a rad festival in—get this—an old monestary farmyard for a Capoeira Brazilian dance concert. A little of this martial arts dance form mixed with local belly dancers around these parts wouldn't be such a bad—or inconceivable—idea.

In Valencia, I met a beautiful scrawny Spanish boy with leather bands tied around his wrists, thick rectangular reading glasses and Aladdin-style pants (haven't seen these in H&M yet, but I'm waiting for it). He took me to yet another vegan-filled festival Native Roots would be proud of.

Tents and tables lined park pathways. Shirtless vendors tugged at their bandanas and straightened their displays of goat horn, spiral-wired jewelry, handmade trinkets and painted postcards. I wanted every felt and hemp shoulder bag I saw.

Thank God the exchange rate kept my pocketbook in check.

For two months, I swore I was at a hybrid between the Medieval Fair and the May Fair.

The only difference—the seven time zones.

— Lindsey Allgood is a professional writing senior.