Germanic Adventures

Today's journal title is a little misleading, because it only partly describes events in Germany. In fact, astute readers will recall that we haven't even made it out of Italy yet. But you know what? I committed to this naming scheme a long time ago, buddy. I'm not changing it.

This entry contains a very serious section about the Holocaust, an subject which deserves to be considered separately from what is otherwise a frivolous account of fifty American kids running around looking for good times. I've kept my brief thoughts on the subject in their original context for the sake of continuity, but separated them out from the rest of the text in order to emphasize their gravity. There is nothing to say about the Holocaust that has not been said by wiser, more experienced people, but I will do what I can.

Apart from the first day, all of these entries took place in countries where German was either the primary language, or otherwise widely spoken. When you get settled into one foreign tongue, however, switching out can be difficult. I don't know how many Germans, Austrians, and Czechs I said "grazie" to, but I would like to apologize to them all. Now, without further ado...

Day Fifteen: Venice

We had an early morning ferry scheduled to take us into the city, in order to beat the crowd and get our official tour in fast. Unfortunately, our scheduled wake-up call either did not occur, or was simply too quiet; in any case, nobody was awoken by it. By lucky chance I stumbled out of bed ten minutes before the appointed meeting time, and quickly roused my roommates, who then roused the others.

Miraculously, we all managed to assemble in time and make it to the local port. There we boarded a small open-deck ferry (groan) and set out for the famous Venetian lagoon. The city of Venice is actually built on a number of small islands in the lagoon, and as you approach them the city gives off a romantic, quasi-Atlantean feel. As there is very little evidence of a natural coastline, the effect is much like buildings rising directly out of the waves. It's unsettling but pretty, in a classical sort of way.

We disembarked and took a short walk to la Piazza San Marco, Venice's historic main square. There's a clock tower there, which shows not only the time of day but the phase of the moon and the current part of the astrological year. It's similar to the clock inside Florence's main cathedral, but absurdly bedecked in sculpture and other decorations.

The two most important buildings in the square are the Doge's palace and the Basilica San Marco. The palace is not too exciting from the outside, looking mostly like a big box of...Doge? The Basilica of St. Mark, on the other hand, is tacky by comparison. The exterior is completely covered in columns of different colors and materials; the spoils, we were told, of the sack of Constantinople during Fourth Crusade. I have to wonder what the current residents of Istanbul think of The Venetians' continued flaunting of such ill-gotten gains.

Our local guide led us through the streets, where I was struck by the complete absence of cars. Motor vehicles are obviously impractical on such a crowded island, but they're such a common sight in other European cities that it still comes off as odd. Fortunately, the guide told us, Venice proper is only about twice the size of Central Park; everything is in walking distance, unless you choose to go by gondola.

We saw yet another cathedral, this one devoted to Moses, (unusual for a Catholic Church), and built in the Baroque style, making it several centuries younger than the medieval St Mark's. Across the square from the Moses Cathedral is the city's famous Grand Canal. I must be honest, I found it underwhelming, as it was neither very wide nor very ornate. Not that impressive!
Our tour ended at a glass blower's shop, where we saw first hand the process of blowing and shaping glass. Much like the leather studio in Florence, we were given the opportunity to shop for discounted glassware. The choices were all extremely expensive, and in any event I didn't relish the thought of transporting delicate, precious glass.

Afterward, Jacob set about organizing gondola rides for the group. Even with his super-guide-powers, he could only talk the man down to sixteen euros. Sixteen euros, for a ride through fecal-green waters bearing the cat-sized corpses of rabid rats. I decided to set out and see the rest of the city on foot.

My plan was to walk the perimeter of the primary island, but I soon found it impossible, because there is no road that conveniently encircles the city. The buildings are built right up against the water along most of the coastline, so I had to retreat inland, into a complicated maze of side streets. At one point I came across a spectacular wooden bridge leading to the secondary island. I climbed up to its apex, but decided not to cross over, lest I get completely sidetracked and lost.

After passing through some lovely squares and parks, I found myself entering a narrow-laned residential zone, packed so tightly I thought I was in some sort of sketchy lower-class Whoville. Fearing the prospect of getting shanked, I abandoned my mad schemes of circumnavigation and made a beeline for the Piazza.

By the time I got back, the city's famous pigeons were out in full force, flocking to and fro to eat from the hands of bird lovers from all around the world. Rich folks were dining outside the grand museum/arcade, being entertained by an orchestra and looking disapprovingly at people desperately looking for shade. I decided to check out the interior of St. Mark's.

The inside had an atmosphere like a grotto, as though it were carved out of stone like a sea cave, which was pretty awesome. In one of the side chambers, a ceremony was taking place that might have been a wedding, or something else. As in the Sistine Chapel, there were thick-headed boors taking pictures in spite of strongly-worded prohibitive signs. I wondered how they'd like it if I walked around through their churches taking pictures.

Denied from seeing the Cathedral's more secretive (and expensive) corners, I took a peak at the Doge's palace, which is actually fairly swanky on the inside, and has a number of noteworthy features. There were the famous golden stairs, an impressive looking armory (swords and halberds everywhere!), and the old city council building, which a sign informed me was one of the largest rooms in all of Europe. Interesting if true! There was also a connecting passage to the old prison building, which another helpful sign informed me was one of the first stand-alone prisons in European history. Way to go, Venice?

Mostly, the palace was a fine museum of the city's municipal and national history, along with a few excellent artifacts, like the Doge's own gondola in the courtyard. I was disappointed to find out later that most of the group did not also do the palace tour, but I'd grown used to their philistine ways.

The other big museum in the square, stuffed with Venetian art, was neat, mostly for its own sake, apparently having been built in the days of Napoleon when he was busy conquering cities of immense cultural value. I finally ran into some group members at the entrance, and together we toured the galleries, with all their old books, maps, weapons, statues, etc. Upstairs was a portrait gallery, mostly consisting of images labeled "Madonna with Bambino." You would be very surprised to find the number of variations on this theme that exist - perhaps more so to see the number that involve breastfeeding.

With the museum conquered, I had nothing interesting left to do, and two and a half hours to do it again. Desperately bored, I did a complete second run through of the art museum with some girls. After some more aimless wandering, we spent the rest of the time sitting by the dock, eating delicious gelato and agitating for more reasonable departure times. In fairness, however, Venice is a special case among European cities, and if we were anywhere else, we could have easily called some taxis.

Back in Jesolo, we bade goodbye to our trusty Italian driver, who gladly loaded and unloaded our bags every day like a champ, and in conversation usually came across as significantly less creepy than the average European male. His "creep factor" rose slightly when he joined us for drinks and a quick dinner, but why emphasize the negative?

A word about Venice: I honestly would not be surprised if it were not abandoned within the next one hundred years. Yes, it's lovely, but strictly in the abstract. Putting aside the filth of the celebrated canals, it's sinking into the lagoon, a situation that global warming is not going to help. To top it all off, the population is collapsing due to an unbearable rise in the cost of living. I can't believe that a city like that can be maintained forever without a massive engineering endeavor, and as the population shrinks further, it will become exponentially less practical to keep it up.

Another word about Venice: I took one hundred and twenty dollars to a currency exchange in St. Mark's square, and was thoroughly ripped off, receiving only sixty three euros back. Regardless of what you may have heard, the conversion rate is not two to one, or at least it wasn't when I was there. That's crap.

Day Sixteen: Austria - Into the Alps!

Two countries in two weeks? Clearly it's time to pick up the pace. In the morning we met our new driver, contracted to haul our lazy asses all the way to Amsterdam. We drove north to the famous Alps, bound for the Tyrol region of Austria.

It was one of the longest drives yet, almost seven hours by my count, long past the time when headphones begin to make our ears feel like they're going to fall off. The latter half of the journey was spectacular, however: if the German language signs didn't tell you you were in Austria, the majestic green slopes of the mountains would. They are, without any question in my mind, the most beautiful mountains in the world, and no picture you've ever seen could do them justice.

To make a dreadfully long story short, we reached the river Inn for what turned out to be a dynamic highlight of the tour, white water rafting. Rain or shine (rain, as it turned out), we would brave the chilling waters and jagged rocks in blatant disregard for safety or sanity. Conditions necessitated wetsuits, which were neither comfortable nor flattering. It was not my finest moment.

I got a seat on the forward-left part of the raft, owing to woefully misplaced gender stereotypes concerning upper body strength. Paddling left handed did not make matters any better. Having been on the Kern river in California only a few weeks prior, I knew I could do better than that, but my companion on the right side wouldn't switch with me until the very end.

Our guides were a merry band of Scotsmen (and Scots-ladies) who, while thoroughly competent boaters, seemed suicidally preoccupied with making obscene paddle gestures at one another and pulling innocent people from other rafts and into the water. I was nearly pulled in myself, but held tight, defending myself with some furious oar-work. When I wasn't being endangered by crazed Scots, I marveled at the scenery, which looked all the more rich and green under the rainy grey sky.

In spite of my left-handed deficiencies, we made it through some hairy rapids with minimal death and dismemberment. The river tour lasted only about an hour and a half, but it was still great fun, though the same cannot be said for the soggy shuttle ride back to base.

Still soggy despite all best efforts, we got back on the bus and drove to Steinach am Brenner, a very small skiing town near Innsbruck. There was no snow, of course, but there was a surprisingly awesome hotel (with free Wi-Fi, for heaven's sake!) and some excellent local restaurants. I had my first dinnertime experience with a German dish known as "Grillteller," which can best be described as a pile of meat. Italian food, you say? How quaint.

Being in a remote mountain town (and with the moon conveniently in its "new" phase), we had a spectacular stellar view that night. Sometimes, even the sky seems better abroad.

Day Seventeen: Munich and Dachau

Scrambled eggs for breakfast!? Forever, I will love Steinach.

The Alps in the morning, shrouded in clouds and mist, are even more evocative than the in afternoon, flagrantly defying the label of "picturesque" by being impossible to render in any medium known to man. Really, I was quite impressed; at times, daydreaming through the windows, I thought of the Misty Mountains of Middle Earth, feeling like I'd finally seen them in a meaningful way.

It only took us three hours or so to enter Germany and the city of Munich, the capital of the old state of Bavaria. Officially, we had a free afternoon, which didn't sit well with most of us, as we were passing within a few miles of a Nazi concentration camp, with no official stop planned. A few group members took the initiative and organized a special trip to the Dachau camp on short notice.

Before we left, I took a short walk through the city, seeking an ATM to replenish my desperately dwindling supply of euros. When I finally found one, it was stashed behind some market stalls, dusty and obviously underused. I hesitated at first, not convinced that it wouldn't eat my debit card, an outcome of truly devastating proportions. But I took a leap of faith, and everything turned out alright.

_

The Dachau memorial site is located in the town of Dachau, a short distance from Munich. The setting is leafy, green, and lovely like a college campus. The camp itself is mostly preserved on site, and resembles a military barracks. Most of the old buildings, however, no longer stand, particularly the prisoners' housing and infirmaries; only foundations remain in place. At the far end from the camp headquarters are two churches, one Protestant and one Catholic, and a Jewish memorial structure. Outside, a tour group from Israel was gathered, paying their respects. To the left, a small bridge over a canal leads to the infamous gas chambers and crematoria. Visitors can walk the same path that the prisoners did, with one stunning difference: they can walk out again, and contemplate what they have seen.

It was like visiting an ancient crime scene, obscured by careful landscaping and the passage of time, but horrible in its depth. It was more arresting and numbing than any memorial I had ever seen, as I realized the extent to which I knew everything, and nothing, about what really transpired there. I strolled the grounds with my sister, discussing history and philosophy and speculating about the precise function of various structures; we avoided our other companions, and took few pictures.

I was unsettled in the pit of my stomach by a deep sense of identification, which cut me in harsh and uncomfortable ways. When we are taught about the Holocaust, we are taught first and foremost about the suffering of the Jews and other people imprisoned and murdered in the Nazi camps. It is perhaps a credit to our species that we cannot help but identify with those who suffer, because we all suffer. Behind the barbed-wire fences, it's not difficult to imagine yourself a prisoner. It is extremely tempting to do so.

It is not that simple. As palpable as the presence of the past is, the here and now is unmistakably close at hand. The old headquarters is packed with exhibits and information, modern impositions on old walls which speak for themselves. The religious memorials have flowers and other offerings. Somber, yet disturbing, sculptures can be found at various points, and of course there is the famous plaque, reading in many languages "Never Again." Dachau was home to the sufferers, and it is now home to the mourners, and the camp solicits us to join their ranks. "Never Again" was inscribed with proactive intentions, but in light of recent as well as distant history, it almost rings hollow. We identify with the mourners: powerless to help, trying vainly to preserve, trying hopelessly to prevent.

And it gets worse. We have not truly understood Dachau, or Auschwitz, or any such place, until we have identified with the Nazis as well. Just as we suffer, and mourn, we inflict: humanity has terrifying capacity for cruelty, hate, and moral blindness. The cruelty of Adolf Hitler was not the work of the Devil, but the work of a man; the construction and the administration of the death camps was the work of many such human beings, no different in substance from you or I.

At Dachau, our capacity to endure suffering comes face to face with our capacity to cause it, and how is anyone supposed to feel about that? I don't have the words to guess. But I know that we who are like the Jews are also like the Germans, and likewise they were always all like one another. That is the tragedy of genocide in today's world, that humans would destroy themselves, and thus be destroyed.

_

That night, in search of levity, we took taxis downtown to the famous Hofbräuhaus am Platzl, perhaps the most tourist-friendly of the city's historic beer halls (Why are they historic? Let's not get into that now). Do you like huddling around big wooden tables with intoxicated strangers who shout and sing so loudly, you can scarcely hear your own thoughts? Such is the essence of Hofbräuhaus. The key to surviving such insanity, is as it turns out, at least two liters of beer. You can guess how that turned out.

Feeling disoriented upon departure, I asked my roommate to lead me back to the hotel. He agreed, but (he being equally drunk) instead led me to a strip club. I might have forgiven him, but there was a ten euro cover charge, and we weren't even in Amsterdam yet! I had better luck finding my way home in the company of some girls, where I promptly passed right out.

Day Eighteen: Munich, Neuschwanstein

We had another guided tour this morning, this one mercifully conducted by bus: Munich is a very large city, and its significant sights are spread far and wide. Admittedly, it was tempting to fall asleep and miss what the local guide had to tell us about this and that unpronounceable structure, but we had the benefit of a robust speaker system, and we covered a lot of ground.

The most impressive stop on the bus tour was Schloss Nymphenburg, the summer residence of Bavaria's former royal family, the Wittelsbachs; although the building is open to the public, it technically remains an official residence of the Wittelsbach family. Is it typical for deposed monarchs to keep their castles? These dudes have a pretty sweet deal. Wikipedia also tells me that the current Wittelsbach-in-chief, Duke Franz, is also heir to the thrones of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, according to the Jacobite succession. So, he's got that going for him too.

Other buildings built by the Bavarian Kings, state houses and the like, were present on the tour route as well, but to be honest, I don't remember most of them clearly. More memorable were the under-construction pavilions for the upcoming Oktoberfest; it being late July, I wondered just how long it took to build a pavilion. Finally, we left the bus and proceeded on foot to Munich's famous Rathaus-Glockenspiel, arriving just in time to watch the wooden figures dance to the music at eleven o'clock in the morning. In this instance, "dancing" refers to "spinning slowly in a circle." Whoopee!

Back to the hotel, then back on the bus for an optional excursion to what nobody could help but call "Sleeping Beauty Castle," the world-famous Schloss Neuschwanstein ("New Swan Stone Castle"). The castle was built in the 1880s by King Ludwig II, noted opera enthusiast and probable homosexual (Quoth a friend: "No wonder his castle's so pretty!"), and was the aesthetic inspiration for the castle design in Walt Disney's classic Sleeping Beauty.

Neuschwanstein is situated on top of a tall hill, backed by a lushly forested ravine. As a result, access requires a thirty minute hike up a relentlessly steep grade. Fortunately, desperately needed water was for sale three quarters of the way up; by the time I reached it, I was seriously dehydrated, and felt sick to my stomach. The whole group needed a fifteen minute break at the top before we felt ready to enter the castle itself.

Belying its gorgeous exterior, Neuschwanstein is not actually finished, construction having halted upon the king's death. Ludwig was (probably) murdered, along with his psychiatrist, shortly after being deposed on highly suspicious insanity charges; the pair drowned on the small Alpsee lake in the glamorous castle's "back yard." In any event, the guided tour led us through all of the rooms that had been completed, which were certainly impressive enough.

Two themes dominate Ludwig's castle: Swans and Richard Wagner. Swans are everywhere, from doorknobs to bed posts to chair backs. Meanwhile, nearly every room is painted with scenes and motifs from Wagner's operas; Ludwig even installed a performance chamber designed specifically for Wagner's use. Finally, the throne room, which is complete except for the actual throne, is in a glittering, Byzantine/Greek mosaic style, with a huge portrait depiction of St. George slaying a dragon. The man certainly had his taste. Neuschwanstein is often described as a "fantasy" or "fairy tale" castle, and it's easy to see why: when you're surrounded by swans and gold and forests and paintings of ridiculously attractive Nordic-types, it's easy to forget that it was technically somebody's house.

Another interesting fact: along with several other of Ludwig's construction projects, Neuschwanstein was one of the first buildings in Bavaria to be built with electricity. The king took great pains to electrify his realm, alongside a general modernization plan, perhaps in an attempt to go down in history as the most fabulous monarch of all time. He's got my vote!

Way down below, from the castle's lofty swan-perch, you can see the town of Hohenschwangau, a small village whose sole purpose appears to be as a tourist service center, with excellent sausage restaurants. On the other side of the village is Schloss Hohenschwangau, a castle built by Ludwig's Father Maximillian II on the ruins of a 12th century fort. Before we left, I took a peek at it, but did not find it nearly as impressive. Like the Nymphenburg castle, Hohenschwangau is still technically a Wittelsbach residence, while Neuschwanstein is owned by the state. Comparing the two, it's plain that Bavaria got the better deal.

Exhausted from the demanding walk, I had every intention of having a light dinner and staying in for the evening back at the hotel, to catch up on my journal, read my book, and regret none of my choices. God, it seems, had other plans for me that night. A gaggle of girls asked me to accompany them again to Hofbräuhaus; being constitutionally incapable of saying no to females (a policy that is clearly wise and effective), I soon found myself back at that devilish place.

It turns out that crowded beer halls are even more obnoxious, loathsome, and idiotic when you are sober. After imposing a one-liter limit on myself, I drank it as quickly as humanly possible; but if I was to feel any liberating effect from it at all, it was surely canceled by the swiftly swelling, anxious rage I felt as the evening wore on. It wasn't one thing, but many things: the general sensory overload; the tuba band; the obnoxiously smiling, singing patrons who surrounded us on all sides; the smarmy German assholes who "shared" our table; and especially the fact that it took over forty five minutes for the thick headed waitress to settle down and agree to take my order for some mother loving schnitzel. I felt like a colossal idiot for allowing myself to be dragged there, and I spent the majority of the time with my hands covering my face, paralyzed, praying to hear my own thoughts. Most of the girls were too busy drinking to notice my silence.

I left with four of them at the first possible opportunity, desperate to save face and get the hell out, but I only seemed to get angrier and angrier on the cab ride home. To my regret, I curtly said goodnight to the girls who had enabled my escape, and impatiently retreated to my room. Once there, I exploded, punching the door and walls, throwing objects on the floor, and kicking furniture. If my roommates had been there, I probably would have screamed my head off at them. I had not been less in control of my emotions in a very long time, and I was so distressed that, upon later reflection, it seemed I had come disturbingly close to a full-blow nervous breakdown.

Not knowing what else to do, I put on my headphones, cranked the volume up, and listened to Pinkerton. At the very least, it calmed me down enough to go to sleep. I'm disappointed to report that this night, which had begun on such clearly positive note, became the undisputed emotional low point of the summer, and even of the last year.

Day Nineteen: Regensburg and Prague

In the morning, I felt crummy and sick with myself, and I had to take a walk around a few city blocks before I felt alright getting on the bus for the Czech Republic. I was feeling distinctly un-talkative, and probably looked like a wreck, too. What a nightmare it was.

Our usual pattern on long "traveling" days was to stop for a quick lunch at some godawful truck stop, but this time we had a better deal: two and a half hours to do what we would in lovely Regensburg, a city of significance for some reason or another. I had lunch at a Chinese restaurant with my sister, who I told of about my recent state of extreme distress. I feel extremely lucky to have had her there, because she understood me much better than anyone else there, and did a great deal to help me cheer up and get back in a positive state of mind. The restaurant itself was pretty good, too: I had a roast duck in some kind of miraculous wonder-sauce, and even the mushrooms (which I typically hate) went down well.

We didn't get a formal tour, apart from a few brief sentences from Jacob about the history of the city, so the two of us decided to do our own brief bit of independent sight-seeing. Since we didn't have very much time, we made the local cathedral our priority. In spite of the structure's formidable size and pointiness, it proved difficult to actually find amidst the sea of buildings and narrow streets. We found it, and then we found the best deal on gelato I had ever seen. Success!

Rolling across the border, Jacob (a native Czech) did us the honor of singing the national anthem. It was nice, as anthems go, but the song (along with the abrupt change in the readability of the street signs) drove home the realization that getting a handle on the Czech language would be tough. In Germany, I at least had a rough idea of how to pronounce all the words I didn't know the meaning of. Czech signs, however, are even more obscure-looking than Greek ones, and at least Greek signs are usually bilingual.

Prague is a beautiful, joyful looking city. You can appreciate its distinctive, "whimsical" architecture from quite far away, and I wish I knew nearly enough about the art of designing buildings to discuss it intelligently. I saw a large number of people doing some recreational boating on the Vltava river, which looked like a lot of fun; give me a week in Prague, and it's something I'd love to do at least once.

Our newest home base, Hotel Ibis, ranks as one of the best hotels of the tour. In addition to huge rooms with unprecedented floor space, it has free and unrestricted Wi-Fi, and is conveniently located a block away from both a tram and a metro station. The rooms also had working TVs, another comparative rarity in our journey. Flipping through channels, I found the European version of MTV, which against all odds still plays videos.

In particular, I watched an oddly captivating video of a German folk-alt-rock singer, singing a song which seemed to be about leaving the city behind and chilling all day in a sweet little cabin by a lake. Sadly, within fifteen minutes, I'd forgotten not only the melody, but the name of the song and the artist. I can only remember that the title and chorus ended with the German word "See:" anyone who can identify this song for me will have earned my eternal gratitude.

Some of my companions noted how odd it was that the windows in the hotel did not open fully, but merely twisted at an angle to let air in. I speculated that this was to prevent further defenestrations. Nobody got it.

That night, a few adventurous souls set out to see the local puppet theater, but I hunkered down and played it cool, checking my e-mail, reading my book, and having dinner at an Italian place across the street called Vesuvio. I had a ham, corn, and pea pizza, a combination of toppings which by all rights should not exist, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't tasty. Without thinking, I accidentally left my trilby hat on my seat when I left, and didn't miss it until just after the place closed. Fortunately, the man inside recognized me, and deduced from my frantic waving at his door that I wanted my hat back. What a nice city this is!

Day Twenty: Prague

The first stop on the morning tour was Prague Castle, which is supposedly the largest castle complex in the entire world. Many of the buildings within the complex are currently being restored to their original, more colorful appearance, after decades of Communist ideology called for a more muted palette. At least, I think that's what the guide said; he had a very thick accent and was prone to rambling. There were a lot of sweet classical/medieval looking buildings there, and the roads leading in and throughout were made with cobblestones, so it feels like a setting right out of the middle ages. The upbeat troupe of jazz-playing troubadours near the entrance was a little bit incongruous, but that's just the kind of place Prague is.

Guarding the castle's gates are a pair of soldiers who, much like their British counterparts, will neither move, smile, nor acknowledge you in any way, no matter how much like a raging goof you act. We were also fortunate enough to arrive in time to witness a changing of the guard ceremony, and we marveled at this most proud, dignified display of synchronized silly walks.

Inside the complex is a massive Cathedral, properly dedicated to St. Vitus, but also named for two other saints: St Wenceslaus (of Christmas carol fame, and the patron of the Czech state), and some obscure dude called Adelbert. This was the first gothic cathedral I'd had the opportunity to enter, so it was pretty exciting.

St. Vitus' Cathedral is actually a composite building, with the older part built in the gothic style, and the newer part built in neo-gothic style (no, I couldn't tell the difference). Little chapels are arranged all along the walls, and each one is decorated with statues, paintings, and spectacular stained glass windows, each done in a variety of styles for which Prague is famous. There's also a crypt in the basement, but unfortunately it was closed that day for "technical reasons," which I presumed to be official jargon for "vampire infestation." Finally, jammed in the midst of of the pews is the tomb of a Habsburg ruler from centuries back (or something, I have no idea what the guide actually said). Apparently, his last wish was to have really good seats at church?

The next stop in the complex was "the Golden Way," which I utterly failed to see the significance of. All I understood from the guide was a snippet of an ancient legend about an alchemist who promised to turn all of the stones in the road into gold. It sounded like an awesome story to me, but between the hustle and bustle and the Czech accent, I couldn't make it out. My most significant memory of the Golden Way will probably remain the extraordinarily creepy sculpture of an enormous skull sitting on the back of a prostrate man. WTF, Prague?

Re reconnoitered outside the local Toy Museum, which was hosting a 50th Anniversary celebration of Barbie. Pink playhouses aside, it sounded like a fun place to explore, but there was no time; we were en route now to the Charles Bridge, the most popular historical bridge in the city.

Unfortunately, the bridge is so popular (read: crowded) that our group was roughly split in half by the teeming masses. To make matters worse, half of the bridge's width was closed for renovation, creating a crushing bottleneck and pick-pocket's dream come true. Trapped on the bridge for a while, it took us a while to realize that the rest of the group had already crossed the river, and we had to catch up quickly. This meant passing by the scores of local artists selling caricatures and other souvenir works, a scene for which the bridge is very well known.

The tour ended in Old Town Square, ground zero of all things whimsically Prague-ish. There's a monument to Franz Kafka, the great Jewish writer, in one corner; in another stands an impressive looking church dedicated to St. Nicholas. There is also a Starbucks Café.

The tour disbanded for an afternoon of free time; I had a pleasant lunch with my sister and some other girls, at a restaurant with tofu that is apparently so good, it tastes exactly like meat. At least, that's what the vegetarians said. When it came time to pay, however, I realized that I still had not acquired any of the local currency. The Czech Republic is one of the few EU members not to have yet implemented the euro; they will take it, but they will mark the price way the hell up.

I sprinted out of the restaurant to a nearby ATM, and pulled out a thousand Czech crowns. Why so many? The conversion rate is kind of screwy: it takes about eighteen crowns to make a dollar, and twenty four to make a euro. A thousand crowns, then, works out to be around fifty bucks. A nice novelty, but these guys should really hop on the euro-train.

After lunch, I split off to do my own thing, which turned out to be a trip to a small-ish art gallery in the square, hosting the work of one Salvador Dalí. Since I am a great fan of the artist who once declared "I do not take drugs, I AM drugs," I enjoyed the collection very much. In addition to the paintings, there were also sculptures, prints, and several (thoroughly bizarre) photographs of the artist himself. The centerpiece of the show seemed to be a series of small, mostly abstract paintings and drawings, depicting scenes from Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy. There were of course plenty of grotesque images from Inferno, but I was equally fascinated by, and more attracted to, the gracefully odd pictures representing Paradiso.

I have to admit, however, that my favorite piece in the exhibit was a small green replica of the Venus de Milo: up close, you could see little bureau drawers with little handles, which could be pulled out from certain (read: hilarious) places on her body. It sat behind glass, to keep sophomoric types like me from getting carried away, but let's be honest: getting carried away is precisely the point of any Dalí exhibit.

Back outside, I saw three guys with acoustic guitars on a bench, singing "Bike," from Pink Floyd's first album. An obscure Syd Barret-penned song in Prague is one of those things that is simultaneously out of place and absolutely, one hundred per cent right. Shortly after they finished playing, a large truck drove through the square, spraying water into the air in huge rainbow-arcs, which people would run and play under. I don't know if that's what it was for, but it was a fantastic idea, because it was getting quite hot. After chilling in the square for a bit, I decided to pack it in.

To my dismay, I realized at the tram station that I had absolutely no idea which tram to take. Rather than risk getting on the wrong one and ending up on the far side of the moon, I took my chances and elected to walk back, in what I assumed to be the general direction of the hotel.

After walking for about forty minutes, I was out of water and thoroughly lost in the weird borderlands between suburban and quasi-industrial parts of the city. It was time, I decided, to hire a taxi. I flagged one down, but more complications arose when the driver informed me, in barely adequate English, that there were actually FOUR Hotel Ibises in Prague. I had a sinking feeling that before I got back, the man sitting next to be would be about a thousand crowns richer, or worse.

After an elementary conversation concerning the hotel's whereabouts, we managed to find the right one. It turned out that we weren't very far from it at all; if I'd known which way I was going, I probably could have walked there in another ten minutes. Still, I was immensely grateful for the lift.

I had it in my head to see a classical music concert that night, but I changed my mind; partly out of laziness, but also partly because the larger group was arranging a trip to a show the following evening. The "official" plan for that night called for a pub crawl, but I was still raw from Munich, and was having absolutely none of that. Instead, I grabbed dinner at a quiet little pan-Asian restaurant, and spent the evening indoors.

Day Twenty One: More Prague

In all honesty, my prior knowledge of Prague was sparse compared to my knowledge of Western Europe's great cities. However, one story of legend from the city's history had always fascinated me: that of Rabbi Loew and the Golem. For readers unfamiliar, Rabbi Loew was a Jewish leader from the 19th century, reputed to have had magical powers. As the legend goes, he built the Golem out of clay from the Vltava river in order to protect the Bohemian Jewish community from anti-Semitic persecution. With magic, Loew brought the creature to life, until at last the security of the Jews was guaranteed, or else the Golem went insane and went on a crazed killing spree (sources vary), and the Rabbi turned him back into clay. Cool story, eh?

So I bought an all-day metro ticket and train-hopped my way to the Jewish Quarter of Prague, and I didn't have to wander very far before I found a ticket office, selling admission to a set of museums, cemeteries, and synagogues. The district itself is largely a tourist attraction, as most of the Jews of Prague either fled or were deported or murdered by the Nazis during World War II.

The first synagogue was a memorial to the members of the community lost in the Holocaust. Thousands of names in black and red were written on the interior walls; it was a solemn place, which momentarily brought me back to the contemplative mood I'd experienced in Dachau. I didn't make an effort to remember any names, not knowing what exactly I would do with them; it was enough to see that there were a lot of them, and that the list was far from complete.

The next spot on the tour was the Old Jewish Cemetery. This was not a relic of the Holocaust (the Nazis could hardly be bothered to give their victims a proper burial), but rather goes back several centuries. In fact, it dates to the time of Rabbi Loew, and I saw his tomb (or what I assumed to be his tomb, as I cannot read Hebrew) standing prominently among the headstones. The stones themselves are all crammed together tightly, and they show their age. Many of their inscriptions are worn down to illegibility, and most of them are twisted or leaning from their original positions. The profile, as it were, of the graveyard is jagged and sharp; this plot had clearly been filled to capacity and beyond.

Outside the graveyard, a kiosk was selling ceramic golem statuettes. I bought one, in spite of my usual hesitancy toward souvenirs, thinking it would make for a great story. I did worry a bit, concerned about breaking it in my suitcase before I reached the USA, as it looked quite fragile (thankfully, it remains in one piece to this day).

I visited another synagogue, this one filled museum-style with artifacts, treasures, and information about local Jewish history and practices. It was painfully obvious that the "synagogue" was no longer actually used as such, owing to the severe depopulation of the Jews. It was, however, meticulously maintained.

Since the "tour" was not guided, I decided to go inside only one more big spot: Prague's famous Spanish Synagogue, billed as "the most beautiful synagogue in Europe." This building actually stands apart from the rest of the Jewish Quarter by several blocks. Like many of the local churches, it hosts classical music concerts in the evenings. That evening's program was Gershwin, which would have been sweet to watch, but I already had entertainment plans for the evening. In any event, the interior was very beautiful, with lots of gold leaf and other ornate decorations. It is interesting, however, to note that Europe's most spectacular Jewish house of worship is easily dwarfed in magnitude and opulence by the average Christian cathedral.

Back at the hotel, I whiled away the mid-day hours by checking my e-mail and showing off my new golem. This meant relating the ancient legend to my compatriots about four or five separate times, as few of them had ever heard of such a creature. What a shame!

Finally, it was time for the big outing: an evening at one of Prague's black light theaters, the TA Fantastika. "Black Light Theater" is a traditional local stage style, with the stage divided by a series of black curtains and screens, with very precise lighting apparatuses and UV-lamps allowing for the creation of elaborate optical illusions, like floating objects and dancing fires and lights. What better way to bid adieu (or "sbohem!") to such a quirky city?

On the way to the theater, Jacob showed some clear signs of being seriously ill. Most of us (myself included) had been battling coughs and sneezes all month, but Jacob was doing worse by far that night, and only hung around long enough to buy us our group-discounted tickets, after which he retreated to his hotel room.

The show that night was called Aspects of Alice, a psychedelic and unsubtly Freudian interpretation of Lewis Carrol's Alice books. It wasn't a straight adaptation, and didn't really have much of a plot at all, partly because it was performed almost completely without dialogue. It was basically a sequence of fantastical dream sequences, illusions, and vignettes, culminating in Alice's eventual transformation from a naïve, innocent girl into mature young woman. I can't say the form was a revelation to me: as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, some of the illusions got easier to see through, and it detracted from the "magical" experience. Furthermore, the soundtrack was appropriately mysterious and unsettling, but could have stood for more diversity. I did, however, greatly enjoy the show, though the segment with the dancing evil clowns was perhaps a little overlong.

On the way home I bought a water bottle and a cup of gelato, finally using up all of the paper crowns I had. I kept some coins for the sake of souvenirs, as it would be a waste to try exchanging them for euros. Fortunately, I did a pretty good job of estimating the amount I needed, so I didn't waste much. As for the walk home, I must say that if downtown Prague is lovely during the day, its appearance is positively dreamlike at night. One might even call it "whimsical."


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Four Nights at the Opera: Der Ring Des Nibelungen

I love music; I can listen to it all day, on any format you give me, until my head splits open and my ears bleed rock n' roll all over the keyboard. And because I am a nerd, I must do more than love my music: I must hoard it, categorize it, analyze it, and most importantly, pontificate about it. Yes, it falls to me to listen to things, and tell the rest of the world whether it's worth their precious time or not.

As a mere human, however, I am sadly limited. There is just too much recorded music to listen to in one lifetime, and so you will probably never get to hear my conclusive opinion about Swedish Death Metal, or Zimbabwean Electric Folk, or many other genres which may or may not exist. I'm just not likely to get around to it. But every once in a while, I like to take a step out of my pocket pop/rock universe and explore something "weird." And in the depths of our vulgar modern days, what could be weirder than opera, the highest tower in the ivory skyline of classical music?

So when I found a complete recording of Richard Wagner's magnum opus, Der Ring Des Nibelungen, on iTunes for a mere twenty dollars, well, I knew what I had to do. I had to buy it, and I had to listen to it, and then I had to let the world know what I thought.

So that's what I did.

The Ring Cycle, as it's known by the lazy of tongue, is an intimidatingly monumental work of the late Nineteenth Century, composed of not one but four individual operas, intended by the composer to be performed as whole over the course of four nights. It's an epic tale of heroes , gods, magic rings, dragons, and the end of the world, so you know Wagner means business. The language is German, and the setting is the imagination of the ancient Germanic myths, spliced and rearranged in dramatic fashion, presumably in order to include references to as many as humanly possible.

Because it's in German, I entered the arena at a significant disadvantage: I had no idea what the hell was going on. I partially overcame my handicap by reviewing the individual plots of the operas on Wikipedia; furthermore, I ran the titles of the individual tracks through Babelfish, in order to give myself a rough idea of where I was in the narrative. It worked, barely. In a nutshell, here's how it all goes down:

The first opera, Das Rheingold, introduces us to the Norse Gods (Odin, Thor, Loki, etc), renamed in German fashion (Wotan, Donner, Loge, etc) and fighting with giants and dwarves over a magic ring. The ring was forged by Alberich, a lustful dwarf who stole a magical hoard of gold from the nymphs of the Rhine river. What can the ring do? Well, it grants its bearer the power to conquer the world, but also drives him insane and inspires jealous rage and desire in those around him. This does not sound familiar at all. The ring comes with a magic helmet (magic helmet!?), which transforms the giant Fafner into an invincible dragon.

The second opera, Die Walküre, tells of how Wotan set up the hero Siegmund to defeat Fafner and claim the ring. Unfortunately, Siegmund throws a wrench in this plan by having sex with his long-lost sister, Sieglinde, earning him the wrath of the gods. Wotan reluctantly decrees that the pair must die, but the Valkyrie Brünnhilde takes pity on them, and manages to save Sieglinde and her unborn child. For her insubordination, Brünnhilde is then sentenced to a magical sleep within a ring of fire, to be awoken only by a great hero. I think we can all see where this is going.

The third opera, Siegfried, tells the story of the creatively named progeny of Siegmund and Sieglinde. Orphaned from birth and raised by Alberich as part of a convoluted plan to reclaim his lost treasure, Siegfried asks the dwarf Mime to reforge his father's sword (this also does not sound familiar). Mime fails in this task, so Siegfried forges it himself, and proceeds to slay the dreaded Fafner. Siegfried gains magical powers from the dragon's blood, and slays Mime, who intended to betray him. Siegfried then discovers the sleeping Brünnhilde; she awakens, he gives her the ring, they fall in love, and sunshine and happiness reign o'er the land.

The final opera, Götterdämmerung, sounds like the most awesome curse word in existence, but it isn't. Siegfried goes off in search of adventure, and comes across King Gunther. On the advice of Hagen, Gunther's half-brother and Alberich's son (good Lord this is confusing), Gunther and his sister Gutrune decide to trick Brünnhilde and Siegfried, respectively, into marrying them. Siegfried drinks a magic potion that makes him forget about Brünnhilde; disguised as Gunther, he then kidnaps Brünnhilde for Gunther and seizes the ring from her. Brünnhilde discovers the treachery, and vows revenge; Siegfried is killed by Hagen on Gunther's command, as punishment for his dishonorable behavior; Hagen kills Gunther and attempts to claim the ring, but is thwarted by Siegfried's still-moving hand; Brünnhilde builds a massive funeral pyre, returns the ring to the nymphs of the Rhine, and finally burns Siegfried and herself. This leads directly to the destruction of Valhalla and the gods, in a clear and obvious manner that certainly needs no explanation from me.

Neat story, Wagner. So how's the music? Very, very interesting. The series is famously characterized by the extensive use of leitmotifs, which is a real boon for a novice like me; the sudden recurrence of a musical theme, such as the famous "Ride of the Valkyries," helps somewhat in keeping of track of the characters and plot in such a dense, impenetrable story. I could hardly tell most of the characters apart (with the obvious exception of females and males), but with a leitmotif here and a quick Babelfish translation there, a semblance of order ultimately emerges. Making sense of this semblance, however, is an awful lot of work.

It's largely my own fault. The music is only one part of Wagner's whole creation, as essential to the whole as it may be. By necessity, I missed out on the elaborate staging that goes with a proper performance of the Ring, and while Wikipedia is helpful, it's no substitute for a real libretto. Thus, the poor opera naif is up a creek with nary a paddle or a magic helmet to save him. I can hardly say I experienced the entirety of the saga without its visual, dramatic elements.

Of course, I didn't go in wholly ignorant of Wagner. Thanks to Francis Ford Coppola, everybody knows the Ride of the Valkyries, and I recognized several other pieces from various sources. I was also fully aware of the more troubling context surrounding Der Ring des Nibelungen: namely, the composer's antisemitism and the subsequent appropriation of his work by Hitler's Reich. Though it is a plain anachronism and slander to say that Richard Wagner was a Nazi, his music was put to the Nazi's purposes, and his legacy of racism is tied up with that of the nineteenth century, which for my money was the most deeply racist epoch in western history.

But is Der Ring Des Nibelungen a racist opera? I may be ignorant of its subtler themes, but it doesn't seem that way to me. The legends and myths that inspired it are older by far than the modern racist phenomenon that troubles us to this day, and whatever purpose Wagner may or may not have had in mind in celebrating the German "race," it's the more ancient aspects of the story that shine through the brightest. At any rate, condemning the work because of its historical circumstances is hardly a fitting treatment for such an ambitious piece of art.

Besides, as I said before, I like music. Wagner's Ring is not only "important" music, but big, dramatic, and often very beautiful music. It may not be a very good introduction for opera noobies, especially in such a denuded format, but it kept my attention for four nights and gave me plenty to think about. If you're in the mood for a little dragon slaying, why not give it a try?

***

For the record, the version of the Ring which I bought from iTunes was recorded by the Orchestra Sinfonica E Coro Della Radio Italiana, with Wilhelm Furtwängler. I don't know who any of these people are, but I thank them for their hard work, and for making that work available to me at such an absurdly low price.

Italic Adventures

Grad school is eating my soul, slowly but surely; however, for the first time in weeks, I'm not stressing about anything major coming up. So let's have another journal entry, shall we? Today's section covers roughly the week we spent in Italy, which is nearly as hot as Greece, and only slightly more crammed full of monuments. Once again I have modified the original journal, which was written in haste and frequently sucks, into a more readable format.

Day Eight: Many, Many Ferries

We checked out of the hotel bright an early in the morning, which turned out to be a mistake, because the bus did not come to take us to the docks until about six in the afternoon. Rather than spend the day in our lovely, air-conditioned rooms, we sat with our luggage in the lobby and waited for mosquito-induced death.

With the whole group together again, we traded interesting stories, especially about the creepy, creepy bellhop who managed to make inappropriate advances on ninety per cent of the female contingent over the course of our stay. (As for me, he offered to carry my bag. I thought he was just helpful). Nobody bothered telling Jacob, the guide, about it until we were long gone, but he promised to write a report about it. Maybe someone will read it?

Owing to the utter incompetence/inadequacy of the bus company, we again had to cram much of our luggage into the aisles. Owing to the incompetency of the tour company in arranging schedules that make sense, we sat around the ferry dock for hours with only stray dogs and bad food to raise our spirits. There are, as a matter of fact, thousands of stray dogs on Corfu alone, and some of them are probably rabid. We didn't care.

This ferry was a big improvement over the last one, because it had an open deck, the better to watch the waves and admire the sunset and scenery. But it was also cold as hell, so eventually I found my way down to the lounge with some friends for a rousing game of "BS," a game I hadn't played properly since middle school, and for good reason: it's very, very stupid.

We landed in another Greek city that nobody ever bothered to tell me the name of. After an absurdly long walk with heavy luggage in tow, we waited for hours in yet another terminal, because apparently we hate ourselves that much. It was night time, with nothing to do but eat gelato and whine, so we whined.

Getting on the boat was not half as painful as I'd come to expect of boats and such bull, although we did have to show our passports, Schengen Agreement be damned.

Day Nine: Naples, Pompeii, Rome

The Greeks do not know how to make a decent travel breakfast. This has nothing to do with Greek cuisine in general (though I am not a huge fan), they just don't seem to understand the principle of scrambled eggs. I didn't realize the concept was so hard. Too make matters worse, today they offered us free "breakfast vouchers," but they were only good for orange juice and crackers. Eggs and sausage were "extra." Good riddance, Greeks.

We landed in Brindisi, a lovely Italian port town, and then got on ANOTHER bus, with a new Italian driver and a mercifully spacious cargo bay. With no time to spare, we set off for Naples post-haste.

They say Southern California has a "Mediterranean" climate. Sitting on a bus for five hours gave me plenty of time to reflect on the many truths of this observation; the mountainous terrain, temperature, and weather were all very reminiscent of my sun drenched stomping grounds. Yes, for five hours I reflected on the similarity. Five long hours.

Jacob played us a couple of movies to relieve the tedium: first, the utterly abominable Blue Crush, and second, the infinitely more tolerable Marley and Me. I elected to ignore the screens and listen to my iPod. Around the time we rolled into Naples, under the imposing shadow of mighty Vesuvius, Jacob had the nerve to castigate us for watching movies on a once-in-a-lifetime journey to Italy, Italy, of all places. Real funny, jack ass.

Just outside Pompeii, we stopped for a very classy lunch, because the Italians know how to make a damned fine pizza. We were led to believe it was covered by the tour company, and nobody bothered to tell us otherwise until the waiter came back looking to take our Euros.

Just outside the Pompeii site we had our first experience with "Whispers" devices, portable radios that allow local tour guides to speak directly into the ears of distractible tourists over great distances. A clever idea, but thick Italian accents over fifty cent radio speakers do not make for tasty ear candy.

Pompeii was a real trip, absurdly well preserved in the face of utter destruction; if only Delphi had been cataclysmically buried under four meters of ash and mud, maybe it would have been half as well preserved. We saw all of the interesting sights there, like temples, baths (Neptune's face still peering creepily out of stucco walls), a bakery, a brothel (complete with hilariously pornographic mosaics), and a fancy mansion on Fancy Mansion Street (not its real name). I found the little things most interesting, like the lead water pipes sticking out of the ground by the sides of the road. Making them out of lead may have been an astoundingly poor decision, and our guide confirmed that the people of the time suffered heavily from lead-related diseases, but isn't it incredible that these people had plumbing, of all things?

Pompeii is an entire city preserved from two thousand years ago, so the site is very large; the majority of it is covered in archaeological work, and not open to the public. We explored the ruins for an hour and a half, even coming across some of those famous plaster people casts, showing the volcano's victims at the moment of gas-induced death; from there, we made our way back to the tourist market.

In the market, I found even more disturbingly penis-shaped merchandise, reminiscent of Athens' infamous bottle openers, in a booth labeled "Erotic Pompeii." Seriously, Europe. Children come here too. They're all around this place. Put the penises away.

Back on the bus, and another four hours of riding to Rome. Absolutely nothing interesting happened in those hours.

The suburbs of Rome appear much more modern than those of Athens, a point driven home when I spotted not one but three Gamestop stores; I used to work there, and I had no idea they even had any locations in Italy. Apart from an aqueduct or two, there weren't many of Rome's famous monuments to be seen in the outer parts of town.

Our new base, Hotel Cilicia, was very nicely built but suffered the critical flaw of broken air conditioning units. The Italian summer is ungodly hot, and broken AC units are absolutely unacceptable, as are lies about when and how said units will be fixed. In the bathroom, I at last encountered the fabled bidet, Europe's elegant answer to the admitted inadequacies of toilet paper. Not wishing to make an ass of myself, I refrained from using it.

Day Ten: Rome

Today I learned that awful breakfast is not a specialty of the Greeks. It is European Law. Scrambled eggs are for all intents and purposes forbidden: you're better off praying for the occasional authentic orange juice and croissants. Bring your own food.

We took a bus to the Colosseum, at the heart of what you might call "Theme Park" Rome. At first impression, the monuments seem to be much more well-integrated with the modern infrastructure of the city, and it would probably be easy for natives to take for granted the huge, crumbling arches and amphitheaters. In fact, that part of town is convincingly "old Rome," with the Colosseum, Hadrian's Arch, the ancient Forum, and the Palatine and Capitoline hills all in easy sight of one another. Even the ancient Roman motto, SPQR (Senatus Populusque Romanus, I explained, fresh out of a Roman history college course) is stamped on manholes and gates for that extra Imperial feel. The modern city simply goes about its business in all directions, while the tourists move in and out, cameras a-snappin'.

The Colosseum, fully restored, would make an excellent football/soccer stadium, the biggest drawback being the lack of parking space in the immediate vicinity (and, you know, protesting archaeologists). It was hot that day, and stadia (to use the Latin plural) always seem hotter on the inside than on the outside, so of course the Amphitheatrum Flavium was sweltering. I fantasized about the days, over a hundred years ago, when the structure was over-run with plants and trees, which might have provided some decent measure of shade. At one point, I found a view of the arena that seemed an exact match for a photograph I'd once seen in a textbook, for a delightful jolt of deja vu (not Latin, but close enough).

Another bus hop, and we met up with our local guide for the day, who took us on a walking tour through commercial streets, where we saw some very famous, very notable buildings, chief among them being the Trevi Fountain. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say the Trevi Fountain is the coolest freaking thing in the entire city. When you turn the corner to see the fountain, it's as if a glittering wall of water, gods, and horses are suddenly bearing down on in you in a furious sweep of noise and fury, leaving you quite literally breathless. Also, it's full of pennies.

The guided tour ended at the Pantheon, once a pagan temple but preserved through the centuries as a Catholic church. The building and its famous dome are large and impressively built, with a little hole at the top to let natural sunlight in (I'm not sure what they do when it rains). As for me, I don't believe that I knew that King Vittorio Emanuelle II was actually entombed in the Pantheon, but he couldn't have picked a more stately, or ego-gratifying, place.

Jacob had secured a mass-ticket for all fifty of us to enter Palatine complex and the old Forum, but when it came down to it, the masses seemed utterly uninterested: some claimed hunger, or exhaustion, or even claimed not to know what the Forum even was, for shame. As it turned out, only myself and one other guy elected to claim the fifty-person pass, thus ensuring odd stares from the ticket counters at the gate.

On the way there we passed the appointed rendezvous point, the monument of Vittorio Emanuelle II at la Piazza Venezia, the city's most spectacular modern structure. Across the street from there we found the slightly more recent Imperial Forum, built to supplement the old Roman Forum in the days of Trajan, whose funky-looking column remains the most interesting thing at the site. Really, the only interesting thing.

The entrance to the real Forum is at the Palatine hill, close to where the day's adventure began. My buddy and I kicked around the hill for a while, refilling our water bottles, then taking some sophomoric satisfaction in running around in the hollowed-out place where Augustus' palace once stood. Reading for some hard core ruins, we descended into the Forum proper.

There are many old buildings still standing there, and the complex has a very park-like aesthetic, with no modern structures and only a few archaeology-related KEEP OUT signs here and there. The best preserved is the Curiae Iulia, the Senate meeting house built by Julius Caesar himself. Like the Pantheon, it was well maintained over the ages as a Christian Chapel, and kept its dignified look against a background of later, Renaissance-era buildings.

Less immediately appealing were a pack of abstract modern sculptures dotting the grounds around the various ruins, which seemed to depict a series of monstrous orb-babies hatching from primordial pudding eggs. I have a certain fascination for abstract art, but while I liked them well enough for what they were, I'd really like to know what city hall was thinking when they decided to install them there. Ignorant tourists might get strange ideas, after all.

With that grand adventure done, we still had four unbearable hours to wait for the bus to take us back to our suburban hotel. We decided to look for an internet cafe, and after nearly forty minutes of walking we found a ridiculously over priced one. To hell with that; we next found ourselves in a Borders-like book store, conveniently air conditioned and stocked with many wondrous things. We finally settled down in the one place we knew we could sit for three hours without being kicked out or treated like bums: McDonalds.

At the surprisingly posh restaurant I finished another book, Volume One of the most excellent manga series, Lone Wolf and Cub. Though it would cost me well over two hundred dollars to own the entire series, I fear I may end up doing just that; it's really very good. Meanwhile, we met a traveling couple from Latvia who were keen to show off their little daughter's English skills. Pretty darn adorable, if you ask me.

Back at the Piazza Venezia, and then back on the bus for the end of a day that, in retrospect, was just a little bit too long. I didn't regret a single thing I saw, but I began to perceive a flaw in our normal operation of leaving us stranded in the middle of giant cities with no way out except for the suspiciously over-priced taxis. Five or six of those eight would have been plenty to see the big, important sights, with time for a little lunch and rest.

Back at the hotel, I made the mistake of telling people I only drank what was in front of me, and I soon found in front of me more shots of Jaegermeister than I had ever seen in my life. In this way I learned that Jaeger, and those who provide it, are the devil; also, that it is surprisingly easy to crash into walls. I tried to join my diabolical compatriots on a rudimentary pub crawl, but I was quickly overwhelmed by the noise of bad techno and retired to the hotel for some badly needed sleep.

Day Eleven: Vatican City

Mercifully, I awoke sans-hangover. That means the score is Jaegermeister 0, David 1. Let's keep it that way.

There was a small uproar over what was considered appropriate attire in the Vatican city State, AKA Catholic Ground Zero. At least one girl had to go out that morning and buy a new dress; while we waited for her, I started reading my new copy of the Bhagavad Gita, which I had purchased from a member of International Society for Krishna Consciousness on the University of Oregon campus that spring. Ironic? Maybe a little. Don't tell the guys at St. Michael's.

The bus drove us over the famous Tiber river, which was honestly not that impressive, looking a rather sickly shade of green. It didn't look like a river that would nourish a mighty empire like Rome's. The bridge was very nice, though.

We parked out in front of St. Peter's Square, which of course was covered in pigeons and looked absolutely amazing, and then we hiked all the way around the Vatican City Wall to reach the entrance of the museum. What awaited us inside? Even more walking. Fortunately, there were loads and loads of amazing sculpture and paintings all the way through.

I suppose I should have known about this, but I didn't realize the original Laocoön and His Sons was on display in the Vatican. Upon seeing it, I geeked out a little, determined to tell everyone there exactly how amazed I was to see it. The Pope has way too much cool shit in one place. In ever gallery, in every room, I saw statues that I'd only ever read about and seen in pictures, just sitting there, existing, barely protected from my grubby hands, about as nonchalantly as you can imagine. Then you've got these incredible antique maps (I love maps), mosaics, paintings and gilded ceilings, and you throw in the fact that all of this was once closed to the public, for the Pope's own private viewing, and dammit, it's not fair. Not fair!

The Sistine Chapel ceiling, only one of Michelangelo's resident masterpieces, was amazing in its own right. However, I left the room in a crummy mood, feeling quite irritated at the unwashed hordes inside who insisted on taking pictures, in spite of posted signs, genuine concerns about the effect of flashes on the artwork, and plain good taste. I felt sorry for the guards who had to shout "No Foto!" over and over, ignored by self-righteous tourists who were APPARENTLY unaware that you could find high quality images of the ceiling on the internet for free. And they're better pictures than their little cameras could take in the dim light.

Anyway, everyone always gets excited about the ceiling, but I was actually more impressed by the Last Judgment, the huge mural on the wall behind the altar. Something about Michelangelo's furious, beardless Christ sorting the good from the wicked captivated me: probably, I was thinking about all of the photographers in the room.

Shortly thereafter, the path took us to St. Peter's Basilica, and Lord help me, I sinned the sin of Envy. Why couldn't I go to that Church when I was a little kid? The chamber is unimaginably huge, there's an original statue by Michelangelo tucked in a corner, an impossibly tall, impossibly pointy altar, gold leaf on just about everything, and mosaics so meticulously arranged that until you stepped within a few feet, you'd swear that they were paintings. Photographs were permitted, and we took many.

After the tour, we had forty minutes of free time to chill in St. Peter's Square, and as luck would have it, a Mass was scheduled to begin in ten. The Catholic in me wanted to go, but alas, I could not. I had checked my backpack at the museum entrance, and I realized then that I had to walk all the way back to the other side to retrieve it. Bear in mind, I effectively had to walk the perimeter of an entire sovereign nation, a journey that took a good half hour.

Back in the square, I took a good look around at things, like the Swiss guards (they dressed funny), the pigeons (some of them had deformed feet), and the Vatican Obelisk (it's very tall). We assembled, and took the bus back to the hotel, where it was definitely nap time after all that walking.

After an epic nap, the majority of the group was preparing for a rather serious pub crawl, an endeavor I rejected as uncouth and undesirable. My behavior the previous night notwithstanding, I hate pubs, dislike crawling, and bear no great love for booze. Instead, I decided to go exploring the vicinity of the hotel.

To my surprise, I saw signs indicating that the Appian Way, one of Ancient Rome's most well-preserved cities, was nearby (as a matter of fact, the hotel was located along the modern day Via Appia). Alas, I could not find it: the sign pointed toward a fork in the road, and I went the wrong way, finding myself in the middle of some kind of crazy folk festival. Rather than retrace my steps, I admitted defeat and went to get some delicious Italian pizza. Then it was back to the hotel, where I resumed my study of the Gita, like a good little scholar.

Day Twelve: Florence

I awoke the next morning to find most of the group wearing "When in Rome, Pub Crawl" t-shirts. Brief interviews with the participants indicated that shit went down. One pair of girls told me how they'd hitch-hiked home with a famous opera singer, whom they regrettably could not remember the name of. That is clearly either the greatest true story, or the greatest drunken hallucination, of all time.

And so we boarded the bus and bid goodbye to the Eternal City, heading north for Florence, the heart of the Italian Renaissance. The drive, like all bus rides, was fairly boring.

Our new hotel, Hotel Patrizia, was classy enough. However, the hotel itself was not to be found on the first or even the second floor, but the third floor, so it took ages for the fifty of us to get all our things up the stairs; there was only one, tiny elevator. There was no air conditioning at all, but mercifully, the heatwave that had oppressed us in Rome seemed to be on the wane.

Schedule-wise, we had a problem. It was Sunday, about four-thirty in the afternoon. We were told that all of the most famous museums in the city, including the Galleria and the famous Uffizi, would be closed on Monday, leaving us no time to enjoy them before we left town on Tuesday. We were also fairly certain that the galleries would close early on Sunday, and we despaired to think that we'd narrowly missed a chance to see some of the city's greatest art works. A few of us, deciding to at least see Michelangelo's David if we could, set out running in the direction of the Galleria.

Florence is just lovely. I came to regard it as more classic and authentic than Rome (the mountains of fake leather goods notwithstanding). A friend and I got sidetracked on the way and found ourselves in front of the magnificent Cathedral of Santa Maria De Firenze, a beautiful building whose exterior, at least, rivaled that of St. Peter's. Atop the building sits one of the most famous domes built in the Renaissance period, engineered by an architect whose name escapes me (Bernini? Berluchi? Wikipedia tells me it's Brunelleschi). The structure is commonly called Il Duomo, but I learned later that that word means house, not dome, and refers to the cathedral's status as a house of God. Shows what I know.

We reached the Galleria, and thankfully it was open, but tickets were ten euros a pop. Most unfair, but we paid, figuring that it was probably worth it to see art that could literally change our lives. Right inside we saw a very famous sculpture, the Rape of the Sabine Women, situated in the center of a big room. It's a very nice stature, as depictions of kidnappings go. Especially ones with the word "rape" in their titles.

We turned a corner, and lo and behold, there was David, standing there, doing his David thing. He was lit rather magnificently from below, giving the marble a rather translucent, transcendent quality. Pictures don't really do it justice, and in any event my sister had the camera, and she wasn't with us. So I took no pictures of it while I was there, opting toburn it as deeply into my memory as possible.

Also showing at the Galleria that month was an exhibit by Robert Mapplethorpe, also known as Jesse Helms' favorite homoerotic photographer. As a matter of fact, four of Mapplethorpe's enormous photos were set up all around David's pedestal, as if trying to steal some of his Renaissance thunder. I was a little put off by this, having definitely not come to see Mapplethorpe's work. When I considered, however, that I had in fact come to the Galleria to see a statue of an enormous, well-muscled naked man, I had to concede a point. That makes the score Mapplethorpe 1, David (Miller) 0.

Back to the hotel and then out again with friends for a classy (but ridiculously expensive) dinner. I decided then and there to stop tipping at restaurants that not only charged you for water, but included a service charge just for sitting down. It's just greedy, is what it is.

I was very happy to see that our hotel had free Wi-fi. However, for whatever reason, the manager was in the habit of turning it off every night at ten. Hey, buddy! We've got e-mails to check!

Day Thirteen: More Florence

We woke up again to another sub-par breakfast, but by now nobody cares. Today's special entree was twinkies.

Once again the group assembled, and we marched downtown along the Arno river (which is much nicer than the Tiber). We met our local guide at La Piazza Della Signoria, underneath a statue of Cosimo d'Medici. Sharing the square with him were a number of other statues, including a replica of the David where the original once stood, and the original Rape of the Sabine Women. The one I saw the day before was a copy, commissioned to eventually stand in the original's place; constant exposure to rain and pollution has threatened the original's integrity.

From there we walked back to Il Duomo, and this time we got to go inside. The interior was not quite on par with St. Peter's, but it had a very mellow, reverent atmosphere, and the fresco on the inside of the dome was very lovely. There was also an awesome giant clock, which was chiefly awesome for being a giant clock.

We saw some more sights on the tour, including the Piazza di Repubblica, the Jeweler's Bridge (the only historical Florentine bridge to survive World War II), and the entrance to the Uffizi, which was closed due to Karmic injustice. Then it was back to the Piazza della Signoria, where we again admired statuary and said goodbye to our local guide.

Jacob led us to a local leather shop, Studio Leonardo if I remember the name, and the workers there gave us a neat presentation about the history of the Florentine leather-working trade, as well as a demonstration of key aspects of the process. We saw one of the shop's most remarkable products, a jewel box made of hardened, shaped leather, with no metal or plastic parts, even for the hinges. We had an opportunity to do some shopping in the store with a group discount, but as fascinating as the presentation was, most of the good stuff was still prohibitively expensive. I thought about replacing my wallet, since it has a hole in it which allows coins to slip out, but I couldn't find a decent one for less than twenty euros. So I merely browsed, then took off with some girls for panini (prosciutto crudo = GOOD) and gelato.

The bulk of the tour boarded a train for an optional (and costly) excursion to Pisa. It was my understanding that Pisa's only recommending feature was the leaning tower, and against that I had to stack my two pressing needs: a nap, and laundry. I was very close to finally running out of clothes, so Pisa had to go.

The hotel did not have laundry facilities, as the uncivilized Europeans scorn us and our mechanized washing and drying of clothes. Fifteen minutes away was a laundromat, which catered to tourists via exorbitant prices that no self-respecting Florentine would pay in a million years. Washing and drying two loads of laundry cost me eleven euros; in America, I could have done the same for two dollars. Feeling cash-strapped, I bought a cheap pizza for dinner and went back to the hotel.

Feeling tired, I spent the evening listening to music and looking out my window at the townspeople. My sister, who mysteriously disappeared to go hiking in the countryside with her friends, finally returned around midnight; this was good, as I wasn't entirely comfortable with leaving her behind. I chided her gently for not coming with us, as she missed an opportunity for some awesome pictures.

Most of our group went out to a nearby disco called "Space Club," which is just about as campy as it sounds, to do body shots and other such nonsense. I was invited, but I was having none of their tomfoolery that night. Instead I went to bed at a decent hour and got plenty of sleep, as a wise traveler should.

Day Fourteen: (Almost) Venice

Two weeks we've been traveling! I've stopped trying to keep track of the days of the week. They're not really important: what matters is hitting our scheduled stops at the appropriate times. Today we had another long, boring bus ride through terrain that looked mostly like the rest of Italy, but gradually grew a bit greener and swampier: we were on our way to Venice, baby!

As we approached our destination, Jacob told us that, owing to Venice's unique island situation, it was too expensive for us to actually get a hotel there. Instead, we were to stay in a little beach town called Jesolo. The place was actually fairly accommodating, with a working air conditioning unit even, although we did have to pay two and a half euros to turn it on. The beds were comfortable, and for once the TV even worked. To my surprise and delight, I found an Italian dub of Star Trek on that afternoon. The episode, Who Mourns for Adonis?, was rather appropriate, given our recent Greco-Roman adventures. I couldn't understand the dialogue at all, but Star Trek is Star Trek.

That evening we had a special treat: wine tasting and dinner at a local winery. Apparently, this vineyard gives tours often; I noted a number of signs indicating "Agriturismo" services. Now, I am not a big wine drinker. As a matter of fact, I don't care for the taste of most alcoholic beverages. But strawberry wine? Pretty darn tasty.

We got a brief tour of the vineyard, and the sheds where the magical fermentation process occurs. It was educational, and I probably would have learned more, but the lady's accent was unfortunately thick. My sister and I considered buying some wine for our parents, but ultimately decided against dragging fragile bottles halfway across the continent for three more weeks.

Dinner was fabulous, with some Italian meats, a pasta dish, and of course, more red wine. Many of us enjoyed that last part quite a bit, and the hall was full of singing. Eventually our host gifted us with an Italian song in a stunningly profound voice, and a grand time was had by all.

Back at the hotel we met our temporary neighbors, a gang of German high school students, who seemed to be "enjoying" their trip as much as we were. In fact they were quite noisy well into the night, but our walls were fairly soundproof.


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TV Time #2: The Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien

By now, a million billion words have been written about the catastrophe that has befallen the Tonight Show, culminating in the termination of Conan O'Brien, for my money the most original comic vision to ever host the show. Last night, Conan said goodbye to the show, to NBC, and to the legions of new viewers he had gained in the past two weeks, since his job was first threatened by the forces of mediocrity and timidity. The show reached a touching climax with a gracious and hopeful speech, and concluded with a weird, silly, and ultimately joyful musical number; in many ways, the perfect finale to a series that really did end at least a decade too soon. What's really unfortunate, however, is the thought that the Tonight Show has now become culturally irrelevant.

Many have been tolling the bell for the show, not to mention the whole late night format, since the final days of Johnny Carson's run. During Jay Leno's nearly two-decade tenure, he did precious little to counter that assertion. Instead of emulating Carson's wit, charm, or spontaneity, he set his sights low and sought to reproduce only his predecessor's broad appeal. The result was tepidly amusing at best, and disposable prolefeed at its worst. Leno built a consensus majority by being unobjectionable and boring, practically encouraging his audience to fall asleep with the TV on.

Fortunately, comedy fans have had plentiful alternatives for a while. We had David Letterman, who mellowed with age but never really stopped being the bitterly sarcastic wise-ass that America fell in love with in the eighties; we had Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, who gave us the sharpest political satire to ever appear on American television; and we had Conan O'Brien, the lanky goofball who delighted in the absurd, the bizarre, and the ridiculous. For as long as Jay Leno spread his slick mediocrity over the land, Conan was deliberately weird, performing elaborate physical routines and oddball shtick that turned what looked like a weakness - his height, his skin tone, his hair, his generally exceptional appearance - into classic comedy. Conan gave his fans things they didn't know they wanted, like string dances and masturbating bears, and in spite of the odds he rose from complete and utter obscurity to become a beloved television icon.

So when, seven months ago, Conan began his time at the Tonight Show, it seemed like a complete godsend. Yes, the show had grown old and mossy, its conventions utterly predictable and cliched. We knew that Conan would not be free to be as outrageous at 11:30 as he'd been at 12:30, that he could never have as much freedom as Stewart and Colbert enjoyed on cable. But we also knew that he was Conan O'Brien, and that Conan O'Brien was incapable of being anything but himself. Most of all, unlike Jay Leno, who loved nothing more than his image and his success, we knew that Conan loved the Tonight Show, and that whatever restrictions applied, he would do his show with good humor and joy.

What really pleased people like me was the thought that the Tonight Show, an important cultural institution, was finally wrested from the older crowd, and entrusted to a younger, less hidebound generation. Even if it was passé, it was ours, a piece of the old media embraced by the sensibilities of the new. Conan was no Johnny Carson, but he was the standard bearer for the kind of comedy that could restore life to Johnny's show. It was revenge for the snubbing of Letterman all those years ago, a setting to rights of past wrongs.

Well, we thought it was. Conan's initial ratings were underwhelming, and before he could establish himself and truly come into his own as the host of the Tonight Show, he was abandoned by the very network that had made him an icon. Jay Leno, who was himself severely under-performing in prime time, was given his old time slot back, and Conan was told to accept a later start, or get out of the way. He chose the latter, and what followed was one of the most satisfying, dynamic, and dangerous two weeks in the history of late night comedy. For two weeks Conan O'Brien bit the hands that fed him, lustily ripping into the reputations of his bosses. The masses roared in approval, as ratings soared, and Team Conan set the internet on fire with unyielding support for O'Brien, and undying contempt for Leno and NBC.

Of course, corporations are inflexible in their machinations, and it was obvious all along that, though we fought the good fight, the cause was lost. For all the love and support that came his way, Conan couldn't keep his show, and Jay would have it back one way or another. As odd as it may seem, many fans took it all very personally, and why not? Amateur sociologists could talk and write for ages about how Conan's plight resonated in a country where millions were unjustly without jobs, but in the end the answer was simple: people know unfairness when they see it. NBC betrayed Conan O'Brien, and showed complete disregard for the wishes of its audience. They paid for it with a thoroughly piercing public humiliation, the effects of which will reverberate for years, tarnishing the reputation of the network that gave us some of the most legendary comedies of all time.

After two weeks of standing firm skewering NBC with all of his comedic skill, Friday left Conan O'Brien only one thing to do: bow out gracefully, and leave the Tonight Show in a glorious blaze of rock n' roll. In one of the most bizarre musical collaborations I have ever seen, Conan joined Max Weinberg, Beck, Ben Harper, and Billy Gibbons in backing Will Ferrel, who sang Freebird and pounded his trademark cowbell for all it was worth. Conan took a solo, holding his own on guitar against several bona fide rock stars, and brought a brief but momentous television era to a close. It was goofy, emotional, and profoundly honest, demonstrating precisely just what it was that set Conan O'Brien apart from his peers.

And what comes next? Conan will get a new show someday, probably on Fox, and possibly as soon as September. His fans will follow him, and Team Conan will finally have some measure of satisfaction, something more than a moral, Pyrrhic victory. But the Tonight Show? The Tonight Show is dead in the water. Until September comes, a returning Leno will face off against Letterman once again, and Leno's public profile has been thoroughly trashed by virtually the entire entertainment community. Even if Leno regains his bland supremacy at 11:30 by the skin of his infamous chin, his show will be nothing more than a shadow of its former self. And by Jay Leno's standards, that's insignificant indeed.

As for myself, I'm not willing to let NBC off the hook. For as long as Jay Leno hosts the Tonight Show, NBC won't be having my business; I'm participating in a general boycott of NBC's programming. Admittedly, I won't be able to ignore the Olympics completely, but since they're projected to lose two hundred million dollars on the broadcasts anyway (thanks to the same brilliant decision makers who sealed the Tonight Show's fate), I don't have to worry too much about accidentally helping them out.

NBC, Jay Leno, know that you have earned the contempt of your audience. Good luck winning back their respect. Long live Conan O'Brien!

Hellenic Adventures

Behold, gentle reader: the first installment of my European journal, which I promised to post when I got home last August, and am now so doing! Sometimes, I do actually keep my promises. Not often, though. The following text is edited and revised from my original notes, which are more awful than I remembered, and often mix the past and present tenses. I'll fix it where I can, but bear with me.

Day One: Los Angeles to London

My sister Chelsea and I boarded an early afternoon flight from LAX to Heathrow aboard Air New Zealand, which I have to say is the classiest airline I've ever flown on. However, I'm afraid that no amount of class can make a ten hour flight anything other than a ten hour flight, especially when you're too cheap to buy booze (I'm not even sure they had any, come to think of it). With the help of a generous selection of in-flight movies (I chose Wall-E), my Nintendo DS, and the Greatest Works of Chopin, I managed to stave off boredom for about five hours. I spent the rest of the flight sleeping for two hours and watching the plane arc over Greenland on my mini screen.

Day Two: London

British Airways wouldn't let us check our bags seven hours in advance of our flight to Athens, so we had to pay sixteen pounds for storage space, the first instance of Europeans taking my money and far from the last. Our things secured, we set out to see as much of Merry England as possible in six hours. It turns out, you can't see much.

You may have heard that cars in England drive on the left side of the street; what you may not have realized is that this appears to be the only traffic law in existence. There are red lights and green lights, but they don't necessarily seem to have anything to do with when cars or people stop and go. In spite of the manifest insanity of the motorists, I didn't see any accidents, but I was nearly run over by a taxi more than once.

Chelsea and I stumbled through what I assumed was downtown for a few hours, marveling at the architecture and the crowds, and thoroughly lost because we'd neglected to buy a map. We found ourselves amongst embassies, and later wandered into Queen Mary's Gardens, in the heart of Regent's Park. With all of its multi-colored roses, the place had a definitely English, Alice-in-Wonderland kind of feel, reinforced by the swarms of turkey-sized pigeons who scavenged for scraps at the outdoor cafe where we ate lunch. Birds that big belong in farms and zoos.

With directions received from our accommodating waitress, I made a point of expressing my secret love for literary-historical kitsch with a quick pilgrimage to 221b Baker Street, home of the Sherlock Holmes museum, perhaps England's most famous literary cos-play exposition (not that I would know anything of dressing like fictional people). If that place was not an authentically preserved 19th century apartment (and I happen to know it wasn't), it still did an excellent job of looking like it to a humble tourist like me. Best of all, the man in the gift shop agreed to watch our bags without charging us, though he repeatedly warned us that he was not actually taking responsibility for them.

We passed a number of minor landmarks on the way to Trafalgar Square, centrally located among some of the city's most famous structures. Admiral Nelson's Column, in particular, was very, very big. I haven't been to the Washington Monument in years, but in some ways Nelson's big spike seemed more impressive, though it's less than half as tall. It probably had something to do with all of the giant lions. Pressed for time, we admired the facade of the British Museum, then worked our way down Whitehall toward Big Ben and the Parliament building. Being tourists, we of course took pictures, but it was difficult to get a good vantage with the crowds and fences everywhere.

The London Underground is very fast and practical, but quite probably the most crowded public transportation I've ever seen; I even saw some poor people pressed up against the glass of the windows and doors, "packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes" at rush hour, as Sting might put it. Interestingly, the Underground is not entirely underground, especially the part that runs toward the airport. The parts that are, however, resemble a kind of high-tech hobbit hole, with lots of round portals and doors. There are also posters for movies, bands, etc; the big promotional item at the time was Sacha Baron Cohen's Brüno, with posters substantially more revealing than would have been permissible in the States. And boy, were there a lot of them.

By the time we returned to Heathrow, my sleep deprivation was becoming obvious enough to raise the eyebrows of security guards. A persistent hallucination of someone calling my name turned out to be my sister actually calling my name, trying to get my attention before I wandered off to God-knows-where. But by the grace of God, we we managed to get on board our overnight flight to Athens, where I managed to get a pitiful hour and a half of sleep.

My final impression of London was of a modern, yet deeply impressive historical city, invested with a stately grandeur that was only enhanced by delirium and exhaustion. I could have spent hours in any number of places, but we had places to be, and many more things to see.

Day Three: Athens

We landed at about three in the morning, and spent many hours waiting for our ride to the hotel. Fortunately (maybe?) there was a television in the terminal. Greek television in the wee hours is a lot like American television: a vast expanse of repetitive infomercials for arguably useful consumer products, as far as the eye can see. Later they showed a series about Greek folk songs and dances, most of which consisted of holding hands and moving in a circle while an old lady looked on with approval. I put up with as much as I could before passing out.

Our next stop was the Hotel Austria, our first of many landing spots with our tour group. It's sort of like an upscale hostel, in that it's nicer than a hostel, but only half of the air conditioning units work. It's in a great location, overlooked by the Acropolis, which is about five minutes away if you can find your way through the city's twisted streets. I got used to seeing the Parthenon after only a little while, and it looks beautiful when it's lit up at night, but I was disappointed to see that it was covered by scaffolding, part of an ongoing maintenance (it really needs it).

After collapsing in my horrible, horrible bed for a few hours, I met some of the guys from the tour group and went to check out the new Acropolis museum, which has an impressive array of artifacts, statues and friezes, as well as a creepy transparent floor that reveals the excavation site beneath the building. All this for one Euro! Europe will never be this cheap again.

Later on, the whole group had free dinner courtesy of Hotel Austria, setting a dangerous precedent that we were told would never be repeated again. Afterward we separated into semi-coherent groups, and went out to explore the city and its nightlife. A Puerto Rican girl and I tried the local ouzo, which is a lovely drink if you wish that licorice could intoxicate you. We went in circles through ancient streets filled with shops and merchants, and some guy tricked me into buying the girl a rose at an outdoor cafe.

The group is made up of six guys and forty three girls, which is undoubtedly a potent recipe for awesome. The most interesting ones, however, are already spoken for, which is fast becoming the story of my life. In any event, the scarcity of Y chromosomes ensures that I receive my fair share of attention, for better or worse.

(Spoiler: Nothing ever happened)

Back at the hotel, I found some English language sitcoms (with Greek subtitles) on a few channels. But since I can only handle so much Ray Romano, the default station soon became CNN International, which is sort of like an inferior BBC. The lack of quality television made sleep all the more appealing, and I actually managed to catch up on some well-needed rest.

Day Four: More Athens

We woke up at the crack of too-damned-early and gathered for a hearty breakfast of cereal and (severely) watered down orange juice, then met up with our bus and got our cameras ready for a fun-filled day of tourism.

Athens being the capital of Greece, there were a number of notable modern buildings, such as the old and new parliament buildings. There were also new buildings designed in classical, columned style, including the National Academy and a beautiful, beautiful library. We piled out of the bus to see the original, 1896 Olympic stadium. Students of recent history will recall that the Olympics came to Athens once again in 2004, but we only ever saw that building from a great distance. While riding on the bus, I concentrated on a new game I resolved to play over the course of the next month: teaching myself the local language by reading the bilingual street signs. Progress was predictably slow.

Finally, we reconvened near the hotel for the main event: a hike up to the Acropolis in the nigh-unbearable Hellenic heat (temperatures reached forty-plus degrees Celsius, which is roughly what death feels like). With rugged determination we waited in line, bought our tickets, and wound our way up a stony path that, for God's sake, should really be paved after two thousand years of use. Waiting at the top was the proud remnant of the cradle of western civilization.

I don't mean to sound unimpressed, because the Parthenon, Erechtheion, etc, are all very impressive buildings. However, I would have been infinitely more impressed if I could have gone up there alone, at night, with all the scaffolding removed. The Acropolis in movies and pictures is stoic and timeless, but the real site is positively teeming with people and cameras, and the extensive repair work makes the place feel old, not ancient. Tacky as it may sound, I wish I could see the Parthenon rebuilt and restored to its ancient glory.

From the Acropolis, you can see an impressive Christian church on a tall hill, dedicated (if I remember the local tour guide correctly) to Saint George. The female contingent of our tour group, in spite of all available facts and evidence, believes this to be the castle from the movie version of Mamma Mia!, and nothing I can say can ever change that. Sigh.

The more I think about it, the more unusual it seems to actually live in a city like Athens. Many cities in the U.S. have their impressive historical landmarks, but even the oldest of America's cities are only a fraction of the age of Athens and Rome, and none of them have the sort of large-scale archaeological work that can be found in the very heart of those cities. I can only guess at how the locals feel, since their perspectives are the opposite of mine, but it strikes me as surreal that a Starbucks can be found in walking distance of the Temple of Zeus.

With a little bit of downtime, my sister and I found the rock where St. Paul preached to the Athenians, and some enthusiastic Christians gave us some pocket New Testaments. We walked through the old Agora (it was mostly grass and broken stones), and ended our official tour at what I believe was the city's principal Orthodox Cathedral. The group split up for lunch and an afternoon of free time. I ended up ordering something that wasn't particularly tasty, so lunch was mostly unremarkable, but it led to an interesting debate on the proper pronunciation of "gyro," which even our Greek waiter was decidedly unhelpful in settling. The true pronunciation, as near as I can tell, is something like "yuro," but all I can say for sure is how much I'm looking forward to Italian food.

Next we went shopping in a bazaar, where I discovered gelato, socialized with some of the girls, and fell in love. With gelato. Seriously, ice cream will never taste as good again. WHY CAN'T WE HAVE GELATO?

For the most part, the wares were conventional: things like tee shirts, plastic statues, and other tourist-ensnaring goodies. By far, the award for "strangest product on sale" belongs to the wooden bottle openers shaped like penises. Yes, that's right. If the Greeks wish to combat the their reputation as the most homo-erotic culture on Earth, they should take a long, hard look at their bottle-opener industry.

A group of us ended up at the one-Euro Acropolis museum again, for no particular reason except to escape the oppressive heat. Shortly thereafter we returned to the hotel, where I hunkered down for the evening, eschewing the nightlife in favor of reading, relaxation, and a light dinner.

Day Five: Delphi, Patra, and Beyond

We said goodbye to Athens today, passing a few new landmarks on the way out (my favorite was a sculpture of Icarus falling to Earth). From there it was out to the great Greek highway, on a pilgrimage to the Oracle of Delphi. It was quite a distance, so we stopped for lunch at what was apparently a fairly major rest stop, and I had some exceedingly excellent Souvlaki pork.

Delphi is located high in the mountains, just past a small town which functions as a ski resort in the winter time, where the roads are barely wide enough for cars to travel in two directions. It truly must be said, the bus drivers of Europe are heroes, if only for the great dexterity they bring to impossible twists and turns. As for the mountains themselves, I have rarely seen a more dynamic, impressive landscape. I don't know the relevant statistics in terms of height, but the mountains of Greece are visually epic.

I enjoyed the experience of Delphi much more than that of the acropolis, although it required significantly more climbing. It's a shame the temple to Apollo at the site did not last as long as the Parthenon has, because it would have made a beautiful sight against the rugged, rocky backdrop. Higher up we saw an amphitheater, and at the highest point we came upon the stadium, where athletes came in days of yore to compete in the famous Delphic games. Well, I've heard of them, anyway.

The mercifully air-conditioned museum has a huge collection of impressive, beautiful, and sometimes bizarre artifacts unearthed at the site, which was once completely buried. My favorite was a huge Sphinx, nearly intact, perched on a tall pillar. There was also a bull, which must have been made of wood at one point; all that remains of it now is the silver leaf that plated its surface. It's frustrating to imagine how beautiful these places must have been two thousand years ago, with all of these once-beautiful things now broken into pieces. The reconstructions, however, are often amazing in their own right, and it's impressive just how well these artifacts have survived centuries of neglect and abuse.

Back on the bus, we continued driving down the southern coast of mainland Greece, stopping briefly at a lovely pebble beach. The mountains of the Peloponnese were clearly visible across the Corinthian Sea; it was a beautiful afternoon. Unfortunately for the girls who'd broought their swimsuits along, there was no time for swimming; a terrible shame, I say.

Eventually we reached a bridge which allowed was to crossed over the sea into the city of Patra, which is not very historical, but has a convenient ferry dock. There we waited for our ride to Corfu, a wait that lasted an unfortunate five hours. Even a delicious pizza dinner can only take up so much time, and there's not much fun to be had in a seaport terminal with no wi-fi.

Finally our overnight ferry arrived, but for whatever reason the boarding process was handled very inefficiently. To make matters worse, an unfortunate case of harassment by the customs authorities almost kept some of our group from boarding at all. I was quite frustrated and irritable by the time I got on board, and all I wanted to do was sleep.

Day Six: Corfu!

If getting on the ferry the night before was a nightmare, getting on the bus in the morning was a serious pain. Our luggage had always fit comfortably on buses on the mainland, but the bus on the Ionian isle of Corfu lacked a critical storage compartment. As a result, we had to stash about a quarter of our bags in the aisle, a violation of various safety regulations and a waste of everyone's time.

Our gloom dissipated when we arrived at the Corfu Palace, a five star resort, with no agenda for the next two days except relaxation and fun. We knew that we were unlikely to be so pampered again, so we intended to take advantage of it.

Unlike dear old Hotel Austria, the Corfu Palace has a genuine continental breakfast; unfortunately, it's not complimentary. We got a special deal at seven euros, and I packed my plate to get my money's worth.

There seems to be a policy in Greek hotels that electricity can't run in rooms if you don't leave your card key in a special slot. It's a clever way to keep obnoxious kids like us from wasting power, but it smacks of stinginess. Do the Greeks not realize how hot their country is in summer?

Corfu is a lovely island, and our hotel overlooks a small private beach, and even a picturesque little monastery on a small islet, connected by a bridge. But most delightfully, our tour guide discovered free wi-fi on the patio. Hosanna! I devoted most of my afternoon to lounging on said patio, finishing my book (a history of the battle of Thermopylae), checking my e-mail, and reconnecting with the people back home.

Dinner was at a charming little restaurant on the beach, with a very good seafood selection. Afterward, several people decided it would be a good idea to go out and party at some nearby bars. Being less outgoing, I had drinks with a few friends by the pool. In this regard, I may have gone a little overboard; I drank what I was later told was half a bottle of straight scotch. Needless to say, I slept very, very well.

Day Seven: Even MORE Corfu!

I'd like to address a misconception about Europeans: they do not, in fact, all drive tiny cars. While there are more cars here than in America that strike the eye as exceptionally small, the truth is that most of the cars are medium-sized sedans. There is a marked lack of large cars and SUVs, and I say that's all for the better, because the streets are narrow and irregular, and cars are parked with little regard for safety of space.

As for the idyllic paradise that is Corfu, this must be said: it is absolutely infested with vile, blood-sucking mosquitoes. By the time this day was over, I had scores of bites and bumps all over my legs. It didn't seem to matter that I spent most of my time far from the water, as the bastards would wait patiently for their chance and strike without mercy.

I did a bit of exploring around the vicinity of the hotel, not wanting to feel too much like a lazy American. First I went to the monastery on the water, where I almost forgot to remove my hat before entering the shrine, but I was reminded by the exceptionally reverent behavior of my fellow visitors. It was a pleasant little monastery, but I can't help but think that it would have been more peaceful without the airplanes taking off and landing directly overhead.

There wasn't much action to speak of in the afternoon. I took a nap, then took advantage once again of the free wi-fi and surfed the web. Later, some friends and I rode into town and had dinner at an Italian restaurant (becoming rapidly sick of Greek food as we were). There was a cat there, begging for food; at one point, it even put its paws on me like it was going to climb up on my lap. Being the compassionate soul that I am, I fed him a french fry (and it lasted about fifteen seconds).

On the bus ride back, we very nearly got stuck in a turn as a result of some driver's inconsiderate parking. Given the skill with which our driver navigated out of that jam, along with all of the other absurdly tight turns on the route, I'm prepared to say that Europe's bus drivers, be they charter buses or public transportation, are the best in the world. Whatever they're paid, it's not enough.

That night we did karaoke at a bar called Captain George's. Now, it must be made clear, I despise karaoke and avoid it whenever possible. However, I am also vulnerable to requests from pretty ladies, and several of them insisted on my presence. In spite of their pleading and cajoling (and also the beer), I did not participate in that musical murderfest, but I did partake in a little bit of close, crazy dancing. We stayed out late, had a grand time, and tried not to think too hard about what a pain in the ass it would be to leave in the morning.


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Resolved: That I Shall Post Tonight

We're now a few days into the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Ten, so I am now emerging from my underground bunker, cautiously optimistic that my earlier apocalyptic speculations have not come true, and that the Y2K Bug was not, in fact, biding its time and preparing to strike ten years past due, when we would least expect it. Since my accounts remain solvent and nuclear winter has not set in, whatever passes for security in this crazy world seems to have prevailed. I still refuse, however, to turn my back on a computer, lest it seize the moment to re-rout some airplanes or make nonsensical edits to some poor soul's Wikipedia page.

A fairly major change in my life has accompanied the new year; I'm back in school again, enrolled at Pacific University's MAT 5th Year program for teacher training and educational studies. That's right: if all goes as planned, I could soon be unleashed upon the high school students of Oregon, filling their heads with subversive, revolutionary ideas and becoming dangerously addicted to caffeinated beverages. Today was Orientation at the Eugene campus, and if there's one thing I've learned so far, it's that things will definitely be different this time around.

My four years at the University of Oregon were wonderful, precisely because they had little to do with the real world. I spent them on an extended academic adventure, paying little mind to the practical applications of any of it, while trusting in the inherent value of learning for it's own sake. Now I've got a fancy diploma framed in some fancy red wood hanging on my wall, demonstrating my prestigious new degree, Bachelor of Arts, in all its glory. It testifies to my ability to read many books, write many papers, not drink too much, and show up most of the time. Now, the expectations are changing. The focus is no longer academic, but practical (I shudder), and the curriculum will soon have me out in the real world doing real things that matter to real people. This will take getting used to.

It's a new year, so I suppose that I should have some resolutions prepared, and furthermore that I should post them here, so that I may be held accountable for them next January, if I should fail to remain resolved. So here they are:

• Resolved: That I shall make the best of my new schooling situation, and do all that must be done, and earn my Master's degree.
• Resolved: That I shall become gainfully employed, and eventually, financially self-sufficient.
• Resolved: That I shall make new friends, at least one of whom plays the drums, because dammit, we need some drums.
• Further Resolved: That some of those friends shall be females, whether they can play the drums or not.
• Resolved: That I shall finish in the next twelve months New St. Luces, a lengthy story which I have been meaning to write in one form or another since late 2006.
• Further Resolved: That it shall not suck.
• Resolved: That I shall post on this blog at least once a week, whether I have new material, or good material, or not.
• Resolved: That I shall finally type up my journal from my epic European vacation, so that it may no longer weigh upon my conscience like an anvil squashing a coyote.
• Resolved: That I shall learn more guitar chords, and eventually, guitar songs.
• Resolved: That I shall ride my bicycle much more often, just as soon as the weather justifies it.

A happy and successful new year to all, especially the economy of the United States; wake up, dammit!