Snow Way, Dude!

Marrakesh, Morocco. Travel writers tend to exaggerate a bit. Flowery language is used to create a picture perfect world; one of far off realms, exotic locales, and endless beauty. They do this because they have to sell their literature in order to make a living, and strangely, romantic notions tend to sell better than ferocious diatribes. Nobody buys the travel book titled The Drunken Hellholes of Mexico. Sadly, hyperbole can become a necessary evil for these dreamy travelers. If they can't manage to sell their poetic pontifications they would just become a bunch of hopelessly unemployable hippies with no travelling money. Unfortunately, this desire to succeed makes for an extraordinary conflict of interest. Case in point, though little is written about it, prior to his career in politics Dick Cheney honed his particular brand of malevolent duplicity whilst writing cheery passages about the Middle East for Fodors. It's a shame really. A typical blurb about Morocco, from Lonely Planet, might read as follows:


If Fes is Morocco's spiritual capital, then Marrakesh is it's beating heart. Follow its twisting arteries to its pulsing energy source - the Place Djemaa el-Fna - a huge square in the medina where jugglers and storytellers jostle for position with snake charmers, magicians, and acrobats. Only in Marrakesh does this medieval pageantry survive.

Now I'm in no position to argue with Lonely Planet, they probably have lawyers. Let's just say that I strongly disagree with their word choice. For example, where they say storytellers, I might choose to precede that word with Arabic; and where they use the term medieval pageantry, I might use the phrase filthy pack of travel writing lies. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy Marrakesh, I most assuredly did. It's just that it really wasn't what I was expecting.

Arriving late, with our stomachs empty, Xander and I were hungry for food and excitement. Putting our trust in the infinite knowledge of our guidebook, we headed to the Place Djemaa el-Fna, in the center of the medina. The immense square was packed tight, everyone having obviously followed their own guidebooks. I'll be the first to admit that there was definitely energy in the air. As we entered the fray a traditionally dressed musician danced around us, his castanet-style palm cymbals clashing rhythmically. As he spun, a frilly tassel at the peak of his skull cap twirled skillfully around his head. It was exciting...and it lasted for about three seconds. He stopped, held out his hat, and aggressively pleaded for a tip before hastily moving on to the next set of tourists. We moved on to the celebrated snake charmers, a sight I was definitely excited to see. Now I don't know much about zoology, so perhaps it was merely the chill night air that had created the stupor in these venomous reptiles - or maybe they were dead. Three of these harmless critters lay on a carpet, limp and lifeless, the purported snake charmer playing neither fiddle nor flute. I think he was busy clipping his toenails. Upon our advance, one was quickly scooped up and placed over Xander's neck. They it lay, developing rigor mortis. "Take picture...take picture", crowed the handler, then proffered his hand for the fee of this charming service.



We hoped the food stalls would take our mind off this shameless hucksterism. Exotic smells filled the air, my nose blindly leading my body, as Jewish noses tend to do. There were over a hundred food stalls and visions of succulent meats braised, baked, or fried made my mouth water. The first stall was encouraging: piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. We fended off the hoard of hawks who tried to get us to sit and moved on to the next stand. Hmmm....piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. I looked further down the row but it was like looking in a fun house mirror, the same scene repeating into the distance. Everyone was selling the exact same thing, we had unwittingly entered some sort of culinary Twilight Zone. Even the prices were the same - too little for too much. In the end we found about a half-dozen unique stalls amongst this throng. Some were decidedly interesting, like the place where you could eat a lamb's face. I respect anyone who can look their food directly in the eye before peeling off the skin, removing the jaw, then happily munching on the cheeks. Personally I'm not much of a face eater, so I set my sights on the other end of the beast. As I gaze absently at a woman who is sucking on the marrow of a skull, I can't help but wonder if she feels the same touch of revulsion when she sees an American chomp down on a rump roast.



As for the title of this Tale, I once again have skirted the entire point. Having tired of this medieval farce, we decided to take a day trip to the Ourika Valley. Deep in the mountains of Morocco, about a two hour ride from Marrakesh, is a town called Oukaimeden; home to the most unlikely sight in all of Africa - a ski resort. After a confusing day of travel, involving, amongst other things, a clown-car taxi ride of eight people, and a late arrival, we found our hidden gem closed. The snow cover was light, as would be expected in Africa, if at all, so, downtrodden, we hiked as high as we could before giving up. As we hiked back down, the ski lift started to move. We could ride it up to the top, they said, sans skis, to see the view. So up we went. The snow cover was thicker at the top of the mountain and there stood a man renting skis. We strapped them on, of loose fit, and ancient age, and took one steep run about 200 yards down an untouched bowl, carving fresh tracks in immaculate powder. I can now say that I have skied in Africa. We were the Lord's of Creation -- that is, until we realized we had to hike back up to give back our skis.

Here's Looking At You, Yid

Casablanca, Morocco. The elevator slows, comes to a stop, and the doors slide open. Our escort leads us down a long, poorly lit corridor. It is painted a dull, drab, beige and is completely silent, empty. The only sound is our feet as we walk, each step echoing lightly. We pass no one in the dusky hall, but this is not particularly surprising given the late hour. Our escort leads us around a corner and through a large door. The room is cavernous, bare, the walls completely unadorned. Not all of the bulbs are lit and much of the room is dim. Long windows grace the outermost wall, but they are tinted, and nothing but a few pale points of light filter through. A few old computers sit atop basic desks, though no one is at the keyboards. There is too much space and not enough to fill it. It feels abandoned, cold, lifeless. There are two men at the far end of the room, tapping away at one of the computers and talking in Arabic. Our escort leads us over and we are told to sit in a set of folding chairs behind them. A rapid exchange takes place between the three, then the escort leaves. As he walks away my eyes follow his weapon, a snub-nosed, semi-automatic machine gun. As the two officers swivel in their chairs to face us, I have to wonder: How in the world have we wound up here, on the fourth floor of the massive Casablanca police headquarters in the middle of the night?


Let me explain. A few days ago we were killing time in Rabat. We were supposed to be in Casablanca getting visas for Mauritania, but it was Friday and the embassy was closed for the weekend. Figuring it was better to explore than continue to sit in one place - unlike that month I spent at home playing video games until my eyes started to bleed - we set our sights on the capitol, though we heard it was a rather characterless place. Rabat was not nearly as dull as I had presumed. In fact, it has both the frenetic energy and motion of a motor rally. The motorized carriages that Moroccans have dubbed CARS (Camels Are Really Slow) race through the street at break neck speed - as do motorcycles, mopeds, bicycles, and thousands of pedestrians. Truly the most fun you can have in Rabat is dodging traffic. Even the most major of intersections have no crosswalks, nor crossing lights of any kind. To make matters worse, the traffic lights themselves are no where to be seen. For the life of us we could not figure out how traffic knew to stop; perhaps a sudden realization that even the most standard of vehicles come with brakes plays a roll. Regardless, the best way we found to cross a busy intersection was by carefully listening to the sounds of the road. If you hear a loud thumping noise, for example, you know that your body was just hit by a car. This means that you shouldn't have tried to cross at that particular moment. Wait a few minutes, and if you can drag your battered body back to the sidewalk, try again. Unfortunately this method gets progressively more difficult. Better to watch what the locals do, I suppose. The pedestrians of Rabat have developed a fiendishly clever way of counteracting this particular menace. It is quite amazing, really. First, people slowly begin to mass at a point on the sidewalk. Like a malignant tumor they grow, rapidly expanding, until - with no audible or visible communication whatsoever - they all step into oncoming traffic at once. The traffic has no choice but to stop or plow into everyone, risking not only extensive damage to their car but a significant increase in their monthly insurance payment. It is a sight to see.
On Sunday night we headed to Casablanca. The name itself evokes strong images of romance and intrigue. In my opinion nothing could be further from the truth; unless you find Hilton hotels intriguing or skyscrapers get your pulse pounding. Still, we had a great time. Casablanca has one thing that all the other cities in Morocco lack - namely, bars. The Islamic religion prohibits the imbibing of devilish liquors like BudLight and Zima, so heretical pubs are few and far between. These have been tough times for us. Those who know my travelling buddy Xander are aware that without a constant supply of liquor he slowly devolves into a thoughtful, well-spoken, intellectual. It's quite scary, really, but we seemed to have dodged that particular bullet.
Early Monday morning we dropped off our passports at the embassy, hoping to have them back by mid afternoon, as our guidebook said. Unfortunately the bureaucrats at the embassy had a better idea - not giving them back until 10am the next morning. Though we were a little disappointed to have to stay another night, we certainly made the most of it. As we hopped from bar to bar we met some fascinating locals. At one joint we met a drunk-as-a-skunk magistrate. Speaking slowly, with a thick Moroccan accent, his words slightly slurred, he gave us a surprisingly cogent civics lesson. He asked what we had done to defend our civil liberties since the institution of the Patriot Act. I could only shrug, surprised that a Moroccan judge could be so passionate about the outcome of a New England football game. This seemed to upset him. With each word getting louder he said "You...are all...contr'lled...by...da MED-IAH". Unfortunately I wasn't paying much attention, an old Pepsi ad was replaying in my head. He repeated it again, this time much louder, a few people turning their heads. I felt...well, I felt like Chicken Tonight, Chicken Tonight! Hmmm, maybe he had a point. I agreed with him, suggesting that I felt the same way about my government and national media that he did. The judge bellowed: "No d'ffrence...between you and govn'ment. No d'ffrence! I can NOT SEPARATE THE TWO". We calmly assured him we did not agree with the current political regime. Once again he barked: "No d'ffrence!". He rotated his chair to face me and - much to my surprise - palmed the front of my skull with one large hand. Spit flew from his mouth as he roared in my face, "YOU BRAIN....IS...WAR!!"
I'm sure you've guessed by now how we ended up at the police station. If you haven't figured it out yet it's because we had left our passports at the Mauritanian Embassy and all hotels require a passport to check in. We had photocopies but these weren't sufficient. When we came back to our hotel in the evening they forced us to get the copies verified by the authorities - which we promptly did, though it was quite late. You didn't actually think I was stupid enough to get into a fistfight with a local judge, did you?

Take You Wonder By Wonder

Fes, Morocco. It is dark and cold. Two thick opaque blankets cover my head, blocking out all light, sheltering me from the world. The chill air has penetrated my weak defense, seeped deep into my flesh, sent slivers of ice through my bones. The call of the Muezzen has roused me from my frigid slumber, a shrill cry eminating from the top of the minaret; first one, then another, and another. The sounds joined one another, jostled with one another, a rising crescendo, a blaring cacaphony of prayer. Dogs started to howl in solidarity, a barking benediction, or perhaps they just have no way of covering their ears as I had now done. It was pitch black under my woolen shroud, permanent night, and I had no concept of time. I let out a soft groan and pushed the button that lights up my digital watch. The luminous, blue indiglo blinded me and I cringed, trying to focus my eyes. It was 4:48am. Holy mother, mercy, of Christ, Yaweh, Zeus, or Allah. The Quran is very explicit in one regard: the Muezzen does not have a snooze button.


Now I'm not one to criticize another man's religion - unless they wear funny hats - but for a major religious movement, this pre-dawn zeal strikes me as preposterous. I'm not sure who or what god is, if he/she/it even exists, but what otherworldly being, what purportedly benevolent deity, would demand a call to prayer before the sun comes up? Hell, most people can't even put their underwear on straight until they've had a couple of cups of joe. That black, spiritless libation has surely roused more spirits than even the most purified sanctification. Nevertheless, every morning the call begins: "Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" and my feeble brain, crushed beneath twenty-eight years of constant media bombardment, finishes for him: "Yeeeaaaaahhhhhhh." In truth it continues in Arabic but I always get a kick out of the beginning. This occurs every morning without fail. Piety in today's world can be refreshing but it would be nice if they took a morning off sometimes. Maybe even just once a month--sleep in, have a late breakfast, maybe read the paper. Afterwards, by all means pray. I'm sure it would help retention rates. I can even imagine the billboard: Islam, Now With More Coffee!" Obviously I jest. The morning call, when not accompanied by the howling canines, is often beautiful. I have lain awake carefully listening to the melodic words, the almost hypnotic tone, appreciating the sanctity of the burgeoning day. Then I roll over and go back to bed.



The medina of Fes beholds a fascinating array of sights, sounds, and smells. Wandering the ancient, medieval streets, one has a sense of being transported back in time - to about 1983. Seriously. People are dressed in one of two ways here: either in traditional garb or in street gear from the 80s. Faded flourescent jackets, old addidas jumpsuits, and worn Nike sneakers pass by at random intervals. One vendor had a pile of mismatched snow gloves and I'm positive I spied a couple of sets of Freaky Freezies atop the mound. I'm not sure where it all comes from but the denizens of Fes have unwittingly attained the heights of retro fashion. We walked for days around the winding streets and endless markets. Clothing, jewelry, art, rugs, a variety of crafts, and an immeasurable array of junk. The junk is the best. Countless rugs are spread out in the street, the vendors selling the most incongruous of items side by side: two dozen watches, a pile of remote controls, some potatoes, a doll with a missing head, three tampons, and a large bolt cutter. Persumably this last item has been used innumerable times to collect the junk on display. It boggles the mind. Food vendors abound: piles of juicy, ripe tangerines; hillocks of potatoes and onions; mounds of artfully arrange dates, figs, and nuts; barrels of beans and pasta; towering pyramids of brilliantly colored spices. Meat vendors display the choicest of cuts and proudly present the pieces we throw out--heads, tails, toes, stomachs, brains, kidneys, livers, and testicles. The only thing that might go to waste is your appetite. I even saw an entire camel head hanging limply from a hook. My personal favorite has definitely been pigeon. Cooked into an unlikely dish containing layers of pastry dough, secret hobo spices, lemon, and topped with cinnamon and powdered sugar, it is amazingly good. If anyone happens to notice a dearth of pigeons trotting around Central Park in the coming months it probably means I'm back home in New York.



Fes is incredibly large and complicated. 9400 twisting streets and alleyways. 350 mosques. Dozen upon dozen of site of interest. Despite our aversion to touts we decided we might need a guide for this one. Couscous (as he called himself) seemed a genial sort. He seemed to know the city, spoke decent English, and had a good sense of humor. Though skeptical at first, he won us over, and we arranged to have him lead us around the next morning. We were mildly surprised when he showed up with a replacement, claiming to be too busy. We hemmed and hawed a bit but agreed to go with the new guy anyway. The price was still too good to beat. The new guy ran us around the back alleys, occaisionally showing us an ornate doorframe or some ancient buildings, claiming all the while we were seeing what very few tourists saw. Our tour was supposed to last approximately three hours. I wasn't the least bit surprised when after sixty minuted he wanted to show us something extra special. You guessed it--his cousin's carpet shop.

Livin' Medina Loca

Tetuan, Morocco. After our initiation in Tangier we decided to head south, to the small city of Tetuan. Similar to our first stop, Tetuan is dominated by an old Medina filled with a cast of colorful characters. We wandering around the twisting streets without much enthusiasm, gazing at the markets and avoiding the touts, until the sound of distant chanting voices began to permeate the air. We paused and listened as the voices steadily grew louder, bolder, more urgent, a wailing Arabic cry. It grew closer and closer until suddenly, our doom had arrived. Here in the tight Medina alleyways, with no where to run and no place to hide, an angry mob had rounded a corner and rushed headlong towards us.


My mind reeled. A few moments earlier Xander had mentioned to an inquisitive tout that we were American. It stood to reason that a furious cabal had now gathered to kill us. America is not very popular these days, what with our growing national debt, unbalanced trade deficits, and mishandling of prescription drug coverage for seniors. Oh right, and that pesky war with Iraq--nearly forgot that one. I was not certain whether we had done anything to Morocco directly, though I had heard rumors of a plan to open a Walmart in the Medina. Perhaps they were inflamed by the prospect of rock-bottom prices on everything from figs to camel-hide coats.
From around the corner they streamed: twenty, forty, sixty men--I lost count. The narrow corridor forced them to bunch up tight, forming a ferocious river of heads and bodies. The chanting intensified, fists pumped in the air, and stamping feet rattled the ground. Swiftly they descended upon us. This was definitely the end. We stumbled backwards into an intersection. I froze upon seeing the wooden casket they held to bury what would remain of my tattered corpse. I prayed quickly to God that when I died no one would ever uncover my secret obsession with Ricky Martin. And then the most curious thing happened--the crowd veered away from us. Onwards they flowed, passing us by, a harmless brook. They were nott coming to kills us at all. We had merely stumbled on a funeral procession. As they passed I noticed more and more people joining the crowd. It seemed anyone could jump in and participate, so we shrugged, and followed.
The throng turned left and right, back and forth, winding their way through the Medina towards (for us anyways) an unknown destination. Lagging behind, we were stopped by a policeman as a second funeral procession appeared. Followed by an array of smartly dressed individuals--some in formal military uniforms--we believe we witnessed the procession of a dignitary of some sort. Eventually allowed to pass, we continued following the masses through an ornate gate to a large, open-air stone plaza bordering a cemetery. A group of old men dressed in traditional robes (called djellabah) sat chanting on a stone bench. They seemed unconnected with the ceremony, in their own world, a permanent chanting section for the deceased. We stood back, taking in the experience, soaking in it, until the body was interred and the crowd dispersed.

Ootini!

Tangier, Morocco. The engines roared to life as the boat pulled away from the dock. An angry tempest spewed forth from the stern, propelling us forward, into the deep blue waters of the Straight of Gibraltor, that thin blue band that seperates these two incredibly disparate lands. Europe and Africa, a stones throw away, a world apart. My stomach unsettled as our vessel raced towards the shore of the Dark Continent, as if realizing I had chosen an express elevator to Hell. That's a bit harse, I suppose. After all, Africa was my intended destination, and though the temperature in Africa often exceeds that of Hell, it's rather pleasant this time of year. I steadied myself as the boat docked at the port. Our first destination: the infamous port town of Tangier, Morocco.


Filled with hustlers, touts, con-men, smugglers, and the like, Tangier leaves one indelible thought in most tourists minds: leave now. In fact, so many people have hopped in taxis and told the driver to "step on it" that there are actually deep grooves in the pavement leading from the port to the edge of town. Many a traveller had warned us about the scum and villainly of this vile place, with its unsavoury characters and complete lack of Starbucks. Truth be told we were both a little frightened by the stories we had heard about this rough and tumble town -- so we stayed for two nights.
The Medina (old town), where we spent our time, is built into a series of steep hills that begin just a few hundred yards from the shore. Row upon row of boxy, white houses pile on top of one another in a curious jumble up the hills, spilling across the top and down the sides. Hiding beneath this white-washed facade is a labrinyth of narrow twisting alleys, endless markets, and spurning dead ends. Beyond the Medina a more modern (but still seedy) city emerges, but where's the fun in exploring Moroccan Harlem? The Medina was buzzing with life. The streets are packed with fascinating individuals, and I mean no disrespect, but a large portion of them are dressed exactly like jawas, which raises Tangier's stock immediately in my book.
After deboating (you can deplane, why not deboat?) Xander and I wandered the streets, getting lost every fifteen seconds, until a helpful individual led us to the hotel we were looking for. In this case helpful means that we paid him a couple of bucks to leave after we got there. I cringed a little bit upon seeing the shared squat toilets we needed to use, but hey, this was Africa -- it was time I lowered my expectations a little. For example: where one expects a traditional toilet, expect two footpads with a hole in the ground; where one expects a bus, expect a bush taxi jammed with more people than a clown car; and where one expects potable water, instead expect fatal amoebic dysentery. Such was our new life, and once we got settled we quickly threw ourselves into the fray.
Tangier is a trial by fire. Though strangely quiet at first--we thought the stories exaggerated--we were soon beseiged by incessant touts hawking everything from guiding services to magic carpets (aka, pee-stained carpets). And they don't take no for an answer. They follow, they beg, they bribe, they threaten, they guilt--come to think of it, it was a bit like the last time I went on a date. The first time you are approached you speak with them and decline. The second time, you decline a bit more forcefully but still politely. The third time, the politeness has vanished and you beg them to leave you alone. The forth time, you avoid eye contact and keep your lips tightly sealed to prevent any words from leaking out. By the eighty-seventh time, you proactively knee any Moroccan you see directly in the groin. It is a daily battle. As a grizzled veteran of these wars did tout: ?Welcome to Morocco, my friend. If you are very curious, would you like to see what is behind the door?? Indeed I do.

Something Wicked This Way Went

The National Express bus deposited us unceremoniously at the entrance to Stanstead airport, an hour or so out of London. This regional airport is home to RyanAir, the budget airline of choice for countless backpackers and those trying desperately to cash in on life insurance policies. Ryanair, whose motto Fly for Less with Less that Flies doesn't exactly inspire confidence, has an interesting business model. They actually just give the seats away, perhaps hoping their progressive socialist approach will save the company's shareholders money while flying, thus negating the need for any actual profits. Since it takes more than Monopoly money to run an airline, the company has come up with some incredibly creative synergistic strategies to help cut operational costs. For example, in the back pocket of every seat is a standard barf bag; one that doubles as a 35mm film drop-off envelope. No shit. I took it with me to prove to everyone that this item actually exists, though it's tempting to vomit into it after a rough night and mail it to Kodak. I'm curious to see what they develop, perhaps the reconstructed remains of the fried fish that necessitated the bag in the first place. Despite all this, RyanAir managed to get us to our destination, Seville, with only a bit of turbulance.


This was my second time in Seville, my first visit having been just a few months earlier. Our plane landed late in the evening and after a brief wait we caught the airport bus to the center of town. I got extremely lost the last time I was in Seville, where the narrow, winding, street plan was undoubtedly engineered by a toddler with an etch-a-sketch. Luckily I remember quite a bit from my last experience and we quickly made our way towards the massive cathedral which dominates the old quarter and where many of the hostels are located. After examining a few without much enthusiasm we finally settled on a clean and quiet little place tucked in one of the many alleyways off the main shopping grid.
Several travelers had told us about a bar with a free flamenco show so organized our belongings and headed out to look for it. The air was cool, crisp, and delightful. Seville is spectacular at night, and the seasonal holiday lights adorning the buildings and trees (not present on my last visit) only added to the majestic grandeur of the city. The stunningly classic architecture is a wonder to behold at any time of year, but lit with a thousand lights it transceded its normal beauty to become a vision ripped from an angelic dream. Occaisionally checking a compass, we walked the curving streets looking for this place. Finally, after about forty minutes, we saw something we recognized?our hostel. Somehow in all the twists and turns we had walked in a giant circle. Frustrated, but not about to give up, we gave it another whirl. With the help of a local woman we eventually found the place; its single entry a signless, nondescript red door in an alley wall. Elated to be there we sat down for the show. We expected beautiful Andalusian women, glinting castinets, vigorous and rhythmic dance. Instead, an old man took the stage. With a Spanish guitar strumming in the background he bellowed some deep, throaty, Spanish songs. It was an auditory nightmare. You could visibly see the crowd revulse. I imagine a similar sounds would eminate from a man pinned underneath a Greyhound bus. We took in a few more songs then headed back home.

Our second day had a completely different feel but was no less interesting. Xander and I crossed to the western side of the river, away from the old quarter and into a more modern Seville. I had never explored this part of Seville before and it is shockingly different. Strange, modern, and incongruous buildings formed an unlikely skyline. Now here was the strange part - it all looked like it had been recently abandoned. Cars were definitely passing by on the streets but as we walked down wide pedestrian boulevards - in the middle of the day - we were alone. The walkway, though modern in appearance, was cracked and buckled. Dead plants hung limply from artistic metal tubing which ran overhead. Fountains in this large median were flowing but looked dirty and unkempt. We walked a good mile along this Path of the Modern Day Damned before it dead-ended at a decrepit train station. Two arcing metal struts at least 100 feet high crossed from opposity corners, making a giant X in the sky that held aloft a torn and sagging sunscreen. A lot of effort went in to building whatever we had encountered but now it looked nothing more than a future lost, a shell that was once full. We never found out the cause of the decay or even the reason for the construction itself, but one thing was certain, something wicked this way went.

North By West South

Mentally preparing for a trip into the untamed regions of Africa is quite exhausting. There is much to think about: disease, civil war, banditry, wild animals, endless expanses of desert and mosquito plagued jungles. How does one take it all in? My preferred method is to take a deep breath, slowly count to ten, clear my mind of complexity, then try to refocus my attention on whatever is playing on the Game Show Network. It usually works; those cartoon Whammies on Press Your Luck are endlessly entertaining. Still, as soon as a dozen or so episodes fly by, my mind invariably drifts back to the difficult path that lies ahead. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me catch you up to speed on a few things.


Still unsettled after my jaunt around Europe I decided to keep on the move for a while. Having allowed my lease to lapse, I packed up my apartment and divested myself of some of my most valued possessions, including my collection of mint condition Steven Segal Hard to Kill action figures and my Don King Chia Pet. It was a sad and liberating experience. I'm lucky enough to have some of the best friends in all of explored space, so I moved what little remained into one friend's apartment, dumped my death-trap of a car on another friend, and left my heart in San Francisco.
I had been thinking of travelling again for a while now and several ideas floated around my head like dead bugs on the surface of a stagnant pool. Conversations passed between me and my buddy Xander, an old friend and experienced world traveller who was ready for another adventure himself. We tooled around with the idea of South East Asia but alarmist concerns about sneezing chickens and phlegm hocking roosters gave us pause. With avian flu hysterics at a fever pitch - I believe a Canadian goose was found passing out toys at a children's hospital without wearing a mask - it seemed prudent to redirect ourselves on a safer trajectory. So we finally kinda-sorta settled on a trek across North and West Africa.
Now came the tough part - procrastinating. Though always somewhat of an art form our procrastination became downright avant garde. A few weeks ticked by with nothing more than some vagaries about airline tickets and some crude jokes about camel humps. Finally, in the waning moments, a flurry of activity: tickets bought, apartments vacated, jobs discard...oh wait, we didn't have jobs. All of a sudden the trip seemed very complicated. Africa is no walk in the park, it requires visas, immunizations, med kits, mosquito nets, antibiotics, insurance, currency strategies and more. Yikes. I made an appointment at a travel clinic and found myself staring down the needle of a syringe. I was inoculated against typhoid, yellow fever, hepatitis A, hepatitis B, diphtheria, measles, small pox, large pox, tetanus, and the ill effects of watching too much political news. I also paid hundreds of dollars for the latest malaria medication, a combo drug that not only destroys your liver but leaves your breath feeling minty fresh.

Visas seemed to pose an entirely different problem. At first it seemed we wouldn?t be able to get them in time, but we soon found that if we follow a certain path we could get visas along the way for every country we wanted to visit. To do this we needed to amass an asinine amount of photos, lots of copies of our passports, and - if we could get it - what's known as a "letter of introduction" from an American embassy. Presumably, this reads as follows: "Dear Senegal, Xander and The Wandering Jew are two intrepid, though perhaps foolhardy, travelers. My understanding is that their parents love them. Please see that they are not arrested, kidnapped, gang-raped, or shot. Sincerely, John Smith, American Ambassador to Africa"
Indeed the excitement generated by the thought of this exhilarating journey was growing with each passing day. Things happened rather quickly after that. Gear was hastily bought and haphazardly stuffed into borrowed bags, debts were settled (or a return address was surreptitiously changed), good-byes were said, and before we knew it we were on our way. So I'm sitting here in an internet cafe in London, typing away, letting you all back in to my world. Tomorrow we fly to the south of Spain. In a few days we make our way to the coast and a ferry will shuttle us across the Straight of Gibraltar, where the real adventure beings. Our bags are packed, our flight is booked, and we are ready. Are you?

Planes, Trains, and Ought-To-Go-Feels

So I'm back in New York. Some call it Gotham, The Big Apple, The City That Never Sleeps. I call it Urine Soaked Subway Town, but it's still home. The rats are right where I left them. Never has the angry phrase, "Hey fuckwad, getcher ass outta my parkin space" seemed so melodious to the ears. It's a bittersweet feeling being home, more so because I almost didn't make. As Robert Burns once poetically wrote, the best laid schemes o' mice and men often go astray. Truly this is meaningless, since mice can't even spell the word scheme and their thoughts are rarely committed to paper for future analysis. Burns, a Scottish lyricist, may have had a bit too much smoke in the ole bagpipe, if you catch my drift. Nevertheless it may apply in this situation, as my best laid plans, sans mice, nearly crumbled beneath my feet. My tightly scheduled travel plans called for the following: ferry from Hvar to Split; train from Split to Zagreb; train from Zagreb to Salzburg; flight from Salzburg to Stansted (UK); bus from Stansted to Cambridge. Thus begins my final tale.


As the evening ferry pulled away from the dock in Hvar everything seemed in order. The engine roared as we picked up speed and an acrid exhaust billowed from the rear. Hvar quickly receded into the distance, its physical form dissolving into memory. Kristen (my Canadian travel companion) and I were even treated to a spectacular sunset on the way back. The sun lit up the horizon like a fitting analogy that a more talented writer could conceive. Two hours later we reached the shores of Split and headed for the train station. Our train tickets were a touch confusing. We were both taking an overnight train that passed through Zagreb on its way to Budapest. I was supposed to hop off the train in Zagreb at 7:30 in the morning - where our intertwining paths would finally diverge - and Kristen would continue further on to Budapest. The lady who sold us the ticket mentioned that there would be an hour long layover in Zagreb, which struck us as strange, but anything is possible in Eastern Europe. We did our best to confirm all of the information before leaving but we were stymied by her imperfect English. The train arrived when it was supposed to and we quickly hopped on and secured our place in a six-seat compartment. We closed the glass door and spread out as much as we could in order to dissuade others from entering. Passing some gas probably would have sealed the deal but we managed to restrain ourselves and our luck held out. As we rolled away from the station I pulled out some playing cards and taught Kristen how to play Texas Hold 'Em, an American version of poker where the person with the best hand gets bombed and their oil fields are siphoned to replenish U.S. reserves. The hour grew late and we settled in for the night, stretching out our legs across the seats before falling into a pleasant slumber.



"Zagreb!" yelled the ticket-taker in Croatian, as he flung open the door then loudly stomped off to the next compartment and repeated the process. Startled awake, we were both disoriented and slow to rise. I blinked hard in the morning light and glanced at my watch. It was only 6:30. On overnight trains it is fairly common to get a wake-up call well in advance of a major transfer station, so I was unconcerned when the train began to slow for a stop. Poking my head out of the window I didn't see any signs for Zagreb on the stations walls and the station didn't look all that big when one considers that Zagreb is the capital. Just to be on the safe side I leaned out the door and queried a platform attendant about our current location. His thickly accented response, "Budapest", was a sure-fire indication that he didn't understand my question. I thought about making a quick dash off the train for a better look but was afraid the train might leave without me, since stops are generally only a minute or two. Feeling really uneasy about the situation I quickly moved around the train trying to see a sign, any sign, that would tell me where we were. I still didn't see anything so I decided I better pack up my stuff, since it was currently strewn around our compartment. The train let out a piercing hiss then slowly started to move. At the end of the platform a sign suddenly came into view: ZAGREB GLAVNI KOLODVOR. Fuck.



Grabbing my pack I dashed towards the closed door and threw it open. Maybe I've seen a few too many movies but the gravel alongside the tracks didn't seem to be sliding by too fast, though we were definitely picking up speed. I quickly calculated that if I missed my train connection in Zagreb, I would miss my flight to England, miss my bus to Cambridge, miss my flight home, then have to wander the streets of Europe, broke, homeless and hungry until I died in the gutter outside a Starbucks (those damn things are everywhere). Well I certainly wasn't getting to let that happen. I held my breath and stepped up to the lip. At that exact moment a rail worker on the adjoining track yelled loudly at me in Croatian, angrily pointing towards the open door. As if to emphasize his point a train suddenly came around the corner on the neighboring track, significantly increasing both my risk factor and my blood pressure. Our train still wasn't moving all that fast but now I was afraid that if I jumped I might end up under the wheels of the inbound locomotive and become twice the man I am today. I resigned myself to fate and backed up to close the door. But then the strangest thing happened. I still don't know the cause, whether it was the other train coming in to the station, a routine move before a turn, or that the conductor saw an open door with some human appendages dangling out, but our train started to slow down again. I had no idea whether is was going to fully stop or not but I decided I wasn't going to find out. I chucked my pack out the door and jumped. Jumping onto a narrow gravel corridor from a slow moving train in a pair of flip-flops is definitely not the best idea I've ever had. That being said, it was an unmitigated success. My heart was racing as I took stock of my toes, ankles, and knees. I turned to see Kristen standing in the doorway. I yelled up at her to quickly run back to our compartment to see if I had left anything behind. She disappeared from view as the train let out another loud hiss. It was starting to pick up speed again. Kristen reappeared in the doorway and the next thing I knew a pair of shoes were flying at my head. I had forgotten my hiking shoes. The last I ever saw of her, Kristen was waving goodbye as the train sped her away from the station and out of my life.



I made my connection to Salzburg, which was a huge relief. A quick bus ride later I was at the airport, eagerly awaiting my RyanAir flight to Stansted. RyanAir is the skinflint's airline of choice for jetting about Europe. Sometimes they literally sell tickets for $2 before taxes. It's not uncommon to see flights advertised from London to Rome for $60 round trip. They are able to achieve these unheard of prices through a series of crafty innovations, such as single-class cabins and not putting in enough fuel to reach your final destination. They also have a curious boarding process whereupon they announce all rows simultaneously and the crowd rushes to the narrow entrance as if St. Peter had just called a moratorium on entrance through the Pearly Gates (which might seem a prescient analogy when one considers the bargain basement price I paid for my window seat). Elbowing grandmothers, children, and the infirm I dashed for a seat near the front so I could quickly get out when the plane landed and catch my bus to Cambridge. I don't know whether it's some manner of pheromone I exude or what, but I ended up next to yet another Canadian girl. We chatted about this and that until an oratory faux pas on my part changed the course of the evening. In deference to our 90 minute flight, I foolishly remarked: "You know, this is actually one of the shortest rides I will have taken on this entire trip". As the final word of that imprudent observation escaped from my lips a stewardess came on the intercom and announced the following: "Ladies and gentleman, I am sorry to disturb you, but are there any doctors onboard the aircraft this evening?" I shit you not. There was a bit of a commotion near the back of the plane but since I was in the fourth row I couldn't really see what was happening. Within moments the pilot gets on the horn and alerts us that we will be on the ground in exactly seven minutes due to a "medical emergency". This from our maximum cruising altitude of 36,000 feet. My heart skipped a beat and I clutched the seat as we immediately angled into the steepest dive I've ever encountered. We were descending at a rate of 85 feet per second, which is great when you're dropping water balloons on your sister from a treehouse but not so much fun when plummeting towards the earth in an aluminum can.



When we touched down (in Germany, no less) the airfield was alight with the flashing strobes of emergency vehicles. With the plane still on the runway, a half-dozen EMTs quickly boarded up a mobile staircase and ran to the back. They eventually carried someone out of the back of plane. It turns out the guy was all right, just had some bad sushi or something (note to self: don't eat sushi on discount airlines), or at least that's what they told us. We sat on the tarmac another hour while they unloaded every bag from the belly of the plane in order to find this guy's luggage. I suppose if they were lying about his health it's possible they just folded him up inside his Samsonite expandable suitcase for the rest of the trip home. After the luggage was replaced we had to refuel then wait to get back into the flight rotation. All told, our 90 minute flight ended up taking almost four hours.



So, not surprisingly, I missed my bus to Cambridge. Though that had more to do with the Draconian way station they call Customs than with the lateness of the flight. There's nothing like standing in a line for an hour so someone can ask you if you slept with any farm animals in Europe. As if anyone would admit that. Well, this is getting excessive so I better wrap it up. I managed to catch a later bus to Cambridge where my extremely accommodating friend Val still welcomed me into his home at three in the morning. I got a final night's sleep wrapped in a giant feather comforter, caught a bus to London, and had a pleasant and uneventful flight back to the States. So here I am, take me or leave me.

Hvar Nagilah

The final stop on my journey was the small Croatian island of Hvar, and what a perfect stop it was. Once again a bus deposited us in a throng of placard toting room peddlers. Vowing to do a better job selecting a room, we carefully screened out potential risks by going with the person who offered us the lowest price. Hmmm...come to think of it, that might have been a critical error. Regardless, we followed the English-speaking man with the thick Croatian accent on the purported five walk to his abode. On this occasion we let him know we were timing it. When we passed the seven minute mark we began to browbeat him but he assured us it was just up the hill and would be five minutes without our heavy packs. As we ascending we haggled about the room fee until Kristen gave at a yelp when a massive, five-inch grasshopper leapt towards her leg. Our gallant guide scooped it up and proceeded to tell us that he was going to eat it, since he was starving due to an overabundance of haggling guests who cut into his profits. This probably should have set off warning bells but I was too busy laughing as he taunted Kristen with the giant hopper in his hands. We arrived at the house and examined the room, which fit the bill. Our host talked rapidly, used numerous hand gestures, and frequently supplemented his speech with a curious whistling or whooshing noise. Before we knew it we were seated at the kitchen table, downing glasses of homemade wine poured from a Coke bottle while being instructed on Croatian drinking customs. Though he poured ours straight, he cut his own wine with water. The conversation started to get a little weird when our host adamantly insisted that 'Croatian fascists killed the Indians' and that everyone he knew was 'Crazy like a cabbage'. Kristen and I smiled and tittered at this rapid-fire chatterer. After pouring us more wine and whining a bit more about how hungry he was, he lightly told us 'I am so hungry I am going to cut off your legs when you sleep and fry them in the oven'. We giggled and mocked his faux hunger, suggesting that the wine was used to dull the pain of the severed legs, while he told us how much 'I hate this job and I hate my fucking guests'. I laughed hard but couldn't figure out why it was all so funny. Maybe it was because when I was part way though my third glass of wine he said with a laugh, 'Only stupid fucking Americans don't cut the wine with water. After two glasses you would be drunk'. Which shrewdly explained why the room was spinning and his head looked like it was being reflected in a funhouse mirror. Lucky for us his intentions we truly benign. In fact, he showed us the time of our lives. Having spend the entire afternoon chatting with him at the kitchen table he took us down to the Stari Grad of Hvar Town, which was pulsating party of an old city. Before long we ended up stuffed in a bar like sardines, dancing and singing to American 80s tunes as the bartenders juggled flaming bottles of alcohol, lit the bar on fire, and pounded the aluminum air ducts with their fists while wielding a chainsaw. The next morning we were in for a treat. Our new friend threw us in his car and took us to the small village of Brusje, where the maker of the homemade wine, his old Uncle Antonio, lived and worked. The dilapidated old town of about two dozen homes was built entirely from the stone gathered on the surrounding lavender-covered hillsides. He proudly reported that his Uncle's home was built in the year 1600, though I presume his Uncle is slightly younger than that. We were welcomed with open arms and without any previous knowledge were treated to a home cooked meal with the family. Stuffed peppers, mystery meat on the bone, a fresh tomato salad made from homemade olive oil and vinegar, and copious amounts of bread filled our stomachs as we listened to the family argue in Croatian about, um, let's say tactical nuclear war. Hell, I have no idea what the heck they were saying, the only one that spoke English was the guy that brought us there. Nevertheless it was a fascinating experience and one I will not soon forgot. Now, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, feeling indebted to our friend we decided to help him out with is work. He managed to convince us to help him nab potential room renters off the bus. So, before we knew it we were the ones in the throng selling our wares. I knocked a few old ladies out of the way and showed a bit of leg but it was harder then I thought. Despite our native English-speaking advantage all our attempts ended in failure. Maybe I should have gotten completely nude. To forget our woes we headed out for one last wild party. The night was long, the drinks were plentiful, and Kristen and I carried each other up the steep hill before collapsing into a deep and pleasant slumber.

Better Off Dead

You know that line in Jerry Maguire where Tom Cruise blathers, 'You complete me' to the gullible blond? Well that's how I feel about Dubrovnik, Croatia. Never has a city so captured my heart. Stretching out into the Mediterranean, the picture-perfect Stari Grad (Old Town) exhibits stunning medieval architecture astride smooth stone streets, spacious town squares bustling with life, and splendid cafes and bars which beget a musical reverie come evening; all of which is surrounded by an imposing stone edifice replete with turrets. George Bernard Shaw called Dubrovnik, 'Paradise on Earth'. Since I can't compete with that kind of descriptive magnificence I'll just say that it was 'Utopia on Terra Firma'. Original, no? When you step off the bus in Dubrovnik the heat hits you in the face like a wet slap. Just as you begin to recover from the blow a throng of weathered old women descend on you like a cloud of locusts, jockeying to offer you private accommodation in their homes. It's a bit like a livestock auction?and you're the prize pig. When we arrived Kristen and I picked an old lady with no glaring deficiencies, were promptly deposited in her rickety old car, then whisked off to the unknown. She spoke only a few words of English but had a kindly, broad smile and instantly softened our skeptical hearts with cookies and drinks when we arrived at her home. The place seemed clean and comfortable so we agreed on three nights. Better still, she granted us use of her washing machine; which was fantastic because my clothes smelled like they had spent the better part of a fortnight in a dumpster. We threw in a load of clothes and the old lady offered to hang them on the line and fold them for us so we could head to the Stari Grad. Excited about our luck we grabbed the keys and took off. Our first indication that something wasn't quite Kosher was when the purported 'ten minute' walk to the Old Town turned into twenty, then thirty minutes. Well, knowing that old people are prone to exaggerate and occasionally pee themselves, we let it roll off our backs. The Stari Grad was worth any walk. We enjoyed an evening at a great seafood restaurant before settling in to listen to some cool jazz music at an outdoor cafe. When we returned at around 2am, the house was still. Kristen went to wash up and I was organizing some stuff in our room when, without warning, the door flung open and there stood the old maid. She had a wild look in her eyes, her steel gray hair standing on end. Pointing her figure around the room she loudly exclaimed, 'Madame?! Madame?!'. Assuming she was looking for Kristen I pointed towards the wash room and indicated she was within. With a look of relief she quickly vanished into her room without another word. Odd, to say the least. The next morning I took a day trip to the stunningly green island of Mljet. I met another couple of Canadian girls (Europe is infested with Canucks) and we lazed around the two giant lakes of the island's National Park, swimming in the cool waters and baking in the sun. When I returned I found our laundry on the dresser, separated into two neat piles (his and hers), with a note on each that read '20 Kuna'. Since we hadn't discussed any charge it seemed this sweet little old lady was trying to extort about $8 for a load a laundry that had maybe ten articles of clothing in it. Irritated at the gall of the women, we did what any self respecting people would do when they felt they were getting ripped off; we decided to sneak out without paying. We managed to avoid her the rest of the afternoon, and the following morning we quietly packed up our things. Feeling guilty, we left a few dollars on the dresser and hastily made for the door. Unfortunately her husband, a lone sentry, was standing guard outside our room and yelled for his wife the moment we appeared. My blood curdled as this sweet old lady, now a nightmarish banshee, swept down the steps whilst uttering some chilling language of the dead (or possibly Croatian). Her broad smile had became a twisted grimace of hate, her hair a nest of snakes striking blindly at the air. All I could make out was something about 40 Kuna as those wild eyes searched my soul for penance. Fear sucked the air from my lungs, so I mumbled and pointed towards the insufficient funds on the dresser as I made haste towards the exit. Kristen was right on my heals but when we cleared the door I exhorted her to run. Sensing she was right behind us we blindly ran down a steep hill and dashed around the edge of a truck. When the devil is on your heals, you don't stop and ask for directions. Laughing uncontrollably, we made our way to the bus station and sped away from a most certain doom.

Knights of the Old Republic

Just because Serbia's first democratically elected Prime Minister was assassinated doesn't necessarily make it a bad place to visit. There are at least a dozen other reasons. For instance, you might be discouraged from visiting when you hear that the doors on the overnight train from Romania are chained shut from the inside to prevent thieves, rapists, murderers, and proselytizing missionaries from breaking in during stops. You might be further discouraged when you hear that the doors between individual cars are not only chained but also barred. This discouragement might even turn into a palpable fear when you don't hear of this until you are already traveling inside the steel belly of this Locomotive of Doom. Such was the case when I personally noticed these safeguards while getting up to use the restroom on my night train to Belgrade. Luckily, having evacuated my bowels moments earlier, it made it a lot harder to literally shit my pants. Kristen and I shared a few jittery laughs before settling in for some restless sleep. Fortunately, I woke up in the morning with the vast majority of my organs where I left them. Who needs two kidneys anyways? As we slowly rolled into the city the first thing I noticed was Belgrade's impressively elaborate recycling program. With little fanfare, residents carefully separate their plastic, paper, and organic refuse before depositing it directly into a nearby river, where it is immediately recycled into the drinking water. Fascinating, really. The city didn't really improve much from there. Ugly buildings and tacky neon signs dominated the main thoroughfares. The main attraction was the massive Kalemegdan Citadel, a fortification that had been attacked a whopping 115 times since it was erected, despite the fact that the view from the top isn't very impressive. Interestingly, the Military Museum inside the citadel proudly displays bits of a downed American stealth bomber from the latest war. It seemed like a cue to leave if ever there was one. Another night train deposited us on the Montenegrin coast. After a few short but painful bus rides we arrived out our destination. Ringing the edge of a shimmering fjord and lorded over by striking granite mountains, the small town of Kotor was a gem. Dwelling high above this settlement is a magnificent fortification whose steep stone steps and imposing walls snake their way a few hundred yards up the mountainside before ending in a fortress with a spectacular view down the length of the fjord. Though incredibly impressive, your can't help but wonder why in the hell anyone would want to get up there in the first place. Nevertheless, it was still my favorite set of ruins on the trip and a nice escape from Belgrade.

Vlad to the Bone

Holy fuck, I'm in Transylvania. Land of rolling green hills, gothic castles, and Vlad Tepes - more commonly known in Romania as Vlad the Impaler for his habit of making human shish-kebabs out of minor law transgressors. You might know him as Dracula. I learned a lot about the man, the myth, the legend. For example, contrary to popular belief Dracula did NOT suck the blood of his victims. He sipped it from a port snifter while enjoying cuban cigars (made from actual Cubans). For an alternate view of the history I suggest the 1972 film Blacula, starring William Marshall. Romania is an awesome country and I learned to party like the undead. Our first stop was the small village of Sighisoara, purported birthplace of the aforementioned bloodsucker. The house where little Vladdy was born has been converted into a steak joint. For an authentic experience I suggest sinking your teeth into a rare cut of beef. Above the local residence sits a beautiful walled citadel; home to cobbled streets, an ancient clocktower, and a wide assortment of craptacular Dracula schwag. An uninspiring tour guide tried to tear down the Dracula myth so I bit her in the neck. Surprisingly, the tour ended soon after. Back at the hostel someone magnanimously produced a bottle of absinthe and the party was on. Before we knew it, night gave way to dawn and several of us turned to dust. The rest just vomited. The next morning we somehow made our way to the village of Brasov. The town wasn't too interesting but it was a great base for touring the local castles. Perched high up in the mountains of Sinaia was the spectacular Pele's Palace. There was no soccer memorabilia but the interior sported a treasure trove of intricately carved wood work that would give a beaver a hard-on. It also had a room filled with hookahs. Without a doubt my favorite castle in Europe. Next stop was the infamous Bran Castle of Dracula legend. Once again, our guide tried to separate man from myth. I'm really disappointed that an entire country is in denial of its patently obvious heritage. My dwindling spirits were buoyed on exiting into the square surrounding the castle, which was filled with local Dracula supporters and enough vampire merchandise to crush several small school children. The final stop on our tour was the Rasnov Citadel. The best aspect of this ho-hum citadel sitting precariously atop a high hill was that the bus took us straight back to the hostel. We finished up our Brasnov experience by downing a bottle of Vampire Brand Romanian vino. Good stuff, but a little heavy on the Romanian. As we left Romania, heading for Budepest, the train slowly screeched to a halt in the middle of nowhere. The dilapidated shell of a station had but a few patrons mulling around waiting for the train...about a half dozen giant chickens. None got on and the train continued on its way. I love this country.

Stuck on Slovakia

I haven't really spent much time in these posts talking about my feet. Well, that's all about to change. My shoes are pretty nasty. Having received several good soakings without time to dry they have achieved a level of funk previously ascribed only to George Clinton. If they were exorcised by a priest, burned, and the ashes were scattered across the Pacific they might be laid to rest. Despite these precautions there is still a distinct possibility that all indigenous marine life in the affected area would go suddenly extinct. So, in an effort to rectify the situation, I switched over to my flip flops. These are of the shower variety and were in no way intended to bear the load of a 170lb man carrying a 25lb pack up to ten kilometers a day. As such, the base had begun to separate. Which, naturally, brings me to the subject of Slovakia. First, some background. In Zakopane I met a Canadian lass named Kristen who was travelling a similar route to me. Stately ambassadors that we are we decided to bury the strife between our two warring nations and travel together for a while. Our first stop was the small Slovakian town of Levoca. As we walked the cobbled streets I kept stumbling; my sandals had finally reached a point where they required life support. We found a little shop that sold Slovakian superglue, which could have been goat urine for all we knew, but the 30 cent price was right so we snapped it up and went outside for a quick repair job. It was your typical tube of superglue and I forgot about the seal that needs to be pierced before the first use. As such, my squeezing of the tube had but one effect; Freddy Mercury said it best, it was under pressure. Remembering the seal, I punctured it with the cap, temporarily sealing it again. Kristen, in her infinite wisdom, took a big step back as I confidently declared, "It won't splash that far." Apparently I know less about fluid dynamics then I think I do. The second I removed the cap a geyser of permanent bond sealant erupted from the tube. About half the contents spewed forth onto the pavement, my sandals, arms, and legs. Barefoot for the repair job, one errant step would have left in me in Slovakia a lot longer then I originally intended. The big problem with permanent sealant is that it has a nasty habit of being, well, permanent. Since I didn't really want to become a town resident we patiently waited for the glue to dry then finished the repair job. Feet intact, crisis averted, we hightailed it out of town high on the fumes

Pole Position

Having gone to Poland for a single purpose - to visit Auschwitz and Birchenau - I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this country. Not the concentration camps, of course. Truth be told they are an extremely difficult place to visit. When you view a room filled with seven tons of human hair from Holocaust victims you're scarcely human if it doesn't put a knot in your throat. I don't feel a need to preach about the self-evident horrors of these places so we'll just skip to the good stuff. The Polish city of Krakov was absolutely brilliant. Boasting awesome architecture, a teeming nightlife, and the biggest square in all of Europe, the city was alive with post-Communist energy. Or it may have just been booze. The city even has a Jewish Quarter, though in my estimation it was more like an eighth. As luck would have it, an International Street Performance Festival was in town. I got to see a full half dozen of the strangest non-sexual experimental theater on planet earth. The Ukranians win a prize for Trippy Artistry with a performance that saw soulful arias accompanied by elegant dancing give way to a screechingly loud carnival from Hell. Clad in flowing red robes and walking on stilts, the performers relied heavily on pyrotechnics; sparklers, flaming spears, roman candles, firecrackers, and what I'm fairly sure was C4 lit up the sky and literally rained down on the crowd. Catching on fire is surprisingly exhilarating when the great unwashed are cheering you on. The "What the Fuck?" prize goes to an overweight 55 year old Italian man who looked and dressed like Drew Carey, cracked wise like Rodney Dangerfield, smashed watermelons like Gallagher, and spun basketballs around his legs like a Harlem Globetrotter. All this while ranting about politics, the future, and Coca-Cola. The latter of which irked him so much that a good chunk of his performance was dedicated to shaking up cans, attacking them with a cordless drill, and spraying them onto the crowd while convulsing to hard-core techno music. It was supposed to be funny. If this is what passes for comedy in Italy we may finally have an explanation for the wry, piteous smile of the Mona Lisa. What do you call a Polack standing on the border of Slovakia? The South Pole. That was where I headed next. The small mountain town of Zakopane is located right at the base of the Tatra Mountains and I made it my home base while I explored the amazing national park system. The Poles could teach America a thing or two about trail building. I have never seen such a labor of love in a National Park. Stone steps graced nearly the entire length of every trail from valley to peak - a Herculean effort that needs to be seen to be believed. Over two days I hiked to four different peaks. The weather was mostly crap but when it cleared it was some of the most stunning scenery I have ever laid eyes upon. And definitely the most challenging and rewarding ascents I have ever attempted. The highest peak, Mt. Swinika, had a series of chains bolted into the side of the mountain for the last 100 meters to help prevent the slippery ascension from becoming heaven bound. At the top of Kasprowy Wierch I straddled two countries; Poland to the north and Slovakia to the south. An excellent place for a game of hokey-pokey if I ever saw one. All of which was great until the sky cracked open and a Biblical rain poured forth. Luckily I had just left the peaks but my meager rain gear was no match for the three hour descent I had to endure. Halfway down I'm fairly certain I saw a bearded man in a robe collecting animals. Soaked from head to toe, my underwear still hasn't fully dried. All and all, an amazing experience. Except for the underwear.

Have You Driven a Fjord, Lately?

So, like most people, the first thing I noticed about Norway is that nothing rhymes with fjord. The second thing I noticed was it's unspolit splendor. If a massive earthquake shook the earth, fracturing our beloved United States, and everything west of the Rockies fell into the sea, drowning millions of men, women, and children you may begin to approximate the beauty of coastal Norway - without any of the gratuitous death and destruction. The rugged coast is chock full of majestic fjords, wind-swept isles, and quaint, rustic towns. On my way to the coast I spent exactly four minutes in Hell. Once again, we have been lied to. Hell, as it turns out, is only an express train away from Oslo. No service I ever attended described Hell as being surrounded by some of most pristine forests and glacier-carved ravines on the planet. Had I known this, I would have gladly gone to Hell a long time ago. And I suggest you all do the same. After taking a the most scenic train of my life from Dombas to ?ndalsnes - which curved down a massive gorge teaming with countless waterfalls - I hopped a quick bus to the coastal town of ?lesund. ??Note: I'm going to have to cut this short because I am out of time.?? There I met an Englishman named Chris who I hiked around with for a day. We wandered along the rugged coast and ended up in this woman's backyard by mistake. She caught us red handed and we sheepishly (and not too honestly) claimed we were lost. The following day I headed down to the small town of Gerainger via the Gerainger Fjord cruise. Cruising through the giant fjord was an amazing experience. The day was perfect and I got a million pictures. The town itself was lovely, and I got in some seriously good hiking to the most amazing waterfalls I have ever seen up close. I even got to hike behind one. Well, my time is up! I have to run!

Ruldolph Got Ingested On The Train, Dear

Because I ate the reindeer. If it makes you feel any better, Rudolph was a little gamy. This and other delicacies can all be yours if you visit beautiful, stormy Finland. Once again proving the dictum that it's not the destination but the journey, the most enjoyable part of my Finlandian excursion was the voyage to and from Sweden. Unbelievably, my Eurail train pass provides free passage on the Silja Line cruise ship from Stockholm to Helsinki. No slouch of a ferry, this massive overnight cruiser had six restaurants, two clubs, several bars, a tax-free shop, and, most importantly, blackjack tables. The impact of the ship's enormity sunk in when I saw a full size 18-wheel Mack truck drive into the hull like it was a match-box car. My roommate on this fateful journey was a Korean student of architecture named Jo (actually Jo is his last name, but to pronounce his first name correctly I would need to pull out your tongue). A boisterous and jovial sort, we had a blast together. Having never been on a cruise before we both greedily explored the ship from bow to stern. We ate at the restaurants, drank at the bars, and discussed his requisite service in the Korean military. Jo was a member of the chemical decontamination unit whose job was to clean up the mess after a bioweapons attack. Scariest factoid: once a bioattack region has been thoroughly cleansed, it is the responsibility of the youngest team member to remove his protective biosuit to give a live test of the affected area. As Jo explained with cold logic, the youngest member is the least experienced and therefor the least valuable. Yeesh! We had a good laugh about it though. I also taught him how to play blackjack; as I once again walked away from the tables with 100 euro in profit. I could make a living off of this. Helsinki itself was nothing special. It was cold, rainy, and overcast which is not out of the ordinary, according to the locals. Dark and snowy for most of the year, Helsinki is to suicide as obesity is to Houston. It's really a wonder that anyone lives there at all. For me the highlight was walking around the open-air fish market down at the shore. I bought a couple of whole, smoked mackeral right out of the back of a boat and fought with the seagulls as I munched on a pier. The gulls swoop down and try to grab the fish right from your hand so you can imagine the scene as I'm sitting on the end of a pier waving a bunch of half-eaten mackeral in the air like a madman. I sampled a few other creative dishes, my favorite being the miniature, whole (head, tail and all), whitefish that are battered and fried then served like french fries with a garlic sauce. Yummy. Tell me if you've heard this one before. So, a Jew, a Korean, and Frog walk into an Irish pub where an international crowd is listening to a Swedish band playing American music. There's no punch line, except that if you've heard this one before then you were at my birthday bash at Molly Mallone's. The place was packed (almost certainly in my honor) and the band belted out tunes from the eighties while we sang along, tapped in rhythm, and tried our best to talk above the din. A met a mongolian man who bought me a celebratory shot of Finland's national drink, Salmiakki-Kossu. The powerful, inky-black liquor tasted like a cross between licorice and Nyquil. As I sipped the shot, a warm burning sensation spread out from my lips across my whole body; and my phlegm was definitely looser. All and all, not a bad way to crest into my 28th year.

Two Bits

A sea of blond-haired, blue-eyed, beauties glided through the streets like a parade of angels descended from heaven. Naturally, I assumed I was dead. As it turned out I was in Stockholm, where jaws hang slack and you need to mind your feet to avoid crushing anyone's lolling tongue on the sidewalk. I had a theory that a tall, dark, and handsome lad such as myself would be like an exotic pearl, rare and precious in this fair-skinned land. Nope. I was more like the discarded oyster, given a cursory glance of disgust before being shucked into the disposal. Bruised ego aside, I found Stockholm to be one of the most beautiful cities in all of Europe. The historic center of Gamla Stad was architectural eye-candy. Steep, hilly roads and narrow, cobbled streets beheld an array of colorful homes, quiet squares, quaint shops, and the buildings of the Royal Palace. Everything was immaculate, the paint even seemed fresh and vibrant. I had gotten up early and the streets were deserted. It felt like my own personal playground, so I broke a few windows and stole some candy. On a sugar high I visited Storkyrkan, the unpronounceable Royal Cathedral of Sweden, whose most interesting feature is a life-sized statue of St. George and the Dragon. This was fascinating to me for two reasons: One, there wasn't much mental association in my head between dragons and Christianity. I once heard a story about Jesus curing a ham but never slaying a dragon; Two, the vast majority of the dragon was built using the antlers of elk and deer. So, despite all of Sweden's ravishing beauties, this dragon has the odd distinction of sporting the nicest rack. I once again skipped all of the museums, as is my custom, but wandering the streets was joy. Stockholm is built on a series of islands that stretch out from the city, east into the ocean. In fact, the coast sports an unimaginable 24,000 of these little islands, of which only a handful are inhabited. I explored the two most accessible, Skeppsholmen and Kastellholmen, looking for a rest room. Definitely a recurring theme in European travel is to make sure you have pockets full of change for the facilities. Can you believe it costs a dollar to take a shit in Sweden? I'd hate to think of the spiraling debt I'd accumulate if I got a bout of the runs. Finally, I rented a bike and explored the large garden island of Djurgarden, getting lost only thrice before finding my way back home. I have a confession to make. Truth be told, I did get lucky with one of the Swedes. I met her in a little shop off of one of the main squares. A knockout by any standard, we chatted about this and that, and before I knew it she was seductively running her fingers through my hair. Surprised, but not enough to lose my cool, her delicate fingers caressed my head and sent tingles down my spine. I'm a gentleman so I'll spare the details, save I was late for a train and thirty minutes later we mournfully parted ways. My haircut was done.

Wavy Gravy Had Babies

After the ribald fury that filled the streets of Amsterdam, Copenhagen seemed a veritable ghost town. Despite wide, multi-lane streets, traffic was but a trickle. This isn't surprising when you learn that Copenhagen - no joke - has a budget busting 180% tax imposed on new car purchases. It's your standard Toyota Buy Three, Get One deal they've been running throughout the States. Suddenly, public transport seems pretty appealing. The quiet streets give this big city a rather small town feel and it was a nice respite from the hurly burly I had emerged from. On foot I explored the lovely parks, large plazas, and the forgettable but requisite visit to the famous statue of The Little Mermaid. A small crab crawling around the base of the statue started to break into song but I crushed him with a rock before it got out of hand. Another highlight was Amalienborg Palace, the residence of the Royal Family. The guards had none of the pomp and circumstance of the Brits but they had funnier hats. I think you can tell a lot about a country's military prowess by the size of that beehive. There seems to be an inverse correlation between hat size and military might, which may explain Copenhagen's Christiana neighborhood. Have you heard of this place? True story: a bunch of stoned and homeless hippies broke into an abandoned military barracks and refused to leave until someone delivered 32 pizzas with extra cheese. The military balked and - 30 years later - the hippies are still there, now 1000 people strong (apparently, if left to their own devices hippies multiply like rabbits). Keep in mind that this is smack dab in the city proper, not out in the boonies somewhere. They have their own political structure, education system, radio station, and (ahem) pharmacy. Curious about their society, I explored this crazy shantytown to learn what I could. Their main industry seems to be, well, sitting around smoking weed. Actually, it's tourism, which I find rather humorous. Nothing screams ''sell out'' like leading middle-aged gawking yokels on guided tours of your hippie commune. From what I understand, the place isn't what it used to be. A series of police raids in the late nineties knocked out the soul (aka, 5,000 lbs of hash) from the community. I got a nice kebab for lunch though. Away from Copenhagen on subsequent day trips I visited the small hamlets of Hillerod and Helsingor. Both had glorious castles but Hillerod's Frederiksborg Slot blew me away. Built on three adjoining islands, Frederiksborg is a magnificent example of Dutch Renaissance architecture. From a distance it was breathtaking, but, like two hippos having sex, it just got better the closer you were. The courtyard housed a massive fountain, my favorite of the trip; a triumphant Poseidon, poised high in the air, giving the death-metal devil salute with his right hand, surrounded by no fewer than 15 acolytes who were all spurting water from their nether regions (rectum included). Yeah, that'll do for Denmark.

Everything Mom Told Me Not To Do

Amsterdam was hellishly crowded. A human river flowed through the streets, making cars and trams a dangerous and wily minority. The lively crowds ebbed and flowed through parks, squares, and the ubiquitous ''coffee'' shops. Sreet performers entertained hundreds on nearly every corner. There was a tremendous energy because, heck, it was Amsterdam. This real Sin City makes Vegas seem laughably quaint. Like a hit from a bong, I took a deep breath and held it all in. A few girls and I started with a wake-and-bake at one of the aforementioned coffee houses. All that smoking built up an unquenchable thirst so we headed over to the Heiniken Experience Brewery Tour. It was completely surreal. Since this was no longer a functional brewery, you instead toured through an impressive array of multimedia exhibits and rides, got three beers and a free Heineken glass, all for $10. The strangest part was the ''What is it like to be a Heineken bottle?'' ride. You stand on a hydrolic floor plate - getting shaken and jostled around - while standing in front of a giant screen that makes you feel as if you are moving along a conveyer belt (along with hundreds of other bottles) getting washed, filled, capped, labeled, sorted, shuffled, boxed, and shipped. After our three beers we ambled out and I learned a valuable life lesson: when you are high and drunk, riding a bike is not just like riding a bike. We eventually figured out how to get the locks off and carefully made our way over to the Van Gogh Museum. Dissapointed not to see a display of a severed ear, I nevertheless enjoyed several of the pieces before moving on. I seperated from the ladies and did what any respectable gentleman of leisure would do by himself - I went to the Red Light District. So named due to the glow that will likely be emitting from your crotch after a visit, rows of women stand behind glass doors beckoning with a finger or a wink. You can have what's behind curtain number one, or you can trade it all in for what's in the box. Or, hell, you can pay to go behind curtain number one and dive head first into the box, it's your money. Honestly I found the whole thing rather distasteful, so I only slept with two of them. My adventures winding down, my pockets nearly empty, out of work, vagabonding around Europe, I did the only sensible thing...I went gambling...and I won about 120 euro. Life is good.

Your Friets Are In My Stoofvle

Bruge, Belgium. I skipped Brussels in favor of this lazy, compact hamlet and I have not a moments regret. Cobbled streets, dazzling architecture, and stunning town squares made for an exquisite visit and a silly rhyme. Old buildings aside, Bruge was a gastronomic wonderland. I gorged on sugared Belgium waffles, which, strangely, are eaten with the hands while standing. I sampled the oddest of flavored chocolates: lavender, which tasted like a bar of chocolate soap; lemongrass, a bit of an earthen taste; chili, which had a spicy kick to it; and finally, tobacco, which tasted about as good as it sounds. Maybe I was supposed to smoke it. Call me old fashioned but I like my chocolates chocolate-flavored. Another Bruge delight are friets (fries). You can get them at stands and stores all over the city. Cooked fresh while you wait, these salty, mouth-watering snacks are traditionally served with gobs of mayonnaise. I preferred mine with stoofvlees, a chunky meat stew that's similar to stroganoff. It's your basic meat and potatoes dish but every last ounce of nutritional value has been fried out of it. Yummy. As penance for my indulgences I once again rented a bike and toured around the countryside. I rolled through small towns, past cows, farms, and the obligatory old churches. It was a mellow break before the hedonistic orgy that was soon to come...

Berlitzed Beyond Berlief

Berlin is a living, breathing, history lesson. Great and terrible things have taken place within its bounderies; mostly terrible, but I'm not one to point fingers. A heaping ladle of justice was eventually served and most of the city was leveled during World War II. You can spend hours walking around looking at the bullet holes left by Allied troops as they marched on the capitol. It would make a good drinking game if it weren't for the fact that the sheer number of battle-scarred buildings would leave you in an inebriated coma by the time you were done. I spent my first day exploring the city by bike, which I highly recommend as a means to significantly shorten your life expectancy. Dodging cars, drafting buses, and clipping pedestrians is the best way to explore this sprawling metropolis. Some of the highlights: The Berlin Wall, which presumably fell to make room for the new Sony IMAX megaplex at Postdamer Platz; Checkpoint Charlie, the point where East met West in a titanic staring contest for twenty years (we won); The Reichstag, the German Parliament building with the giant glass popcorn dome on the top; The Holocaust Memorial, a series of massive, stone blocks of alternating size - some twenty feet high - laid out in an enormous undulating grid across an entire city block; Brandenburg Gate, a big...well, gate for the Brandenburgs; and the Victory Column, a 220 foot tall spire positioned by Hitler to point towards France as a challenge to their sovereignty. Back in the forties pointing a statue at another country was grounds for war. That evening I participated in the traditional heavy drinking games of Berlin's nightlife. I don't know much about drinking games but I'm pretty sure I lost. After a slow start the next morning I participated in a facinating Third Reich walking tour. We goose-stepped our way around the city while learning how the Nazi regime came to power and how to Heil a taxi. Most interesting factoid: of the 20,000 animals housed in the Berlin Zoo at the start of the war only 50 survived the bombing. If I had to guess, I'd say cockroaches. The tour ended at the site of Hitler's underground bunker, which is now, fittingly, a parking lot. But of all the disturbing sights and stories I saw and heard in Berlin, perhaps the most perverse was this: a large, organized choral group, sitting on the steps of the awe-inspiring Berliner Dom cathedral, belting out an a capella rendition of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. No joke. So, hooray for Democracy, I guess.

Look Both Ways Before Crossing a German

The Germans are a fascinating people. Orderly, precise, and efficient, they are tireless in their persuit of perfection. The trains are arrogantly punctual, clocks are perfectly synchronized, and you can eat a three-course dinner off the toilet seats in the train station. The language itself is long and complicated, with names like Heigerdusselflingerstreudlebahndorf Strausse. And to hear them speak is to know the very depths of hell itself. Every time someone opens their mouth I'm ready to perform the Heimlich maneuver for fear they are choking on their wiener schnitzel. Curiously, stern mannerisms often cloak a genial positivism. But teeming just below the surface of this perfectionist facade are many issues which affect the national psyche. Here you have a people that blindly participated in one of the worst genocidal acts in human history yet won't be caught dead jay walking. I'm serious. There can be no cars visible for a mile in either direction and people are patiently standing at the corner waiting for that cross walk sign to light up. You don't know whether to laugh or cry.


My German adventure started in the small, quiet town of Fussen. This was Bavaria, home of kings, castles, and the delectable cream that fills your donuts and clogs your arteries. The town hostel was completely booked so I landed in a local B&B. Run by a elderly, short, stout, German women it was authentic in every way. Breakfast consisted of bread, jam, and some manner of German mystery meat that I dubiously dubbed worstwurst. I spent a day touring the famous Neuschwanstein Castle. Built by Mad King Ludwig (not angry, but definitely mad) this mass of gleaming white turrets and ramparts was purportedly the inspiration for the castle in Disneyworld. The following day I rented a bike and wandered around the beautiful countryside until I ended up in Reutte, Austria. You ever take a wrong turn and end up in a different country? Didn't think so. In Reutte I visited the Ehrenburg Ruins, a 13th century fortification which is now just a series of cool crumbling rock and stone. With nary a soul in sight I had the whole place to myself. Soon my imagination got the best of me and I ordered an attack on a nearby farming village, but with no troops to obey my orders I had to settle on making obscene gestures at a nearby cow.



With little time clocked on floating transport during my trip I decided to catch a cruise up the Rhine river. I spent my first night in a castle that had been converted into a hostel. My favorite stop on the Rhine was a small town called St. Goar, where I explored the fantasically cool Rheinfels Castle and once again tried to place myself in mortal peril. The inhabitants of this particular castle built a series of narrow tunnels with thin slate roofs packed with explosives in order to blow up invaders. There are six hundred feet of twisting, turning tunnels; it's pitch black, muddy, slippery, cold, full of dead-ends, and you're in a deep crouch the whole time. Oh yeah, and did I mention the only light I had was a six-inch wax candle and a book of matches? Matches being the obvious choice for tunnels that used to be filled with gunpowder. Germany obviously doesn't have any lawyers. Lucky for me, I had a set of directions in my guidebook. Unfotunately, I went in the wrong entrance to the tunnel and was following the directions backwards. Alone, shivering in the dark, panic started to settle in when I hit my second dead end and a furious swarm of crane flies erupted from the walls around me. The candle was half gone at this point so I slowly backed out till a found a space to turn around, then carefully backtracked to the entrance. After turning my guidebook rightside up I decided to give it another whirl. Fifteen minutes later I made I made it to the other side, cramped, muddy, covered in wax, with quite a large smile on my face.



I spent a quick day in Munich as well. Munich is great city where approximately 50% of the women look like men. I actually expected it to be a higher precentage. But some of those girls....yikes. I took a free city walking tour and you truly do get what you pay for. I listened to the schlock and spiel in front of the Glockenspiel and tried not to fall asleep. The Glockenspiel is basically a giant clock with a series of rudimentary analog figurines that stike poses and dance around for about 15 minutes every hour while a series of bells chime along. The first five minutes were interesting, the second set dulled the senses, and by the third you prayed that you would simultaneously go deaf and blind. The tour mercifully continued. We saw a few churches then stopped in a beer garden for bratwurst and beer, which is what most Germans do after some heavy sermonizing. The beer is served in massive, one liter mugs. I swear I saw some guy carrying his baby around in one of those giant mugs. It must have been Bring Your Daughter to Work day. With 126 kinds of beer and just as much fattening sausage one has to wonder how any Germans live past 40. If ever an earthquake struck Munich it might just be a national coronary.

Salzburg at Sunset

Salzburg surprised me with its quaint atmosphere, quiet streets, and beautiful vistas. To be honest, I hadn't even intended on stopping there. I'm not a big Mozart fan and I may be the only man on earth who still hasn't seen The Sound of Music, though my understanding is that the hills are alive with it. Sounds terrifying. Having missed the last train to Germany, I was lucky enough to catch a beauteous sunset and spend an evening exploring this little burg. Wandering the streets at dusk I felt completely at ease. Salzburg felt very safe, like a motherly embrace, or your finger on the trigger of that snub-nosed .38 in your purse. I strolled through the perfectly manicured Mirabell Gardens with an exquisite view of the Hohensalzburg Fortress, passed by the marvelous Mozart platz, and parked myself in front of the Salzburg Cathedral. And I took tons of pictures, until they caught me and I got kicked out of the women's locker room at the local gym. Gosh, those women are bashful. I was really taken aback by the architecture. At sunset, the skyline was magnificent. As a budding wordsmith you might think I would have the vocabulary to describe this scene. Not so. My knowledge of architectural terms is right up there with my ability to juggle flaming daggers. As such, I will revert to infantile and obscentity laden gutter speak. Let's just say the buildings were fucking awesome. And you know that big, blue, thingamajig at the top of that column? That was one bad-ass mamma-jamma. Though I only got to spend a single evening there it was a glorious one.

The Absinthe-Minded Confessor

Prague was full of surprises. Despite the fact that literally millions of bodies crowd Europe, I seem to keep running into the same damn ones. I've had approximately eight close-encounters of the weird kind since being out here, but Prague was the most unlikely. First I ran into Natalie, a girl I met on a mountainside for all of about 20 minutes in Switzerland. Next was Amy, the girl with whom I had travelled to Paris and Interlaken. I liked Prague but something about it seemed rather off to me. The original architecture is stunning, one of the only European cities unscathed by the carpet-bombing of WWII. For a city that was under Communist rule for so long I was surprised to find the buildings so...cheerily colorful. Nearly every building was painted in various soft pastels, leading me to conclude that Communism was a lot more cuddly then I had been led to believe. Maybe the top of the Kremlin looking like a series of soft-serve ice cream cones isn't so strange after all. In some warped way the whole place reminded me of Disneyworld, only with more alcohol. Prague had a large Jewish population at one point and for the first time during this trip I was treated to a series of impressive synagogues. Since there are only about five Jews left in Prague, most have been converted into museums...not the remaining Jews, the synagogues - stupid grammar. Regardless, the synagogues here are not nearly as ornate as their cathedral counterparts. In an effort to strengthen stereotypes, I'll suggest that we were too busy investing our money in controlling the media. There were several interesting exhibits, including some old circumcision knives that looked duller than a redneck at a spelling bee. I couldn't think of anything to make circumcision worse then it already was, but there you have it. Leaving religion behind, I turned my sights towards more practical matters. Like getting drunk. Natalie and I cruised around until we found a local pub, where I sampled the local beer. Nope, still don't like it. I needed something stiffer. We closed out the bar (at a surprisingly early 11:30pm) and went hunting for the mythical, mystical, green liquor I knew could place me in the coma I desired...absinthe. We wandered the empty streets. Everything was closed. Finally we saw a flashing neon sign that brazenly proclaimed, "non-stop". A creepy staircase descended into a dimly lit corridor. I hesitated, but Natalie led the charge. It was dark and dreary and we were completely alone, save the bartender. This was DEFINITELY the place. He didn't know more then a few words of English but he knew the word absinthe. Seventy percent strong and illegal in the States, I lifted the shot to my lips and took a sip. There's no point in me describing the sensation when you can so easily replicate it at home. Just light a butane torch and suck on the end like you were drinking milk through a straw. That burning sensation you feel? That's just the lining of your stomach disintegrating as the bile bursts through and starts to liquefy your intestines. Before leaving the Czech Republic I took a day trip to a place called Kutna Hora. This small town is infamous for it's ossuary, called Kostnice - in the common tongue, The Bone Church. Inside dwells the mortal remains of literally thousands of people, all playfully constructed into home furnishings like some ghastly Erector-Set Of The Damned. There are adornments on the wall, a giant coat-of-arms, a chalice, and other such feats of creatively morbid engineering. Outside is a sign which reads, "Please, do not mock the dead". This is quite ironic considering the fact that your great-uncle Jack's pelvis is the centerpiece of a massive bone chandelier. Nevertheless, it was a unique experience and another notch in the cultural belt.

Luke, Ich bin Ihr Vater

The imperial city of Vienna holds the dubious honor of kicking off the first World War. As it turned out, it's a lot more difficult to wage war than to produce a good wiener and the Viennese soon found themselves...well, holding their hot dogs. Like my father's hairline, Vienna quickly receded from the world stage. After a good spell they regrouped and turned towards finer pursuits, like overcharging tourists. To be fair, they also overcharge the locals. Honestly, I wasn't very impressed with Vienna. The most interesting parts of the city are almost entirely contained within a four mile ringed road, a vestigial reminder of the walls that used to surround and protect the city in its heyday. It also makes street maps of the city look like a giant, single-celled amoeba. Probably the most interesting site was the Schloss Sch?nbrunn royal palace. Though I've officially sworn of the interiors of these places, the grounds were most impressive. There was even had an honest-to-God hedge maze. In a vain attempt to act cultured I even went to the Opera. No joke, it was five HOURS long. And they lock the doors once it starts. After the first twenty minutes time seemed to stand still. I grit my teeth and waited patiently for the fat lady to start singing. Unfortunately there were no fat women in this particular Opera and the shrill, womanly voice everyone eventually heard was my own, begging to get out. To be fair, my outlook was partially obscured by clouds. Overcast skies and occasional downpours plagued my entire stay there. The weather did afford me a chance to finally go see the last Star Wars film, may it rest in peace. Funny thing about the theaters in Vienna, all of the seating is assigned and they actually charge more for better seats. Anything to squeeze another dime. To be truthful I didn't really like the movie very much, despite the positive reviews it has garnered. It seemed poorly directed, had horrendous dialogue, and tons of superfluous plot elements; rather like the Kerry campaign. I nearly laughed out loud when Vader rips loose from the operating table like Frankenstein's monster. Well, enough of that. I set my sights on my next stop, Prague.

Careful, Those Venetians Aren't Blind

Ahhhh, Venice....a colorful maze of carefully constructed canals, narrow streets, and more bridgework than a Florida Bingo parlor. Loaded with tourists - despite the very real possibility that it might sink - Venice was nevertheless a worthwhile stop. Though from the train you might as well be cruising the Robert Moses causeway of Long Island, Venice quickly becomes unique in almost every way. Consider this: the "bus" system is an armada of roving boats; St. Mark's square might be the only place on earth you could lay on your back, swing your arms and legs, and artfully create a pigeon angel; and if your taxi springs a leak you may drown. How cool is that??? Truth be told there wasn't really much to "see" in Venice. It was enjoyable to just wander around, taking in the people, the buildings, the canals, and the architecture. And no, I didn't ride on a Gondola. In addition to the unreasonable cost, to be frank, it's kind of pathetic to take a romantic Gondola ride by yourself. The oarsman were cute but not THAT cute. Still, I enjoyed the breeze in my face while riding the public transport, the smell of the sea air, and the taste of my final Italian gelato (sniff!) and I chugged away from Italy to my next desination: Vienna.

It Wasn't Built In a Day

Rome may not have been built in a day but you can sure see it in one. The grandeur of Rome spread out before me like a virulent flu. It was hot and muggy, wet and ruddy, and you just sort of wanted to be done with it already. I know, I know, many of you are probably thinking but I love Rome. Well, some people love rectal thermometers too but that doesn't mean we all do. I started in Vatican City and was lucky enough to catch a Wednesday mass in the square of St. Paul's Cathedral. I saw the Pope, waved in earnest, but not even a nod in return. What an asshole. Whoa, just kidding!!! I didn't wave. Actually it was really cool being there with the square full of people; a pulsing mass of cheering, praying humanity. Next, the Vatican Musuem, home of the Sistine Chapel. Definitely smells like church, lots of paintings on the ceiling. From there I headed over to the Colosseum, which was my favorite part of the day. Standing outside the arena I tried to imagine what the place looked like when it was first completed, but it was tough ignoring the modern-day "gladiators" in their cheesy costumes hustling pictures for money and the guy peddling the "Glad He Ate Her" porno films on the sidewalk. Once inside, the scene changed. Big as a football stadium, its impressive to think that all of this was built before unions and teamsters. I spent quite a bit of time there before moving on. I walked through the Roman Forum (full of ancient ruins), up to Capitol Hill (home to modern political ruination), over to the Pantheon (an old dome with a big hole in the ceiling), across to the Trevia Fountain (predicatably full of water), and finally collapsed on the Spanish Steps (nary a Spaniard to be found) ready for death. Before leaving the following day for Venice I went and checked out the Bourghese Museum, home to a fantastical series of sculptures. Unfortunately I didn't have a reservation (required) and they wouldn't let me in, which I suppose was kizmit considering my earlier promise to never lay eyes on another sculpture that didn't have a giant penis. Not to be deterred, I explored the surrounding gardens and the lovely park before bording a train for my next destination. Venice.