An American Hobo in...wherever I am

Swimming with Bazaar Sharks

2009-11-20T09:48:00.000-08:00

Note: There are no pictures of the rugs yet, they were boxed and shipped immediately and no one back home has sent me pictures yet for this blog. I have had this post for over a week so I am just going to put it up. Instead you get the Hagia Sophie and a Bellydancer named Marlena.

My misadventure in Hamburg with the hookers has been, apparently, about the most memorable thing I have written on here. I am not ashamed of my temptation but it is kind horrifyingly amusing when you find out that not only did your Mother read it, but your Father, and Grandmother, and everyone else. I am sure that I shall hear of it for many attended family gatherings to come. What still bugged me about that night was not that I was drunk, alone, sensuality heightened by a night of loud music and dance and therefore susceptible to the siren song of beautiful bodies for sale. No. What stuck with me was that I was so thoroughly schooled and beaten when it came to shrewd negotiation. I stumbled into the situation blindly, and naively and it made a mark of me. Prostitution never bothered me as a moral thing (obviously), since it could be argued that dating itself is often a subtle form of it. However the idea of sex with you being someone's shitty job just turns off the motor, which I was reminded of in my experience in a most unforgettable and humiliating way. The whole ordeal did leave unfinished business, not what you're thinking...heh, but the idea of losing so badly in a contest of business. I got hustled and my nature finds it unacceptable and I have since been looking for some redemption.

That redemption came to me in Istanbul in one of the many Bazaars. There are roughly a zillion rug salesmen and stores in Istanbul. I do not pretend to know exactly who has the best stuff but I did research slightly before my trip. Learning ways to tell if the merchandise is authentic, so that I would know if someone was trying to sell me garbage. If you are unwary and not firm you could be bilked of hundreds or thousands, you could be grabbed off of the street. The entire carpet hustle is based on movement, speed, to make you rush along with them. I recognized it immediately when I found myself in a warehouse near the Blue Mosque.

I was walking around to take in the city at night and a man in a suit stopped me and asked me if I was American. If someone on the street asks you if you are American unbidden, it will be about money. Every single time. "That's right. I said. I am the famous zeppelin racer Dennis M. Boehm."

"Zeppelin? Like bleemps?"

"Nevermind all that. What is it you want?"

He wanted to show me his business, he said, and asked if I would come. One rule I have been espousing to everyone I meet on the road is that you should at least stick your head down every rabbit hole that presents itself. So I followed him. We walked a winding path into an unmarked building that put me on my guard. I was worried that I was being taken to some sex dungeon, the man started to look to me like a pimp. We rounded one last corner down some stairs and I was confronted with walls of carpets. There were twenty some odd Turkish men milling about and the man took me into a show room after offering me a Turkish apple tea, which I refused. Which they brought anyway. He started to show me the double knot rugs and doing the tests I had read about to ensure the quality of material, he lit and singed the edge of one of the carpets and the burn wiped away. This test proves that there is no plastic in the wool or silk. I examined the threads very closely and when I stood up a new man had enetered the room. He was wearing a tight shiny button down, three buttons were undone and his hair was immaculate. The man who had led me into the room, the man in the suit who I never got a name from slipped out a back door. Clearly this new man was the salesman. During the tests I realized why they had rolled out so many rugs on the floor for me to examine.

"Which is your favorite?"

I pointed to the red and white one that I eventually bought.

"Where are you from my friend?"

"The States."

"I love America! Would you like more tea?"

"No thanks."

"Have tea! Bring him another cup." One of the young kids jumped to his feet and left the room.

"You like this merchandise?"

"It's very nice. I really don't plan on buying a rug tonight."

"I make good price for you! Because you did not plan to buy!" I think he fills in that sentence with whatever is convenient. I make good price cause I love America. I make good price because you planned to buy a rug and deserve it. Whatever. He said some instructions in Turkish and more rugs were rolled out. "Do you prefer the double knots? They are nice yes. This one you like, I make special price, 2600 dollars. Usually it is as high as 5000."

"Well that is very kind, but no way."

"We have very nice carpets that are under 1000, if you prefer."

"Oh. I'm not worried about money at all." My tea arrived, as I bluffed. "But I saw another place that had a really nice silk double knit, really pretty, and he had a much better price."

"What was he asking?"

"He only wanted twelve hundred. So anyway, thanks for the tea."

"My friend, you know you will not be cheated (sounded like "shitted") here. These are best quality, if he was asking so low he was giving you trash... all respect my friend. I do not want to see you cheated (shitted). I will make prie for you...2400!" At each offer, imagine his hand jamming nearly into my own, a fast and agressive handshake to make it official. Around you rugs are rolled out and up, kids scurrying by with trays for tea and many looming swarthy skinned anymous spectators watching. I felt as though the salesman was a master teacher and they were all waiting for him to con the American mark. The thought made me slightly angry and caused the competitive nature in me to demand satisfaction.

"I thank you for your concern about my being cheated." There seemed to be a courtly way of going about this task. Like diplomatic negotiations, you heap praise and declarations of honesty and friendship upon one another while trying wring them and fuck them out of every last lira, euro, dollar, spit of land, or treaty. "And I believe very much that you have my best interests at heart. Where was the rug made."

"In Turkey! We have many contacts in villages, this is Kurdish make. I am Kurdish." He sounded proud.

"Excellent. That sounds very authentic, which is what I want. My question is, how much does it cost to manufacture this excellent merchandise? It seems to me that the weavers are not paid as handsomely as 5000 per rug, which is what this one is clearly worth." I indicated my rug. "It seems like the profit margin is very large, and you could afford less of a markup."

He laughed, and laughed. He took my hand. "You are a very wise American man. What would make you happy?"

"I think we should start over, from 1500, and then really negotiate. Otherwise I wish you happiness."

"I do it for 1500!" The hand again. "You have credit card?"

"I have a debit card. I am not paying 1500 for this rug."

"My friend. I will add gift for you, a modest kilim." Kilim is a rug style that is very smooth and has slits in the fabric. In ancient times they were used for the nomadic tents, to allow for air circulation.

"Excellent, lets pick a Kilim." Eventually I chose a green one, with the idea of sending it to my Mother. As soon as I had indicated my intertest in selecting one the room burst into movement again, small table cover kilims were presented to me. I felt like I was doing well. I was having a lot of fun.

"More tea?" I asked. The man spoke in Turkish and a boy slipped quickly out of the room. I really did enjoy that apple tea they make there.

"1500 yes, for the kilim and this..." He indicated my rug.

"No no. I told you I am not paying 1500. I thought the kilim was simply a gift because we are such friends." He squinted. "Clearly I misunderstood." I patted his shoulder. "Thank you for the hospitality." I turned to leave and then I was grabbed. When they smell a sale they will not let you leave, you have to be downright rude to escape. Shoulder off of their hands, ignore their smiling faces, fill your bearing with resolve. It's not unlike breaking up, or telling someone who is manipulative "enough".

"My friend my friend." He laughed. "I like you very much. 1200!" He shouted it as if it were a dramatic happening, and I made my only mistake. This time I shook his hand, total blunder. By the time I had realized what I had done there was somehow already a credit card machine in the room and he was seated at a luxurious looking couch in the room ready for the transaction. I chastised myself via inner monologue.

"Hang on." I said. "What about shipping."

"Shipping is 120 dollars. Your credit card please?"

"No no." I shook my head. "You pay for shipping."

"My friend, please do not dishonor me by backing from this deal. You shook my hand in faith." He was correct of course, but fuck him, I thought. I remembered walking back to my hostel at the Reeperbahn, my belt undone, feeling the humiliation of a wretch and resenting how such a fun night had become such ann unpleasant lesson in the sharp teethed business of separating tourists from their money.

"I shook your hand, yes, but please do not take offense or think for a second I had meant to be discourteous to you. 1200 is a fair price, but I had no considered shipping." I sat next to him. "I understand if we cannot do business, I will leave here thinking well of this place." He eyed me. "What are these?" I indicated the hanging small looking round rugs that hung from the walls, they were paper thin.

"Cushions. Do you like them?"

"I do."

"My friend, I will give you two cushions and shipping for 1200." I looked at him, holding eye contact and pursing my mouth." We shared the sense we were close to a deal. It was the final sprint.

"600" I said.

"I cannot."

"I know. But I will shake your hand and give you my card for..." I trailed off and he laughed.

"You are a very difficult customer." I think he meant it as a compliment. "1000."

"1000." I nodded. "Deal." I shook his hand and dug through my wallet.

Of course this debit card had a maximum withdraw per day and it was Friday and I suddenly realized I might not have a 1000 US dollars at my disposal until Monday. In fact I was $125 short and had to return the next morning to pay the balance. The rug men all smiled, I think perhaps they considered it a good show and me a worthy adversary. I know that I left a little woozy from spending so much, but also energized and pleased and warmly towards all of them. It had taken three hours, several cups of tea, and a beer at the end where we toasted eachother and our health.

When I left I considered I may have gone lower, perhaps 800. But ultimately I felt good, more than two and half times less than the initial offer, with shipping, with a gift for my Mother and cushions to boot. I wanted to find a man on the Reeperbahn and offer to negotiate his encounter with the whores for him. The extra two hundred was worth the feeling of redemption. I would hang that carpet on my wall like a pelt, just as soon as I got home, and I knew it would be on the walls of my relatives for two hundred years. The carpet was magic, not that it could fly, but that it gave enough of a hint of the future that you felt you could nearly see.

The one where I fly over 10k miles to win a bet

2009-11-12T06:50:00.000-08:00

On Sunday night, I found that the Turkish government had banned all international video streams. Its no doubt an attempt to curb the proliferation of porn. In this case however it was barring me from watching the mighty Cincinnati Bengals kick the hell out of the Baltimore Ravens which would have been made even sweeter by the presence of a native of Baltimore staying at the Bahaus Guest House, nestled a block from the massive Blue Mosque to the north and the Black Sea to the south. Where I slept, you would be awakened by the prayer call from the minarets at 530 am, you would also hear the occasional screech of a seagull.

Because there would be no football game that night, I walked down to the sea with two Aussies, two canadians, and two Irish gals. We sat on the giant rocks at the foot of the shore and watched the old men fish with their long poles with neon green tips. The Fishermen eyed us and said little to eachother in soft voices. Our vantage showed us the low lights of the Asian side of the city, connected by one high bridge of a multitude of ferry boats that run through the night. The shipping traffic was quiet for the evening and ready to ramp up in a few hours and we swapped stories for a few hours until we walked back. I had earlier in the night told some people I was considering a quick trip to New York to kidknap a friend who was supposed to met me in Amsterdam previously, and by the time I reached the common room on the top floor of the hostel he was drunk and smoking a waterpipe with apple flavored sheesha.

"This guy says he might go to New York tomorrow and then Athens. Or just Athens." He pointed at me. He hadn't believed I had the means and will to do such a trip. "Just going to get a mate."

People stared.

"That's right." I nodded. "Might as well give me a travel show."

He laughed. The hostels of Europe are full of Australians, and Canadians with giant Mapleleafs on their bags so no one mistakes them for American, they are nearly all extremely good natured.

"Why not just call the friend?" Someone else asked.

"Cause. Peer pressure."

"That's more a romantic thing. I mean, if you were doing it for a girl it'd be romantic...but just a mate?" Piped in an English girl, from near Nottingham (I recognize subaccents now. I am that awesome).

"That would be romantic." I agreed. "But honestly, if I feel like it I can fly to Maine for lobster or Chicago for a hotdog."

"You'd fly to Chicago just to eat a hotdog?!" He sounded dubious.

"Sure why not? It'd take about the same time as the train ride to Athens from here."

"Wicked. So why don't you?"

"I don't like hotdogs THAT much."

"I knew it, mate." He laughed and I felt my eyebrow cock.

"You wanna bet I will?"

"Bet what?"

"You going to Athens next?"

"Yah."

"Bet a gyro. They cost a euro." I pronounce these words the same way.

Six hours later I was on a van to Ataturk airport in Istanbul. I got a better view of the sprawl of that amazing city. The real part, I suppose, where they did not have nightly kebap carts where for four lira you see the man take your marinating skewer and place it on the grill and chop vegetables. This is where the buildings show wear, layers of old paint and cracked stone and laundry hangs desperately onto rusty balconies a few feet from the satelite dishes. Istanbul is the 5th largest city in the world, which I did not know. More than any other city I know it has the terrain to reveal itself to you. You can walk or drive and find suddenly a surprising panorama of some new sprawl of the city. I really loved it there and made a note to myself to return soon, and explore Ephesus, Gallipoli, Troy, and Kappedocia.

Twelve hours later I was standing in the terminal of John F. Kennedy airport back home. I texted and called nearly everyone on my phone, just to say hello and be a pleasant surprise.
Four hours after that I was in O'Hare airport in Chicago. The chargrilled tube of processed cow hearts with peppers, dill pickle spear, mustard, onions, and cheese tasted like victory laced with heartburn. I took the picture of the dog with the day's paper and my salute.

I stayed an extra night in Wisconsin because a friend of mine from the undergrad working in a bookstore days was interviewing for a job in a small town there.

On Wednesday morning I caught a flight from O'Hare to Kennedy, to Athens which is where I am writing this right now. There is no sign of my vanquished foe, but two people I had met in Romania walked in the door and greeted me warmly. The thing about the road, and the traveler culture is that these meetings are not uncommon. You find people again weeks later and are happy to see them. The sun is out here, and it is warm. From the roof you can see the Acropolis, and the very very attractive Canadian girl who is working reception is playing from her list alt rock from the mid 1990's as if she is beckoning me and knew I was going to be here.

Nothing is out of my range. Not these days.

The most horror on Halloween did not come from the Vampires

2009-11-03T07:48:00.000-08:00

Brasov Romania was one of the few places here allowed to keep its soul during the worker's revolution. It is surrounded by the Silver mountains with some of the best skiing in Europe, and the very best hiking. In the fall there are clusters of cloud like oranges, and yellows, with flecks of red and even purple that frame the Hollywood style BRASOV sign that sits high above the city where the peaks get snowy. The center retains its Gothic roots, wide cobblestone streets, church spires that reach into the sky with menacing points and weaponlike barbs. The locals are hearty people who wear simple clothing and often have blue eyes, they cross themselves thrice each time they pass a church walking or in an auto. It is a scrap of what this nation has been and precious because so much was needlessly destroyed. Such as it was in Bucharest which was raped repeatedly by the previous Dictators in favor of blocks of unadorned housing, which now is filled with rubbish and a plague of stray dogs who follow you about, with grimy fur, scars from battle, and the wary eyes of the feral. Romania is a place of invasion, and the people are non confrontational but passively independant and cynical.

This is Transylvania. A place of wolves and supersitious peasants that fear Vampires. It also has fingers of modernity, flashing lights, and Kentucky Fried Chicken and young people who want to add you as Facebook friends who also consider Vlad Tepes to be a national hero. Vlad of course being the historical basis for Count Dracula. Vlad the Impaler, the Prince and three times King of Wallachia and the bane of Sultan Mehmed and his Turkish armies and would be Moorish crusanders with their eyes on Rome after the fall of Constantinople. Romanians speak with pride of the defensive war they fought against a reboudtable and bottomless enemy, considering it a service to all of Europe. Prince Vlad was obviously very valorous and ruthless, and even young people speak wistfully of how his simple system of justice (you were impaled for any offense. Any offense.) made life simple and peaceful. One of the stories is that Vlad would place a cup made of gold in the city square for each year he was King and no one ever dared to steal it, though it was not guarded.

Brasov was not the seat of Dracula's power, but he doubtless crossed through here often. Nearby Bran castle is likewise not any place he ever lived, though may have been a prisoner there briefly. The castle was Bram Stoker's inspiration for the castle where Jonathan Harker encountered perfect evil. Bram Stoker's Dracula had the seductive combination of wild and refined, a savage predator dressed in a Gentleman's trappings and a honeyed tongue. An unnatural addition to the very top of the food chain armed with the confidence and conceit of old money. Unlike today's vampires who guess they want your blood, but are more interested in your girlfriend and whatever sexual fetish. Eternal beautiful teenagers with feelings who act more like eternal humans with tortured uncertainty and insecurities. Not Vlad and not his literary alter ego. Brasov and Bran seem to reluctantly embrace this legacy if only for tourist dollars. However their ambivalance is obvious, Dracula is a demonization of a hero, people coming to celebrate a legend that went sideways and turned a considered courageous defender into a monster who sucks blood, changes form, and cannot hardly be stopped. It is a matter of perspective. I did not see anyone dressed as a vampire, and I suppose expected for there to be barrels of free plastic fangs.

Halloween simply is not as big a deal to Europeans, and I suppose in the Romanian mountains Vampires are not thing to make light of. There were parties however, and a good time was easy to find. The biggest partiers were the guests, after a walk through the city, seeing a few parties where the respective bar staffs painted things on their face in mascara and considered it a costume, I returned to the Hostel where people were making a night of it. One thing about Brasov and Romania in general is the fantastic affordability of things which are half the price of most places in Western Europe. An entire large pizza is 3 euro (15 Lei) if you get all the toppings, and two liters of beer are 2 Euro. We were well appointed with strong drink and the residents of the full hostel had all found their way to the basement common room, where chips and mulled wine were provided. I flitted around the room and met and conversed with nearly everyone, Fer from Mexico City who used to be a financier and now was a good humored and foul mouthed relgion Teacher who very much appreciated the female from. In my room I had befriended two cousins from Vancouver called Casey and Brooke, and three more friends from the Charlottetown, the oldest Canadian was 21. There were several American students from Georgia who were studying in Italy, a group of English ladies in their mid twenties who took a long weekend and were enormous fans of Edward Cullen from the Twilight series, a sweating and wisecracking Aussie named Dave who danced and danced and amused himself and the others endlessly with his antics. The Hostel was largely not cliquish, but for two American girls and their gaggle of five admirers constantly jockeying for position and awkwardly materializing immediately if someone outside the circle engaged one of "their" girls in any conversation whatsoever. There are always always douchebags.

It was a fun, typical party. I found it very surprising when the fight broke out.

Brooke looks a lot like Miley Cyrus more on the good side, and she is out of the country for the first time with her older and more travel savvy cousin. She was also obliterated. What happened next is a matter of great speculation. Whether her intent was theft, or being drunk, or being a dumb kid, Brooke picked up a cell phone that wasn't hers and put it in her pocket. She also had been wandering the hostel and put on a coat that belonged to someone else from a room that was not hers. The phone belonged to one of the clique girls who called when Brooke was standing near her and it rang from her pocket. Which is when all of hell broke loose. I was upstairs and I could hear people screaming, I ignored it. An American girl named Jess, the friend of the person who's phone had been taken, had gone ballistic. Earlier Jess had told me her dream job was to be an editor, not copy editing, but correcting grammar... if that tells you anything.

I didn't realize what was going on until the fight moved upstairs as one of the English girls was escorting a shaking and hysterical Brooke upstairs, which raised Jess' ire on that whole group. Anyone showing Brooke any mercy was immediately an enemy, who seemed completely unaware that her militancy and self righteousnes was actually making her come off worse than the person who was caught red handed with someone else's phone in her pocket of a coat that also was not hers. When the fight moved upstairs I was filled in on the argument. The receptionist had not acted decisively so Jess had called the police (heh) and was keening about how Brooke would be in Romanian jail. Brooke alternated between pleading that she didn't mean to, and apologies, to screaching rage filled insults that were answered in kind. Bitch. Ho. Fuck you. Bitch. Don't take my shit you bitch.

Ultimately the owner of the hostel appeared and Brooke would be out. Which meant her cousin who had been in bed for about two hours and was now wearily backing her travelmate only to be shouted down by the poison filled American girl who was only backed at this point by her knobbish groupies including a wussy looking Kiwi guy who insisted she was a reasonable person because he had known her two days. There was no engaging Jess in any dialogue, you were with her or an idiot. Brooke didn't help by shouting things at her and otherwise giving her a steady stream of things to respond to. It nearly came to blows about four times over the whole 2 hour event. It ended in my room, where Brooke was packing and Jess was insisting she see all of her stuff to make sure she hadn't taken anything else, but mostly it was to humiliate a sobbing 18 year old. It was bullying and there was no stopping her short of physically moving her, the hostel owner stood by passively and shrugged when I told him get these two apart. The best I could get out of him was the assurance that the two girls wouldn't be thrown onto the freezing street at 3am, they would be put up for the night at staff housing and referred to another nearby hostel the next day. Jess was a vicious person, and very much the stereotype of the ugly American.
When it was all over this nauseating girl was on the phone looking for validation and to gloat. I was gratified to see her tear up when an annoyed friend called her out for phoning at such a crazy hour and not leaping immediately to her point of view. And later that night when I was finally going to bed she was standing outside of my door talking to the man who's jacket had been taken. It was the same spiel, how she wouldn't let people get away things like that, and that's the problem with the world is people let folks get away with it, and blah blah and completely unaware that enjoyment of the domination of the weaker is much worse than simple petty theft and much more emblematic of problems in the world...especially from an American perspective. I stuck my head out the door.

"Hey." She looked at me. "It's four in the fucking morning." Her face crinkled, and she laughably tried to stare me down with a dirty look. "If you want to gloat on your victory over a drunk 18 year old, do it downstairs...we've heard you talk enough." I shut the door and she responded with something inane. Needing the last word. I saw her form linger behind the curtain over the window on our door for a moment and leave. The story she will tell will be of her defense of a friend and what is morally right but to those who saw it, she had belied her base instinct of savoring too much an opportunity to dominate someone else. Jess was the worst person I have met so far on this trip, I am sad she is from where I am from.

There were no good guys in our spontaneous and free Halloween dramahorror. Initially I found it kind of entertaining until it got out of hand, and now I am brooding on it two days later. I should have been more forceful in stopping it, likely I was the only person there who could have. Jess' groupies couldn't physically intimidate me, and though I probably couldn't have shut her up I could have done more to shield the girl she was bullying, whether that girl was guilty or not.

How I got robbed

2009-10-30T05:38:00.000-07:00

When I travel, especially at night, I take steps not to look like a tourist. I keep my camera in my pocket, and when I check a map I do so surreptitously. I do not carry much with me. I do not have shopping bags. Mostly this keeps me out of trouble, even the people that hand out flyers to tourists ignore me. However, my first full day in Budapest I didn't do much of that, and it cost me 17,000....forint.
It was a little after 11AM local time, it was a cool morning and bright with the sun. I had set about exploring the Buda side of Budapest. Budapest is actually the joining of two cities, Buda and Pest, creating a massive sprawl to this city. From the top of St. Stephen's you see that the city fills the horizon on all sides but the East where the mountains lay. Budapest is spectacularly attractive, byzantine domes, neo classical architecture, Roman ruins, lights everyplace along the river which is guarded on all sides by high rocky hills. It is also cheap, the hostel where I stayed was 9 euros a night, it was clean and comfortable.

Listening to my ipod I was cutting across a park near where I thought the Parliament building must be. I was mistaken. My awareness was very cut off from the music I was listening to, and I stared at a map for several minutes trying to figure out which way I had gone. Generally I have been carrying my laptop bag and it is filled with all the things I consider to be too essesntial to never have locked up or guarded, laptop, ipod, wallet, passport, and since my camera was stolen in Helsinki I have been extra careful. Having consulted the map, I realized I needed to head back the way I came. The park was seemingly empty, cars would drive passed occasionally but it was a very sleepy corner of the city for nearing midday. The first person I saw in the park was a girl who was of a very young age but impossibly to pinpoint, she could have been fifteen or twenty five. Her left cheek had a smudge of grime on it, and she had very dark brown eyes, I saw her walking towards me and I stopped and waited. I knew she was going to want change, and I actually started to reach into my pocket for spare forints that I wouldn't need anyway. I also turned down my ipod but did not remove the buds from my ears.

As she reached me with her had out she was speaking very fast in Maygar, and I shook my head to let her know I didn't understand. She repeated herself and I leaned forward to see if I could pick any word and that was when I felt the point of a knife against the back of my neck.

I have been followed a few times, and I have thwarted many germinating robbery attempt on me in my life. As I write this, I am frankly annoyed that these are the idiots that finally got me.

I think he said "Your wallet." But honestly I can't recall very well. It was very fast, and I didn't have time to be afraid. Outraged is more a good description, or enraged. I pulled my wallet and when he grabbed at it I pulled it away, and so he pushed the knife slightly harder so that it broke skin. I pulled the notes out and handed them back to him. He reached for the wallet again and I said "No." I was ready to fight him over everything else. I had the sense he was unsure and nervous and so I was less so. The girl had run off and she was shouting something, and then he ran as well. It might have gotten more confrontational at night, but they were scared and hurried due to the good light. I found a cop, and filed a report, he seemed bored and it took way longer than I would have liked.

It was abrudpt and not nearly as exciting as it sounds when you simply say "I was mugged with a knife." Everytime I thought of it through the day I would get angry, not at the money which was little, but the violation. The humiliation of having something forcibly taken from you, it didn't sit well with my pride and so in the night I walked back to the place where it happened and looked for them. I wasn't there for what they had taken in a material sense, but emotionally. I saw him when he ran, he would be no match for me.

They were not there, but the park had filled with sleazy looking people and so I left and resolved to let it go. I do not feel unsafe in Budapest or anyplace else, I think what happened was a confluence of circumstances that ended up being unfortunate for me. I looked up crime statistics, its not really a problem here, the wrong couple people got the drop on me because I was basically walking around with a big 'T' on my forehead for tourist and I wasn't aware of my surroundings.

What I am saying is, for the all the times I have heard people reminding me to "be safe", I am assuring you that despite this...I very much am.

Voodoo graceful

2009-10-25T12:35:00.000-07:00

In Haiti when they have voodoo ceremonies, people dance and dance for hours and say they are ridden by ancestor spirits called loa. The benevolent loas are called cool, and the malevolent ones are hot. Believers dance and hope that they are chosen, and when they are chosen they find that they can do things that they cannot do. Those ridden can eat glass, or dance in fire, and they move so savagely and beautifully that even people who think it's all superstition think it may be possible that some primeval spirit from the creation of Earth is doing the driving. This concept is one of the many I have pondered to explain what happened last Saturday night in Vienna at a place called Club Cubana. But before we jump right in, there is a little prologue leading up to what will go down as one of the most fun nights of this entire trip.

My crew was composed of the following: Myles, an Englishman and adventurer who is riding his bike from London to Istanbul for many familiar reasons. He is my age, we were immediately friends who recognized eachother as fellow travelers. Alex and Jen, two best friends from Australia who are super organized, have been scrapbooking as they go, and never seem to disagree on anything of substance. Kurt, the aforemenioned hilarious Canadian kid. Bec, another Aussie who I liked immediately as she was reading a Tennessee Williams biography, Hammer, Dan from Toronoto who makes his living teaching Ballroom dancing, and James a local who tends bar at the Hostel.

Last Monday (10/26) is a national Holiday in Austria which celebrates the withdrawl of the Soviets. On the Saturday before the Austrian military had set up for 4PM a large scale dance with local women, apparently an attempt to break the world record for most people salsa dancing ever in one place. I had been told it was happening and 6 and I had recruited nearly everyone at the Hostel to go. So when we arrived the thing was over, and I still don't know if they broke the record.

James, who has lived in Vienna for two years, took us to an underground wine bar. It was not a tourist establishment, which I appreciated. When I went to the counter to order food, I just pointed as there was no English spoken here. I got pork stuffed cabbage rolls, which were clearly the best entree, though I admit I only pointed at it because there was bacon on them. As we drained bottles of wine we started to get increasingly loud, and as we were surrounded by mostly senior citizens who were slightly alarmed we were hustled into the room where there was live music. The live music consisted of a chubby Austrian man doing a lounge act in German.

As we were leaving, James was leading us out as the place was something of a maze, the music stopped as a table of ladies were talking about what a cute boy he was. The woman who had noticed him was a lean blonde with thin rimmed glasses and excellent posture. I rarely notice posture on the good side, and so my immediate impression was that she was very rigid, she was also blshing furiously as clearly James was not meant to hear any of this. Because he had been hanging out with me, and I had been casually adding people to groups my entire stay, he invited her. At first she demured, but her smiling friends urged her on and she grabbed her coat. I looked at Myles who raised his eyebrows, we were both surprised.

Her name was Melanie, she was from the south of Austria bet had lived in Vienna for 8 years. Mostly I spoke to her, because James seemed to have buyer's remorse after inviting her. She was clearly a very intense woman who did not allow herself to have much fun, I also found her to be a little thin skinned, but she was clearly excited to be doing something so out of character, and she bought me drinks in honor of my birthday nearly three weeks ago; so my opinion was favorable. The next few hours were bar hopping and drinking, which I will glaze over to get to the good part.

Around 3am everyone from the Hostel was going home. Myles needed to get up early for his ride to Bratislava, the girls were tired, James was hammered, and Dan had already left before the subway stopped running. That's when Melanie and I went to the dance club and I caught a loa.

I am a horrible dancer. Awful. Clearly I was built for power, no grace, and rough movement. I dance like an uncooked turkey thrown down a rocky hill, make no mistake, I am very aware of my weaknesses. However. I was well buzzed, and I was not ready to pack it in, so we climbed the steps down. The walls were a rich magenta and South American music thumped the walls below, there were three large doormen, but no trouble, and at the bottom of the winding stair was the dance floor which was in front of a giant television screen which played the music video of each song that blasted through the unseen speakers hidden in the darkness above us. On the bar a beautiful latino woman danced in a way that can only be described as softly in her bare feet and white form fitting dress. The place was not crowded, nor was it not not crowded. The sides of the walls had mirrors like a gym, where sweating people took their cigarette and mojito breaks.

I have never salsa danced. So what happened next can either be described as a drunken savant moment, a loa, or something else mysterious. Because I knew EXACTLY what to do. My steps were perfect, I grabbed Melanie's hip with my right hand and my left hand met hers. We stepped. She sensed my confidence and allowed me to lead her as I wished, the first time I spun her she laughed in surprise. I don't even look like I could be a good dancer, too brutish.

I only needed to see it done around me once, and I did it. We joined hands and spun eachother, I back away and made her follow me, and this uptight Austrian lady laughed and laughed having probably the best time in her entire life. Now that I had a few songs under my belt, I suddenly started doing things I wasn't seeing on the floor. I spun Melanie towards me, grabbed her hips and threw her into the air. She squealed, in the second she was up, I turned out and stepped forward so that I was standing beside where she would land facing the same way, I caught her with one arm into a dip.

I did that.

People noticed, two older men were cheering me, I suddenly kind of had an audience. Now, before, I mentioned that for what I lack in physical grace I am paid out in full and more in physical power. I moved her all over the floor, I picked her up when I wanted, spun her when I wanted, everything led into everything else as a natural progression. I even did the obnoxious affected head turns you see in Julia Styles movies. I was channeling Patrick Swayze with Donkey Kong strength and the arrogance of everything beautiful. I have no idea how it happened, but the club belonged to me. I have commanded many rooms, my stories and loud voice and words make people listen, but I had never done this in a place where words meant nothing. I was most satisfied.

I didn't stop for two hours when they finally closed the place. None of the pictures turned out except the one of me sweating my ass off with Melanie whispering filthy things to me. I danced with everyone, a woman of 60, giggling girls, and my de facto date would wait looking sour. At the end, at 5AM, my feet hurt and I was soaked. When whatever had possessed me left, I was exhausted. I bid Melanie goodnight and did not share the cab with her, or come see her "Edvard Munch prints at her place", I walked home for an hour hobbling at the end as my legs and feet had revolted. I was freezing from the dry sweat. When the Loa left I was exhausted, and ecstatic. I was puzzled. I was also immensely pleased, because someday when the great scorer adds it all up he can note that at least once in his life this blocky tank of a man was the most graceful person in his district for a whole sweaty two hours and twenty minutes.

And I will happily take that. It's mine. I am keeping it.

Nageln: The drinking game that involves swinging hammers, what could go wrong?

2009-10-23T06:52:00.000-07:00

I can't seem to get out of Vienna.

This is not because I particularly love this city, I don't. It's okay. However the Ruthensteiner Hostel seems to yield up new and interesting and fun people every day. It is very clean and large, it is very comfortable. They also have their own bar until 11pm which serves cheap drinks including a local still fermenting wine call "sturm". It is kind of the perfect place to pre buzz and then saunter into the night. What has tended to happen is that you meet up with people there, and decide to explore the night together. This is how I met Macgyver, Suzie, Nacho, Calgary, Whizkid, Kurt, and Hammer.

Macgyver is realy named Gary and he is an extremely youthful looking 39 year old tatoo artist from Frankfurt. His mother was Chinese so he has large dark almond colored eyes, he is into rockabilly and wears his hair wet with a modest pompadour. He is called Macgyver because is earnest and organized and seemingly prepared for anything. For a tatoo artist his visable tattoos are modest, half sleeves on the upper part of his arms, asian characters and koi and the AC/DC fly. He has a policy at his shop to not give neck and face tats to anyone under 25.

Suzie is really named Suzie. She is 21 from Wisconsin on a work visa in Frankfurt, a visa that will end in January and end her relationship with Gary. She has insanely long eyelashes, an easy smile, and is the only vegetarian I have ever met from cattle country. She wants to be a nurse.

Nacho is a hilariously forward lothario from Argentina. He can play guitar a little and all he knows how to play are panty droppers, talks out his ass constantly, and flucuates from being an over the top douchebag you want to slap, and being admirably charming in a stubbornly foolhardy way. Probably he and I share this trait, only he is more unscrupulous.

Calgary is really name Micala, she is very beautiful and every guy at the Hostel has tried to hook up with her except me. The reason I have not is because when I first arrived I had a dire bathroom emergency that came from a 12 hour train ride in a compartment with six people having eaten two Bratwurst at Munich station before I left. I got to my dorm ran in, and made horrid and terrfying noises. When I finally came out, she was sitting on her bunk nearest the toilet door and say "Hey." I have not tried anything. Also she has a boyfriend anyway, what am I? Nacho?

Whizkid is from Chicago, and studies Philosophy at Dartmouth. He is very serious and his hand eye coordination is not the best. Don't joke with him that philosophy is a worthless major even if you studied it too.

Kurt is a very tall, very hilarious kid from Vancouver. He was walking on cars after awhile and inviting anyne we passed to join us, especially he sketchiest and scariest characters we saw. Probably he is going to be coming with me through Slovakia, Hungary, and Romania.

Hammer is also Canadian, he looks exactly like the third friend from Swingers, loves to talk technically about hockey, and clearly was an athlete because of his reaction when suceeding in bar games.

Hostel Ruthensteiner, as I have mentioned has guitars on the walls for public use, as well as a hand drum and a piano at the bar. Calgary had been getting free lessons from the guys who could play even a little the whole time she was here. Really only one person in the whole place was any good, but he was Costa Rican and so he didn't know many pop songs. Which is how we got stuck with Nacho. I had taken Macgyver and Suzie up the street to show them the best pizza/kebab place amongst the sea of them on the main road. By and by, a popular pizza in Austria is salami and corn. Macgyver was also on a mission to find some Strongbow cider, as it was his favorite, and he has a tendency to get very single minded. In fact he ran off and left me and Suzie so he could find some, while we got falafels.

By the time we had gotten back the bar room in the Hostel was full, everyone sitting in a circle, Miles the cyclist who is also coming to Hungary with me, a couple from Brazil, an Israeli who had just gotten out of the army, probably fifteen people, and Nacho was playing "Don't Look Back in Anger" and everyone was singing, which I of course joined immediately, they enthusiastically made space for me and we were on. For two hours people would look up tab, or from the Beatles songbook and then we'd play, in between there was a lot of conversation and laughing and cheap good beers. By 11 oclock when the lame bartender made us leave, I had monopolized all the ladies Nacho was trying to get the atention of (Because no matter how much I grow up, I am still ridiculously competitive), except Calagry. I think I was talking stupid shit about Edvard Munch to Suzie and these two Aussies called Alexandra and Jen, I kept trying to get Macgyver to hang with us but he was discussing an army tattoo that the Israeli soldier wanted.

The awesome vibe evaporated in the short migration to the next room. It simply was not situated for the big circle, and immediately half the people went to bed and the rest had to segregate into groups. By now, there was no one that wasn't well buzzed or out and out intoxicated. This is when the crew described above decided to go to Travelbar which was very close. Inside people were dancing lasciviously on the tables, and Gary went straight for an odd tree stump with a ton of nails driven into it. He had taken a hammer and stuck several nails in te stump, very straight and precise. Suzie explained to me we were about to play nageln, which is where drunk people use the thin backside of a hammer to try and drive their nail into the stump. You swing once and pass left, last one to drive their nail buys shots for everyone. I looked at Kurt nervously and he nodded and seemed to understand the implication of the look.

Again. The drinking game is using the THIN part of a HAMMER to VIOLENTLY drive NAILS into WOOD. While DRUNK and still DRINKING. This is not beer pong, in Germany/Austria they do not play beer pong. I don't suggest you even mention it.

The secret is to make your arm completely straight and to not bend your wrist. Some people swing hard like the hare and some soft like the tortoise. Macgyver told me horror stories of what he had personally seen go wrong, but he assured me it was very rare. Afterall he was letting Suzie play and he was clearly very much in love with her. This game took an hour, and the bar started to close around us. In the end the Gary had won, obviously, and Nacho was annoyingly second. I was slightly ahead of Suzie and Kurt who would moan whenever I actually hit my nail, obviously most of the time you miss you glance off of it. Whiz Kid was doing so badly that Calgary was sweetly putting her head on his shoulder for comfort, which immediately brought over the kid from Argentina. Hammer though, was the worst, he had not even hit it when he reared back and hit the nail so directly that a spark flew and he was immediately tied with me.

Hammer roared like a linebacker who had just knocked the helmet off of a receiver over the middle on 3rd down. He flexed and exulted and we cheered him. I was happy for him because he had been kind of embarassed. Except Kurt, who was threatening to kill Hammer with his thumbs, somehow.

Me: Your thumbs?

Kurt: Yes. I am a Navy Seal.

Me: You're Canadian.

Kurt: You're next.

Honestly, I love Kurt.

I came in forth, just behind Hammer who hit one of his John Henry blows again a few minutes later. By this time the bartender had turned off the lights and Macgyver had pulled a mini flashlight from somewhere and was shining it like a spotlight on the stump. Whiz Kid came in last by a lot, but did not have to buy drinks. Calgary had adopted a drunk American girl who had been forgotten and left in the restroom, she did not know where she was staying.

It was now nearly 3am. Kurt wanted to stay out and was very vocal, Calgary agreed and Nacho was going where Calgary went. The Hostel clerk told us about a couple places that would still be operating, but he didn't give them high praise. We didn't care, and said good night to Gary and Suzie and went back out.

The bar/nightclub as unmarked. Which usually means great things, or terrible. We kicked it open and immediately were assailed by the strong scent of marijuana. There were no women here, and the men were filthy, and laughing, and shouting at eachother in mirthful tones in languages I didn't understand. The walls were lined with soft and disgusting leather couches. In the morning after being here when I finally took a shower, even my underwear smelled like smoke. We warily took seats the end of the bar and scrounged up the coins for four more beers. The man to my left was drumming along with the hard rock that was playing, and I was forced by Nacho into yet another "Denny defends America" discussion. I have gotten very adept at this, and soon had him backtracking and espousing his respect for my homeland. Though he did make a few decent points, such as I refer to myself as "American" and he also is an American, as well as the two Canadians with us. Also, apparently the US is the only country in the world that teaches there are seven continents instead of six, which I suppose implies arrogance for holdng ourselves apart.

Calgary announced she was headed to the restroom and Nacho excused himself shortly after, and Kurt and I rolled our eyes at eachother.

Kurt: I'd totally go after her, but she's out of my league.

Me: Nonsense. She likes you more than Nacho, she keeps talking about how funny you are.

Kurt: It's amazing how your standards change after six weeks. That sort of chubby busty girl that was in the Hostel with her family... I mean she has a head like Stewie and I was like, in my head "I could tear that up, I just gotta get her Mom away." What's wrong with me?

Me: Her sister is there too.

Kurt: Yes! Oh My God...she's a monster!

He was referring to Lena and Corlena, two severe faced sisters who were Austrian and yet staying in the Hostel. Lena had been wearing a heavy jacket and yet somehow there was a nearly obscene amount of cleavage.

As we were speaking, suddenly there materialized a stocky blonde German man, with long blonde dreads, and a lazy eye. He, more or less, looked right at me and said : "What are you doing here?"

The conversation was off, me telling him I loved the established history, something we Americans couldn't compete with. Laying it on thick, because this man was part of a large group and seemed dangerous. Next to him was a little Austrian man with rotten teeth who only knew pop culture English words and tried to use them as insults and weapons.

"Fuck Arnold Schwarzenegger. HAHAHAHAHA."

He also, oddly, had a very good knowledge of Red Hot Chili Peppers lyrics. He wanted to fight, he kept demanding I punch him.

Now, in Europe, the best diplomacy and easiest way to make friends is to know the biggest soccer star in the country where your assailant is from. In this case, Germany, and the player is midfielder Michael Ballack. If you plan on traveling I suggest watching the World Cup this summer. As soon as I started dropping the names I know from my rudimentary knowledge of the sport. Soon, all but the rotten toothed flea fan were my old friends, Kurt was impressed and we saw Calgary leave looking upset. Nacho followed soon behind. We both knew what that meant, we also knew we had to finish these beers that had been bought for us, either way I was now enjoying this talk with these professional drinkers. I was telling them they didn't want us in the US to ever get serious about soccer, with our size and resources and will to win. They agreed, and when we parted they were all insisting I visit their respective homes, leaving mobile numbers and email addresses.

I fell into my bunk at 6AM. Nacho was still rowing against the current downstairs. The kitchen was locked so I could not hydrate and knew the hangover was coming, and fast. I would be staying in Vienna one more night.

Memento Mori

2009-10-22T08:14:00.000-07:00

The most interesting thing about Vienna is the confluence of the oldest, the old, and new. In the oldest sense Vienna has as stunning a historical district as anyplace, and large. There always seems to be another spire to wander towards, and the Parliament building and Royal Palace sort of hint at the possible granduer of the temples of Greece when civilization was more like an idea. In fact the Parliament building has a series of statues depicting the labors of Hercules, for some reason, mostly his notable defeats of monsters like the Hydra, Nemean Lion, and Cerebus. They are beautiful buildings despite my current bout of Cathedral/Castle fatigue. There are also blocks and blocks of worker apartments from the days of the Warsaw Pact which look to me like an American strip mall would look to Nikita Kruschev, and finally there are shopping districts to rival near anyplace, the elegant avenue leading towards the palace has a Gucci, and Tommy, and Burberry, and Chanel. It is a place with multiple personality disorder. Always an art loving cultural center and yet an enthusiastic participant in Hitler's purges.

In the evenings around 11pm the prostitutes start to wander, its legal here as well, more or less. These women I am told are from poorer countries like Slovakia. In fact in the news there was a story about a group of women who are nurses from that country that moonlight because they make so much more cash selling their bodies rather than helping to keep the bodies of others healthy. Human traffic is also a much more common occurence here. I had heard that many of these women come thinking they are to receive unskilled labor jobs and are then manipulated into selling their bodies and led to believe that all the police are paid off and there is no escape. So, last night when I mentioned to a particularly aggressive lady that she could get help if she wanted and she didn't need to do this, she spit at me and called me a faggot. So I suppose she was local. I have seen a lot of spitting women here.

Near the train station is an underground Synagogue, the only one that survived the purge. And last year they finally saw fit to raising a monument dedicated to the people that helped thousands to escape. Sometimes in this part of the world it still feels like the war is being fought, and it is easy to forget historically speaking how recent all of these events actually were.
The very end of the U3 line you can find the Zentralfriedhof, which is a massive cemetary that holds the bones of Beethoven, Brahms, and every notable Viener for three hundred years. The place is so large that three consecutive tram stops on line 71 stop in front of the gates. The avenues are wide and well kept and lining the streets are family crypts that seem to get more elaborate. There are hundreds of angels and people scultped in stone and metal for their eternal mourning, central steps leading the Patriarch's selpuchre, and large flat heavy stones to cover the stairs down into the vault where ancestors and beloved family members molder. The graves are as the 18th century and yet flower beds before all the markers are well maintained, watered, weeded, cared for. I was the youngest person there by twenty years and I felt guilty taking picures, at one point I walked forty five minutes without seeing another living soul. It was a very quiet and dignified and crowded place. It made me think of how we all need to make do with one life, even though it is not nearly enough, and the vital importance of shared experience. If modern life expectancy holds up I am nearly half way to one of those these quiet green places and repose, and I could never see and touch everything without the help from everyone I know who could report back to me what they have seen and what they have touched. Ironically the quiet and the calm of the massive cemetary made me want to hurry and never sleep, and yet... it made me want to sit on a bench and stare at the inscrutable face of another bust of an Austrian Doctor who died a hundred and thirty years ago and feel time wash over me and gradually push me in its current towards an urn or vault or coffin. Part of life is finding peace, and you can't find it if you hurry overmuch. The part of life is living, and you can't do it if you have too much peace. There are no answers, not really, and there never were, we just do our best.
I am sitting in a hostel and it is starting to rain here. At a table next to me a man going through a divorce is planning his next route on his bike on a quest to ride across Europe, two Aussie women are scrap booking from their four month long trip together and a girl sits drawing or writing in a moleskin notebook. Elsewhere an American is strumming one of the guitars that they have hanging on the walls, he is singingly softly to himself and it sounds very country, near him a guy from Montreal is drinking a beer and looing for something to do, and beyond him are groups of kids on laptops laughing and drinking tea. Last night I closed a bar with these people, and the next day many are gone, and the day after that so will I be gone. If this seems like an elaborate metaphor, that's because it is, but it is also all true.

Being on the road you struggle with the urge to squeeze every last drop of every day. Quiet moments seem like a waste. Like we are willing to let so many so called normal days pass but have this intense need to die on every hill in Cancun, Disneyworld, or Vienna. More and more I have been less driven to drink from the fire hose, and I have started to lose track of time. It takes longer than it should.

Scandinavia Salad

2009-10-15T04:31:00.000-07:00

Images to be added later as they are not properly uploading.

Been a few days. Not much has happened in the way of crazy or particularly interesting anecdotes. I thought that I'd check in with just some various things I took notes on as I have wandered through Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and finally Finland where I have just left. The majority of this is just copied down notes. Also, today going back through Stockholm on my way to Amsterdam I will need to buy a new camera, as mine was stolen off the table of a coffee shop my first afternoon in Helsinki. I was stupid to leave it there. So, a lot of these pictures are of things I'm not exactly describing simply because those pictures are lost.

Arriving in Helsinki

I am writing this from Olympic Stadium in Helsinki Finland, or more speciifcally the old Olympic village. It is not what you'd call a masterpiece of architecture, the stadium is impressive, even though the village (hostel) has more of an Eastern Bloc kintergarten feel escept for the common room which was gorgeous. This is where the 1952 summer games were hosted, which I found surprising, Finland definitely feels more like a winter games town. The morning I arrived it was below freezing as I got lost and walked about 6km to find the hostel.

Drugs and yoga and impending disaster

Christiana is a "free neighborhood" in Copenhagen that enjoys autonomy from the city's laws. It is basically a few city blocks on anarchy, with a very open drug trade, and a sign as you leave that says "Now entering the EU". I didn't have any real interesting experience in the place, and I found it kind of seedy. However I do think that the very existence of it is kind of notable. Christiana makes its own currency called the lon, however the guys on Pusher Street (yes) will accept DKR. There are several very rickety wooden shanties people have built wherever, as there is no building code or zoning laws. It is kind of a hard arrangement to understand, because I am told the City Government (Copenhagen) has been cracking down on the drug trade for about five years. Typically once a month they will ride in and bust everyone, but on the day I was there and most others the drugs are laid out on roadside tables, like a menu, like hotdog stands. I couldn't find anyone willing to allow me to take a picture of this.

Near the open air drug market there are lookouts placed for the inevitable incursions by the local politi. I get the sense that this place is starting to erode, the government is taking steps to normalize the neighborhood, and these hardcore anarchists are not going to go down without a fight. I don't see them organizing any cogent legal defense, but a riot is a very real possibility. The residents that are not junkies and homeless are rabid in the defense of their way of life. The high minded and peaceful yoga enthusiasts are being pushed by a harder edged angry anti establishment youth who are being pushed by the KBH (Kobenhavn, as it is spelled natively) Fuzz.

At its best and most idealized you hear the place is a haven of free thought and artistic expression. A sort of hippie commune given a shred of legal legitimacy that has evolved into an anarchist's sandbox. The idea is much more glamorous than the reality I saw in my very short walk through it. Christiana has been around since 1971, got the bulk of its current legitimacy in 1989, and in 2004 started to come under heavy attack from the politicians of the city. It is certainly a worthy social experiment, but the feel is now as though it is the end of a long game of jenga. There is a fall apart coming, either from within or without. The answer is likely both. The most dangerous looking and feeling people I have seen in all of Scandinavia squat leaning against the old stained bricks of the original military barracks that was there, they are smoking their cigarettes and other things, and squinting at all who pass. These people are not going to leave easily. Their hands are red from the cold and rough from hard living. They are not here for the sharing of ideas, or art, or even freedom insofar as an ideal. They are here to be left alone. To be unhindered by the laws of the real world which restrict them in whatever ways that it does. Mercy on those that try to interfere. There will be murders.

Through sunwashed cobblestone alleys

Stockholm, in the center at Gamla Stan is maybe the most beautiful city I have ever been to. The buildings all have a semi uniform yellow-orange tint to them, like the background of a post renaisssance landscape painting. The townhouses rise directly at the point of water, on the island, nearly all buildings are around 5 stories, but from a distance you can see the four steeples of the Cathedral, Royal Palace, Riddarholm Church, and the House of nobility. The architecture is compact as many of these buildings and the city plan date back to the middle ages. The streets are narrow and cobblestone with winding alleys that you can imagine being lightless and stinking warrens in another, less prosperous time. Of course, the food is bland (as everywhere in Scandinavia), but for walking along strapped with all your possessions and listening to your ipod, there is no better place to be walking that I have found.

"He's the one that raped me officer, the one with the King mask."

The night I got into Oslo it was 10PM local and I was starving. It took me an hour to find a room, this was the night before the famous "Who Dey" incident on the MS Innvik. When I finally found an overpriced room, I went looking for food and ended up at Burger King. I got one of the meals, just a burger, fries, large coke zero and an extra cheeseburger, it was 150 NOK. I realized later that it cost 24 dollars. I am fucking serious. Norway is insanely expensive.

Finland is for lovers

I did not sleep at my hostel either night in Finland. I would still be there were I not meeting my friend Bill in Amsterdam soon and need to make my way so we arrive on the same day. On night one I wandered the main drag near the train station and went into the place with the loudest music. I had bought some vodka on the ship, duty free, so had taken a few drinks before heading out because alcohol in all of these Nordic countries is quite pricey.

Now, in Finland especially, if there is an open spot at your table it is very common for someone to come and sit down. I think this is awesome. They will ask if someone is sitting there, and if not will plop down across from you. Now the weird thing is, in Scandinavia people are very standoffish at first, if you are a stranger it is nearly for certain you will need to start the conversation. Not that its a big deal, but as an outsider it can get occasionally exhausting.

It has beome increasingly clear that I am very under dressed for European nightlife. I had sort of expected this, especially after the loss of my jacket somewhere in Southern France. My suede boots are looking rough, and mostly I am just rocking jeans and sweaters. This is offset by the exotic nature of being a foreigner, so its a wash socially.

I got a drink and sat down, and before long a group of 6 people sat down at the same table and they looked much cooler than I did. They were all together, and they were speaking fast in Finnish which is probably the second most impossible language to pick up in the world behind Mandarin Chinese. After a few minutes when they were a little more settled in, I looked at them, 2 men, 4 women, and I asked: "So...who's the leader here?" They looked at eachother puzzled, I nodded and continued. "Okay, I'll be the leader, but you all need to tell me your names."

5 of the 6 were work friends from some local office, the other was one of the guy's girlfriend. After they warmed up to me they were very fun, and I was made to go and dance several times. Now, please not that I am a horrendous dancer, it probably looks something like an uncooked turkey rolled down a rocky hill out of synch with whatever music. However, the floor in front of the band was so full that it restricted movement and in my case embarassment. Everyone is a bad dancer when there is no room for it. And once I had the acceptance of one group it became very easy to move through the place and speak to everyone, it was as if I had been vouched for. The cross section was impressive, sharp dressed professionals, and kids with mohawks and bullrings, they moved amongst eachother with ease and comfort. I was talking to some punk rockers near the bar when Adelina, from my initial group, caught up with me and started to give me a hard time about leaving them.

"Nonsense." I told her. "I'm your leader I wouldn't leave you behind. I am just trying to find some more subjects."

"We are not good enough?"

"You are very close to good enough, just one or two more people." She laughed. Sometimes I am on, and I was very on.

I got back to the Hostel the next afternoon around 1PM. I had gone for a change of clothes, and it took me forty five minutes to get there from Adelina's place (Ye-Yeah!) My plans were to see the Picasso Exhibit at the National Gallery, and then try to match Friday night with Thursday night. At the Hostel I met an American named Andrew who was also laid off and traveling, a former entertainment lawyer from LA, and we made plans to meet up. Much of our conversation was about how isolating it could become when alone all the time and how it was puzzling that people in hostels seemed to prefer hanging out in them at night rather than go out. You will see the same person camped with their laptop the whole day, and into the night, why travel?

That night Andrew and I were walking towards the tram stop talking when this girl walked up to us, she was short, wearing thick rimmed hipster glasses, leggings and chuck taylor all-stars. In Europe everyone wears chucks. "Why are you guys speaking English?" Cause we're American. "Really?! Where are you guys from?" Her name was Nicole, and she was from New Mexico getting a free masters in Architectural design in Helsinki. She was headed to the stadium for a concert so we followed her. However, apparently in Helsinki there are two venues called Toloon hall, and she had gone to the wrong one, so she decided to come along with us as a guide.

Friday night in Helsinki was the most fun I have had so far, and ironically it was at Molly Malone's. There is a Molly Malone's like a block from my place in America. And this place was completely kickin' on Friday night. In line to get in (yes.) we met up with a guy from New York who was couch surfing, and a finnish couple who stopped to ask us for directions. This was the night I noticed a lot of Finnish girls spit. Spit like baseball players on the street. You have these super beautiful, and they are beautiful- Finland is filthy with hot girls, and every few minutes in a conversation they will turn away and spit on the street! I never ever got used to seeing it. Nicole told me it was something that had just started in the last year or so. She thought it had come from some film, but she wasn't sure which.

Anyway, by the time we got in there I was rolling with eight people I had met that day, and we were all talking like old friends. One good thing about meeting new folks every day is that all your best stories are new again. The band sang in English, and there were drink specials for vodka, it was a good scene. We amused oursevles dancing, swapping stories, and exchanging slang words in native languages. Eventually we played games where the guys would go talk to ladies, and then someone from the group would go and cockblock. This sprung from my story of the greatest cockblock of all time...here it is...

-The greatest cockblock of all time-

Every year, everyone from my fantasy football leage meets up after the season to divide up the cash and just hang out. It's something I look forward to every year and a tradition that is one of the reasons it is the best league ever, I truly enjoy hanging out with those guys. The greatest cockblock of all time actually happened the year I missed thi event. Anyway, after dinner we usually go and hit the bars and this one year the guys went to Crowley's up in Mount Adams, I had to work so this is all second hand from like five sources.

Our pal Googy was making time with this lady, and really getting somewhere. It was near the end of the night, and all signs pointed to Googs at worst getting her number. She had happily isolated herself from her friends and she was looking at his passport, he was making her laugh, they were leaned in close. Googy had not driven himself, and it was the end of the night and more than a few people were sauced, including the league commisioner Mark. Mark, who I could picture with his troublemaking grin and glassy eyes from the beers was trying to get people organized to leave as last call was rapidly approaching. He made his way right over to Googs and the girl and he said in a very loud voice:

"Dude, are you gonna fuck her? Or are we gonna go?"

Googs' eyebrows shoot up and he shrugs "I guess we're gonna go."

Greatest cockblock of all time. No argument.

-End anecdote-

By the end of the night at Molly's, around 330am, I was walking with the Finnish couple and Nicole, everyone else had scattered. After a cursory look for places that were still open I agreed to walk Nicole home, or more insisted since the buses weren't running, not that she argued. She had been super cool to us, and had hilariously rolled up my pants when I got hot in the bar from the movement and crush of people. I looked ridiculous. My pants are getting way to big for me, due to all of this walking loaded down with my stuff. I think I have lost fifteen pounds in 3 weeks, I had to make a new hole in my belt.

I did not realize the walk to Nicole's apartment on her campus would take an hour and a half. We weren't even in Helsinki anymore, I was freezing, my feet were in agony. We got to her place at sunrise, and had one of those really connected and cool talks you have sometimes on the walk there. By the time we arrived it was her "shift" to do the laundry, so she washed my clothes too.

The Hostel in the Olympic village was basically a 40euro place to keep my backpack for two days. Last night I was on a ship and I stayed in my cabin and rested my legs which still felt like they were going to fall off. And right now I am typing all of this at a coffee shop in Sweden, my plans are to watch football tonight, do laundry, and rest some more. Afterall, in two days I will be in Amsterdam with an old friend and I am going to need to be rested.

Ahoy-Dey

2009-10-12T01:38:00.000-07:00

NOTE - Written at an internet cafe in Oslo station, pictures to be added later.

By and large Europe is very kind of English speakers. In the main cities it is easy to find even that the kids working at Burger King have enough of the language to help. However, I still do find that I spend a lot of time simply walking around bewildered by the world around me. Engaging people in conversation is sometimes a dogged task, especially in Scandinavia where people seem to keep themselves a great deal. Especially at night. People in Copenhagen and Oslo don't seem to be real fond of physically imposing men walking up to them at night and speaking a non native tongue. They are polite but nervous. They also have places to go. Some night I just wander and see the city and listen to people talk excitedly in words I can't decipher.

In Copenhagen, on Friday and Saturday night local businesses set up tents in every public square. They set up games, give out literature and food. At least I think that's what goes on. Best I can tell, some of them were farm machine sellers, or phone service, every branch of the Danish armed forces sets up a makeshift recruitment center. One of them came to me wearing a blue beret and speaking quickly. I guess at least if you joined the Danish army, Dick Cheney wouldn't see to it you were off dying on a lie in Iraq... woooho! Rimshot. But enough politics, now that I have taken my potshot. Heh.

It is an odd and disorienting experience to wander through busy streets, see and hear people laughing, but understanding no bit of their conversation. Imagine living without context. It makes one feel like an old widower, wandering to the park, to feed the swans that sail along the canals. It's a relationship you understand, you give the bird bread, the bird eats it, it makes sense. One of the tents had open fires, and long handled cast iron ladles that people were using to make pancakes over open flame. This tent appeared to sell stuffed animals, as in taxidermy. Surreal.

Obviously I have the social powers to break such confusion, but some nights I choose not to. Its oddly thrilling to have absolutely no agenda but to stand where things are happening. To draw your own conclusions with no verbal hints but the tone of voice. To truly watch what people are doing, and what their body language says, it is a completely different way of going about existing in the world.

Last night I stayed on a Botel, as they are called. It was called the M.S. Innivik. It was also a bar, dance hall, and makeshift movie theater that showed DVDs. It sounds like, with all that, this was a large ship. It was not. The Innivik is moored adjacent to the Oslo Opera House, and I thought it would be a nice quiet evening staring out at sea. At 7PM local, when the NFL games were starting I set up my laptop at the end of the bar and set about trying to find a free internet stream to show me the game. It wasn't until the middle of the 2nd quarter I had found one, and to my surprise the bar room of the ship was starting to fill with rough looking men in all denim, and rastafarians. Soon the proceedings were in full swing, they were doing chants and downing their beers. One of them noticed me sitting with my elbows on the bar, chewing my knuckles, with headphones on. I smelled him before I felt him looming, I smelled his breath from the drinks, and the smokes, and the few days at least without brushing. He was peering over my shoulder with a cherubic grin on his face. I liked the mischevious glint in his eyes.

"Uh hey. How's it going?" I asked him.

"What's all this. Amer-ee-can futbol?"

"Hey, that's right. I dunno if you know this but those guys in the purple are fuckers." Here he laughed. One thing Europeans understand implicitly is what it means to hate an opposing team with all the blackness of which your heart is capable.

"So they are bad yah?"

"Absolutely. That guy there..." I pointed at Ray Lewis. "Stabbed somebody and then let his friends take the fall." Which is really only partially true.

"The fall?" He looked confused and I realized I was speaking in slang.

"Blame." I said. "He let his friends take the blame." And now my new friend looked a little offended.

"Eh." He nodded. And for a few minutes I explained to him about my team, the long suffering Bengals. He listened with an offputting intensity, his eyes never ever leaving mine and his brow furrowed like he was angry. Every now and then he would give a single and decisive nod. After I was done he turned away and shouted at his friends in Norweigan and they came over as well. It was clear that he was the leader, he was the shortest and hardest looking of them. Somewhere along the way he told me is name was Ött. By this time the game was winding down, They all groaned when Ray Rice broke his 49 yard touchdown pass.

"Don't worry." I told them. "This is how we do it now. Watch number 9, Carson Palmer is going to be perfect from here on out." These guys were all huddled around me watching my little laptop screen. I pulled my earplugs so they could hear the audio, they really enjoyed the hit on Chad Johnson (I will not call him Ochocinco) by the Villainous Ray Lewis. Then I had to explain to them it was a cheap shot and "Stabbit Ray", as my friends call him, was a punk. They were thoroughly confused by the penalties and what they were for, but I felt they were firmly on my side. I have made girls watch football who were more baffled, at least these fellas liked it when someone took a monster hit.

"Fucka him!" Ött declared. I high fived him, and he laughed.

"Fucka him with a knife." I agreed.

There were probably fifteen people peaking around trying to see at this point. I turned and winked at Ött. I knew we were going to win. When Palmer hit Caldwell for the winning touchdown I jumped out of my stool with my arms in the air and the Sailors and Dreadheads cheered, as if they were cheering me, and maybe in a way they were. In any case they were thoroughly happy for me. They raised glasses and started on of their chants, and when they were done I responded with: "Who dey! Who dey! Who dey think they gonna beat them Bengals....NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBODY!" They liked it so well they made me teach it to them. So, if ever in Norway you hear the nonsensical victory chant of the Cincinnati Bengals, it might not be that you are simply homesick. They might just be actually saying it.

It was a late night on the boat in Oslo, and whenever someone said "Who Dey" there was a chorus in response and the clinking of mugs. I remember thinking of the pleasant dichotomy and inimitable feeling of living in a world where you are confused most of the time, and then suddenly have it make total and complete sense as if you were home.

Who Dey indeed.

Monsters, no. Ghosts, yes.

2009-10-08T08:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I took a ferry boat across the Baltic Sea from Germany to Denmark on my way to Kobenhavn. The train rides straight into the boat, everyone gets off and goes upstairs and the boat carries the train across the sea. It is already cold in Scandinavia, it snowed yesterday in Helsinki, and standing on a deck of a ship feeling the Artic wind blow down on you from its very home you are suddenly aware of your fingers and toes. I wrote this after I had gotten back on the train.

10/7

I can tell you how to see a ghost. You have to be standing on a ship, and from the East the sun is ascending and unimpeded by anything to cross its brilliance, and from the west a constant chilling wind blows violently. You will need a source of music and you must specifically play "New Slang" by the Shinns on repeat. Then you stare north at the horizon where the rich blue of the sea meets the gray watercolor blue of the sky. You must stand that way for thirty minutes, until you are good and freezing, and you are ready to go inside. Your mind will have wandered far away from you, and your lungs will wonder how you found air that was so clean. When you can barely stand it any longer, look down over the side of the boat, just away from where the wake of your vessel has churned the water into foam. You will be squinting from the sun in your left eye, and from the wind in your right. If you did it correctly the water will be a smooth and intensely dark green color, and you will see shapes flickering just under the surface. You will swear you saw your entire past and future play out simultaneously over top eachother in a fathomless chaotic dance. You'll see the stream of your time racing from points unknown, and well trodden, and you will see where they raced into eachother at top speed and crashed. You'll realize you are standing on the place where they crashed and you always have been. That you have never not been. All the ghosts you see, ghosts in the water, they are your ghosts, and you will suddenly be aware of the fantastic and impossible odds you overcame to be standing where you are, when you are, as who you are. There was no reason that any of this should have ever happened. Only it did happen. It's happening right now. You might find that your life has always been happening and you didn't think of it that way until just now.

It isn't easy, but if you do it right, and your eyes are true, you will witness tiny miracles over and over. You will know gratitude, and you will forget to be cold.

When I was a child I was watching a television show I can't recall. On the show was a monster of some sort, he had bruised skin and a puckish aspect to his face, maybe he had tiny devil horns on his head. He grinned a lot, and bantered with the hero. I was transfixed by him, and I turned and asked my Stepfather Byron where he came from. Byron said to me "Denmark. He came from Denmark."

So, what I'm saying is, I used to think monsters came from Denmark. When I didn't believe in monsters anymore, I didn't think there really was a Denmark. Until I stumbled onto it playing a the globe in my Elemtary school library in the third grade. We used to look at names of countries, I always marvelled that Niger was just one letter away from a awful word to call black people, and it was in Africa. I thought that was some kind of cruel joke. It couldn't really be called Niger could it? How did they get away with that? Who was reponsible? When I saw Denmark on the globe I recall suddenly having a twisting stomach. It simply didn't occur to me that Denmark could exist without charismatically terrifying blue skinned devils, the world was still bigger than could be considered back then. I don't know when I let it go, I never thought about it again until just now when I was, afterall, sitting in Denmark and thinking of something to write down. I can report that I have seen no monster activity, just a lot of blonde people who are tall. Modern day Vikings riding bikes. Lots of bikes to go with the wind turbines. I suppose it is no coincidence that the air here seems like it was just opened from the package or freshly picked.

The Hostel here is called Sleep in Green. It is down a small side street near a movie theater. The inside is painted in a constant album cover like mural of graffiti. I like it here. It's like a hippie commune, the workers are all hanging out with their friends, the internet is good, its clean and charming and hip.

They had a shockingly good Art museum complete with three Van Goh paintings, and an impressive collection of Egyptian and Classical artifacts. How they ended up in Denmark...who knows? Does anyone know, officially, how long a time has to pass before grave robbing turns into science?

Nothing especially crazy today, or thoughful. Copenhagen has surprised me by being kind of awesome and I will be staying an extra night so that I can see the Trivoli Gardens, which is an in city amusement park/botanical garden done up for Halloween. Then the plan is to go to Oslo, Stockholm, Helsinki, Amsterdam, Brussels, Bruges, Luxemborg, Vienna, Salzburg, Budapest, Bucharest, Bran... to be at Dracula's Catsle on Halloween. That's just the rest of the month, I got tired writing that. It's hard to believe I have only been here two weeks. I suppose it has been rather eventful, but it seems like forever ago I lost my railpass in Nice.

Its naptime. I was prancing 'round Copenhagen for 9 hours on my feet today. I am writing this from six hours in he future, don't worry, everything is fine.

The black spot

2009-10-07T11:47:00.000-07:00

This all happened before I was an unwitting street performer, and before my adventures with prostitutes.

A lot of people who are more talented than I am have described what it means to walk on the ground where terrible things happened, and I know now that they too found words to be too clumsy a thing to express the meaning and movement of the whispers you hear. At the risk of digression, I suppose in a sense that proves the value of experiencing your own life. Ultimately, no one, no matter how eloquent, or empathetic can ever properly and wholly explain to you what it means to feel something.

Dachau is a twenty minute train ride from Munich hbf. These days it looks like a military barracks, the grass is green and well tended, in the front a flag pole stands proud and unaware the dark history over which it stands vigil. In America and almost every other place the children are taught about the Holocaust, and they are taught about Hitler, and the numbers are enormous and they seem not real. I grew up in an age of hyperbole, of fantastic action movies where an enormous body count was part of the drama and skillfully severed from the actual meaning of a life ended, who is hurts, how it affects the world; except for the parts designed to make you feel them. To me WWII was this great battle of good and evil, and good won, and so it was okay. Like an action movie, the enormous numbers of dead were like a plot device to make the enemy darker, and more redoubtable. The Holocaust was a giant statistic, some disturbing photos of piles of dead in black and white, gaunt faces and ribcages, and deep sunken eyes that stared into the very face of a monster. Images that were only slightly more real than the films I grew up on, and thusly I was insulated by all that damage and pain. I was outraged, but only because I was told I ought to be. I didn't understand.

I believe in the power of the energy of emotion. I think if enough bad things happen someplace, those things change the place. There is no sound at Dachau, I didn't hear any birds, or the natural ambient sound of the world happening around. There were just soft steps and softer words. Tour guides would speak the loudest in respectful tones. We were led to where the roll was called every morning, the barracks, the gs house, and the oven. Even typing it now makes me shudder. When you stand in front of the yawning portal where so many screaming people were shoved in terror. I imagined myself in there, or someone I love, or anyone, and I started to cry. I felt a thimble full of the rage that causes the Israeli government to chase the last of the SS to the ends of the Earth where they are in repose in filthy apartments, or retirement homes, pretending it never happened. How could anyone throw anyone to be immolated, to be cremated alive? How can you die that way in any dignity, stripped of your family and possessions and worked until your very body betrays you and you are thrown into the fire?

Imagine the smell. There is a film they show of the people who survived and the piles of people who did not. It is something you cannot unsee. Even when you turn away, and everyone turns away.

Dachau is green like a park, and I salute the people of Germany for maintaining their shame. Keeping it as a reminder what it means to fall into the darkness of not questioning what you are told. By doing horrible things in the name of self preservation. If one SS had said enough, he was next in the fire, and I am sure it happened. But if all the SS had done it... They couldn't have all been evil, bad people, could they? They too were dehumanized, but they did ultimately have the choice. What would you or I do to survive? Would you leave your wife a widow, your children orphans, and your parents bereaved to do the right thing? How many other doomed lives would you personally destroy to save your own? Would you escape and leave the ones you loved behind to be gassed and shot and burned and starved? When the forces of evil have truly taken us there is pain and loss in all directions. When the darkness is complete, you can't see where to run to the light. Dachau is one of the places in the world that was plunged to the sightless depths, and the shadow will never quite be off of it.

Being there, or any concentration camp, you can feel it and it works its way into your bones and eyes and you never forget. You can't forget, nor should you ever ever forget. It can still happen, and it still does happen, people are rounded up and tortured and shot. It made me thankful for what I have, and why should I be so lucky? It made me angry, that we have as a race abided such actions and still do. The only thing that keeps us from slipping into barbarism is ourselves.

I quietly wept there, and said a small prayer for the dead though I cannot recall the last time I ever prayed. I was so far away from all of you who care about me, and I had to make do without the comfort of being close to the people I love. It was the time in my trip so far that I missed my home the most.

Aesop's Drunk

2009-10-06T13:20:00.000-07:00

A man walked down the street. The street he was walking down was not just any street, it was a wide avenue full of flickering lights, there was music in all directions, and sex shows, and strip clubs. The name of the street was the Reeperbahn, it runs parallel to the river and it is named for the rope that used to be tied down the middle of the street that people could hang onto before streets were paved and things got muddy. The Reeperbahn used to be frequented by sailors, crews of both the river barges and the shipping galleys from the harbor would come there, they would come there because it was one of the world's most famous red light districts.

The man walking down the street was drunk. He had been at a club before, a club called the Star-Club made famous by having the Beatles in residence for over sixty days before they were anything big. The people on the street on a Tuesday night were tourists, the drunk man saw old couples holding hands walking passed the working girls who were obvious because they all were blonde and they all were wearing fannie packs. Still, there was something naughty about the entire set up that the man liked, he had been here in the day, and at night he saw the place with its neon makeup. He knew from hearing that nearby was Herbertstrausse, which was closed off to women and anyone not eighteen years old. Women waited in windows like in Amsterdam, he was not going to go, even for a look in his state. The drunk man was not here for the prostitutes, he was here because this was where you were supposed to party. He ignored the barkers trying to hustle him into their clubs, he knew where the train station was and that was his direct path.

He saw them out of the corner of his eye, as he crossed a street. In Germany people rarely jaywalk, even if the street is empty. They were in front of him as he stepped onto the sidewalk, they were two beautiful smiling blonde German girls. They had fannie packs.

"Guten Abend". He would find out later her name was Kristina.

"Hey." He said warily, they were blocking his path. Later when he gave the autopsy of the evening he saw the subtle and ingenious aspects of their craft. They expected that he would not push them aside rudely, and they were correct, he had always been respectful of women; it had been drilled into him from birth. When he his heels hit the pavement, he was already the prey.

"Are you from the US?" She sounded excited.

"I am. --"

"How do you like Hamburg?"

"It's nice. --"

"How long you stay?"

"Just tonight.--" Every time he answered another question came before he could excuse himself. His downfall was politeness. He looked them in their faces, they really were very pretty girls. His idea of prostitutes were the American type, either emaciated walking corpses selling the last thing they had, or the insanely gorgeous and expensive types that brought down Eliot Spitzer.

"Are you enjoying the city? Learning new things."

"Uh." He knew where this was going.

"Because you should learn about legal German prostitution." Here it was. He laughed. He was interested, but it was because he was drunk, and also because he was vaguely fascinated with sex as a business. As something without feeling or passion attached. These were girls from Germany, there was no chance they were human traffic forced into the worst kind of dehumanizing slavery. They were here because the money was good, and by choice. He had never actually spoken with a whore, ever. "We are independant girls, we have a house thirty meters from here, none of us do tis for drugs, or pimps, we are running a special tonight, two girls for sixty euros. One in your arms, with the boobies and touching and snuggle, one working with her hands, or mouth, or sexy sexy. Nothing kinky."

"I... wait. Sixty euros?" He blinked. He had been dancing earlier, there was a Beatles tribute band and they were amazing. Helter Skelter was still in his head, still in his blood being pumped into him, making him high on the joy of movement. He was intoxicated, they were very beautiful and he was suddenly seduced with his heels on the pavement, barely on the street.

"Sixty euros, yes, no kinky things."

"Both of you?" He had answered so many questions in a row with yes. Are you American, yes. Do you like Hamburg, yes. Are you enjoying the city, yes. Are you learning new things...?

Yes.

"Yes. Both of us. It is Tuesday, there are not so many people out jah?"

"That's a nice offer I... I'm just going to walk up the street and check out the whole thing. I might be back." It was his last feeble try.

"What do you do for living?" They were still blocking his path, both smiling brightly. They both had tanned skin and nice full lips, painted lightly frosted pink. They smelled like fucking. They were dressed in matching denim skirts and white pull over jackets. They did not look trashy in the least.

"Jobless. You guys need any men? I'll dye my hair blonde." They laughed far too hard, and he was to drunk to honestly assess their flattery. They had him, he was just wriggling on the hook. More fresh meat, with a fat wallet, and glassy eyes.

He definitely had sixty euros. And so he followed them the thirty meters and he followed them into the non descript door nestled between the kebab stand and dildo shop. He followed up a twisting spiral stair well and the walls were red from the light. It looked like a movie set of a den of iniquity that a thirty one year old man was entering for the first time. It was very warm, bordering on uncomfortable, the drunk man wondered if he would write about this where his Mother could read. He wondered why he wasn't even really nervous.

"We sit on the bed, thirty or forty five minutes, you don't have to leave after you make orgasm." Their accents were charming. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes. I'll have some water thanks." His mouth was dry, so perhaps he was a little nervous.

"You sure you don't want vodka? Fanta? Something stronger?"

"Water is perfect."

"Do you mind if we have something to drink?"

"Not at all."

"It costs seven euros fifty, so seventy five euros."

The drunk man arched an eyebrow. The same trick was often pulled at strip clubs, he found it amusing.

"Whatever."

Kristina, sat and small talked with him, was he married, did he have kids, guessed his age incorrectly young to further flatter him. She told him he had nice skin that made him look younger than he was. Jemine returned with his water and two beers. Later he would realize that they offered something stronger to charge him more.

"We can't start until you get undressed honey."

"Oh. Are we at that part? Aren't you guys going to drink the drinks I paid out the nose for?" They laughed and ignored his question. It wasn't long before the man was indeed undressed, and the beautiful whores had stripped to their underwear. They were tanned and toned, their bodies were most satisfactory to his lewd intent. Both of them had elaborate tattoos, which further added to the exotic nature of the affair.

He was told to lay back, and he did. Kristina cuddled on his shoulder and he stared at her. Her skin was very soft, they were professional in every way.

"Now we explain what happens, so the customer can get exactly what he wants. You can have any party you like, you can have live lesbian show, or one girl puts her nice shaved pussy over your face and you can play with it with fingers and get nice view while the other sucks or fucks, or you can have nice S&M time, whipping, or nipple clamps, anal on us or on you, we can take you to the bathroom and do French shower. Everything is possible depending on what the customer wants, we can do Chinese style, do you know Chinese style?"

"Uh...no."

"Its a special way to move hips, for deeper penetration, you can pay to have both girls naked-"

"Wait what?"

"Shh shh, we explain. We can do Indian tantra, very slow, some customers like to stay longer an make more orgasms. We can put on show until ready again. The maximum you can spend is eight hundred euro."

This was way less hot now, the full menu was overwhelming, and the drunk man suddenly felt very vulnerable and stupid. Jemine had put a condom on him, and her hand was working to arouse him, but it wasn't working.

"Did you say, you don't take your clothes off?"

"We can take our clothes off. Tell us what you want and what you're willing to pay."

"Hang on. What have a paid for?"

"One girl cuddles you, with the boobies and stroking and the other works on you with her hand. She can use a cockring if you like."

"Okay. So say I want what you made it sound like I was getting, how much is that? Like another seventy five?" It all made sense to him now. His first mistake was stopping his gait on the street.

"It would be two hundred. Do you have it with you?"

"Uh...no."

"That's okay. Most guys don't carry that much cash. We take credit or debit cards." Here she rolled over and produced a xeroxed half sheet of paper where he was supposed to write his credit card number, and pin. She was going through some spiel about how he would be protected but the minimum withdrawl was four hundred euros. The drunk man was worldly, but he had gotten his ass handed to him by these veteran hustlers. "Make a nice present for yourself."

"Yeah. Listen. You guys sure are good at fucking people." He laughed at his pun, and handed her the form, he allowed the double hot German blonde suicide girls fantasy fade away forever. He had never wanted to have sex less in his entire life. "I'm not comfortable with this at all. You guys can keep the seventy five." They had made him pay before they had made him take his clothes off, it all lined up. He had been a mark the entire time. Humiliation burned him all over. There was a reason he had never done this, and now he remembered.

They were conversing in German, he was sure not nice things were being said. He dressed quickly. "You don't have to give the card, you can go get the money."

"Yeah. But no. Also I can give myself a better handjob than you can, and I can do it bareback." He started to the door.

"You wait for her to lead you out. You are in the red light district." Kristina's eyes were hard and cruel now. He met them with a level gaze.

"Thanks for looking out for me. You're very nice." And he pushed the door open and shouldered passed the other whore and walked down the steps. He was far less drunk now, and far less polite.

He walked the street, and he this time he did not stop for any of the fannie packs, he passed the clubs without looking up, or the alley that led to famous and seedy Herbertstrausse. He boarded the train and realized his belt was still undone. He chortled and buckled, some tourists watched him and he was tickled by how obvious he was. All the way home he thought about how it would be easier to write it all down in the third person. He was wiser now, and less innocent as a result. He grew up a little more, and he felt like something in him had diminished too and would never be recovered, just how it always feels to learn a lesson.

Quick funny anecdote

2009-10-05T10:07:00.000-07:00

I went to Dachau today, and I have to confess that I am a little shaken up. I'll write about it in the next couple of days, if only for my own catharsis. However, I want to share the story that bounced me back a little.

Coming back on the bus from the camp I was in sort of a trance. I wandered around Munich, took some pictures, and I couldn't shake this feeling of weight in the air all around me. I was pretty melancholy and was very inattentive to the world around. Pulling my trusty ipod I decided to play some songs with a little pep, in hopes that the music could direct my mood into less dark recesses.

It worked, in short, I was sitting at a fountain near yet another giant old Church and apparently started singing along with Janis Joplin listening to "Me and Bobb Mcghee". I had the volume all the way up, and I realize now that I could hear myself through my headphones and the music and so I was singing pretty damn loud. I did not realize what I was doing until a nice Asian tourist couple walked over to me and dropped a 1 euro coin at my feet!

I stopped suddenly, of course, I stared at the coin and I realized what had happened and laughed hysterically. I think I made them nervous, they walked away quickly. I looked around and people were staring, and smiling, and also laughing.

Oops.

Anyway. I feel better now.

Remembering Charlie Mops

2009-10-04T00:55:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Munich on a night train from Paris a little after dawn on Saturday October 3rd. It had been a sleepless night, largely, as it was very cold in the cabin and I had stayed up late in the night speaking with Josef, an architect from Tours, and Paul a dairy farmer from Wisconsin on semester abroad working in genetics. Later we were joined Mehud from India, a Doctor. It was good company and the conversation ranged far from politics, sports, accents, culture, I drank deeply from it as engaging talk had not been common thus far.

Autumn is taking Germany, surely, and the window in our cabin did not keep the chill away. When my eyes opened I found that my arms were folded into my shirt and I was fetal against the wall. No one felt rested and everyone was aware of possible rigors to come that evening. My hotel would not be ready for some hours, as was the case with Paul, and Josef stuck with us for a few hours and we sat in the Munich station and watched the refugees from last nights revels stagger in, and the fresh meat stride out. Train stations in Europe, the large ones anyway, have a shopping mall feel to them. The food that is quality array of local fare, there are clothing shops, markets, and every place you look to sit there is often someone already there. They are hugging their bags, or shushing a child, or staring into space and slowly rocking back and forth. They are all subconciously keeping time, waiting to get on the train, and on with their lives.

Munich's Hauptbahnhof was especially festive, as you can well imagine. The table next to us was populated by a friendly couple from Halifax, and then two enormous and strapping German men in shorts held by suspenders and matching green hats, they were wolfing down two sandwiches each. When I asked them how they were doing today the larger of the two, with a wide and straight grin said and a deep resonant voice: "SHHHTABLE."

After they met friends they were off, and replaced by a ragged Croatian. His hair was slimy, and he smelled like the night before. He was nursing a beer from a bottle and he had lost his sense of personal space. The only English words he knew were "Big, Obama, and Bush". He was very physical, hugging, slapping, and bumping fists. His stale breath and rank armpits settled in a cloud around us, and it lingered with the sudden awkwardness and then ultimately, menace. Josef has the appearance of physical delicacy, he is thin, with long curly poet's hair. Nothing in his demeanor or appearance would give pause to an overbearing drunkard blowing in from the cold morning. The drunk slapped at Josef's face, and laughed, it was hard to tell if he was trying to provoke or if his self awareness had evaporated. I felt myself tense, and I brought my shoulders back and chest out like on a nature show -- "Watch now as the American traveller feels threatened, his eyes widen, and his chest sticks out to show potential enemies his size and strength." -- I told the man to stop. He laughed and did some sort of weird tai chi dance and spoke in broken English and Slavik, I think he was talking about being in the Serbian war. He went to his knees and bent all the way back, nearly touching his spine on the ground. He waved at me from this position and then clumisly got to his feet, grabbed my hand, kissed it, and was on his way.

Josef was shaken and ashamed of it. He told me a story of when his car was rear ended by a Gypsy in a stolen automobile in Paris, and when they got out of the car the gypsy had badly beaten him, unprovoked and viciously. He said that all confrontations that might end in violence always made him severly anxious as a result. The drunkard had broken our momentum, and the conversation slowly died as each of us tried to dissect the whole incident and ponder on what it all meant. Josef left to meet his friends and Paul and I went to our separate accomodations.

The grounds for the fesitval are very near the station. And when I arrived there I was surprised at the modernity f it. Back home in Cincinnati Oktoberfest is more quaint, there was no polka music here in Munich. Rather the flashing lights of the amusement park rides play techno, or top 40 pop. The rides were all painted gaudily, one I particularly remember was painted as a movie poster from the Matrix, and also the Fifth Element. Away from the tents, there are the aforementioned rides, and of course a massive amount of stalls for food, sausage, fish, pork sandwiches, spiced nuts, and as you make your way the scents change. In fact the entire atmosphere assaults you on all sensual fronts. One of the stalls sold skewers of fresh fruit dipped in chocolate. Only the best chocolate I have ever had in my entire life by far. In the great middle of the grounds, you see very few people who are drinking or drunk. It is the in between space for those taking it slow, or meeting up, on the far north there is a grassy hill where there is no space for all the people laying down and resting. The signs of fatigue are everywhere, one of the first people I saw was a man sobbing uncontrollably at his girlfriend who was clearly massively pissed at him. There were four or five people with hand injuries, and I saw another with the pink stains of washed blood down his shirt and a swollen nose. I thought of the drunkard from this morning, and I thought of the underside of too much joy.

Finally, dotted amongst everywhere else are the tents. Each brewhouse has its own, and the elite crowd for each is specialized. Typical revellers just go where the line is shortest, or where they happen to be near when they want a drink. Getting into the tents at peak hours is a trick akin to getting into exclusive nightclubs, you can gladhand or bribe the guard, or arrive mid morning and keep your spot for twelve or thirteen hours. Constantly people are standing on the tables and they are singing and screaming and pointing at one another. The first song I heard sung by the crowd was not an old Bavarian folk song, but rather "Knockin' On Heaven's Door." The baseline from the White Stripes' 7 Nation Army is apparently the unnofficial motif of the entire affair. If you start the first bar of the music, everyone in earshot will join in, and then they will prost you an ask you where you are from.

I don't know what tent the currents led me to, I knew at the start but now I do not. I was taking a picture when I was grabbed by a group of Englishmen. One of them made me take a gulp of his stein, they asked my name, my nationality, what I was doing there. From that point my evening was a dizzying fog of faces and names and points on maps. Imagine my night as an ornately painted vase, and then thrown from the 6th story window of my hotel room. I can pick up any piece and remember something, but I can't ever put it back together. My constant companions from the night were an Englishman from Nottingham that we called Locksley, a German couple who had stein sized plastic breasts they made everyone put over their beer at some point, a heavy metal loving man from Frankfurt who I had three aggregate hours of conversation with and never got his name, and then later Alex a local nurse, and Sussanah who was in town from Salzburg where she studied tourism management.

Locksley was fond of telling everyone I was a writer from America, and by the end of the night girls would sidle up to me and ask me the name of my television show. It was like some odd, beer fueled version of the telephone game you played when you were small. Everyone whispers a message to eachother and at the end you see how it got skewed. All information seemed to flow that way outside of and inside the tent. As the night wore on, security would breeeze by, one man holding each arm of the person being removed. They would take the offending lush and push him out in the path away from the tent and then leave. If the drunk was bold, he could come straight back, and many did.

By the end of the night my name was "America". I was standing on a table with two Brazillians and a Kiwi and we were singing the Ballad of Charlie Mopps as I had taught them. Sussanah was trying to get me to come down, pulling at my hand and when I finally obliged I twisted my ankle and came down like a ton of bricks. It was an injury that wouldn't hurt until morning, I was sure, and so Locksley bought me another mug and gave me a 7 out of 10. Saying I lost massive points for the botched dismount. Everything happening around me was going super fast in some places, and slow motion in others. The beer is strong, of course, and my German friends were gratified to hear me call Miller and Bud "bullshit". At the end I was forced to produce my pen and I left with scrawled mobile numbers and email addresses on the paper I had written my train instructions upon.

I woke up face down in my hotel bed. My laptop was playing an episode of Deadwood in loop. A maid was banging on the door. It was my birthday.

The 1st verse lyrics to the Ballad of Charley Mops

A long time ago

Way back in history

When alls we had to drink was nuthin but cup of tea

Along came a man by the name of Charley Mops

And he invented a wonderful drink and he made it outta hops

He musta been an Admiral, A Sultan or a King

And to his praises we shall always sing

Lookit what he done for us

Hes filled us up with cheer

Lord bless Charlie Mops

The man who invented

Beer beer beer

piddily beer beer beer

From the personal field notes of Murray Aames Roosevelt: Vol 1. -- My First Plane Crash.

2009-10-01T09:11:00.000-07:00

This is a funky story I wrote on the train. It is weird. You might notice where it has elements of what I have done and seen so far, or you might be far too horrified and concerned about my well being to see it. Anyway, it passed the time, and I think its funny.

I am in Tolouse, the hookers are quite forward for it being 3PM local, so I am hiding in a coffee shop, writing stories and drinking diet coke. My train out of here leaves in four hours, to Paris, and then a night train to Munich.

- - -

A French Waiter with big ears and inquisitive eyes came up to me as I finished my Espresso. He didn't speak any apparent English and so he jabbered at me quickly in his sing song lanuage. I stared up at him prepared to shrug in a confused manner as I had been doing across the entire country, but I was stopped short by the desperation in his eyes. They were great brown orbs pleading to me, trying to look into my mind, trying to will communication between us. The man's frustration was clear, he exhaled, and shifted, he looked right and then left and then reach behind his head and winced in pain. I saw his wrist twist, and heard a sickening meaty click. His knees buckled and his eyes rolled back into his head is if he were going to faint, and then he caught himself. His expression focused, his body righted itself, erect.

"Your train leaves in thirty minutes. You are going to miss it, you fool. You need to be in Tolouse before this afternoon."He grabbed my wrist. "The weasels will be on you soon."

"What? Nonsense!" I slapped him across his face. "Don't you talk to me about weasels. Don't you know enough to keep your voice down?"

It was too late.

I saw them come hustling down the avenue. Their hats were pulled over their eyes and they were blowing whistles. Everyone on the sidewalks, tourists and locals alike stopped and gawked at the show. The only person who did not was listening to music too loud on earphones, and was brutally clubbed aside as they passed. The young man hit face first on the concrete and his two front teeth broke in half. I heard another shrill cry and turned south and saw three more, they were closing, a pincers movement. One of them even ran through the fountain of wine at St. Michel.

"You rotten bastard!" I shouted at him, grabbing my bag. I scrambled to my feet, flipping the table and shattering my tiny cup. I was ready to run when I heard him shouting. "I'll kill you pigs! I live here!" I grabbed his arm and we sprinted towards Hotel de Ville.

"Hurry. They'll never fuck with us here. Don't worry, I have plenty of medievel stamps to keep their minds occupied and away from violence." The Waiter groaned, behind us everyone was shouting as we hustled into the throng of protesters outside of the distinguished Hotel de Ville. The protestors al had the crest of Bordeaux on their white tee shirts, a crest that looked to my American eyes like a biohazard warning. "Keep your head down, dammit." I pulled him to a stop in the chanting crowd. "Walk fast, do not run, say bon jour to the guard."

We approached the gates of the grand old museum next to Saint Andrews Cathedral.

"Maybe we should go into the church." The waiter said. "They wouldn't dare beat or kill us in there. Not ever. It'd be a sacrilege."

"You fool. You think Catholics will save you? Shit. How do you think they get the red dye for their stained glass windows?"

It was a grim tale. My contact in Toloun, a thick chain smoking mulatto named Eliza had been very specific on the beautiful effect of the properly oxygenated blood from human eyeballs when hit directly by the noonday sun.

The dread was palpable as we got to the gates. The fortuitous protest covered our bad scene. All witnesses assumed it had been part of that other show. I nodded and smiled at the guard and gritted my molars as I waited for the Waiter. He wiped his brow and bowed low, the guarded squinted at his odd behaviour, but finally nodded and let us pass.

"We have to find the curator Monsieur de'Ralam, he's a soldier. He will have a way out for us, as long as we can pay him."

"Don't worry." I said, and pulled my precious white envelope from my jacket's breast pocket.

"This is an extremely rare 1923 inverted Eleanor of Aquitaine stamp. It's the only one that wasn't destroyed by the Nazis, it was in Goering's personal collection, so he had all others destroyed. The bastard will faint when he sees this, sure."

The envelope had been nothing but trouble for me. A wild eyed, apparently, homeless man in a tuxedo jacket had jammed it into my hand as I waited for a train at Gare de Austerlitz. He smelled of the street. He told me he was getting married that day and that it was too dangerous for his bride for him to keep it.

"It is so valuable that no honest man can afford to buy it. And so expensive, no dishonest man will pay for it instead of destroying the person who has it. I was once the Attorney General of Luxemborg, I lived in a castle, I owned forty strong Asians, and negroes, to work my fields; I was rich enough to ignore the laws I enforced. Before me Howard Hughes, Huey Long, Princess Grace, and Michael Vick all had it, and you see what happens. Maybe, my friend, your heart and stomach are strong enough."

He opened his jacket, as a clump of hair fell from his head, the inner pocket held a fat gray rat, which he kissed tenderly on the head.

"It'll be over soon, I will be dead in twelve hours, out of my way! Its my honeymoon!" He stepped onto the tracks and ran into the tunnel into the darkness, I quickly fled, feeling as though the great cosmic eye was looking directly at my spine.

The Waiter and I moved quickly down the halls. One either side of us were inreasingly graphic late Renaissance depictions of the Crucifixion. The carpet was deep red, and thick, and soft. Overhead a muzak version of some menacing German techno song played from unseen speakers. At the end of the hall the glass case that had held a fire extinguisher was shattered. There were large oak double doors, trimmed in beaten gold guarded by two identical women, both 6'3, each had a set of long and bent bladed knives at their belts.

"Name!" They said at the same time, they sounded bored, they were both staring at me cooly.

"Murray Aames Roosevelt. This man with me is an insane vagrant I took five hundred euro from a pimp to keep out of trouble for three more hours."

The women sighed, and said in unison, "Business?"

"Passage." I replied. "I need a ride to a small airstrip, that takes personal checks, and a pilot that does not ask questions."

"What's burning?" The Waiter asked.

"Quiet!" I barked and gave the guards a fine smile. "Nevermind this man, the Catholics drained his eyeballs of blood, the poor wretch." Their eyebrows raised at once. "We're friends, see? We killed four protesters on our way in."

With that, the women were put at ease. They smiled wickedly and told us to proceed.

In the room sat two men at a long wooden table, there were fifteen seats in all. The empty chairs were populated by unpainted wooden mannequins.

"Murray Roosevelt!" de Ralam shouted jovially. He was a fat and rapidly balding. In front of him was a sinister looking .45. "This is my friend Hal Mercury of Cigar Afficionado." He indicated the man in the fine brown tweed jacket. The left sleeve of which was still smoldering, it had been mostly burned off of his arm, what charred remains clung to his blackened and burnt skin. If it was painful, the man gave no indication. It was a hint of possible strong narcotics. Half of him was covered in residue from where he had been blasted by the fire extinguisher, his black hair was half gray.

"Hiya!" He shook my hand eagerly, he had a vice grip. "We were wondering when you'd get here."

"Oh yeah? Is that right?" I asked.

"That's right!" He slapped my shoulder and the air filled with white dust and ash from his ruined jacket. "You got the stamp?"

The Waiter shifted nervously.

"Wait wait, Hal, be reasonable. Stop being such an American." de Ralam said it with affection.

"Have a seat." As he invited us, he snatched his gun with frightening speed and shot two of the mannequins in the head, between where their eyes would be. The wooden dummies flew out of the chairs. Not wanting to appear rattled by the threat I sat quickly, followed by the Waiter.

"It has been not easy to locate you Mr. Roosevelt. I have been looking for you for a week, imagine my shock when I found you were right under my nose, in Bordeaux. You should know better than to go to then tourist office."

He stared me down, his eyes had red rim from sleeplessness. "Where is the stamp?"

I laughed and helped myself to one of Hal's cigars. "The stamp is secure, would you like to buy it?"

"You amuse me, Mr. Roosevelt, you are in my very home, in my clutches, as it were. I could take it from you."

"Then you must think I am stupid, to just bring it here. Anyway, my price is not steep. I want an airplane and safe passage from the city, and then its yours."

"Now why would you want to leave? Is it not beautiful here? Surely your friend told you--" He stopped and stared at the Waiter with wide eyes. Outside the protestors were getting louder, it sounded like a full out riot. "YOU!?" He snarled and grabbed his gun and began firing wildly. Amidst the echoes of the shots were the sounds of shattering windows, and around us cannisters of tear gas rolled hideously on the fine floors of the landmark. The protestors had thrown them after they had been launched by the pigs.

I dove to the floor with a cry, and rolled from the table. I stood in time to see de'Laram put the .45 against the Waiter's forehead, who had closed his eyes and resigned himself. His lips moved quickly as he whispered a final prayer. I wanted to shout in protest to stop this murderous madness, but my eyes burned as if they were being welded, I did not see the killing, and I did not hear the shot.

What I heard above the din of the riot and chaos was a loud metal on bone clang. Rubbing my face I saw the blurry form of Hal Mercury standing over de' Laram's crumpled form, holding the fire extinguisher.

"Hurry." He said. "I am from the American Government, Rahm Emanuel sent me."

"This cigar smells awful." I told him. "I knew you were a cop."

"Don't worry about all that." He replied. "Hurry."

The three of us ran to the trade entrance, and by he loading dock sat a Piper PA-31 Navajo. "I stole this from Chateau Maradon, beat the Patriarch in a card game where I cheated. All these winemakers like vintage airplanes...savages."

"Of course." I agreed. "They love old things, that's why these swine hate America."

Hal nodded, we were all of us pouring sweat.

The plane was full of cases of wine. I was forced to sit in the Waiter's lap. "Nevermind these boxes, more winnings from my card game. Help yourself, but if you take something you won't drink I will cut your throat and throw you into the river to feed the bass." The man was sincere. "You got the stamp?"

I pulled the envelope from my jacket pocket, and then removed my jacket. It would need to be cleaned of my fear stink. "Right here."

The Navajo squeaked to a start and we made a taxi route down the street. Luckily the police were far too occupied with the riot to notice. We made our way down a pedestrian only street, picking up speed. People dived aside, and shook their fists, shouting rapidly. Many fell from their bicycles.

"One side you miserable winebloods! I will run you down like stray dogs! Nazis!" Mercury screached. "Don't you know who I am!? We have never lost a war...Vietnam was to ferret out the non hackers and assimilate them."

He passed the bloody fire extinguisher back to me, pulled back on the yoke, and we were airborne.

"Keep a low altitude, in case of fighter jets." The Waiter advised. Mercury looked back and grabbed the man's ear viciously.

"Quiet you nancy bitch! I only saved you to keep your blood and brains off my special blazer. The French don't have fighter jets." He laughed uproariously, I was frightened.

"But we do!" The Waiter sounded frightned. "We funded our Navy with the proceeds from entrance to Versailles. We bought cruise missiles from you!"

Mercury seemed rattled by this revelation. The Waiter squinted out of the window at the horizon and whined.

"Oh God! Oh God!" He was the first to see the attack helicopter. "We're doomed! The bull can smell the sow!"

"Don't worry, the French never have ammunition."

The first hail of bullets hit right over my head, tearing a hole in the side of the Navajo, which lurched helplessly and quickly lost hundreds of feet of altitude. We were out of control, I was tossed from the Waiter's lap and hit the damaged door of our aircraft, which burst open. The wind took me, the fire extinguisher went end over end into the sky, and my jacket and envelope flew in opposite directions. Only my fast reflexes allowed me to save the stamp, but I was in a free fall over a hillside covered in vines of the fruit. I stuffed the envelope into my pants and put myself into a swan dive position so as to hit face first, to avoid any unnecessary delay or pain.

I tried to organize my thoughts, think of my loved ones, and my happy memories and accomplishments. I could not focus, my mind was blank and my spirit ready. My only thought was "Huh...."

Then there was a horrid roar from all around me, it was from the propellers of our plane, it had swooped near me. I could see Mercury slumped in the cockpit, shot. The Waiter was leaned over him, holding the yoke with all his might. One of the wings was on fire, I could not see the chopper. I reached wildly for the landing gear which was near my grasp, on the third try I got it, and I screamed in pain as my shoulder popped from place due to the speed of my terminal drop. I held though, as we headed for the hillside. When I was fifteen feet from the ground, I let go and rolled to hit my already injured shoulder. I know I rolled along with no control, crushing grapes as I went. And then there was nothing but darkness.

When I woke I could smell oil, and wine. The Waiter had dragged me near where the plane come to a rest in the marred vineyard. He was sitting with his back against the ruined fuselage, rocking back and forth, his head was bleeding, he was sobbing and his mouth dripped grape juice. In both his hands were two crushed bunches of the fruit, he was mindlessly gobbling them. It was clear he had broken. Next to him, also in a seated position was Mercury, what was left of him.

"Its over." He said. "We've broken the final and fatal rule of wine country. We fucked with the grapes."

I stared at Mercury. His wild blue eyes were lifelessly open. "You whore!" I shouted in a sudden rage. "I loved that jacket! You filthy clown! You know how hard it is to find something that flattering!?" I kicked the man's corpse three times, lost my balance and fell onto my back. The Waiter continued to stuff his face with the forbidden grapes. All arond us the crates of stolen wine were cracked open, some bottles were shattered and some intact.

"They'll be waiting at every station. We're trapped like rats." The Waiter said, I sat up.

"Where did that helicopter go?" The Waiter pointed west. That was where the shredded remains of our atackers and their machine had come to a rest. "How?"

"The fire extinguisher hit it, directly, dumb luck."

"Well then. How can we be doomed with that kind of luck? These scumsuckers have no idea what they're up against."

I stood, and grabbed him under the arm with my good side and pulled him to his feet. I kicked open one of the cases of wine and took four bottles, and stuffed them into my pack. "You carry my bag. Its heavy from wine and sweat, its the least you can do."

He agreed, the grape stains made a clown like frown around his lips. "We need to leave this country."

"That's what I was thinking. My heart is far too savage at present to be in the land of grapes and hoarded sculptures."

"Germany then. We can eat from the sunflower fields on the way. Then we can steal some bikes, we can leave bottles of wine behind as payment."

"You scum." I growled. "I am not giving that wine away, a man died. You are going to carry it, which way?"

"Not sure." He shrugged.

I stuffed one more bottle into the bag, the last possible thing it could hold, the Waiter grunted but said nothing. We walked away from the late day sun, headed East. I sang him lots of songs.

In which I nearly blow the whole damn thing...

2009-09-30T06:57:00.000-07:00

The ticket to Nice said that the train was to arrive at 852AM. So when, after sleeping like a corpse, I awoke at 935 I thought I had screwed the dog. Not the dog in the four man berth I was in, no no, not that one; the one that peed in our compartment.

Having just awakened to apparently awful news, I leapt up and asked my 1 night room mates if we had passed Nice. Pronounced neece.

"Nice?" The pushy rich guy asked.

"Yes. Nice... did... we... already...pass...Nice." I motioned with my thumb in the opposite direction of where we were headed. For the train had stopped again and I was trying to ascertain if it was the right move to get off.

"Nice." The man nodded. "Nice."

"Nice" Agreed the dog lady, who had also coughed so badly in the night I had an H1N1 dream.

This was, obviously, most unhelpful. I quickly gathered my things and left the train at Toloun. Which I was pretty sure was Tolouse. Knowing fuckall about French geography, I wasn't sure the proximity to Nice. I decided I could grab some breakfast, and figure it all out. I left the station and headed to a cafe across the street, to regroup, to study my timetables. I bought a beer, and a water, I went to the bathroom to rinse my face and to blessedly relieve myself. Outside, to my surprise that there were palm trees, in the square in front of the station (Gare = French for Station) is a fountain surrounded by well manicured grass, the statues appear to be drunken sailors holding eachother up. Once again, the sky was blue for all eternity in all directions, and it is hotter here in the south. So I changed into a light button down shirt, I went back to my table, chugged the beer, and looked in my laptop bag slot where I keep eurail stuff.

Not there.

My heart rate spiked, but I remained calm. I searched every compartment in my two bags. 6 in all. I checked them twice. And then three times. Pouring sweat I realized that I had left my pass, my tickets, and my insurance policy in a single beaten white envelope. I had left it in Couche 12 berth 81. That is the lower left hand bunk of the 12th cab. I was pretty sure I was fucked. So I did what anyone would have to do thousands of miles from anyone who loves them, in a place where you are only 80% sure you know where you are, having just lost a 2000 dollar slip of paper. I laughed hysterically. I laughed all the way back into the station where I started the long process of piecing together two languages enough for people to understand what it was I was saying my problem is.

I made that last sentence awkward. It being words in orders starting to have to adjust to am I.

Not that these people were not helpful. They were trying. We all understood the grave consequences. For even with my insurance on my pass. It just assures I will be reimbursed for the unused time on the pass. I'd have to order a fresh one. It'd take a week. The most helpful man decided that the next stop for the train, it had only been twenty minutes or so, was Carcassonne. He said that the train would arrive there in half an hour. So I went across the street again, breakfast this time, one of those tiny cups of coffee, a croissant, fresh air to massage my lungs to maybe soothe my nervous heart. I was still greatly amused, and feeling as though it would work out. I wasn't really scared or overly nervous after the initial injection of adrenaline. The following are the notes I took in my book over breakfast:

9/29

I'm pretty sure I am in Tolouse. The sign said Toloun, and the books say its called Villa de Rose for the pink townhouses. I am sitting on the patio of Brasserie Climatise. It is in front of a big pink townhouse...selah.

I was supposed to be in Nice but missed my stop. When I hastily got out of the train in Toloun I left behind my rail pass and tickets. I am sitting here waiting word they found them at the next station. I was stressed for 10 seconds, now, having chugged a morning beer, coffee, croissant, I am currently fine.

At the table across from me is a burly mulatto (I have just realized as I copy this, someone told me not long ago Mulatto is offensive, which I did not know. I am leaving it for purity's sake.) woman, she is having coffee, juice, bread, jam, lots of butter, croissants, water, and Marlboro reds for breakfast. She is spastically gesturing and bursting into loud laughter. This is where I am.

I am also laughing.

A woman of about 85 just walked by, her skin is spotted, it was discoloured from dying pigment. She walks with a hunched back, cane, and smile. She has a traveller's backpack, and a camera slung across her neck. A real hero. I told her she looked beautiful. She laughed and didn't say anything. Made her way.

The writing took my mind off things. I went back to the welcome station in Toloun, to find my helpful man was no longer there. I had to explain my position again, and the woman said 10 more minutes. I wandered into the lounge and made eyes at some pretty dark featured girl. It has been ten days since I shaved, which means today is the day my stubble is perfect and manly, and awesome. It also means I will need to shave in two days max, lest I look homeless.
Which, now that I read this, might be the way to go anyhow.

After ten minutes I returned, to find, once again, a new person at the station. I once again explained what happened..this time to Nadia; whom I shall always remember. She is the one that figured out that the train never went to Carcassonne at all. It terimated in Nice. I didn't miss my stop. I got off before we got there. This was all completely unnecesary.

Nice.

"Nice. Yes. Nice." people from my cabin said. I got off before my stop. The trip took four hours longer than my ticket said it would.

As I was talking to Nadia she told me the train had arrived, give her ten more minutes. So I went and talked with Vinissa (no idea...prolly Vanessa with her accent). She was headed to Paris. When I returned to Nadia, she was on the phone and gave me a thumbs up. I laughed again, and blew her a kiss. The envelope would be waiting for me in Nice. The ticket there was 25E because I did not have my pass... oh well.

The ride was two hours and the cabin was initially empty in 2nd class. I took pictures but they do not justify the beauty of watching southern France zoom by you. There are these sun drenched red mountains, surrounded by evergreen forests. There are vineyards everyplace and they touch against junk yards. The buildings are all shades of yellow as if you are in Italy or Santa Fe. All them have balconies, and from all of those balconies hang clothes like flags that announce who lives here, a woman's loose cotton shirt, a man's worn work pants stained with dirt and sweat. I went through St. Raphael, Albrites, and Cannes. When we came to Cannes, I stopped staring out of my window long enough to look across the aisle and realized that the ocean had snuck up behind me.

I have never ever seen the ocean and been surprised. It was wonderful.

Nice is near Cannes. I was eager to get my pass and I jumped out of my seat to be out in front of the big group of Asian folks who got on at Cannes. I quickly made my way, was sent from the welcome station to the lost and found. Had to wait fifteen minutes at the lost and found and just as I was about to speak with the man, I was paged on the intercom. To go to the welcome station where I had been sent from towards the lost and found. I didn't care. My relief was great and my heart was full of validation and joy for the faith I had all day that it would work out. The woman at the station was shocked that I had heard her and listened, she seemed most pleased. After examining my passport she returned my precious envelope.

As I walked away from the station. I realized my awesome black and white pinstriped sportcoat was not with me...

I left it on the train...

Fuck me running.

- - -

I woke at 6am France time on the train to Bordeaux. I was alone in the cabin, which is rare and awesome. I stole all the pillows and free bottles of water from each bunk. Despite the small accomodations, and the ever present lurching of the train, I sleep exceedingly well on them.
I opened the window, I was the only sign of life on the train, and stuck my head out of the window like a dog and breathed in the whipped cool air.

Been humming to myself a great deal. I think it is because as the language barrier becomes more solid, I grow a little more isolated. Aside from the girl at the train station, chances for conversations have been a little thin on the ground. People are still kind and friendly, but for me especially it is difficult to get by without words, words are my friends. I do not want for anything that I attempt to get, but the social dynamics are different. It is hard to get people's stories, and share my own. I need to learn French. I like the way they speak, the language is very musical and graceful. Plus, its personally annoying when you can't make clear to people just how damned clever and awesome you are.

Rolled into Bordeaux on time. The neighborhood around St. Jean station is an especially seedy red light district. One side of the street full of peep shows, porn theaters, showgirl revues, none of them look like they have a lot of talent there. The other side of the street is filled with ATMs. When you are in France you find that that ATMs are sometimes hard to come by, certainly not as handy as in the US, but apparently the key is to find porno shops (another hint, don't get a headache on Sunday, nothing with pan reliever is open). I walked with my turtle shell (ie: all my shit) for about 4 miles, zigzagging through industrail BDX, as they call it. The buildings are old, and not without charm, but there is a certain Oliver Twist, meets bad block New Orleans, meets modern litter and filth sort of ambience. It certainly didn't strike me as a place that was as know for something so uppity as wine making. However, the further from the station I got, the lighter the buildings, the smells went from sulphur and urine to baked goods. I passed a gyspsy flea market, and made sure to put my wallet in my front pocket. And then I was in the divide between seedy Gare district, and the historic district which has been renewed and revitalized very recently. That's where I found my hotel, 39E, clean, private bathroom, best place I have been so far. Hotel de Lyon on Rue de Ramperts.

Old Bordeaux is stunning. It is open, and fresh, the buildings are so old and yet in such good repair. The entire 7 block historic district is pedestrian only. Near the Monument aux Girondins, which is this incredible fountain, they were tearing down an apparent carnival that I just missed... drat.
A monorail creeps along the streets, connecting everywhere, in fact the monorail is how I finally found old BDX without a map, figuring the monorail isn't headed to where they sell crack. The streets have roads for cars, bike tracks, and sidewalks, and in between is grass over which the monorail floats. It's all very orderly and interesting. The avenues are very wide.

Actually I could have just taken the monorail from Gare St. Jean for 1.30E, but I think its important to make the walk. I saw two moldering Cathedrals, and the gypsies. My Hotel is 100 feet from St. Andre's which they are currently restoring, half of the building is black from the grime of 800 years. After I had checked in I sat in front of it for an hour, nursing a diet coke, watching kids ride bikes back and forth doing wheelies. There are 100s of Vineyards nearby, and tours are easy to arrange, 90E for a full day, 3 vineyards, lunch and dinner. Not bad. I should have given myself more time, but as Oktoberfest is one of the only deadlines I have here, I will move on before I can do such a thing. I know a lot of people who would like this trip though, Burgundy, and Champagne are also nearby and I might just return later in the month. Either way, it would not be very expensive to go and see all 3 regions, and be happily, rosily, wined up the whole time.

What shall we do with all this useless beauty?

2009-09-27T14:14:00.000-07:00

The first thing I saw when I stepped out of the train station at Versailles was a man putting on socks, leaning on a Weber grill, next to a full bike rack, in front of a Tex-Mex restaurant. The next thing I saw was a huge throng of sweaty people, hands on heads, clearly from some sort of running race. There were whole teams. It was apparently a large to do and it was now over at noon when I had arrived. Outside was blue forever, eighty degrees, no dreams of rain like back home. I think I was reflecting on the truly excellent weather when I saw the man who apparently had torn his nipples off while running in his lycra shirt. The shirt was yellow with two dark red circles like gunshot wounds on his chest. His friends were all talking and laughing, he was not. I tell you this, the Tex Mex restaurant, the nipples erased, because maybe you will pick up on what I did not.

This was all obviously not going to go according to plan. I am usually someone who is sensitive the signals and metaphors around me, I can spot bad omens, and for a smart and reasonable man I am quite superstitious.

Versailles had the most tourists in one place I have ever seen, and that is an insane amount of people. Likely part of this was due to the race, but the entire little town was fairly bursting with pilgrims. BeforeI had arrived I had thought this should be very economical and easy, the train took 45 minutes (only because I missed a connection flirting with some Italian chippy) and was like 4 euro total there and back. The little town itself is very attractive, with wide clean streets, and very verdant. I saw near the road in two locations minature carousels that were going round and round with children holding onto the necks of their plastic steeds. The line to get tickets inside was nearly forty five minutes as well, the girl selling the tickets had a nice face, I wanted to like her immediately. I asked for one ticket, she nodded smiled and told me it was 27 euros.

Wait...what?

"Serious?" I asked, she looked confused by my question. I have had a few occasions of price gouging, a man at a market wanted to charge me 5euro for 3 apples, my response: "5!? (holds up the bag) What else do they do?"

She was indeed serious, obviously, they wanted about 40 USD to walk around Versailles, and she looked badly nervous when I asked her if Gabriel Byrne would be there dressed as D'artanagn in his foppish Musketeer outfit, catching rotten apples with his rapier. She did not understand the question, and as this would be the only way I would be willing to spend that much to walk around someplace and take pictures I smiled at her and left. Another weird American.

I walked to the gate, hot from huge amounts of people and the strengthening noonday sun. Hot from a 45 minute wait to get ripped off. These lousy pimps! I decided, while looking at a statue of Louis XIV, looking dashing on a warhorse, that Versailles was essentially a once beautiful woman now aging who never figured out that having lots gold and marble doesn't mean you're classy, and it doesn't mean you don't have to learn more and better meaningful tricks aside from prettiness. The Louvre is 6 euro to see a record of the artistic and thoughtful achievements of our race. Versailles is 27 euro to see the gold gates and the pen where they used to perfume Marie Antoinette's sheep, until the peasants had enough and came and beat her door down and cut off her carefully made up head. After all these years, Versailles apparently is still a great symbol of learning nothing, a last gasp from an extinct and irrelevant Monarchy. Versailles, Louis, Marie, and Napoleon can all get fucked. It is a fitting end you have become an overpriced tourist trap, may you be trod upon by yokels until acid rain claims you.

Ho ho. Maybe that's coming on a little strong bubba! But it is my passionate belief that we all deserve access to the lasting beautiful things that we make. It's simply crass to pimp out something that should be culturally relevant with a ridiculous markup that'd make AIG assholes pump their grimy, fat, fists in 2004. Aren't there enough things for sale?

Ironically, the exorbinant pricetag turns it into something cheap.

So. Having a greater understanding of the French Revolution I moved on. The connecting station on RER line C to Versailles is Champs de Mars/Eiffel Tower. As you can see from the pictures the weather was amazing today. If you ever find yourself in Paris, you are obviously required by cosmic law to go to the tower. I have been to the top of it twice and so I did not this time. Rather right before the grand entrance to the tower, where there is the snaking line, and the snack stand, and the gravel, and the dust, there is a small park on the southeast side of the tower. There is a small pond, and benches, and grass that people sit and lay on. Initially I was sitting on the bench, reading my Eurail timetable and trying to figure out what I want to do after Munich. There was a group of kids in their early 20's sitting on blankets in a circle talking and seemingly unaware of their surroundings, five, six, couples of various ages sitting and looking upward, or laying and cuddling eachother under the small trees in the courtyard, kids were chasing pigeons who would flutter indignantly and then quickly return. I watched two beautiful french girls jog by in their sports bras and then suddenly realized I was the guy from Aqualung and quickly scrambled onto the grass.

The march back from Versailles had been hot, I was wearing long sleeves and do not want to roll them up as laundry will not be an option very often. I do not want stretched sleeves, therefore. My shoulder hurt from my bag, and when I lay on the cold grass in the shade under the tower I immediately felt a deep sense of comforted calm. Most of my trip thus far as been a scramble, finding where to go, negotiating with hotel clerks, or shady produce dealers in St. Denis. I think that this trip being treated more like an adventure than a vacation, calm and relaxation will be in shorter supply than you would otherwise suppose. However, laying in the park, with the kids playing with the birds, listening to the pond and ducks on a glorious Sunday afternoon put me immediately to sleep. This picture is what I was looking at directly above me when I fell asleep.

As I write this, I am on my stomach in a hostel in a not nice neighborhood where seemingly everything smells like piss, I was offered drugs today by four seperate people between the metro and the door. The walls are purple and my room mate is snoring like a freight train making dirty drunken love to a chainsaw. Tomorrow I am going to Louvre, before I catch my night train to Nice.

Things are very fantastic, thanks.

Our lady and me

2009-09-26T13:46:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in my boxers and a tank top, over a busy Parisian street. My window is open and I can hear laughing voices, gunning engines, horns, and the occasional siren. It is a clear night, cool, and you can barely see the stars unless you look closely. I walked the streets for nearly two hours before I realized that it wasn't cloudy. It wasn't as if I wasn't looking upward as I strolled, most places here look more like they were scuplted as opposed to built, a uniform whitewashed stone, intricate designs, that go for blocks. Most places of development that you see you can picture the world without interference from us, people, you can picture the trees, or grass, but not here. It could be an American sensibility that I have, being that here is so much older than my usual surroudings, but I make my way and have this feeling that Paris has always been here. Some Parisians I know, I think, feel the same way.

I arrived this morning, I did not sleep on the plane but rather got drunk and watched 3 movies, I started appropriately enough with a stiff neck and a slight hangover. I came here with no plan at all. I very nearly went and found a line going to Spain, but rather got on the RER train from De Gaulle airport, and rode the hideously ugly route into town. The large inner core of Paris is undeniably stunning, but the tagged sprawl of their suburbs are tacky and ill kept. There is much garbage along the track, which is barely hidden from view by rusted metal dividers, and worn concrete. Every inch of available space is written on in spray paint. Even the vegetation is affected, the grass is brown and uneven, very long here, non existent here, its like the unfortunate end of a story that starts: "Rodney had been drinking heavily against Doctor's orders after his concussion, and so he decided to cut his own hair..."

I chose to get off at Gare Du Nord, which is one of major train stations in the city. Leaving the platform and coming outside there were seven hotel signs immediately visable. I visited all of them, with no luck, until four blocks from the station I found this place. For 65 euro (far too much, but far cheaper than anything else I had encountered) I got this:

Notice my things already sprawled about.

I unpacked, found that I had not brought my Ipod's usb charger, and promptly began my 3 month adventure with a 4 hour nap.

When I woke I set about planning this coming week before I head to Oktoberfest in Munich (Munchen on my Eurail timetable) to celebrate my birthday. Tomorrow I will go to Versailles, as I have never been, and I will probably spend the night before returning to Paris the next day, go to the Louvre and wait for my train to Nice. I am going to Nice, Bordeaux, and Tolouse, on consecutive days before my train for Munich leaves from Paris. Four nights next week I will sleep on trains, which is good for saving money, and not so good for staying in touch. Expect me to drop off the map for a few days.

Having done that, it was already nearly 9PM France time. I was packed into a clausterphobic and sweaty heap of people on a metro train headed southwest. What happened to the oxygen in the car was basically the same thing that happens to sex workers, too much use. The air was so recycled, and moist, and warm from everyone else's lungs that you'd feel a little icky standing in it. Needless to elaborate that is was a relief to be off, and back into the light filled, music saturated, evening. I got off at St. Michel and saw a fascinating throng of people/tourists that represented an impressive cross section of everyone and everywhere. I counted 15 languages spoken along the confined banks of the Seine river. It was some of the best people watching you'll ever see. There were Parisian natives dressed to the nines, annoyed at the obstacles, with mobile phones glued to their ears, English students organizing a pub crawl, a German couple holding hands on one of the tourist river boats that cruise by every few minutes. I saw a Brazillian Soccer team with sleeveless tees and nylon pants, groups of Asian people talking and laughing, and sitting in front of Notre Dame a clutch of gypsies who all had dogs, who were all running about and nipping at eachother. The air was heavy with unfamiliar words, food smells, and music from several points. A group of street musicians had set up amplifiers and microphones right next to the river, right next to the Cathedral, and as I sat in front of the impressive gothic edifce I could hear them playing La Bamba, of all things, and then Twist and Shout, and then La Bamba again without stopping. Lots of people had gathered around them.

Yah. La Bamba. That's what I said.

I think that Notre Dame is my favorite place here. It was built over 500 years, like a gift from the human race to itself. I am not a reglious person, but I know and care for lots of Catholics and I can only imagine with much respect the feelings such a place would give. It is a place of such grandeur that it functions as so many things, a literary reference, a religious experience, a tourist trap, the shadow of the Cathedral could make you feel like you were in a movie or suddenly very much aware that you are smack dab in the middle of your own life and make you wonder what it all means. How many people have sat where you are sitting, what did they accomplish? How did they die? What was their story? Places like Notre Dame give me a sense of the meaning of things, and yet how casual those meaningful things are in the cosmic sense. It's a mirror you look in, that both dwarfs and magnifies every single thing. My crappy pictures won't convey this, especially since my flash ironically adds a hellish looking red tint to everything, but here you are anyways:

Think it was almost an hour and a half I sat there watching people. Long enough to see them hustle everyone out and close the doors. I stood by the river awhile and listened to all the music, bought batteries for my camera, and I smiled at the people sitting at the streetside cafes drinking coffee, and beer, and burying their faces and social anxieties into their cell phones.

The train wasn't as oppressive returning, I got a 3 euro panini from some snack stand and returned to my humble room, where I am sitting in my boxers and a tank top, by an open window over a busy Parisian street.

A gift from the air.

2009-09-22T01:00:00.000-07:00

4 in the morning, in the car, AM radio: A truck driver calls in and angrily says the government is given no authority to do the things it does by the Constitution. Say Obamacare makes him think of Stalin's Russia. He has such simplistic vistriol that it is impossible to not at least listen to such an angry man speaking so passionately even if you agree with nothing he says and find him ignorant and dangerous. After his rant, he asks the host if the host has ever seen "Superhero Movie". Its a "Scary Movie" like spoof of the comic book movie genre... my angry caller laughs uproariously at the memory of said film and speaks with equal passion that it is the funniest movie of all time. He is blissfully unaware of his sudden crisis of credibility.

Awesome.

Anyway, I think this is tremendous litmus test for anyone sharing an opinion. If your favorite show is "According to Jim", then we have no reason to listen to anything you have to say. Favorite book is by Mary Higgins Clark? Sorry, back of the line and try not to knock anything over. So, next time before you get into a heated debate on anything having to do with politics, religion, or anything else people get very angry very quickly about, maybe find out if they thought "Whole Nine Yards" was funny, and worth watching aside from the inexplicable 20 minute long Amanda Peet nude scene. If they say "Yes! Mathew Perry is soooo funny." Smile, and back away for three steps, and then run. For it does not pay to discuss the merits of having a Department of Education with such a person.

In two days I leave for Paris and this journey. I still do not have a Russian Visa... there are apparently complications. I am leaving anyway, as I am tired of waiting and the world has seemed to try to stop me from going. If I do not get the Visas I require I will have to find another way. I promise to make it as legal as possible.

How I plan not to die

2009-08-02T17:45:00.000-07:00

One of the major themes in my life these days, and I think most of my friends of the same general age will agree is the idea of coming to grips with the fact that you are no longer what someone would call "young." Obviously, people who left thirty in the rearview decades ago will still refer to the amount of time I am assumed to have left, and by that reckoning surely I have more to go than I have done and therefore I still qualify. Qualify as young.

But I think not.

I don't need to tell you that this is a youth driven culture, you seen Madonna lately? She looks like she is going as herself for Halloween, you just want to grab her paper thin shoulders (feeling her bulging veins) and shake her and scream "Give it up Gramma!" But in fairness, this is a woman in a business where she is competing with Rhianna, and Britney Spears before her, and whoever qualified as a poptart back in the mid 90s... none come to mind just now. I think most people naturally feel the same sort of pressure, and therefore we have this cultural oddity where we make a choice between growing old, or sort of plasticizing ourselves. Either way, I am not going to be the guy who is 35 wearing an Ed Hardy tee shirt and flattering dumb beautiful kids to trick them into giving me things I want.

Ew. That sounds so dark. The sinister unlit side of youth culture are all the sad bastards who got kicked out just from the shear passage of time, and then look in the window and don't realize they are missing and have missed the point. That supremely taut skin and a kickass metabolic rate are wonderful things, but that youth means nothing if you do not advance. You have to move onto the place where you prove to yourself and whoever you decide that matters, what you learned.

I suppose that I am just trying to make a point about things having a point. I am probably trying to assign meaning and reason to things that don't really have them. Anyway, I'm not old enough to wave my hands and say "Damn kids." But I am old enough to say that the stuff every person I know under 20 has on their ipod is bullshit and awful. You damn kids and your music! Back in the 90's we had Nirvana and Husker Du and the list really starts to thin... but fuck you, we did NOT have the All American Rejects. Those guys suck. I will not argue about this.

Okay. Back on point. Here is why I am thinking along these lines. I am going on this trip and it is going to be for months. I am trying to get from Paris to Tokyo, and I am energetic guy, but I think this is also going to be a grind and when you start to accept you are growing older; well one of the steps, and this is tricky for me, is accepting physical limitations. Despite the instinct and tendency to want to party it up ALL THE TIME while I am there, I think that I need to make myself realize that this isn't really a vacation. A vacation is where you have maybe ten days if you're lucky and you are going to stuff yourself with as much into those days as possible. A vacation is a sprint, a frantic limited period where you are trying to have as much fun as possible away from all the things that make your ass hurt back home. I am not going to be sprinting for three whole months, I hope you are not disappointed.

On vacation you do not allow yourself to be too tired to go out, is what I mean.

Three months, trains, walking, getting lost, well... it's going to be tiring and I think that by accepting and embracing the fact I can get more out of the experience. Drinking. Chasing skirts. Getting stupid. Well that is part of it, obviously, and will probably make for the best stories I come back to you with, but what is going to make it special is that other part. Hurting feet and a silent cell phone to give me time to think about everything, process what it means. When I am someplace that is old and important I always feel like I am getting answers to questions I am not smart enough to be asking. I always try to listen really hard, but I can never hold it, I end up talking about what things looked like or something else you have heard a bunch of times before. I think that has always been why I have had the urge to act out, so that I will have something to bring back that I can express properly and in context.

I don't know that this makes sense to you, if you even care, I don't know.

As I am now officially and inescapably an adult male in the world, I don't think it works to make every night like the nights I am going to be having during Oktoberfest. I am going to try and hydrate. I am going to floss. Holy fucking hell, I am all growed up. It happened. It happened in tiny devastating increments because of the wind, and currents, erosion, and whatever else you want to add to an already elaborate metaphor. Now facing down this trip and pondering how it is all going to work I think that due to my insufferable nature it will forever mark the line where I crossed and said I was grown. Of course, I have been for some time. But like Madonna and her plastic face, I maybe held on a little too tightly, it does not mean the end of zany misadventures to embrace the next phase in your life. It doesn't mark the end of being stupid and kind of charming for it (If that ever stops being the case with me, I am sure someone will kill me before I have to do it myself). I guess, ultimately, the only thing I have really learned so far is that you should be prepared to get humbled. And if you are prepared to get smacked around a little bit in the course of your life you don't have to spend so much time fearing it, and avoiding it, in fact it allows for you to do exactly what you wish. Afterall, why be scared if its going to happen anyway?

I am working on some goals for this trip (How grown up! Yeah? Yeah?). For instance I plan on not buying any maps and asking for directions instead, especially when there is a language barrier involved. I am open to suggestions. Pretty soon we're also going to have to discuss what I am bringing and not bringing. This trip is only about 6 weeks or so away. I do not have visa to Russian, China, or Turkey yet. I need to get my ass in gear.