The Not So Hard Goodbye

Before I planned on coming to Europe I planned on leaving at the end of July. Then I traveled around for 16 days and spent 4 months worth of money. I tried to switch my return flight to the end of June and I soon found out that switching flights costs a lot more than a $200 fee. All told, switching flights from July 31st to June 30th would have cost almost a grand. But then I found a $300 dollar flight through Iceland Air. It leaves tomorrow afternoon.

I felt guilty about calling it quits at first. But after spending half a year abroad it only seems natural that I'd want to go back and see people I enjoy being around. Throughout my entire stay here I have been ultimately solitary, occasionally making a few quick friends but never really feeling connected with anyone. I see people who have met here who will cry when they say goodbye and try (or at least pretend to try) to meet each other again some time in the not too distant future.

I've had none of that, which isn't so bad in its own right. It's given me a lot of time to get to know myself, or at least a better idea of what it means to "know oneself." I'd say I've made progress, but I'm no Dali Lama. The big thing about not caring about anyone I've met is that I don't mind leaving at a moment's notice. It's liberating! As for all the sights I've missed: they're not going anywhere.

Prague

I came to Prague expecting the prices to be similar to 1950s America: a dime for a hamburger; a penny for a pack of gum; three dollars for a horse. Every time I asked anyone about their trip to Prague, I'll would hear an inspirational anecdote about a 1 euro pint of beer or a 5 dollar t-shirt. I had thought of the city as one of the last frontiers for modern tourism and that I may be one of the last people to see it before tainted by Peruvian flute bands and bus tours.

Of course it was all a trap. The place has been a tourist hot spot for longer than I've been alive. The Peruvian flute bands still haven't immigrated, but the bus tours are plentiful, and the American tourists lured by the scent of cheep food and beer crowd the streets. They make nice enough company.

A flock of foreigners on the vehicle of choice for tourists on the go!

Rainbow in Rome

Rome Rome Rome. Rome is busy and full of guidos and average people. Average people by American standards. Like, fat people, and people who wear sandals and cargo shorts. The big difference in Italy is that those sandals are made by Prada and those cargo shorts cost a month's worth of pay at the pizzeria. Enough bigotry, I'll try and stay theme-based.

The cool part about going to Rome was that my stay coincidentally coincided with Europride. As the latter part of the name should suggest to anyone living in this millennium, this is a gay pride festival. The biggest in Europe, in fact. Jack and I had no idea it was happening on our last night there until our landlord asked us about our plans for the night. Being the spontaneous youngsters we are, we said "Uh, not sure." He told us about the festival: "It's for normal people too!" When he told us Lady Gaga was going to be performing in the Circus Maximus (where they used to hold chariot races) we could not possibly say no.

We went out for true Italian food that night and happened to cross paths with the flamboyantly epic parade that cut through the city. We caught it at the halfway point and the series of love-filled semi trucks to half an hour to finally pass us. There were trucks for lesbians, for transexuals, and for those who wanted the world to finally accept their S&M lifestyles. I've heard Italy was into plastic surgery, and true to their reputation I saw dozens of men with perfectly natural-looking breast implants. Jack pointed out one of the self-identified males and explained how fucking hot she was. "Dude, that's a dude." That's the spirit!

SHAKE DEM TITTIES!

After the parade passed us Jack and I went exploring to find an Italian restaurant that had better food than Olive Garden. We failed, and were charged 30 Euro for our stupidity at choosing the first place that had someone standing on the street, desperately corralling any tourists foolish enough to respond to their greetings.   The restaurant's card machine was supposedly broken, so I was forced to leave on a long search for an ATM  that according to the hostess was "down that's street." The entire time I fantasized about leaving Jack on his own to either foot the bill or escape with his wallet intact. The stupid moral part of me forced me to return. And I paid for the meal of peppered spaghetti and regurgitated sturgeon like I was supposed to.

The crowd at the Circus Maximus was enormous, as expected. I forced Jack to rush there because I knew the crowd would be even bigger than a Gaga concert that actually charged 60 dollars for admission. We managed to squirm our way through the dense crowd of belligerent Italians until we were maybe 200 ft. from the stage. I would have complained, but from the back row even the jumbotron would have looked like nothing more than a blinking piece of confetti.

GAGawD Worshipers

 Of course it wouldn't be a political event if there weren't speeches. We had to wait through a gauntlet of rants I couldn't understand a word of before Lady Gaga finally took the stage and put in her two cents. While it was in English, Gaga's speech was the most long-winded of them all. Many people heckled her throughout the speech. She knew what we wanted, and it wasn't to hear her rant about gays being awesome and her being 25% Italian.

But they surely wanted to here that her dress was custom made by Donatella Versace herself. Conventional designer clothes like pants and bags are hard to appreciate, but when it comes to dresses, top-tier designers create works of art. The dress looked like the subject of an MC Escher painting and captivated me for the entire show. That's not saying a whole lot considering she only sang three songs after her speech.

Gaga's a great singer, so great in fact that she can draw a crowd big enough to fill the Circus Maximus. It was clear that 90 percent of the audience came not to hear poorly-dressed lesbians shrieking about gay-rights because the field was nearly empty within 10 minutes of Gaga's show ending. I would have joined the exodus, but the following act was a troop of Spartan-bodied men dancing to Lady Gaga singles. The choreography was good enough, but the my attention was held at the surreal fitness-level of the dancers, which I had not though possible outside the airbrushed pages of GQ.

After the concert we partied.

Crawling through Barcelona

La Sagrada Familia

You know what? Barcelona was pretty, but who the fuck is surprised by that? Even if I could describe it in terms that would give you the perfect image of the awe-inspiring cityscapes I saw, would that be entertaining? I hope you're thinking "No, of course not!" because that's the right answer. Before I move on, I will say that I could take a picture in that town with my eye closed and I could still sell it on a post card. That's how good-looking the place is. Oh, and La Sagrada Familia looks like a temple out of Lord of the Rings.

Aside from a lot of walking around, oo-ing and ah-ing at all the pretty shit to oo and ah at, Jack and I went on a bar crawl that went through the bulk of The Gothic District. As you may expect, the Gothic District of Barcelona is filled with architecture in the style of its namesake. What's especially cool about the area is that all of these magnificent old buildings have been appropriated by restaurants  bars, and clubs. Now you can casually get wasted in  the very same buildings the Spanish Inquisition could have pre-gamed in before going out and torturing infidels to death.

Painting on the wall of the hostel

The pub crawl was introduced to us by our sassy receptionist at the Hip Karma Hostel. It was the only hostel I've ever heard of that doesn't allow drinking or even the possession of alcohol on its premises. But that didn't stop them from advocating some good ol' fashioned drunken festivities. Jack and I were sitting in the kitchen eating our chorizo and bread dinners when a young, refreshingly friendly American sat down beside us and introduced himself. He was Aaron, a 19 year old Adderall and weed dealer from Michigan. He asked us if we were going on the pub crawl and we gave him a couple tepid I-don't-knows.

"C'mon, let get a group from the hostel together!" How could we argue with that? He found another girl who was staying in the same room as Jack and me who went to school in Colorado. Despite being an American, the nicest response I got from this one all night was an eye-roll and a puff of cigarette smoke.

Alleyway in the Gothic District

The pub crawl started out at the first bar, which was supposed to be in a square but ended up being down a winding street that led us down a schizophrenic path of despair that amounted to us being half an hour late. Fortunately we were on Spain time and drinking time, so we actually got there almost an hour before they got the ball rolling.

The first bar was nothing more than another one of the ever-present Irish pubs one finds everywhere from Tennessee to Tunisia. Those Irish have globalized alcoholism far more than any other culture. I guess it's better than not having a national identity at all. I'm looking at you Denmark! We sat down at a large wooden table shaped like a spool turned on its side and enjoyed the beers we traded our tickets for.

A drunken Englishman got in an argument with Aaron over universal healthcare that eventually devolved into an argument over Europe's view of America. Naturally, the Englishman was pointing out how fat we all are, and then went off on a rant about how ugly our cars are. As I got more drunk and gradually more tired of the stale topic, I butted in and explained to them both that neither was winning the debate and the people around them were growing bored by the second. They stopped quarreling but the girl we came with, Matea, began giving the Englishman a philosophical blowjob that last until we finally left the bar. She's a self-hating American. It's a philosophy I can identify with but have gotten over since seeing how disgustingly elitist you have to be to think you're better than any country.

The next bar was metal themed, and the DJ only played requests. It was awesome. Above the two bars hung head phones that played the exact same music playing over the speakers except louder and clearer. It seemed like a silly thing to have at a place as social as a bar, but it was still fun putting them on and ignoring even the loudest person next to you.

The final bar was a club that, in true pub crawl form, had by far the worst prices of the night. At 6 euros a beer, I was force to go outside and by my booze from the Indians walking on the streets pushing warm cans of beer at a euro a pop. I picked up two and went inside again. The top floor was a typical club that was typically empty on a weeknight. The bar crawl brought enough frat boys and Aussies to fill it up halfway. The downstairs had a stage on which a Spanish rock band performed a couple songs before stage diving with each one of their members/groupies/stage managers.

We left without Aaron and I found him on the bathroom floor of the hostel in his underwear.

My New Favorite Color

Graffiti near the hostel

There was more to Amsterdam than drugs, like hookers! But before I depart from drugs, I must mention the amazing array of products offered at the smartshops one can find around town. After one too many tourists died from taking shrooms and wandering into oncoming traffic, the purveyance of psyclobin mushrooms has been forbidden. But that hasn't stopped the shops from selling chocolate truffles made with mushrooms. The only drawback is that you have to eat half a box to get the same effect that just a couple putrid caps would give you. I was dangerously close to buying a peyote cactus but got cold feet at the idea of crotching it through security at 4 airports. The shop clerk told me I could say it was a present for my mom but the 30 euro price tag and the instructions for usage (which included the drawn out process of turning the plant into tea, drinking it, and then vomiting it up) killed the idea for me.

Sorry for the digression, but I really enjoyed the drug culture of Amsterdam, although I've heard it's almost entirely marketed towards tourists. The Red Light District is also for tourists, actually. And I loved it just as much. Unfortunately, because of rumors of pimps breaking overzealous tourist's cameras, I have no photo-documentation of my exploration of the world's most famous whorezone, at least not at night.

I first went into the district unwittingly while visiting the Anne Frank house, which is located on the edge of the area. My image of the Red Light District was a haze of unclear preconceptions that only involved dark alleyways and brick streets. In the day time it actually was a normal looking place. In the night it was too, for that matter. If it weren't for the g-string clad women dancing in windows, it would have looked exactly like the rest of the city.

One image I was sure would prove true was that of, dirty, down-on-their-luck hookers who I would never dream of sleeping with in my worst nightmare. My noir scenario turned out to be completely false as a doubled back down some streets just to see the would-be GQ models attempt to usher me into their small professional bedroom. If it wasn't for a bad case of self-righteousness and a bread-and water budget, I would have taken the 50 euro dive in a heartbeat.

Red Light District during the day

My objective on entering the Red Light District was to see a live sex show, which is surprisingly hard to come across in suburban Minnesota. We managed to find one after asking a couple peep show bouncers where to go. Believe it or not, it was closed! It couldn't have been past two in the morning at it was closed! I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the sign, but there was nothing we could do apart from cutting our losses and heading to the strip club.

I was surprised how comfortable I felt in the strip club just as I was surprised at my comfort in the district. I thought I was going to feel alienated, like a piece of my born innocence was dying away. Well, I guess that innocence died long ago with my first glimpse of internet pornography, because I felt perfectly at home sitting next to a guy who was rubbing his face in a middle-aged woman's vagina as I waited for the topless bartender to bring me my beer. The strippers dancing at the bar were hit or miss as looks went, but were all incredible at dancing. I never knew how far the pole arts had progressed until I found myself gasping at the sight of one stripper swing down a the pole upside down as fast and coordinated as a Michelle Kwan doing a double axle.

I did my best at shooing away the strippers as they attempted to coax me into getting a lap dance I knew perfectly well would cost me 10 euro. Short of running away, there was nothing I could do to deter these women. I shook my head violently as one of the least spectacular specimens wrapped her legs around my shoulders.

"No thank you!" She didn't respond. "No thanks!" I gave up. "Well, is this one on the house?"

"No, baby." Fucking swindlers.

She rubbed her body on mine in a routine that matched the other dancers' lap dancing move for move. They all went from front to front, to back to front, to titties to face. I refused to let myself enjoy it in hopes that she would go away and leave me with my money. Of course she finished her dance the same as if I jammed my face into her willing breasts and sat impatiently next to my drink until I finally handed her a 10 euro bill.

"Try to make sure no one else does this to me." She didn't keep up her end of the bargain, but I learned the rules of the game and was able to fend off the rest of the advances that night, usually by avoiding any eye contact.

"The road of excess leads to wisdom."

Intro to Amsterdam

It started out with a plane taking off from Kastrup Airport in good ol' Copenhagen. I learned quickly that if I made swallowing motions with my facial muscles I could avoid a debilitating migraine caused by the pressure changing in the cabin. Jack, my travel companion either did not share the same physiology or the same learning curve, and spent half the plane-rides doubled over in an emo stupor of excruciating pain I knew too well from past flights to Florida with my dad.

Landing in Amsterdam, we learned just how far away the actual city is from the international airport. It's the same for all the airports in Europe. If we were in Lord of the Rings, the journey from the airport to downtown would last for six chapters. It was easy enough to hitch a ride on a bus on a route that lead us to a Hard Rock cafe only a few blocks from our hostel. I had no idea how useful tourist information could be until I arrived in a country only knowing the name of the place I was staying.

The Hans Brinker Budget Hotel markets itself as "The world's worst hotel." The reception desk is decorated with post cards and posters with images of customers cheery faces at check-in and gaunt, heroin starved masks at check out. All these for sail from the receptionist at .50 euro a pop. I nearly bought a poster depicting the hotel's policy of cutting out sections of the carpeting to get rid of cigarette burns.

Long exposure of the hostel

Despite the "hotel's" self-inflicted reputation and dubious reviews on Hostelbookers, it was actually an extremely pleasant place to live. Well, maybe scratch the "extremely." The walls were thin and apparently Dutch kids were having something like a prom night rented out rooms on several of the floors. I had trouble sleeping the first night either from my surging excitement at finally leaving Denmark or the incessant screaming I could hear coming from outside my door. But for the price, I couldn't complain. It was a hostel after all, and in a room with 6 beds a little screaming from outside is a whole lot better than a fat guy with sleep apnea. 

Amsterdam itself was amazing. Yes it was pretty. The flowers were blooming and the flower market was in full Spring. Even Venus Flytraps and other tropical plants were flourishing in the weather. The canals sparkled as they pulsed with images of the cityscapes that inspired Van Gogh's imagination. But what really charmed me was that it only took a 2 minute walk outside the hostel to find what the Dutch call coffee shops.

Not to be confused with "cafes" (I think you know where I'm going with this), coffee shops are dispensaries of high quality cannabis, hash, brownies (space cakes), and and overpriced juices you are obligated to purchase if you plan on smoking inside. I was privileged to have the ability to enter these shops, which the government will be banning tourists from in within the next year. Each shop had it's own identity, one was comic book themed, others electronic, some reggae. But they all got the job done.  They had weed-smoking down to a science. The environments and the drinks provided were the perfect supplements to extremely high doses of THC. The music where we went was loud and had a baseline that even the most vegetative stoner would find impossible to sleep to. And the organic juice had the body and hydrating potential to alleviate a cotton mouth I thought to be incurable.

Quitting Trips

I promised myself I wouldn't go more than a few days without writing in this. I promise I was spending the last 16 days conducting serious business. It's fun to rehash the experience in bullets, since it comes out as impressive as impressive with even the most unenthusiastic delivery.

 I went to Amsterdam where I was forced into a dance by a stripper as old as my aunt.

From there I flew into Barcelona and got kicked out of my hostel for drinking and got drunk in the midst of a giant protest I couldn't understand a word of.

Then there was Rome, where I followed a gay pride parade to a Lady Gaga show on the same race track Spartacus raced on a chariot.

Prague was more tepid, I spent the last night in a 5 floor club with 15 people from my hostel getting ignored by a model and talking up her nicer brown haired friend.

I'll return to these cities in the next entries, but I thought an overview would be appropriate. I'm kind of sick of traveling and managed to spend 2000 dollars over the course of the trip when I budgeted to spend 500. I might be going home early and may not give a shit. I spent enough time gone to finally feel satisfied with having a home in Minnesota. At least for now.