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.

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.