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...