Now Broadcasting from the Republic of Korea

The title says it all, doesn't it?  I've actually been here a week, as my other blog will attest, but I haven't had a chance to make an update on this blog.  Not only have I radically changed position on the globe, I've also radically changed employment status from "not" to "full time."  It's kind of exhilarating.  Kind of exhausting too.  But the point is, my girlfriend Tara and I are now living and working in Cheonan, South Korea, and will be for the next year.  What a year it's going to be!

Of course, as I mentioned, we have a blog for talking about Korea.  I imagine more people are actually reading that one than this one at this point, but that's all fine with me!  That's the exciting stuff, after all.  This blog has always been more about illustrating my occasional fits of creativity or exploring my myriad obsessions.  It will still be about that.  It's just that, now I'll be illustrating and exploring from our little apartment in South Korea.  You probably won't notice much of a difference.

Speaking of things like that, I saw The Desolation of Smaug yesterday, and you can be darn sure I'll write a review of it tomorrow.  In America or in Korea, Tolkien remains a priority.

Other updates... since coming here, I'm poor as hell for the time being (I don't get paid until January Tenth) and I don't have wifi, which is kind of like being back in the 90s.  All we have going for us internet-wise is an ethernet cable, which is actually pretty great!  It means only one of us can use the internet at the time, but at least it's fast internet.  So it's not quite like the 90s after all.  We're working on getting wifi, but we need money and our Alien Registration Cards before we can make it happen.  I miss using my tablet, but all things in their due course as they say.

Anyway, I'll be here doing my thing like I do, eating Korean food and doing my job (read about it on my other blog), and sharing my occasional brain stews with you.  I hope they're delicious.

Gallic Adventures

Welcome friends, to the fifth and final (yes final, stop cheering) installment of my European journey. At long last, my shameless self-indulgence can come to a conclusion; starting next week, I can resume my regular brand of self-indulgence. In short, everybody wins.

This week is going to be a little different from previous entries on account of the status of my journal. To be specific, I didn't actually write any journal entries for that week. Due to the general hustle/bustle of traveling, the distractions inherent in exotic locations, and general laziness, by the end of the tour I was writing entries about seven days after the fact. Once I returned to the normal rhythms of life in the U.S., further completion no longer seemed like a worthwhile use of my time. Odds are, these entries will be somewhat shorter than has thus far been typical. I trust no one is saddened by this.

Fortunately, I've got a pretty good memory. Really, I do! And it was a fairly memorable week, so I shouldn't forget too much. In fact, there's a a few things that went down that I'd distinctly rather not remember, but it's too late to turn back now!

Day Twenty Nine: More Paris

For some reason, the breakfast room for this hotel was located in the basement, a labyrinthine complex more resembling an aircraft carrier than anything remotely luxurious. Breakfast is now, of course, officially the least luxurious meal of the day. Deep in the subterranean corridors I found the fabled laundry room, seemingly abandoned by God and man, with a flooded floor and dank, shady walls. It was sufficiently sketchy that I momentarily considered turning back, but my clothing shortage was by now quite dire. I made a mental calculation of how much I needed to last the week, and ran like the dickens to catch the bus before it left without me.

Eric handed things off to a local guide (in spite of the fact that he was completely qualified to lead the tour himself), who gave us some interesting information about one of Paris' many public transportation options. The city actually owns hundreds (or thousands, even!) of bicycles, stationed at various places where citizens can quickly rent them for some indefinite period of time. I can't imagine they wouldn't get stolen if this were introduced in an American city, but the people of France seem to do alright with these "city bikes," so it might be an interesting experiment to run in some urban centers.

We rode the bus through the city in typical whirlwind fashion, beginning in the Latin Quarter, home of the University of Paris. In medieval times the professors and students who frequented the area actually spoke Latin on a fairly regular basis, but now the name is merely historical. It's apparently a great scene for nightlife as well as daytime recreation, with lots of those fancy cafes and bistros that make the city famous.

Over the river, we passed the Île de la Cité, a small island in the Seine, and the oldest part of Paris. The island is the home of Notre Dame, as well as the Palais de Justice, a former royal residence and (until the French Revolution) home of the Parlement of Paris. Today the palace is the home of a number of France's highest courts of law. Nearby is the Île Saint-Louis, Which is smaller and less notably populated, being made up of mostly residential districts.

On the other side of the river, we parked briefly alongside the famous Louvre to take some pictures of the city's picturesque bridges. Oldest of these is the Pont Neuf, or New Bridge, which is called new because it was new, a long long time ago. Next downstream was the Pont des Arts, a popular site for exhibitions of paintings. It was also, as I was reminded repeatedly, a location in the final episode of Sex & the City. Honestly, is that all this city is to some people? Along the river banks you could see parts where the city government had imported sand from the French Riviera to create some faux-beaches. It was tacky, but people seemed to be enjoying themselves.

The next stop was the Place de la Concorde, one of Paris' largest and most historic public squares. In Revolutionary times it was the home of the dreaded guillotine, where King Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, and many others were executed. On a lighter note, the square boasts a hefty Egyptian obelisk from the days of Ramses II, which I thought was very fascinating. About this time, Eric made the announcement that he was organizing a trip to the Moulin Rouge the next evening, which unleashed a wave of hysteria the likes of which I would have liked to have avoided at all costs; the commotion became such that I couldn't hear a damn thing the guide had to say. So while I'm sure the Place de la Concorde has some more interesting history behind it, we'll never know what it is.

From there it was down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, "the most beautiful avenue in the world." It probably got the name before it was turned into an enormous shopping mall, but it's pleasingly wide and lined with some well-kept trees, so I can't complain too much. Globalization will do what it does, after all. We rode the length of the road down to the Arc de Triomphe, which like many famous monuments in the world is too damned big for its own good. Underneath it is France's Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, one of the two oldest such monuments in the world.

The tour came to an end at the Place du Trocadéro, home of the Palais de Chaillot, where the option was presented to us to take a bus to the palace of Versailles.  I would have liked very much to go, but I was distracted by one niggling reminder: my clothes were still in the basement washing machine, ripe for thievery.  I had to return!

Of course, Paris is a very beautiful city, and it was hardly two minutes before I was distracted by the magnificent fountains and pool outside the Pailais de Chaillot. I circled the water once and a half, marveling at the urban splendor of the moment and space, thinking I might just take a while and stay there, but I remembered my mission: I had to find a metro!

On the way past the tower I was accosted by a street vendor, who flagged me down by asking if I spoke English (a common tactic in France) and insisted that he really wanted to sketch my portrait. Having difficulties saying no, I stood there awkwardly for a while. But when he told me that the decent thing for me to do would be for me to buy the portrait from him, I knew the smart thing to do was to flee post haste.

Having carefully memorized the route back home, I had none of the navigational troubles that plagued me the night before. I hit all the correct exits, and was soon walking down the now-familiar road to the hotel, a somewhat industrial zone marked by billboards. Interestingly, alongside the signs for the Eurodisney park were ads for another theme park, dedicated to France's world-famous comic book characters, Asterix and Obelix. You know you're not in Kansas anymore when characters like these are considered viable theme park material.

Thank heavens, my laundry remained unmolested in the filthy, filthy basement. Greatly relieved, I moved it along to the drier and went upstairs to the lobby, to read a book and enjoy some sunshine. It was a beautiful summer day, even in the industrial section, and the windows let in a lot of light, with plenty of lounging space.

While I was reading, I received some startling news from a friend: someone had stolen a laptop out of someone's room. Because the doors were locked, it was widely assumed to have been the work of the cleaning service, but there was no direct evidence. In a panic, I realized that my laptop, along with all my other valuables, had been left in plain sight on the desk by my bed. Visions of horrors unimaginable flashed before my eyes as I rushed to my room, but fortunately, it was still there, whole and hale. I resolved to hide it thoroughly when I was not present to guard it.

That night, an informal expedition was gathered to eat at an expensive French restaurant, because money grows on trees in France; big tall trees, with coins bursting from the bark and big leafy bills for....leaves. I could not find my own such tree, and so I went looking for my own food. I found a small-ish Chinese restaurant several blocks away from the hotel, which was delicious as per usual (even the Chinese food is better in France).

I had an unexpected linguistic adventure when a woman at the table next to mine turned to me for advice on ordering. She spoke Spanish and a small amount of English, and could not figure out how to order rice in French. Though I protested "Señora, no hablo Francés," I could not resist the challenge, and determined the correct word for her to use.

As it turns out, it was "riz."

Day Thirty: Even More Paris

The underlined item on the day's agenda was a tour of the Louvre, a museum which holds more masterpieces than have any reason to exist in one place. Once a royal palace of ridiculously epic proportions, its purpose changed forever with the French Revolution, and since those heady (headless?) days it has slowly become more and more stuffed with all manner of high class goodies. It also boasts a shopping mall and a McDonald's, so it really can be said to hold everything of true value on Earth.

The Louvre is such an ancient, important museum that a high degree of meta-reference is necessary in any tour. One of the earliest stops is deep within the building's catacombs, where sections of the old castle wall can be seen embedded in the structure of the palace. We spent about fifteen minutes on this aspect of the museum's history, after which it was back into the light of day to see some of the most famous artworks in the world.

No, I'm not going to list all those artworks. There are, quite literally, far too many of them. You walk in one room, there's the Nike of Samothrace; you walk in another, there's the Venus de Milo; turn a corner, and it's the Mona Lisa. It's several shades north of ridiculous. When you're there, you almost want to tell yourself that the objects in front of you are replicas or reproductions. After all this time, it's still difficult to conceive of these famous images as real, original objects.

A thought occurred to me while viewing the Venus de Milo in particular. It's called a great statue, and it is pretty great, as statues go. In the popular imagination it's a statue of a woman without arms, but that's only because its arms have fallen off due to some unknown trauma, and it's essentially a broken piece, existing for all time as something apart from the sculptor's original intent. Imagining the statue in its true form takes work, more than it would if we had a bona fide image of the original to compare. It seems like it should be hard to get excited about a statue like that, and yet when you're standing within a few feet of it, it really does seem special. Really great classical statues often give an impression of realism almost as striking as the "uncanny valley" of modern computer imagery, and the Venus is like that. When you're right there, it is much easier to believe that it's one of the greatest artworks of all time.

We dispersed through the museum after the tour to seek out its many mysteries on our own time, which was nice, but also an overwhelming task; giving every painting, statue, and curio in the Louvre its due would take weeks. We didn't have weeks, so before long my sister, her friends, and I broke for lunch. After that, we had an appointment with the rest of the group at the Pont Neuf, to board a ferry for a luxurious Seine cruise.

The problem was, we forgot where the Pont Neuf was. We only knew that it was near the Louvre, and managed to walk past at least three bridges in the wrong direction before we got ourselves properly oriented. We were so late, the boat very nearly left without us.

The river cruise was fine, a welcome luxury for a hot summer's day. Unfortunately, it was very hot, and nearly all the seats were filled with hot, sweaty people. Most people were tired or irritable, so we all just sast around, marveling at the bridges and the tops of landmarks looming over the streets. When we finally disembarked, it was time for some desperately needed gelato, as the afternoon grew ever more stifling.

The last official component of the day was a march to the Notre Dame Cathedral, which is somewhat different in appearance than I expected. I had pictured a grey, solemn building, but it is in fact mostly white, with a staggering array of gargoyles and statues on its front facade. Here, Eric left us to our fate, with the choice to explore the cathedral or not as individuals. Doing so would have required standing in a very long line, so I opted out. Before I took the Saint Michel metro home, I stopped to appreciate a small marker in the middle of the Cathedral square: point zero for all the roads in France. It is appropriately placed, as the cathedral sits roughly at the very center of Paris.

I don't really remember what I did that night, but I can sure tell you what I didn't do: spend a million euros on tickets to the Moulin Rouge. Utter foolishness! If my memory serves, dinner that night was Italian, and you can't go wrong with that.

Day Thirty One: Nice

A scheduling panic arose this morning, as a handful of people missed their wake up calls and held up the bus. If we'd intended to drive all the way to the coast, it might have been excusable, but we had train tickets, so the pressure was on. Chastisement was properly given, even as we sped through the streets of Paris to the station. Of course, you're always earliest when you think you're running late, and we ended up having about twenty minutes to spare. This traveler's paradox (as I call it) is not always true, but that's beside the point.

We were among the first people to board the train, which gave us the illusion that we might have the entire compartment to ourselves, with room to stretch out and relax. This was obviously not to be, for there is no justice in the world, but I would still rank trains a million slots above planes in terms of comfort and class.

The ride was not very exciting, rolling quickly through miles and miles of mostly monotonous French countryside; I might have enjoyed the view more if my seat had been near a window. At one point I decided to take a short nap, and when I woke up we were passing through Cannes. This delighted me more than it probably should have, since we were not stopping there, and I thought of how funny it would be to pretentiously tell people that I'd "been to Cannes," with no context or caveat. These are the thoughts I have when I wake up on trains.

Nice is nice (I swear I'll never do that again), with the typical flavor of a beach resort town, being the second most popular destination for tourists in the country. The atmosphere had shades of Honolulu in my perception, particularly on account of the day's exceptional humidity.  I don't know if anyone has ever described southern France as being like Hawaii, but I will gladly be the first if I can.  Like all beach towns, the whole place has a definite feel of being subtly tilted, even when it appears more or less flat.  Places like that just seem to want you to move in a certain direction, until you're surrounded by street performers and souvenir vendors.  It's the natural progression of the universe.

Before I was going to let the universe lead me anywhere, I had to set up camp in the local hotel.  There I was temporarily waylaid, as I discovered in my room what might accurately be called the most comfortable bed in the entire world.  What this bed was doing in a mediocre hotel in Nice, I haven't the slightest idea about, but a nap was most certainly called for.  So I spent the hottest part of the afternoon on the most comfortable bed in the entire world, dreaming pleasant dreams and nearly missing the evening meal.

It was one of the few meals we ate as an entire group on a truly organized basis, though I could never exactly tell how they were organized; sometimes, if you follow the group, you find yourselves in classy restaurants that someone conveniently reserved eight or nine tables at.  I don't remember whose tab the meal was on, either, although it was probably ours.  In any event, after dinner Eric kindly led us down to the boardwalk for a night-time walking tour of the city.

There's plenty of entertainment to be found down by the beach, along the Promenade des Anglais, mostly in the form of rollerskating, boombox-hoisting madmen.  We passed relatively close to the Hotel Negresco, a fabulous historic building far beyond the the means of our suffering wallets.  Instead, we moved east into the vicinity of Old Town, whereupon we found delicious, delicious gelato at the Place du Palais de Justice. Amidst the general confusion of the crowded square, another band of rollerskaters was busy launching themselves off ramps.  That's just the kind of place Nice is.

Old Town sits at the base of a really big hill, where the Château de Nice is located.  The hill has a bit of history associated with it (like most things in Europe), but its principle attractions are closed at night, and getting up the hill is quite a hike, so I made a mental note to visit the next day.

On the way back I passed through the Place Masséna, the main square of the city.  It's home to a series of bizarre plastic statues on tall pillars, which glow in changing colors every night, because why not?  More interestingly, the square has some impressive waterworks.  It's not exactly on the level of Rome, but fountains are fountains, and when there are statues of naked people and horses in the water, you've got half of the general attractions of Europe in one spectacular package.  Finally, the square is home to even more nighttime street performers: I saw a particularly limber fellow do a stunning recreation of the dace routine from the video of Smooth Criminal.  I'm sure Nice has a number of poetic names attributed to it already, but I have taken to calling it Boom Box Town.  To put it mildly, portable stereos are a major presence.

The management of the hotel was remarkably tolerant of my using their internet connection in the lobby until two in the morning.  Since their chairs are nearly as comfortable as their ridiculously comfortable beds, I'm surprised it wasn't more crowded.

Day Thirty Two: More Nice

By the time I awoke, most of my compatriots were gone, having bolted by bus to Monaco to hobnob with high rollers and princes (I assume).  In retrospect, it seems rather foolish to have slept through an opportunity like that; if I had to choose between "having been to Monaco" and "not having been to Monaco," it's hard to justify a preference for the latter.

But I knew that Nice had more to offer than I'd already seen, and I had one specific target in mind: the Château de Nice, the old fort by the beach.  After a small breakfast, I set out in the direction of the Place Masséna and the sea, opting to walk rather than wait for a trolley to pass by.

It was an absurdly hot, humid day, and I was soon telling myself that walking had been a mistake.  Halfway to the beach I ducked into a Virgin mega-store for some sweet, sweet air conditioning.  Big media stores like that are very similar in Europe and America, with the exception that prices are listed in euros, although the actual numeric values don't seem different.  Also, everything's in French, which should go without saying.  If I could have found a book in English upstairs, I might have got one, but it just wasn't to be.

When I finally reached the Promenade, I was confronted by a veritable motorcade, which I soon discovered to be in association with a wedding party.  Some lucky young couple was apparently having the run of the town, which is pretty awesome, but if you ask me some of the drivers of those cars had been a little too festive.

By this point my pitiful canteen had been depleted by unnatural thirst, so in preparation of my ascent of the Château hill, I bought myself a great big gatorade at a little store.  This barely lasted up the hike, but aside from the oppressive heat it was really a lovely walk up a twisting staircase to various look-out points.  Up top is a public park with lots of grass for general-purpose lounging, and some playgrounds and toys for families and children.  Mercifully, there are also plenty of trees for shade.

After a brief lunch at a convenient snack shack, I took a little path down to the waterfall I'd seen the night before from the streets below.  As I understand things (and I don't claim to understand them well), the fall is fed by a natural spring that comes out of the hill, but it's framed by man-made tile-work and a reflecting pool, for the benefit of travelers and tourists in search of picturesque locations to contemplate.  I stuck around the waterfall and the cool breeze for a long time before resuming my path to the site of the fort.

The Château itself is mostly gone now, but you can still climb up on top of it, where you'll be greeted by postcard sellers and other such entrepreneurs.  The real benefit is of course the enhanced view of the beach and the town.  Meanwhile, just to the east are some real archaeological goodies: the ruins and foundations of a small-ish church and other buildings that, curiously, none of my fellow tourists seemed to be interested in.  Neither was there very much information posted by the digs.  All I could tell was that there was a church, it was used concurrently with the fort, and had been destroyed and never properly rebuilt.  It was probably destroyed by the Ottoman Turks during the Siege of Nice in 1543, a traumatic event that has a lot of resonance in the folk-tradition of the city.

Back at the park I ran into the wedding party once again: this time, the bride and groom were taking pictures against the Mediterranean sea.  Their expansive entourage was now assembled and appeared ready to take control of that quarter of the hillside.  Rather than get in their way, I made my way down the stairs toward old town to treat myself to some desperately needed gelato.

Dinner that night was much more low-key.  I had some tasty seafood with a few of the girls and (as the air was much cooler in the evening) took a final walk down by the beach.  I increasingly reflected on two thoughts.  First between these was the bittersweet realization that the tour would be over in a matter of days, and that I'd soon be on the plane home.  Second, I considered how thoroughly awesome (apart from the oppressive summer heat, exorbitant media prices, and homicidally reckless drivers) it would be to just stay on the Mediterranean coast for the rest of my life.  Maybe I'd even get another chance at Monaco.

Day Thirty Three: Nice to Barcelona

We boarded a full bus that morning for the last time, thank God.  Of all the things you can share with fifty people for five weeks, cramped metal tubes are among the most unbearable.  Although friendships were made, a fair amount of enmity and antagonism had manifested itself by this point, which I was in no mood to deal with.  Headphones certainly come in handy when the world around you is devolving into childish backbiting and the like.  To add to the misery, the weather turned violently rainy as we ascended the Pyrenees mountains, and it seemed plausible that we might get blown right off the road.  It was, to say the least, not a very good morning.

Things got nicer on the Spanish side of the mountains, although the sky remained vaguely overcast for the rest of the day.  We broke for a snack at a truck stop which happened to have a snooker table, which we quickly converted to a billiards table for lack of knowledge of the game of snooker.  I managed to embarrass myself badly in rematch of the tournament in Amsterdam, but I maintain that on an orthodox table I would have done better.

We rolled into Barcelona around mid-afternoon under light grey skies and checked in at the Catalonia Suites, our final stop in a long list of hotels of various qualities (though not all as bad as one might expect).  We were a considerable distance from the central part of the city, and the only immediate attractions to be found were a few small shops and a convenience store which, notably, sold miniature kegs.  This information was promptly filed away for later retrieval.

In the evening Eric led us to the metro station at El Putxet, and took us on a train-hopping tour of the underground, until we found ourselves in La Rambla, a sort of outdoor mall on one of the most popular tourist streets in the city.  Here at last was the Barcelona I'd been picturing, with its gratuitous palm trees and night-club atmosphere.  Parts of the streets were decorated with colorful tiles, and the entire area was brightly lit with strands of electric lights.  Specifically, we explored the part that ran through El Barri Gòtic, or the "Gothic Quarter."  El Gòtic is the oldest part of La Ciutat Vella, which is itself the oldest district in Barcelona, with many buildings dating to the medieval period.

We disbanded at the historic 19th Century Plaça Reial, where several famous night clubs now fill the arcades along side some (rather expensive) restaurants.  Now was not the time to shrink from prices, however, for I had long nursed a craving for that most Spanish of foods, paella.  Though I later learned that paella is specifically a Valencian specialty (while Barcelona on the other hand is a Catalonian city), but the most inarguably important information about paella is that wherever you can get it, it is delicious.  Go get some now.

After dinner, I rambled around La Rambla for about half an hour, before finally getting bored/sleepy/stuffed with paella, and returning via metro to the hotel.  I assumed (rightly) that I would be back again; no need to wear it out all at once.

Day Thirty Four: Barcelona

Without exactly meaning to, I slept in past the appointed meeting time, and the crew left without me to view the works of Antoni Gaudí, the architect who made Barcelonian buildings synonymous with bizarre.  Being thus left to my own devices I made for the hotel lounge, with the thought that I might practice my Spanish by reading the free newspapers.  Alas, the newspapers was printed not in conventional Spanish but Catalan, the local dialect which I could read about as well as Portuguese (half by guessing, half by educated guessing). 

Since I am a terminally poor judge of distances, I thought it might be a fun adventure to walk from the hotel to the beach, thus saving on cab fare and justifying my lone-wolf status.  I stepped out onto the Carrer de Muntaner and headed down hill, happy to see that the weather had become much sunnier than on the day before.  As I walked, the vaguely dilapidated buildings gradually became more upscale and grand (with only the occasional sound of jackhammers from sidewalk maintenance crews).

After about an hour of walking I made it to Avinguda Diagonal, and began to realize that I was not even half way to the beach.  With the city continually growing larger and less navigable all around me, I decided the safe thing to do would be to turn back.  On the way, I stopped at a small tapas bar for some lunch, intending once again to practice my Spanish in a practical setting.

Before I came to Spain, my knowledge of the Catalan language was limited; I only knew of it as a dialect of Spanish.  Upon arriving in Barcelona, however, I was puzzled by the utter strangeness of the place names I was encountering, and could not even make an attempt at pronouncing words like "Putxet."  The menu at the tapas bar was highly illuminating, as it was trilingual: I could read the items in English, Catalan, and Castilian Spanish.  I managed to work out that the "x" in Catalan words made a sound like "sh" in English (very different from the Castilian use), and furthermore that there was a very wide divergence in vocabulary, with some of the Catalan terms for foods like "cheese" more closely resembling French words than Spanish ones.  It was a real revelation in my understanding of dialect; though I found I could impose a sort of Spanish "order" on the words, the differences were definitely big enough to matter.

Rather than risk mangling a language I knew next to nothing about, I ordered my food in American-accented Castilian, prompting uncomfortably hilarious looks from the servers.  

I laid low for the rest of the day until my compatriots returned, at which point plans were made for a night out at La Barceloneta, the trendy beach neighborhood in the old part of town.  I happened to hold a debt to certain people for beverages stretching all the way back to our time in Greece, so when we arrived at the restaurant I bought a big jug of sangría for our table.  I ventured to share my new-found linguistic discoveries with my friends over drinks, but predictably they showed little enthusiasm; I guess it's tough to appreciate the ravings of a word nerd when you're drinking sangria on the beach.  As for the food, the meal decisively vaulted Spanish cooking into the top tier of European cuisines in my mind.  It's really impossible to rank the cuisines of Europe, but one thing's for sure: they all have a way of convincing you they're the best while you're eating them.

The Mediterranean was beautiful, as usual, especially since we had the benefit of an exceptionally full moon on a clear night.  I'm of the opinion that beaches are infinitely more enjoyable at night than during the day, and La Barceloneta is one of the best.  Nightclubs line the boardwalk, drawing in people who might otherwise be out on the sand.  If you're like me, you'd take pleasure in putting your back to the lights and music and looking out on the water for a while.

Day Thirty Five: Even More Barcelona

The first half of the final day was designated a free day, which for most people meant a "beach day."  My preference for beaches at night, however, is directly related to my dislike of beaches during the day, which tend to leave me exasperated and sunburnt.  So I made it a reading day instead, polishing off the last book on my reading list, More Information Than You Require, by John Hodgman.  Having thus deprived myself of any fresh reading matter for the plane ride home, I turned my attention to my luggage.  I'd accumulated a few fragile objects, and I'd flown on enough planes to be wary of the haphazard habits of airport bag handlers.  After devising clever methods of insulating clay statuettes and thin wooden pipes from crashes and bumps, I went into a little preemptive panic over the location of my passport.  Things like that have a way of losing themselves amidst all the hubbub, and as much as I love Spain, I had no intention of being stuck there.

No sooner had I satisfied myself in my obsessive packing and double checking than some of the guys returned from the beach, Heineken mini-kegs in hand.  This was all kept very hush-hush, perhaps for fear of some arcane Barcelona hotel regulation against fun, but good times were nonetheless had by all.

We took a brief bus and walking tour of some more parts of the old city in the afternoon, this time taking in the park where the Olympic Village was set up back in 1992.  From there we wandered down through La Ciutat Vella back to the beach, where we pretended to continue to enjoy each others' company long enough for a farewell group photograph.  After that, it was time for a special farewell dinner, where unfortunately forgettable food was served.  Oh well.

After dinner, it was time for heartfelt goodbyes.  Many plans had been made, and the rushed nature of our schedules made it possible we'd have no more meaningful contact with them before the trip was through.  So we hugged, we took pictures, and we splintered into smaller and smaller groups.  The last big splinter occurred at an Ice Bar, a literally sub-zero night club where patrons were issued parkas and everything was made of ice.  As cool as that sounds, it wasn't enough for me to overcome my typical hatred of clubs.

As for myself, I needed one last gelato fix.  My sister said she knew where to get the best gelato in town, so I followed her down the boardwalk to La Plaça Portal De La Pau (which has a pointy-looking fountain) and back to La Rambla, which incidentally has a number of fine gelato shops.  "No," she said, "we're going to the GOOD one."  And we did find the shop, and they served us the biggest scoops of gelato I have ever seen.  

As the night was wearing on, we decided to return to the hotel by taxi, having completely lost track of where we were.  Finding the hotel was trickier than it ought to have been, but our driver was handy enough and we made it back without busting our wallets in two.  Once we were home I obsessively set to repacking my previously packed luggage, and managed to get myself about two hours of sleep.

Day Thirty Six: Barcelona, London, Los Angeles

Two hours later, the call went out for the first round of air travelers to report to the bus for transportation.  It was all dark and confusing and miserable, but we made it, and reported to the proper desk well ahead of schedule, whereupon we were told that our tickets were invalid.

After about a half an hour of desperate calls home, Spanish-language haranguing and unproductive fretting, a computer glitch was discovered and corrected, re-validating our tickets and granting us the privilege of waiting an hour for our flight inside the terminal.

From there it was back to London Heathrow, where my sister and I had a classy meal at a surprisingly upscale French restaurant.  Heathrow is of course nearly a city unto itself, so it's not that surprising they should have good eateries.  The heavily armed guards overlooking the rooms are a little off-putting, though.

We had no time to go into the city this time around, nor did we have the energy or inclination.  Instead we bought some of those nifty travel pillows and, a few hours later, boarded the wonderful Air New Zealand for our flight back to California.  As unbearably long as such a flight can be, you can't scoff at an airline that lets you watch Star Trek on your own personal screen.

For all our fun adventures, it was an unbelievably good day to be home at last.  One day  I may return to Europe with more freedom of movement and/or money, but for now I'll just relax and remember the good times.

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Poetry Jam #3: The Munich Poems

At long last, I'm nearly done with my efforts to publicly document my European vacation, a project long delayed and marginally relevant so many months past. Revisiting the experience has been, for me, a source of inner smiles and fond memories. I don't happen to have a view of the Alps from my window, so it was wonderful to have occasion to dwell on the vistas impressed upon my brain. Describing natural beauty is not, unfortunately, my greatest strength as a writer, and so the images remain mostly in my head, and the words of my memoirs are written mostly to serve as a trigger for them. One day they will invent a cyborg enhancement that allows me to project my memories directly into the reader's head, and on that day, I shall duly blow your mind.

If I want to be a completist (and boy do I ever) then I really should include all the writings I created on that fateful trip. It's time for the five poems I completed in various moments of inspiration to see the light of day, and take their place in the David Miller Canon.

It is very exciting to get to decide what goes in my own canon.

The poems are called The Munich Poems, which like all great names is partially inaccurate. The first was written in Greece, and the fifth was written in Paris. The middle three, however, were written over the course of two days in my hotel room in Munich, and the third of these was set down in the midst of an actual "psychotic rage-a-thon," as remarked upon elsewhere. In spite of the disparate geography, it always seemed to me that "The Munich Poems" would be a great collective title, and since I do not often come up with great titles, it seemed pretty obvious what I had to do.

All five of them, sad to say, are downers. The truth is, I have never made much effort to write happy poems, because happiness is self evident in nature. When you're happy, you can't say why, and you haven't done anyone any good by trying. On the other hand, I have long been convinced that all great works of art are always somehow melancholy: indeed, it is sorrow that is the foundation of creation. That's not to say there isn't plenty of room for joy in beautiful poems. Just not in these ones.

As always, I'll give a little bit of analysis and self-critique at the end, for those who are into that sort of thing. Mostly myself, I guess.




Ionian Dream

I want to tell you, darling
What I'd lost, I almost found
Standing right before my eyes,
And then again, to no surprise,
It was gone
And I barely even cared

So let me tell you, darling
What a wreck you've made of me,
With your softly laughing eyes
And your unintended lies,
It was wrong
And I barely even cared

What you gave to me in all those times
And what you took from me,
What you said to me in all those nights,
Look what it's done to me,
I still talk about you when I think about her
When I think about you
When I think about you,
I still can't get over
What you did to me in all those nights
And why I'm lame today,

I want to tell you, darling,
I've been close so many times,
Been rejected out of hand
And then again, to no surprise,
I think of you
And I barely even care,
What kind of way is that to love?
___________________

לעולם לא עוד

When people died by bloody hands
We said, "never again,"
We worked so hard with all our hands
To make the killing end,
We held trials, we made speeches,
We laid wreathes upon their graves,
And the bravest stormed the beaches
On the longest summer day

When people turned their heads away
It happened once again,
Until it seemed like every day
A million lives would end,
But the monuments and ruins
Are still standing where they stood,
Humble monuments and ruins
Of decaying, painted wood

When people carved memorials
They said, "never again,"
And when they carved them on the walls
They prayed, "never again,"
And the prayers went to heaven
Where they echoed in the sky,
But the people kept on dying
And no one could tell us why

When people walked the ancient road
And saw those words again,
And even further down the road
The flowers in the sand,
What could any do but shudder
At the number that was lost?
Feeling guilty for our brothers
And the dreadful lines they crossed
____________________

Telepath

I see with my internal eye the secrets of a man
And hear his thoughts like whispers in my brain,
There's nothing he can hide from me, I'm sure you understand,
So make this easy, make your secrets plain,

It's only my obscenities, my skeletons,
You'll find when you are deep within,
You're better off as ignorant, indifferent,
And trust me when I say I love you,
I can keep you out of here
There's nothing there for me to fear,
And you'll be happy for my wall, my barrier,
You'll only hurt yourself in trying,

You underestimate my skill, my power over you
Cannot be kept, no matter how you strain,
If you love me you'll be honest, or I'll force it out of you
So listen, listen, please, just let me in your brain!
I am tired, you are tired, there is nothing gained by fighting,
And I love you, so you mustn't keep me out,

You'll only hear my horrid thoughts, my darker self,
If I should let you come inside,
And while you are omnipotent, to other ones,
I have the strength to keep you distant,
I can keep you out of here
But even so I want you near,
So don't endanger our romance, your sanity,
You'll only hurt me when you're crying,
Baby, please stop trying,

I cannot be denied, my love, to know just what you think,
But if you must, then surely I will die,
And even though the sun will rise I know my heart will sink
As your attitude is nothing but a lie,

I would never lie to you, but I cannot tell the truth,
Not the whole truth, but a part of it, to you,
I know you are not satisfied
But I'm ashamed of what I am inside,
I'm scared to let you in my mind,
I'm scared of losing you,

I'm scared of losing you.
____________________

Psychotic Rage-A-Thon

I felt like a fool in the crack of hell
With manic brain, and fevered brow
And the impulse of a frightened child
To run from all the monsters' smiles,
Singing songs that made me scream
In pitches high and imperceptible,
I was unable to be seen
Or heard, I was a rotted vegetable
In a slowly stinking gourd,
I tried so hard to pray the Lord, but
I felt like a fool in the depths of hell,
And all for that infernal smell,
And damn myself for going there,
Damn myself, myself, myself, myself.
____________________

Broken Wing

I met a broken little bird I couldn't keep from dying,
Because she didn't know she couldn't fly
Like the other little birds
In the trees and in the sky,
It broke my heart to see the bird and watch her trip and fall

I thought that I would take her home, I put her in a box,
And carry her back to her mother's nest
With the other little birds,
But her mother wasn't there;
I looked and saw that little bird, and saw her breathe no more
In the corner of the box

I met a broken little bird, I couldn't save her life,
Because she didn't know she couldn't fly
It was her destiny to die.
____________________



Hoo boy, where to begin?

The Ionian sea is really very beautiful, as seas go. I found myself there in somewhat surprising circumstances, with substantially more time for self-reflection than I had expected, and an Ionian dream was the result. I imagine we all long for timeless things, and the world transpires to make them impossible in the end. At least the sea will always be there.

The title of the second poem is "Never Again." I had it translated into Hebrew, and I don't know how it's pronounced, and I like it better that way. I think it speaks plainly for itself.

Poem number three is actually a spontaneous manifestation of a story that's been bubbling in my head since 2005 or so, concerning two people with super human powers and profound insecurities. Having meant to write it for years, I was seized suddenly with the desire to write one particular scene, and thought I might experiment by putting it in verse form.

I set the fourth poem in a different font because, in my journal, it appears in drastically different handwriting, with heavier, slanted letters and a few stray scribbles. It looks out of place because it is: unplanned, unwanted and almost purely emotional. The result is a mostly unorganized line blob. If I had to guess why I'd written it, I'd say I wanted something to feel ashamed about; something to hit me across the face and remind me that my life wasn't that bad, so quit whining already. I remain convinced, however, that hell is full to the brim with drunken Germans and tuba bands.

The last poem was inspired by a person I met on the tour, quite possibly the single most self-destructive personality I have ever known. If there was an awful, awful decision to be made, given enough time (ten minutes?) and enough wine (not a lot, and yet so much) she would make it. Nobody wants to see a stranger in such a state, and whenever our paths would cross I'd find myself amazed she'd lived as long as she had. I think she thought of me as a friend, and I can't say I wasn't, but I also knew I had nothing to offer her.

Dutch Adventures

Does the naming system I've devised for these five weeks of my life have any significance whatsoever? Of course not.

After all, the first two days of this week finds me and my increasingly impatient comrades still in German-speaking lands, and the last day finds us in France. To make matters even more distressing, I could not for the life of me think of a suitable synonym for "Dutch." Netherlandic? Hollandic? None of these are real words! You can tell because they underlined in spell check.

So we're all stuck with Dutch, which is a little boring; my apologies all around.

One more thing: To make things interesting, I've gone back and added a convenient Google Map to each journal post, showing the route we took across the continent. Peruse at your pleasure!

Day Twenty Two: Nuremberg, Heidelberg

We boarded once again our bus bound from Prague to Amsterdam, which geographers will note are about five hundred and fifty miles apart from each other. On a slow-moving bus, this distance amounts to approximately one infernal eternity, and nobody wants that. There's a whole country in the way! Fortunately, the Powers That Be, in their wisdom, granted us a few more German stops on our itinerary. Germany's a beautiful country to drive through, even for five or six hours a day, and at least I had more time to catch up on my book.

We stopped for lunch and a mini-micro-tour of Nuremberg, a city that, apart from its role in the Nazi era and the post-war trials, I knew next to nothing about. As one might imagine, the city was all too eager to show me its less controversial aspects, but lacking a guide, I mostly had to tease them out myself in a few short hours.

There's a medieval-looking castle, the Nürnberger Burg, on a hill that gives an excellent view of the city, though the climb is pretty steep for a hot summer's day. The castle is very old, having been a residence of the Holy Roman Emperors from the year 1050 to 1571. Along with a healthy collection of churches and statues, the castle confirms that the city does in fact have an extensive history pre-1930, and is actually quite well preserved from the good old days, despite a wave of ruinous Allied bombing. As is usual in this part of Europe, the churches are very, very pointy.

I had lunch with my sister and a few of her friends at a Thai place, though I probably would have preferred a good schnitzel. If you have difficulty ordering Thai food from an English menu, imagine my frustration at trying to decipher one written in German. Mustering all of my linguistic skill, I managed to order something pretty decent, though I have no idea what it was called. We stopped for refreshments at Starbucks, which is a terrible cop out for tourists; but in all fairness, it's probably the nicest looking Starbucks I've ever seen, with a charming patio view of the Pegnitz river.

My sister did a little further snooping around the city, where we found an upscale shopping district. Intriguingly, we discovered a small monument dedicated to a brigade of Nurembergers who fought in World War II. I wish I could have found out more about it, but a quick glance at our watches confirmed that our two hours were nearly up, and further exploration was necessarily limited. Before we left, we did have time for a little souvenir shopping: I bought a nifty German nutcracker for my mom, and some golf balls for my little brother. Because he likes golf, you see.

We made it back at the appointed time, but the bus still managed to leave ten minutes behind schedule, due to the tardiness of three dudes who carelessly "got lost" on the way back. Castigation was given, and well was it deserved!

A few hours later we arrived in "Heidelberg," only it wasn't really Heidelberg, but a small industrial city called Ludwigshafen am Rhein. Together with Mannheim and Heidelberg, the cities form a single metropolitan area, so I suppose it's close enough on a map. Ludwigshafen, however, does not presently have much to recommend it to tourists.

With nothing better to do, a few friends and I set out in search of food. What we found were scores of restaurants with closed doors and blinds, with unusually early closing times posted outside. If I had to guess, I'd say the recession had hit this place like a ton of bricks. We found one open Greek place which worked out pretty well, and on the way back to the hotel we hit up "Penny Market," a wondrous place of absurdly good deals. Is twenty cents for two liters of water too good to be true? Not at Penny Market!

Day Twenty Three: Heidelberg

Jacob and a couple of the girls did not accompany us on this tour, due to a sudden attack of acute illness; instead, they took a trip to a local hospital. Leaderless, two compatriots rose to the challenge in Jacob's place, which was much appreciated. However, rumor was spreading that Jacob was infected with the dreaded Swine Flu, and if such were the case, we'd all end up quarantined in God-forsaken Ludwigshafen. Perish the thought!

Rather than a tour, we had tickets for free exploration of the grounds of Heidelberg Castle (Heidelberger Schloss). It's pretty neat! I didn't care enough to cough up the euros needed for a tour of the most exclusive inner chambers, but I still had plenty to see. The "back porch" has a sweet view of the river; an unhelpful local told me it was the Rhine, but I found out later that it was the Necker, one of the Rhine's tributaries. The castle is in ruins and the turrets and bailey may not have been exactly safe, but they were still fun to sit and climb in.

In the basement was a former mad alchemist's laboratory (I imagine), which today houses a fascinating micro-museum about the history of German apothecaries. Inside were antique medical equipment, powdered drugs, potions, chemistry tools, and a reconstruction of a typical laboratory in a mostly-roped-off chamber.

Heidelberg Castle has one other major attraction for tourists: it claims in its wine cellar the world's largest wine barrel. Nobody intends to contest this claim, because the barrel is enormous. How big is it, you ask? According to Wikipedia, the Heidelberg Tun, as it is known locally, has a capacity of 220,000 liters, or 58,100 gallons. That, my friends, is a lot of wine. However, the barrel is empty today, because it's a little bit leaky. These days it's just a barrel: an unnecessarily big barrel.

The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the city of Heidelberg. As near as I can tell (we again lacked a local tour guide), the biggest attraction outside the castle is Heidelberg University, a school that has been in continuous operation since the fourteenth century (Go Fighting Heidelbergers!). The campus is very nice, though it's a little urban for my tastes, with Medieval buildings embedded right in the heart of the city with nary a tree or a lawn for relaxation purposes. There's a lot of good shopping and restaurants in the surrounding streets, plus some bars, so you know the students always have something to do. I got some schnitzel at a little beer garden with the girls (how I shall miss German food!), and then wandered the streets in search of the elusive ATM, which may be an endangered species in Germany.

After further adventures with pastry shops, pigeons, and navigational snafus, we relaxed at the river for a while, where a few people even rented rowboats, and others watched the larger watercraft float by. The bus took us back to Ludwigshafen at the appointed time, which for once came precisely soon enough for my tastes. On our return, we were relieved to learn that nobody had the flu, and all would proceed as planned the next day, whatever we managed to catch in close quarters on the bus.

After a pizza dinner, I elected to spend the evening in a more solitary fashion, listening to music and intently reading. Solitary as I hoped to be, I couldn't help being drawn into some seditious conversations. A revolt against Jacob seemed to be in the works, on the grounds that he was lazy, incompetent, unhelpful, discourteous, and ate children, or something. The murmurings had been there at least since Italy, and seemed to increase as Jacob became sicker and sicker, a fact I found frankly disgusting. I'm much too easy on people as a rule, but if someone wants to volunteer to lead fifty American kids with high expectations across a vastly multilingual continent, and catches some ungodly disease in the process, I'm inclined to cut the man some slack.

My words of moderation being largely ignored, I went to sleep and steeled my mind against the madness about to unfold in...

Day Twenty Four: Amsterdam

(Please Note: Nothing happened. NOTHING! Please skip ahead to Day Twenty Seven)

Feeling unproductive, and with six-plus hours of nothing to look forward to on the bus, I resolved to finish the Bhagavad Gita before we reached the hotel. I had only about a hundred pages of dense, dense prose to work through, and I managed to pull it off in about five hours, to my great satisfaction.

I would recommend the book, not only to people interested in Hinduism, but to anyone who wanted a better understanding of God, religion, or life. It is a very high-level work of theology (requiring careful, close reading), and most, if not all, of its principles I found meaningful to my understanding of religious issues. It's also very philosophically demanding (making the usual holy book claims of infallible revelation), and it didn't leave me bursting with the urge to chant Hare Krishna, but I felt just the slightest bit wiser for having read it, which is as much justification as I really need.

Halfway through the drive, we stopped at a McDonald's restaurant for lunch. Absorbed as I was in the book, I hadn't noticed that we'd entered the Netherlands; my first indication was the sudden appearance of Dutch words on the overhead menu. Not much happened here, with one tragic exception: I accidentally dropped my soft-serve ice cream cone on the floor, just after sitting down to enjoy my food. I will mourn you forever, ice cream cone!

Onward we drove, and I finished the Gita somewhere in Holland. Holland looked pretty much as I expected it would: very flat, with lots of grazing cattle, little rivers, and canals. Yes, of course, there were windmills, but the ones I saw were the enormous, modern, white monsters you see on so-called "wind farms," not the quaint wooden structures you see in old paintings. Interesting.

The Amsterdam hotel was another highlight, as hotels go. There was a pillar in the lobby with a marking that indicated the sea level: it was approximately six meters above the floor. Crazy upside-down country!

We didn't stay at the hotel long, because the stoners and libertines among us had had quite enough of waiting, and were now tingling with anticipation. A highly disorganized bus trip into the city was immediately arranged, and we were dropped in the city center to fend for ourselves.

What happened next is kind of a blur. We started in the middle of what was called the "Green Light" District, and group unity was quickly dissolved: we split into smaller groups, and rushed hither and thither into Amsterdam's famous "cafés." With ruthless efficiency, the most experienced pot heads acquired their long-denied weed (favorite quote: "it feels like the first time!") and immediately set to rolling, distributing and smoking. Just like every college party I'd ever been to, I sat on the sidelines, laughing at their silly jokes and looking askance at the sketchy guys in the corner. Well, that part was different, but not much else was.

Wandering the streets of Amsterdam, the group became progressively smaller (as certain members became more prone to distraction). Collective navigation became easier, but I was struck with feelings of concern for my very baked friends. Fortunately, there is probably no city in the world better for a stoned young person to wander around, and everything turned out alright for them.

We inexplicably found ourselves inexplicably in another café, this one specializing in so-called "special cakes." Feeling adventurous, and extremely peer-pressured, I ordered one and consumed it quickly, for it was very small. It tasted alright, with a bitter element that I assumed was the marijuana, having no experience with such things. I expected a more or less immediate effect, but none was forthcoming; I was then told it would take at least a half an hour. After two hours passed, I was fairly certain I'd been ripped off. There's nothing special about these cakes, no matter how tie-dyed they come!

After further exploration, we found ourselves in the infamous Red Light District. Setting all the rational arguments in favor of legalized and regulated prostitution aside, there is something very, very wrong about that place. The stories are true: scantily clad, surgically enhanced girls stand on display in glass windows, plying their trade at a rate of fifty euros for twenty minutes. The streets are lined with shops selling pornography and sex toys, theaters showing everything from peep shows to live stage performances (that is exactly what it sounds like), and some sort of otherworldly condom-themed art and sculpture shop. Now, for the ultimate bit of mind-fragging madness: the Red Light District is a residential neighborhood. Little children walked down the street with whom I hoped were their parents; flocks of water fowl swam serenely in the canal, oblivious to the human degradation that surrounded them.

Eventually, a determination was made that the group would attend a live sex show. Being a young man, I am of course susceptible to certain temptations and weaknesses. However, I felt within myself an acute crisis of conscience, and decided in the end that I simply could not go through with it. Watching a pair of trained professionals do the nasty right in front of me, surrounded by people I had to share a bus with for another week and a half, was just too far outside of my comfort zone.

Plus, the show cost fifty euros. Fifty euros!

Anyway, a similarly gun-shy girl also backed out of the expedition into Amsterdam's heart of sleaze, so the two of us joined forces and went in search of more wholesome entertainment. We took the short path to Dam Square, where by lucky chance we encountered another friend of ours, looking extremely disoriented by the World War II memorial. She too agreed to join our party, and a plan was made: to find live jazz, and to listen to it.

We set out for the Alto club, Amsterdam's oldest jazz music establishment, located in the happenin' quarter of town known as Leidesplein. Armed with a map and a small brochure from the hotel lobby, we charted our course, and found that we needed only to follow the tram tracks. I suggested actually taking the tram, but the concept flew over someone's head; in any event, we could use the walk. By this time night was falling, and I started mentally calculating our escape route from the city.

The Alto is indeed a groovy club, but it's extremely small, and there weren't enough seats for all three of us, with the crowd already at overflow capacity. We stood inside for a while and listened, waiting for something to open up, but it never did. There was a pretty good local band playing, with a typical horn-sax-piano-bass-drum combo, but I wasn't particularly impressed by them. I've heard better live jazz on several occasions in Eugene, Oregon, but it was still good music and a good time. When it was apparent we would never get good seats, we split for better spaces.

After that, through no fault of mine whatsoever, we got lost. Fortunately, Amsterdam's street plan essentially comes down to a series of concentric circles, so it was not terribly difficult to navigate (you try making a plan with stoned people!). Once I confirmed our location at the intersection of a main thoroughfare and one of the three principal canals, I could easily plot a course out to the metro line. First, however, a midnight snack was required, at a good old fashioned Amsterdam sandwich shop.

I should mention that our arrival in Amsterdam, by accident or by design, coincided with the eve of the annual Gay Pride Parade, the biggest such event on the continent. Gaudy pre-parade festivities were taking place all over the city, centered around the three largest canals and extending into the city center and Red Light District, with loudspeakers blaring well into the night. God bless the Dutch for their tolerance, specifically their tolerance for thump-thump music and awful karaoke. A deep-voiced Asian man, who might have been George Takei if I didn't know any better (truth be told, I didn't know any better) was butchering "More Today Than Yesterday;" in the distance, a woman sang a pronoun-reversed version of "It's in His Kiss," and I wondered why they didn't just give the song to a dude.

In spite of mutinous questions raised concerning my navigational abilities (entirely groundless), I located the metro around midnight or so, and managed to get myself and the girls back to the hotel for a good night's sleep. The score is 1 to 0, Amsterdam!

Day Twenty Five: More Amsterdam

At breakfast I encountered the attendees of the previous night's erotic revue, seemingly huddled together around the table for comfort. A brief survey revealed deeply traumatized souls, shattered minds, and deeply confused feelings, along with disturbing accounts of "audience participation." We're not even going to go there.

Our guide for the walking tour was one of the best guides yet, thanks largely to her crystal-clear American accent (she was, in fact, an ex-pat from the good old USA). We started out in a fancy neighborhood amidst the three principal canals, named for the local aristocracy, the Holy Roman Emperor, and the Princes of Orange ( in order, the Herengracht, Keizersgracht, and Prinsengracht). Our guide knew quite a bit about the history of the Dutch and their maritime empire, as well as some of the peculiar practices of the city's residents. For example, Amsterdammers are accustomed to leaving their windows open at all times, as a sign of openness to the rest of the world. Nothing can deter this symbolic gesture, even when, say, a flotilla of gay pride boats should come blaring thump-thump music up and down the canal. God bless their open minds.

We next found ourselves in the old Jewish quarter, featuring a house once inhabited by Rembrandt van Rijn, who was not a Jew but really liked to paint them. Sadly, the Jews of Amsterdam were even more thoroughly destroyed by the Nazis than those of Prague. With the Jewish quarter depopulated and the city starving under blockade, locals further ruined the area by dismantling houses for firewood. Most of the buildings that stand there now are modern constructions, like museums and concert houses.

From there we wound our way to Nieumarkt, an area near the center of town with a plethora of shops, bars, and restaurants, as well as a conspicuous old guard tower that was once part of the city's original wall. Nieumarkt, I could tell in the light of morning, was where the bus had dropped us the night before, and I was pleased to see the scattered bits of geography I'd acquired begin to make sense. Soon, I would know Amsterdam like the back of my hand!

After Nieumarkt, we were led back into the Red Light District, which is even more profoundly unsettling in the morning hours, when the "premiere" prostitutes are off duty. The guide confirmed my worst suspicion, that the district was in fact a residential neighborhood; as a matter of fact, when she first moved to the city, her apartment had been situated directly upstairs from a brothel. She told a funny story about some "regular customers" that probably does not need to be repeated.

There is a Cathedral located in the district, built there on the logic that patrons of the world's oldest profession should have a place handy to confess their sins immediately after committing them. This is just one example of pragmatic Dutch planning: the whole idea of having a section for legalized prostitution was apparently thought up by a Catholic priest, in order to prevent the horny incoming sailors from terrorizing the poor citizens. The depths of sleaze being what they are, the church is now abandoned as such, but I'm sure they still use it for something or other.

Behind the church is a small monument dedicated to all of the proud sex workers of the world. If that wasn't funny enough, a weird little bronze relief of a woman's torso being groped by a male hand can be found on the ground nearby. I can't help but wonder if it was placed there by malicious Protestants.

We exited the district via the narrowest street in town, only just barely wide enough for two-way foot traffic, and lined on both sides by a gauntlet of girls in windows. Somebody, peeking through a door, witnessed something unspeakable; I kept my head down and scurried to safety.

After a brief rest and history lesson in Dam Square, we set out in search of the city's cleaner attractions. In the city center we saw various historic and government buildings, including a royal palace, though the Queen currently makes her official residence in the Hague. The tour concluded at the house where Anne Frank lived and wrote her famous diary, one of the best preserved sites from the war period. We intended to take a group tour of the house, but found an hour-long queue at the entrance. A decision was made to end the tour there, and for each to do the House tour on his own time, to be reimbursed for tickets by the tour company. Thus liberated, we set out in search of pancakes, for we were starving.

It's a well-known fact that the Dutch make the best damn pancakes in the world, and we ate them for brunch, living the dream as we were. The restaurant was really more of a pavilion than a building, and seemed to have been converted from an a giant carousel, which is to say it was really cool. After those delicious, delicious sugar pancakes, a friend and I decided to hit up the Van Gogh museum for some cultural edification. On the way there, we passed through the midst of the Gay Pride Parade, which was now in full swing and swollen to consume the city in ways that I never thought possible. As it happened, no one had seen Jacob all day; because he was gay, we jokingly assumed that he could be found gyrating amongst the teeming masses, but in actuality he was probably still sick in his room.

More peaceful conditions were to be found in the south part of the city, in the district known as the Museumplein. The area features a a lovely reflecting pool and public park, where dogs run free (and don't seem to mess up the grass too much), and museums line the sides of the enormous square. Largest of all is the stately Rijksmuseum, a public gallery that is home to paintings by the masters of the Dutch Golden Age. Spending just a little bit of time there left me in love with the city, hookers and all.

The Van Gogh Museum was wonderful, of course. It holds the largest collection of Van Gogh paintings in the world, which is not really surprising at all; it also has a lesser number of works by his friends and contemporaries. Being unfamiliar with the breadth of his work, I was fascinated by some of his late-period paintings, including some that were influenced by the style of classical Japanese woodcuts. However, my absolute favorite painting in the building was an early one, a still-life of a Bible (playfully juxtaposed with a small edition of Le Joie de Vivre), that for whatever reason appeared absolutely amazing to me in person. All in all, we "completed" the museum in about an hour and a half.

My friend was ready to head back to the hotel for a nap, but I had one more (depraved) item on my agenda. Though I am not and have never been a smoker, I was determined to purchase a classy-looking pipe as a souvenir, and keep it on my mantle for the purpose of freaking out my parents and amusing my friends. I have an odd sense of humor.

Not knowing exactly how one procures such paraphernalia, I trekked back amidst the chaos to Dam Square, then looked for a head shop in the Red Light District. I found a few, but each was decidedly the opposite of classy, and the souvenirs tended toward the ridiculous and obscene. Ultimately, I lost my nerve and headed for Nieumarkt, away from the girls who saw I was alone and stared just a little too intensely at me. Back in safe territory, I saw a comic book and Manga shop, and I was delighted to find that their products were printed in English: this was one indulgence I was unashamed to pursue. I bought the latest volume of Fullmetal Alchemist, which had not been released in America since I had been abroad, and left the store a very satisfied customer.

Near the metro station I saw a very classy head shop (named, appropriately enough, "The Head Shop,") filled with very classy-looking wares. My nerve had momentarily returned, and I marched boldly inside, announcing my intention to buy a pipe I never intended to use. I eschewed a fanciful glass piece, as they were expensive, and instead selected a modest wooden pipe. Flushed with libertine excitement, I proudly hid my prize deep in the bag from the Manga shop, walked straight to the metro station, and went home, making eye contact with no one.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at the hotel, reading, relaxing, and showing off my pipe to anyone who cared in the slightest. Not wishing to pay for a second metro ticket, I had dinner at the hotel restaurant, which was decent, except for the music. Before bed, my roommate and I turned on the TV to find, of all things, a biographical documentary about world-famous porn star Ron Jeremy, because Amsterdam is the weirdest city in the world.

Day Twenty Six: Even More Amsterdam

One of our few male companions left the group this morning, flying back to the States in order to attend a wedding, of all things. His departure marginally improved the already grossly lopsided male to female ratio, as if that was doing anyone the slightest bit of good. He will be missed.

I must confess, after two days in the city I was feeling both lazy and cheap; I've never been good at money management, so cheap-skating was my last and best line of defense against pauperism. The natural result was that I spent most of the day in the hotel room, listening to music, reading, and napping. By late afternoon I was feeling both guilty and hungry, but I did not relish the thought of eating at the hotel restaurant two nights in a row.

So I thought, and I thought, and I thought some more, and I remembered a place in Nieumarkt that seemed like a good bet. It was called the Cotton Club; if I remember my jazz history well enough, the original Cotton Club was a famous establishment in Washington, D.C. where luminaries like Duke Ellington got their start. "This place," I thought, "is likely a franchise of the original Cotton Club; it will have live jazz, drinks, and probably some good food; I will gather my friends, and there we will go." It also had the advantage of being about fifty feet from the metro station, and thus easy to find.

So I gathered my posse and boarded the train, flush with excitement at the thought of a lively evening out. Alas, all my hopes were shattered upon arrival: the Cotton Club was merely a bar, with only recorded jazz playing through speakers. I endured a well-deserved chastisement, and we went in search of a real food outlet. Nieumarkt is pretty well set up, so fortunately we did not have to go far.

My dinner that night was mashed potatoes mixed with Kale, a vegetable I'd never heard of, but which is basically like very bitter spinach. It was good, especially with gravy, but I think it would have been good of the place to inform me that there was more Kale than potato to be found in the mixture (I jokingly wondered aloud if I was being fed a plate of marijuana). You never know in this town.

As we ate, a baby was crying noisily in a stroller by a nearby table. I turned and made eye contact with the child, locking directly into its gaze. After a few hypnotic faces (mostly just blinking a lot) I permanently calmed him down, and thus discovered my latest super power: instant infant pacification. Nobody else thought it was a very impressive power, but clearly none of them have thought about having kids.

After dinner, we took one last stroll through the Red Light District, because we are all horrible people. We ran the narrow gauntlet a few times for kicks, feeling like aliens on a planet of vice and neon lights. We then returned to the Cotton Club for drinks and pool.

The drinks were good (the native Heineken is probably my favorite beer), but the pool table was a ramshackle affair. The table was only fixed to the floor by one leg, and was light enough that leaning on it would make it rotate, and cause the balls to roll completely out of place. There was no chalk and only one usable stick, the other being grossly crooked, but in spite of it we made a tournament out of our misery, and had the bar mostly to ourselves. I went two for four, along with one of my compatriots, which essentially makes us even. Hopefully, if we ever get a bar to ourselves like that again, a tie-breaking match will decide the championship!

Day Twenty Seven: Bruges and Brussels

I said farewell to the hotel room, particularly to the picture hanging on the wall. It was one of the oddest decorations I'd ever seen: a black and white sketch of an owl-themed super hero (or maybe a feathery park ranger?) seated on a table with, of all things, an owl. Anyone who has any idea what the hell this could be, please let me know. As depraved as the city had made me, I even thought of stuffing this bizarre treasure in my bag. Farewell, Owl-Man of Amsterdam!

In an hour or two we entered Belgium, which is a lot like the Netherlands both physically and culturally, except that the signs are all bilingual (Dutch and French), because the Belgians cannot make up their minds. French signs, at least, are fairly easy to make sense of, but I always pronounce them with caution.

Our first stop was in Bruges, a city about which I knew nothing apart from its recent appearance in the movie In Bruges, which I did not see. As it happens, Bruges is a surprisingly old-fashioned place, with very pleasant old-time architecture, and a lively market area at its core. My sister and I had lunch in the main square, which includes among other things the requisite pointy Cathedral and gargantuan clock tower.

After lunch, we went "souvenir shopping" at a chocolate shop, sampling some of the country's famous sweets (which were molded into some pretty hilarious shapes). Since we had extra time on our hands, the two of us went exploring around Bruge's canals, where we saw horse-drawn carriages (drawn by some pissed-off horses, judging by the impatient stomping)and the usual flocks of water fowl. Bruges, like Amsterdam, is one of many cities that calls itself the Venice of the North, seemingly on the basis that it has some canals. None of these cities should kid themselves; they're all much too clean to be Venice.

Quite by accident, we crossed over a little bridge and found ourselves wandering around in a convent. It was, as you might expect, very nice and peaceful inside, perhaps like a sanitarium, and several signs posted on the grounds instructed visitors to be silent. Even so, we had to laugh when we saw a pair of nuns climb into a hybrid and speed away. Nuns drive cars!?

By the time we reunited with the group, they were already walking back to the bus, because they are traitors. Miraculously, the group hasn't stranded anyone anywhere yet, as thoroughly improbable as it may seem given our relative lack of organization or group cohesion. I doubt they would have really left us, but they sure didn't mind telling us that they would.

Our sleeping spot in Brussels was a hostel, orders of magnitude beneath the one in Steinach in terms of quality. The rooms were barer and much more cramped, and the bathrooms bordered on abominable; some rooms reported roach infestations. The front door was also an inconsistent affair, seeming to open only upon the performance of some arcane ritual dance. We only had one night to stay there, and for some people that was far more than enough.

Now, if you're reasonably aware of things, you'll know that Brussels is not only the capital city of Belgium, but also the headquarters of the European Union, makers of the euro coins we'd all grown to love. If you are also a complete geek, like me, you will know that Brussels is a major center of comic book art, being in effect the capital of European comics. There is, in fact a comic book museum located in the main prt of town, which I had very much looked forward to seeing. Distressingly, the museum was already closed by the time we reached Brussels, and though I would have gladly traded half a day in Paris for half a day in Brussels (I am really that big of a geek), there are some things I cannot change. I went into town with a group of geekily-inclined girls, thinking that at the very least, we might see the museum's exterior.

To make a long story short, we never did find the museum, although we did find several of the city's famous comic strip murals, depicting works by reknowned artists such as Hergé, the creator of Tintin. Along the way we discovered a rather excellent pizzeria with some rather excellent pizza. We also found found the city's main square, which is perhaps the most unnecessarily gilded open space I have ever seen. And of course, we saw Mannekin Pis.

What's Mannekin Pis, you ask? Brussels' lost inexplicable artistic landmark, Mannekin Pis is a life-size statue of nude toddler urinating into a fountain. In case it's not absolutely clear, I'd like to emphasize that the statue is actually passing water from its wee parts into a basin, twenty four hours a day. It is adorable, obscene, and a great source of pride for the locals, who not only sell commemorative key-chains but ENORMOUS CHOCOLATE REPLICAS of Mannekin Pis (which, mercifully, do not actually urinate chocolate). The statue is considered a symbol of peaceful coexistence between French and Dutch-speaking Belgians, and that's just weird.

Other group members informed us that, if we would look a little harder, we would find statues of a urinating girl and a urinating dog. I did not think that was necessary.

Once again I was given the task of navigating our way home, and this time I really did get us lost. A man at some sort of café-bar gave us accurate directions to the hostel, and then started plying one of my companions with beer. Being the type of girl who consistently makes very poor decisions, we devoted all of our efforts to extracting her from what was probably a bad situation, and eventually we succeeded.

Crushing disappointments aside, Brussels is a fine city, with lots of modern buildings and good art to recommend it. I don't know why the Powers That Be did not grant us more time here, because it certainly seems to warrant it.

Day Twenty Eight: Paris

One thing I've noticed a lot in this part of the continent is the relative prevalence of nuclear reactors in the countryside. I guess it's not too surprising that France is way into the alternative energy scene, but I have some serious reservations about the use of nuclear power, due to the dangers posed by its waste products (not to mention the legacy of Chernobyl). I have no idea if radioactive waste is a soluble problem, but every time I see a reactor I shudder, because it hasn't been solved yet.

Our Paris hotel (simply named "Paris XV") was tucked behind some office buildings in a very remote part of town, so our expectations were not high. Appearances can be deceiving, however: our rooms were equipped with couches, kitchens, working air conditioning units, and free, unrestricted WiFi. When I realized there were even washing and drying units in the basement, I wept for joy, as I hadn't had a chance to do laundry since I was in Florence. Paris, you do alright.

Before we arrived, Jacob gave us some unexpected (but unsurprising) news: he was leaving the tour due to his illness, and hooking us up with a new tour guide, a French fellow called Eric. My first impulse was to think that, since he'd been getting better, he could have toughed it out one more week; Lord knows it hadn't been an easy trip for anyone at every point. But sick is sick, of course, and I can't say he didn't go further than I might have. A cloud hung over his departure, with rumors that he'd been fired on a complaint from someone in the group, and I wouldn't be surprised to learn it was true, given the amount of backbiting that tended to go in all directions. I, however, always believed he was doing an acceptable job.

Eric, however, was a clear improvement in terms of geniality and enthusiasm, and I took to calling him "Jacob 2.0." After we were settled in our rooms, he took us on a short tour via Paris' sophisticated underground metro system, and we stepped off at the Place Saint-Michel for a bit of free time. St. Michel is centrally located on the Seine river in the most historic part of town, just a few blocks away from the famous Notre Dame Cathedral. Its centerpiece is an impressive fountain, featuring a statue of the Archangel Michael in his traditional victory pose, stompin' on Satan for eternity. Nearby are a series of tourist-friendly market stalls, positively stuffed with glowing miniature Eiffel Towers.

A big group of us took advantage of our free time to have an early dinner at a small outdoor restaurant, the kind of classy setting with a live pianist (supplemented by Europop songs during his breaks). I didn't know much about French cuisine, except that it featured snails and was very expensive. This meal, however, was a revelation: though I ordered a humble plate of chicken, olives, and mashed potatoes, they may possibly have been the best chicken, olives, and mashed potatoes I had ever had in my life. If there's a secret to French cooking, it seems to be taking perfectly ordinary food and turning it into a quasi-religious experience. Or maybe it's LSD.

After regrouping, we made a pilgrimage to the city's most unquestionably famous monument, the Eiffel Tower, which is a ridiculously tall building. It hasn't been the tallest in the world for over a hundred years, but it is still the unquestioned master of the Paris skyline, and its old-style modernism gives it the look of something out of a Jules Verne book. As afternoon turned to evening, the tower lit up like a Christmas tree, and it was time to ascend to the top.

To be clear, I am very afraid of heights. It's not that I think I might fall; it's that I know I would fall if some catastrophe should befall the structure, and that is completely outside of my control. The fact that the tower looks like the bare skeleton of a normal building, with its grated floors, gusting winds, and crowded walkways, does not make me any more confident in its structural integrity. Though the tower has stood unchallenged for over a century, and is widely regarded as an engineering masterpiece, does not make me feel any better about what would happen if the floor gave way. Upon reaching the topmost observation deck I posed for pictures, admired the charming cityscape and the ascendant moon, and was the first one to go down again.

At this point we were turned loose, and as it was late in the evening I went in search of a Metro station. This took much longer than it should have, because I didn't have a map and had paid close to no attention to geographical landmarks. Even collaborating with friends, it took nearly an hour and a half to get to the right station, and once we reached our destination we wandered around the neighborhood for another half an hour. We might never have made it home were it not for the help of a kindly local bicyclist; back at the hotel, I started poring over maps in hopes of avoiding a similarly embarrassing failure in the future.


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